Final chapter!

Disclaimer: See chapter one

Chapter Five: Gun Jolts Backwards due to the Conservation of Momentum and Energy (Or: Recoil can be a Bitch)

Alex was surrounded by frigid cold, darkness clouding his vision and pressing in on him. Suffocating, quiet, other than the thump of his heart in his ears, the slosh of blood in his veins. Or maybe that was the sound of the water encasing him, his very own, malleable tomb.

He felt the weight on his legs dragging him deeper and deeper. His ears popped, the pressure in his sinuses increased, and it seemed to be an age before he finally stopped sinking. Then Alex just floated there for a moment, his mind reeling.

Here he was, tethered to a cinder-block at the end of a rope, bobbing along at the bottom of the Thames. Sometimes one had to wonder what exactly it was that led one to end up at a certain moment in their life. Ah, yes, probably MI6 in his case. Alex had a few choice things he'd like to say to Blunt right about now.

Alex shook his head, the very real weight of the situation made evident by the increasing pressure in his chest. How long had he been down here for? It already felt like an age, time having lost meaning in the conventional sense-the breath in his lungs the only clock that mattered now.

He tried to reach the rope on his legs, to swim downwards, contort himself, but the cuffs on his hands thwarted each attempt. Bubbles of air were escaping his nose and he felt himself getting light-headed. Alex thought frantically of a means out of this, but his thoughts were messy, impossible to string together. He writhed, wishing the rope would give. No such luck.

His lungs were aching now and his chest felt close to bursting. He scrabbled frantically at his wrists-right hand catching on the watch attached to the other, and something sparked in the back of his mind. Smithers. Smithers had given him this watch when Alex was down in New Forest, after Cairo. He never saw the man, but woke one morning to find it on the bed-side table with a note explaining the basic functions. He could almost picture it in his mind now, the very first line: Top left button, 3 times, very similar to that situation with the jellyfish.

Alex twisted his wrist awkwardly and pressed down on what he hoped was the right button. Once, twice, thrice.

Nothing happened. Alex pressed the next button and the next, frantic. He flailed and jerked at the cuffs, air escaping in swaths of bubbles, and suddenly his hand was free. He immediately hunched over and grabbed his feet, reaching into his left shoe and pulling out the switch-blade he'd stuffed in the side. He hacked at the rope tethering him to the heavy block, no more air left in his lungs to release, sawing with the small blade. Alex kept cutting at it, a buzzing in his ears, until he felt the tension in the rope snap.

He kicked upwards, not having the air to hum and frankly too concerned with actually reaching the surface to care. He wasn't sure when his hands broke through the surface, too numb they were to register the difference, but he felt the breeze prickle across his arms and inhaled a lungful of air. At least, he'd thought it was air. His head reached the surface, hacking on a mouthful of water, and he struggled to kick his legs and stay afloat, bound as they still were in cuffs.

Alex coughed and gasped, too glad to be free and too concerned with staying afloat to worry if the woman was still nearby. Not much he could do about that anyway. He attempted to swim to shore, but nearly went back under. His body was still sluggish and aching and the current had already pushed him down river. Alex gritted his teeth. How pathetic would it be to escape that nightmare only to drown now, too weak to swim to shore? He turned onto his back instead, letting himself float for a bit. Gradually, his breaths stopped rattling in his lungs as he floated down the river and gazed up at the London sky, dark and murky and far too full of air pollution to see any stars, feeling strangely at peace.

Wait, maybe that was the numbness. He could hear his teeth chattering together and his fingers felt stiff and clumsy, now that he thought about it.

He looked to the sides of the bank nearby, huffed a sigh, and began a back-paddle. Only using his arms, that is. Kicking didn't really work. And each rotation of his right arm sent a flare of pain down his side. Alex cursed rubber bullets, looked at the shore again, and cursed the Thames. He added in a few more relating to megalomaniacal sociopaths, MI6, and anyone else who happened to catch his fancy. He kept on for a bit, hoping the vitriol would propel him, but was nearly at the point of just saying 'fuck it' and drifting wherever the current pleased when a beam of light swept across his face, blinding him.

"Bloody 'ell!" A distant voice cried "What'cha doing out 'ere? Going for a swim?"

Alex squinted in the direction of the voice-which unhelpfully was still pointing the light right in his face-and spotted a small dinghy bobbing towards him. He raised a hand in greeting only to realize it was the one with the handcuff still attached, and quickly dropped it. "You wouldn't mind giving me a lift, would you?" He called. "It's getting a bit nippy out here."

"Bloody 'ell!" The man repeated. "Just give me a minute you barmy git!"

"I'll wait!" Alex replied.

Soon enough, a life raft was thrown overboard and Alex clung onto it as it was reeled towards the boat. A weathered hand reached down and grasped Alex's arm-the left one, thankfully handcuff free-and heaved him upwards. Alex tried to scramble up, but it was a bit difficult with his ankles still constrained, and ended up face first on the floor of the dinghy.

"Blimey, what are you doing you crazy fool!"

Alex twisted around and leaned against the side of the boat, letting out a sigh of relief at the feeling of something solid beneath him.

"Oi," The man spoke, "What did you do? Escape from the prison convoy by leaping out of the vehicle and off a bridge?"

Alex stared at the man before him-old and weathered, a stereotypical fisherman from boots to bucket hat-rather bemused.

"No, but that was an oddly specific guess." Alex said.

"I've seen some shite, lad." The man grunted.

"Right." Alex huffed a laugh, feeling rather hysteric about the whole situation. "I'm actually a magician. My specialty is escape artistry, and well, suffice to say, I bollocksed this last one a bit."

The man stared at him. ". . . Right."

"What can I say? Harry Houdini's my idol. Mum wanted me to pursue an honest trade as a thatcher, like dear old dad, but alas, you can't deny the heart what it wants, eh?"

Alex thought perhaps that had been a bit too much, as the man narrowed his eyes at him. He gazed at Alex critically before nodding. "Haven't said truer words myself, lad."

Alex blinked. "Um, you don't happen to have a towel, do you? And maybe a paper clip?" he asked, becoming aware of just how violently he was shivering.

The man nodded, "O' course, you look like you're 'bout a jump outta your skin." He unbuckled a dry-bag by his feet and pulled out a large grey towel, tossing it at Alex. "The name's Deacon, by the way."

Alex thanked him, immediately wrapping himself up in the towel. His clothes were still soaked through, so it wouldn't do much good, but it was a temporary relief. He watched as Deacon rummaged through a box and pulled out a large fish hook, handing it out to Alex. "This'll do?"

Alex figured it was worth a try. He grasped the hook and starting poking it around in the locks on his ankles. Normally hand-cuffs were relatively easy things to unlock, as they were only single or double lock types, but Alex's frozen fingers didn't really want to cooperate and he couldn't stop shaking—whether from the cold or left over effects of the taser, he wasn't sure. He hadn't been tased before. Another one to check off the list.

Finally, the lock clicked and one of his ankles was free. The next one was quicker, as well as the one on his wrist, and when he was fully detached he bundled himself back up in the towel. Deacon gazed at him, eyebrows raised. "That's a handy skill."

"Trick of the trade," Alex shrugged.

Deacon snorted, "Might wanna re-think your vocational path, if I was you."

Alex shrugged again, but certainly couldn't disagree. "You think you could just drop me on the other side? My flat's not far from here."

Deacon nodded and started the motor to life, swiveling them to face a small pier on the opposite side of the bank Alex had come from. When they reached it Alex regretfully let go of the towel and scrambled up on the deck, waving his thanks to Deacon as the man sped away. Arms clutched around his middle, he stumbled up the planks and onto the pavement. It was night now—dark and cold, with a breeze that felt like it was brushing up along his bones. His wrists and ankles stung and his side twinged with each breath. He was too tired to even care about the picture he presented—wearing jeans and a t-shirt, soaking wet, in November.

Alex entered the first shop he saw with its lights still on and headed to the clothes section. He grabbed a flannel shirt, jacket, jeans, and pair of thick socks before marching up to the counter and placing them down. The cashier stared at him dumbly. Alex raised his eyebrows. She flushed, clearing her throat. "Erm, right," She stammered, grabbing the clothes and scanning them. "That'll be forty pounds."

Alex bent down and reached into his other shoe, pulling out a wad of soaked bills and counted them. Just enough. He plopped the stack down on the counter. The cashier looked at the bills dubiously. "They might be a bit damp." Alex said.

He grabbed the clothes off the counter and headed to the restroom, shucking off his wet clothes as quickly as he could for the dry ones. The jeans were a bit tight, the flannel a bit long, and his shoes still squelching with each step, but it sufficed. He stuffed his wet clothes into the trash and headed out the store, nodding at the girl behind the counter as she watched him with narrowed eyes. Back onto the street, Alex meandered aimlessly for a while, warming up his muscles. He still felt cold and tired and in pain, and he had to sit down on a bench for a minute as a lump lodged in his throat.

He hunched over and ran his hands across his face. He was okay. He was alive. He just needed to find somewhere to crash for the night, and he could decide what to do in the morning, right? Suddenly it all just felt like too much. He had no idea what he was doing, no idea what he could do to fix this fucked up situation, and here he was, sitting on a bench, having a breakdown. He took a few deep, measured breaths, trying to think through the situation rationally, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn't come up with a way to solve this. What he had previously thought about turning himself in seemed absurd now. MI6 had sway everywhere, how could he know that he would be safe in the hands of the police? And now there was a third player, although Alex supposed she had really been there all along, the person pulling the strings; the nameless woman who tried to drown him at the bottom of the Thames.

Alex shivered, he hated being restrained or confined. He'd always been a bit claustrophobic and the events of the past year of his life had only made it worse. He thought it was probably safe to add anything water related to the list of things to avoid right along with confined spaces, especially taking into account the ridiculously large number of times he had nearly drowned.

He took a few more deep breaths and cupped his hands together—blowing into them to try to bring some warmth back to his still cold fingers. Maybe he could just . . . walk right up to the Queen's palace and demand sanctuary. After all, if there was anyone in this whole mess of government who wasn't corrupt, it would be the Queen, right? Alex snorted at the image of himself knocking on the door, 'Hey, anyone home? Was hoping I could talk to Her Majesty.' Alex sat on the bench, trying to smother hysterical giggles at the thought.

It took him a minute, but he became aware of a sound echoing from across the street. He glanced up, and blinked blearily, trying to figure out why the phone in the booth was ringing. Slowly, he rose to his feet and trudged across the street. He opened up the telephone booth and slid inside. He didn't give himself any more time to think about it though-grabbed the phone, and brought it up to his ear.

"Alex?" A tinny voice spoke.

" . . . Smithers?" Alex said, incredulous.

"Ah, it's wonderful to hear your voice, old chap! I hope you're doing well, considering, well . . ."

"How did you know where I was?" Alex asked. "And for that matter, does everyone else know?"

"You contacted me." Smithers said, surprised.

"Uh . . ." Alex stammered, "How?"

"The watch, of course. You pressed the button. The one that sends an emergency signal. It is exclusive only to me—sends me the coordinates of your location. . ." His voice trailed off.

"Oh!" Realization dawned on Alex, memories of cold water pressing in on him and frantically scrambling fingers. "That was actually by accident, but not unwarranted I guess."

Smithers paused for a second before answering, "Well, you're not too bad off, I take it? I was hoping you would activate it, but I guess I didn't specify that the signal would only be broadcasted to me."

"Honestly? I kind of forgot about it." Alex admitted.

"Nevermind that, are you somewhere safe right now? Well safe as can be, at the moment."

"It'll do for now," Alex answered. "I had some people on my tail, but I think I lost them when I crossed the river."

"Good, good. I was hoping to chat about possible ways to attempt to resolve this situation. Rather snowballed it has, but there are still options left."

Alex stood up from where he had sagged against the phone booth. "You have some ideas? The only thing I could think of was turning myself in somewhere, but I couldn't think of a way that would prevent Blunt from getting his hands on me."

Smithers sighed, "I wish I could tell you otherwise, but Blunt has too much sway. He's held that position of power for far too long, and maintained connections with damn near every agency, in one form or another. The man isn't 'Top Spy' for nothing. I simply don't have the data to know with enough certainty that you would be safe turning yourself in just anywhere. Yes, without a doubt the recent publicity has burned some of his bridges, but he's still too dangerous, and the last thing he can afford is you living to tell your tale."

"So I'm still fucked?"

"I didn't say that," Smithers replied. "There are options. As soon as I got wind of the situation I knew you would be in trouble, you see, so I sent out some feelers here and there. As best as I can tell, you have four options."

"Go on." Alex said.

"Well, first and foremost; the press. I could provide you with a trustworthy contact and try to arrange a safehouse, although it would only be temporary, and you could rip Blunt a new one. However, I would not advise this. I'm sure it's tempting, but your experiences are highly classified for a reason, and the publication of such information would create a major security breach for MI6, as well as possibly the CIA and ASIS. I'm not saying the bastards don't deserve it, but the extent of the damage could be quite severe."

Alex understood. And truth be told, he wasn't sure he wanted the world to know anything more about him. Just the information that had been revealed so far had made him feel uncomfortable. "I know," he replied, "I'd ruled that one out already."

"Knew you were an intelligent lad," Smithers said. "In that case, by my estimation there are two agencies that would be willing to provide you with some decent measure of sanctuary-MI5 and the SAS. Both of them have had feuds with '6 in the past and have some rocky ground between them. Territorial pissing between '5 and '6 is quite common, and I know an agent or two there with enough power and dislike for Blunt that they'd be willing to stand up for you. The SAS hasn't gotten along well with '6 in the past either-thinks we're a bunch of posh prats I reckon, but they have enough sway they could probably give you somewhere to lay low and they have enough good blood with the government to do some coordinating."

"So, basically, you need to stash me somewhere until the people in power gets their heads out of their arses and wrestle Blunt under control?" Alex said.

"Yes, essentially." Smithers agreed.

"And the fourth option?"

"Well," Smithers hesitated, "We could try sending you abroad. To the CIA, ASIS, DGSE, SCRS. Somewhere far away from Blunt's reach. I'm not even suggesting you going at it lone-wolf, Alex, as I hate to say it old chap, but you really can't stay out of trouble. The chances of you staying under the radar by yourself are very low, suffice to say. However, I have much less influence abroad, and I could not guarantee you as high a probability of safety in such far away locations."

Alex deliberated, glancing out the cracked and blurry phone booth window-panning his gaze across the street yet again. He wasn't eager to get reacquainted with the SAS, and he didn't like the thought of travelling far away and into the hands of an unknown. But would MI5 really be any better? Could they provide him the safety he needed, or would they just hand him right over to Blunt? Alex took a moment before answering, "How much do you trust your man at MI5?"

Two hours after his conversation with Smithers Alex walked down the pavement, approaching a building-large, but not all that architecturally impressive, made up of two relatively rectangular shaped buildings connected by a skinnier segment with an arched alcove in the center that presented three dark doors precisely spaced from one another. Thames house—headquarters to MI5.

Alex continued at a steady pace, acting like just another youth out on the streets at night. It was London, so of course there were others out on the pavement, but Alex still felt twitchy and all too obvious, and fought the urge to glance over his shoulder yet again. He trusted Smithers, but honestly, this plan was sounding worse and worse the longer he contemplated it. Supposedly, Smithers' contact should be at the front desk in about—Alex checked his watch—three minutes, and when Alex waltzed in the front door he would be waiting to whisk him away before anyone else could question it. Alex was eager for this debacle to be over with, or at least to stop having to run from MI6, but this seemed almost like a cop out—just turn himself over and everyone would solve everything for him? Experience had proved that happened very rarely for Alex.

Finally, Alex gave into the urge to take a glance behind him, pretending to cough into his arm, and used his peripheral vision. Briefly satisfied no one was about to shove a knife into his back, he continued on, figuring he would walk past the building once to spend another minute-as Smithers had stressed timing was critical-and double back around as soon as he reached the curb. It would be slightly suspicious, but probably not enough to gain anyone's attention as long as he played it right. He kept his shoulders slumped and trudged along at a measured pace as the end of the building loomed, only glancing up briefly as a jogger neared.

They both did a simultaneous double take and stopped dead in their tracks. Alex was truly speechless-he had been told more than once that he had the luck of the devil, but this was just absurd, as before him stood none other than his mysterious would-be-murder. At least she looked as genuinely surprised to see him as he was her.

Understanding hit him as he remembered what building he stood beside. She must be MI5. Alex was rather disappointed in himself right then-really, he had to choose the one option that would put him straight back into the line of fire?

They both stood there, frozen in the middle of the pavement-the woman in the same joggers, flushed from her run (or perhaps the embarrassment of her failed murder-It would be kind of embarrassing, if you thought about it, being so sure of yourself and then coming face to face with the same kid you just dumped in the river) and Alex in his ill-fitting clothes and squeaky trainers.

"So," Alex broke the stalemate, "Am I supposed to run here, or is it your turn? I'm drawing a blank on the etiquet—okay!"

Alex was the one to turn tail as the woman's eyes narrowed and she charged for him, hand reaching in her pocket for what Alex was sure was the taser. He took a chance and bolted across the road, only narrowly avoiding a passing cab, but gaining a few seconds head start. He leaped the curb and turned left, heading away from Thames House. He could hear the rhythmic slap of shoes on concrete and took a glance after rounding the corner-sure enough, there she was. She was fast, he'd give her that. Her scheming could use a little work, though.

Alex nearly bowled over a shopper as he looked forward again, but didn't have time to apologize, and continued at a sprint down the pavement. He needed to be smart about this-the woman probably knew these surroundings better than him, but she had to be flustered at his sudden lust for life, and he could use that disorientation against her if he acted sooner rather than later.

Up ahead a large building loomed, Millbank Tower, Alex recognized. As he approached, he saw that by the base of the building there was a line of people dressed in fancy clothes and talking amongst themselves. By the open doorway two tall, buff men stood. If he was quick enough, Alex thought, he could probably leap past the bouncers and lose himself in the crowd, and they would hopefully prevent the woman from following.

Mind made up, Alex put on a last burst of speed. He saw one of the women at the front of the line take notice of him and look towards the bouncer, opening her mouth probably to warn him of the demented young man sprinting straight towards them. Luckily, this caused the bouncer to focus on her, and Alex took the moment to leap through the doorway, shouts rising up behind, but no one able to grab hold of him. He ducked inside, momentarily disoriented by the change in lighting, only to dodge suddenly as a burly figure swiped at him. Apparently, there was one more bouncer inside the door-must be a high end place.

Alex ducked under the man's wheeling arms and dashed forward-there! An elevator stood at the end of the hall, in the midst of closing, and Alex skidded on the smooth floor as he flung himself into it. He ignored the surprised occupants-several young men and women, it was a spacious lift-and jabbed at the close door button. He glanced through the diminishing crack, expecting to see the furious face of the bouncer, and leaped back just in time as the woman fired the taser.

A shriek let out behind him as one of the other occupants was hit, and Alex rolled back up onto his feet as the woman snaked her hand between the closing doors and squeezed into the lift. Silence fell, broken only by both of their harsh breaths and the pained whimper from the unintended recipient of the taser shock. A shout sounded from the hallway as the door began to close once again, but the bouncers were too slow, and the door closed with a click.

The jerk of motion signaling their ascent broke the tension and the woman lunged at Alex at the same moment he levelled a kick at her torso. She twisted and caught his leg, jerking to pull him off balance but Alex used the opportunity to brace himself against the side of the lift and bring up his other foot, striking her in the stomach. She stumbled into one of the other occupants and they pushed back, hurling her into Alex. He attempted to dodge, but she grabbed his arm and began to twist, trying to catch him in a lock.

Alex moved with the motion and struck out at her knee. She dodged, and used the move against him, catching his leg with her own. He moved with it again, rolling as she swung them to the ground, and brought an elbow up into her face. Her hold on his arm weakened and he wrenched it free, wincing as he was reminded of his encounter with a rubber bullet. He rolled to his feet again and glanced up. The woman moved into a crouch as well, not taking her eyes away from him as blood ran from her nose, another temporary stalemate as each waited for the other.

"Now wait just a m-" a voice sounded from behind Alex.

He twitched, almost having forgotten the five other people in the lift, and cursed as the woman took the moment to attack. She launched a series of hand strikes at him-quick, hard-hitting, and difficult to predict. Alex became aware of just how out of practice he was. He was struggling to block everything, and all too soon a hit got through. She faked a kick to his right and instead struck left, fist hitting just off-center his bruised side. A gasp left his lips and Alex sagged against the wall.

She was on him then, grabbing an arm and twisting to throw him over her hip and to the ground. Alex fought back, grabbing her own arm, and they went down in a tangle. She had him partway pinned but Alex still had an arm and leg free and aimed a punch for her throat while struggling to drive a knee into her kidney.

The woman dogged his fist and brought her own into his face, knocking his head back against the floor. She grunted as his knee made contact with her side, but used her own to force his back down, and then brought her forearm to rest across his throat-pinning his head against the floor and cutting off his breath.

Alex was sick of this. He was so goddamn done with this day. He chanced a glance at the other occupants of the lift-choking at the pressure on his throat-and made sure to add in a bit of a glare. Really? They weren't gonna help a guy out?

They all gazed back at him, shocked, horrified, but one of the women stepped forward, hiked up her long dress, and drove her heeled shoe into the woman holding him down.

The weight left him as the woman rolled off. Alex reached down quickly as he could, feeling for his trainer. His hand clenched on cold metal. The woman rolled upright, hands reaching for his throat as she swung a leg into his stomach, and Alex brought the knife up into her abdomen.

A choked cry left her lips, and she gazed down at her stomach in shock, hands coming up to hover over the protruding knife. Hot blood ran down Alex's fingers. He unclenched his hand from the knife, sitting up and shoving the woman off of him. She fell onto her back, face white with shock.

Alex stood to his feet and wiped his shaking hand on his jeans. He wondered how long the after effects of the taser lasted. He looked into the corner of the lift, where all five other occupants huddled together, staring at him with wide eyes. Slowly, Alex shrugged off his jacket, wincing as the adrenaline began to fade. He took a few steps towards the woman, causing her to look up at him. Her expression was difficult to decipher—a strange mixture of disbelief, indignation, and something else. Alex threw his jacket at her and she flinched as it landed half on her stomach.

"Put pressure on it." He said, voice rough.

He turned to face the other occupants again. "I need to borrow one of your phones."

The man closest to him blinked owlishly, before reaching into his trouser pocket and holding out his I-Phone with shaking hands. The case was black and white and showed a silhouette of a man in a suit framed through the stylized view of a gun chamber. Swirls spread out along the barrel, mimicking the rifling, and '007' was printed along one line. Alex raised his eyebrows, but slowly reached out and took the phone. At least the man had the grace to blush.

Alex dialed the number Smithers had given him in case things didn't go smoothly, as they were apt to. His fingers smeared blood across the screen.

"Hello?" Smithers voice echoed out of the speaker. "Alex? Don't tell me it's already gone downhill."

" . . . You ever notice how I have very abnormal luck?"

"Oh dear. Where are you?"

"Hold on," Alex pulled the phone away from his ear. "What floor is this going to?"

The same man who had lent him the phone spoke hesitantly, "The top."

"Ah, of course." Alex glanced up at the ascending numbers above the door as he brought the phone back up to his ear. "The top of Millbank Tower—well, close to it."

"How did you—nevermind. What's the situation?" Smithers answered.

Alex took a glance at the woman still on the floor, hands now pressed on the padded-up jacket held to her abdomen. "So, I guess I forgot to mention, but '6 isn't the only one who was tailing me earlier. I had a run in with a woman, by the Thames. She tased me, we had a chat, then she tried to drown me in the river—you know, the usual. But as it turns out, she seems to be from '5."

Smithers let loose a curse, "Well, I take it you lost her?"

"Ah, no, she's here with me. She's not a problem at the moment, though." Alex glanced up at the display above the door again. "But in about twenty seconds this lift is going to open and I don't think the reception is going to be friendly."

"Oh dear." Smithers said again. "I'll do my best to send an extraction, but you'll have to stall a while. You know this only leaves two options, yes? What will it be, SAS or abroad?"

Alex only hesitated a moment, "The first one."

"Alright old chap, hold on."

Alex looked down at the phone and let out a breath. He tossed the mobile back to its owner, the man fumbling to catch it, "Thanks. If you could, try to emphasize how I was acting in self-defense, alright?"

Alex turned to face the door as the lift slowed.

"Are—are you . . . Alex Rider?" The same man asked, nearly whispering his name, right before the doors opened with a ping.

Two muscular men were revealed, one of them holding a radio, probably conferring with his associates on the ground. Both of their gazes alighted on Alex first—obviously incongruous as he was, in ill-fitting clothes, standing in the center of the lift when the rest of the occupants were huddled to the side—and then to the woman lying on the ground, a bundled up jacket held to her middle thankfully concealing the handle of the knife still impaled in her abdomen.

Alex realized it looked pretty bad, but at the same time, the last thing the man who had lent him the phone said stuck in his thoughts. His name had weight now, and Alex had half a second to come to a decision. He quickly swiped the congealing blood still stuck to his hand across his face and squared his shoulders.

"You," He snapped, pointing at the shorter man, "Bring the first-aid kit. And a stretcher, if you have it. And you,"—pointing at the taller man—"Bring me a water, I'm parched."

Both men blinked at him dumbly before the taller one straightened and furrowed his brow. "Excuse me? Who do you think you are? No, you're coming with us and we're escorting you back out this buil-"

"Alex Rider." Alex interrupted. "And no, I'm not leaving, I have an appointment to make." He checked his watch.

Both the men blinked again, at the name or non-sequitur he wasn't sure, before the shorter took a step forward and placed a hand on the door as it began to slide shut. "Stop taking the piss and exit the elevator before we have to forcibly remove you." His gaze slid back over to the woman on the ground, who was looking at Alex, gaze a bit unfocused. "Hey, I think you should grab med-kit, though." The man directed towards his colleague.

Alex took a step forward, drawing both of the men's gaze again. He put as much steel into his expression as he could. "I'd appreciate it if you took me seriously, this isn't a joking matter."

Something about his tone must have worked, as each man took a longer look at Alex, and he met their gazes one at a time. The one closer to him blanched and took a step back. The taller frowned, looking unconvinced, and approached Alex, reaching out to grasp his shoulder. Figuring there was nothing else to it, Alex grabbed the man's hand and twisted it around, forcing him to fall to his knees with a thud or have his wrist broken.

"I'd appreciate it," He repeated, twisting the man's wrist for emphasis, "if you took me seriously. One of the women in this lift has been tased and the other is in risk of bleeding out. So why don't you grab that first-aid kit?"

"Here." Alex glanced up, surprised, to see the shorter bouncer approaching with a box in hand. He had missed the man leaving.

"Thanks," Alex said. He took the kit and approached the woman lying on the floor of the lift. She was still conscious, but her gaze was a bit glassy and her face seemed paler. Shock and blood loss would do that. He peeled away her hands and the jacket—now damp with blood. Both of the bouncers cursed behind him, and Alex suddenly realized how unprepared he was to deal with this.

Not wanting to lose his commanding façade, Alex decided he'd wing it. It's not like he was particularly attached to the woman. Although, he would like her to be forced to deal with the consequences of her actions, just as she was forcing Alex to. He grabbed some bandages and placed them around the knife, still not removing it—he knew that much—and began to wrap the gauze around the bandages, prodding at the woman to lift herself off the ground so he could slide the gauze roll underneath her.

Her cleared his throat, "You never did tell me your name. Figure you owe me that much."

The woman glared at him, some fire still left in her eyes. "Joanne. Talbot. I owe you nothing, if you'd just done as you should and died—" She cut off with a grunt as Alex tied the gauze tightly below the knife.

"My bad." He said.

He stood up, turning back to face the bouncers and the other occupants of the lift. "Who was tased?"

One of the men at the back of the group raised his hand from where he was slumped against the side of the lift. Alex blinked. Oops. He'd honestly thought it had been a woman—the yell had been rather high pitched. "Ah, right."

His knowledge of caring for someone who had been tased was rather limited, other than the first hand knowledge that swimming after was a definite no go. He grabbed the shock blanket from the kit and tossed it to the man. "Make sure to drink a lot of fluids." That sounded intelligent enough.

Just then, a woman's voice came from outside the lift, "Um, Marty, we've got someone on the phone requesting to talk to security? They said they were looking for Alex R—shit!"

A young woman in a smart suit came to a halt as she viewed the inside of the lift, glancing between the still-huddled group of occupants, the woman on the floor, Alex, and the frozen bouncers.

Alex glanced at his watch. Smithers worked fast. "Alex Rider? Yes, that would be me. What was the message?"

The woman stared at him, realization flashing across her face. "Oh! They, well, they said not to apprehend you. Not to call the police." She regained some of her composure. "And that there would be a helicopter for you and your companion in fifteen minutes."

Alex nodded. "Could you point me towards roof access?"

The woman nodded, "Of course, right this way."

"Just a moment," Alex turned towards the bouncer, the one who he hadn't assaulted, "Think you could help me with her?" He jerked his thumb towards Joanne Talbot.

The man nodded jerkily. He walked over to the woman and attempted to gently ease her into his arms, which he wasn't entirely successful at, given the expression on her face. Alex turned to step out of the lift when a throat cleared behind him.

"You wouldn't, ah, sign this for me, would you?" The phone-lender asked, a shaky smile on his face. He was holding out his phone.

Alex looked down at the phone. Back up at the man.

"Ah, right, stupid, of course not . . ."

Alex began walking, not bothering to dignify the man with a response.

The young woman lead him down the hallway and turned left, away from the direction in which music was emanating, probably from the club, or bar, or whatever this place was. She glanced back at him with a smirk, "That happen often?"

Alex shook his head, "First, time actually."

The woman looked surprised.

"I've been avoiding the public, recently." Alex stated, not sure why he was indulging her curiosity.

"How's that going for you? I hope you don't mind me saying, but you look a bit rough."

"Sleep deprivation and near death experiences tend to do that to a person." He replied.

She looked torn between a mixture of amusement and shock. "Well," She lead him up a flight of stairs and pushed open the door at the top, letting in a gust of frigid air, "I hope things look up for you, Mr. Rider."

"Please, call me Alex."

"Sarah," She shook his hand as Alex stepped out onto the roof. He wondered if she realized there was still some dry blood crusted between his fingers.

He surveyed the spread of the city before him—lit up bright against the darkness of the sky, some of the sounds carrying up to them even at this height. It was an impressive view, Alex thought, realizing just how high up they were. If it had been day, he could have seen for miles.

He was startled out of his musings at a voice behind him.

It was the bouncer, Joanne Talbot held bridal style in his arms, "Ah, where should I . . .?"

Alex shrugged, "Wherever."

The man awkwardly placed her down by the side of the roof and the three stood in the chill November air, silent.

"So," Sarah piped up, "I have to ask, is it true you shot the former PM on accident?"

Alex let loose a breath, glad she hadn't asked anything more invasive. "Yeah, that one's true. I honestly didn't mean to." He scuffed a hand through his hair.

Sarah sighed, "Ah, too bad. I never really liked the bloke myself. Would have liked the chance to show him how I felt."

Alex snorted, "I'll keep that in mind if I drop in on him again."

Sarah let loose a giggle and looked ready to reply when the bouncer spoke up, "Um, just wanted to say, my daughter goes to public school in the city and I'm really grateful for what you've done. It's obviously unethical, I mean, I'm sorry about that. But if it hadn't been for you, well . . ."

Alex shrugged, feeling a bit awkward. "I just did what anyone else in my position would have."

"Yeah, but you were the one to do it. And you saved a lot of lives."

Alex shuffled, unsure what the right response was, exactly. He had never really been thanked for his missions, at least not by a civilian. "Um—" He cut off, being saved from answering by the thump-thump sound of a helicopter in the distance. He glanced Northwards and made out a blot of darkness moving against the bright lights of the city. The shape grew closer quickly, coming directly towards them, and the sound of the blades grew louder. Soon, the wind was whipping around, passing straight through Alex's thin flannel, and whipping his hair into his eyes.

In a few minutes the helicopter was above them, slowly descending to land in the center of the roof—which was thankfully clear of obstructions in order to allow for the landing. It looked like a military model, not that large, but with open sides instead of doors. A man in fatigues dropped down to the ground and moved over to Alex. Alex waved him off though, signaling towards Joanne Talbot's prone figure. The man nodded and scooped her up, and Alex followed him back to the helicopter. He climbed in behind the man and took the closest seat as Joanne was buckled into the one adjacent, head lolling. She had probably passed out by now.

As the helicopter rose into the air once more Alex spared a wave to the two figures on the roof before sitting back into the seat. He watched the buildings below as they moved West and passed over the man in fatigues had sat across the cabin from Alex, and he caught his attention, signaling to the headset at Alex's side. Alex nodded and reached down to grab it when movement to his left caught his eye. Joanne Talbot was sitting up, free from her buckles.

Alex leaped to his feet, or at least attempted to, his own harness jerking him back. He scrabbled at the buckle and jumped up when it unlatched. He walked, too unsteady to run on the floor of the moving aircraft, towards Joanne. She rose from her own seat, wobbling, one hand held to her middle. Alex was only a pace from her when she grasped the handle of the knife in her stomach and pulled. He could hear her cry even over the noise of the blades.

He lunged towards her but she swiped out at him with the bloody knife and he dodged back. Her back was to the opening now and she teetered momentarily. Alex lunged for her again—she couldn't get away, she had to face what she had done, Alex needed her to realize the enormity of her actions. She swiped for him and he caught her wrist, twisting it and bringing them face to face.

The wind whipped her hair in a frenzy and she looked deathly pale against the blackness of the sky behind her. Alex was close enough to see the blood still encrusted below her nostrils and the snarl of her mouth. Close enough to hear the words she yelled.

"I will not be remembered as a traitor!" Her face twisted, and he was sure if the wind wasn't so harsh there would be tears on her cheeks. "I am a patriot! A pat—"

Her yell cut off as the helicopter dipped. A hand had latched onto Alex's ankle a moment before, which was the only thing that prevented him from tipping over the edge. Joanne had no such anchor, other than Alex's hand on her wrist, which was ripped away as she tumbled out into the air and plummeted towards the city below.

Alex's hands gripped the edge of the floor, even as the helicopter righted, his head suspended out in the air, wind buffeting his face. He watched her body pinwheel through the sky, one small, dark speck against the backdrop of the city. He watched as her silhouette disappeared, no longer visible against the dark river below them, and he watched as a white spout of water shot up out of the Thames. Watched until the water smoothed over again, its glossy surface calm once more, as it cut a dark, winding path through the heart of London..

Slowly, Alex pushed himself backwards, until he had a good distance between himself and the opening of the helicopter, and stood up. He walked over and plopped himself in his seat and gave a nod to the other man situated across from him for the helping hand. He buckled himself back in securely, acknowledging the man's signal to pick up the headset by his side, but made no move toward it.

Alex gazed back out across the city of London, glowing in the darkness of the night. The rotor blades thumped rhythmically in his ears and the wind whipped through his thin clothes, a persistent cold that licked up against his skeleton. He took a moment to breathe, shut his eyes.

There was no going back. What was done was done, now he had to figure out how to live with the changes wrought.

Alex took one more deep breath before straightening in his seat, picking up the headset, and placing it over his own head.

And there it is, my first published fanfiction, all finished. I'm honestly a bit sorry about how not-happy the story is. I didn't really realize until I finished that it wasn't going to be particularly cheery, but I hope you enjoyed my attempts at humor here and there. Also, I did leave it a bit open ended, but I don't have any plans to write a sequel, at least in the near future.

However, I have been working on another Alex Rider fic for the past year or two (although I've only written about 20k, damn writer's block) that I may or may not publish some time in the future. Basically, I'm working on something but don't be too expectant as I am a procrastinator though and through. Also, the fic is actually an Alex Rider x Harry Potter crossover, and if I ever do publish it expect a monstrosity (the first chapter is over 10k words, and I don't even have an estimate for the amount of chapters in the story (really need to work on my outline, I know)).

Thanks a bunch for any reviews, follows, or favorites, they are all greatly appreciated :)