Ten weeks after Cairo, Alex was stood in Tulip Jones' Office, after a problem with his 'fostering arrangements' brought him back to London. The teenager stared at her, not believing she had just threatened Sabina to get him to comply to being their whipping boy again.

"Suck my dick, bitch" spoken in the flat emotionless tone was all he could reply to that lame blackmail, as he moved his finger slightly to press the button on the phone in his pocket to message Edward that MI6 were playing hard ball.

"There is no need for such foul language!" stated the woman who was probably called a bitch a hundred times a day.

The teenager sneered and retaliated with "That stick you're wielding may have worked for Blunt after Ian died, but I owe you shits nothing."

The Head of MI6 Special Operations then revealed the ace up her sleeve, as Alex had not responded as the analyst's predicted to the partial email sent from Nice, "Not even Jack Starbright's life?"

With the perfect imitation of shock on his face, Alex then grinned letting on that he was playing his own game, not theirs. "Right. Got me there. Only Byrne is so in on that retrieval since she's an American citizen. Did you think I'd go off on my own again, playing the hero over that email you sent me? She'll be stateside before you even get me close to the Grimaldi's. Maybe last year I'd have been your pavlovian dog, but after McCain, I learned my lesson." Alex had come willing as MI6 still technically held his legal guardianship, but it was only a few months until his sixteenth birthday, when he could gain semi-emancipation helped by Edward publishing the dirt on Blunt. "Go on then, what's the alternative now? Reform school? Borstal? Children's home? Fostered by the SAS?"

Alex had no time to react to the sharp pain in his neck as he slumped forward bonelessly onto the floor as the fast acting toxin laced dart paralysed him, taking a few more seconds for full unconsciousness to descend.

…..

Snake recognised the sedated prisoner. He had dutifully checked him over, witnessing the scars from burns, knives and bullet. Cub had lived in interesting times. The file stated he was here for his own protection. The base on Raasay was the last place to send a fifteen year old, but Cub had survived the worst of SAS hazing at fourteen. It was not the medics place to question orders direct from MI6, but this was wrong on so many levels.

He noted the increased heart rate as the poison worked its way through the kid's system. As a precaution over the recent chest wound, the medic paid close attention to his charge, who was on a drip, food supplements, oxygen and catheter and was likely to spend the next two weeks on full bedrest getting over the toxin's after effects.

…..

After 10 days in quarantine in the base hospital, Alex wondered what the rest of this super secret prison was like. All he knew is it was a former missile warning base, reusing top secret facilities mined out during the second world war. He had lost nearly a stone in weight, but overall felt much better now the muscle tremors and double vision had stopped; he still felt as weak as a kitten, even with Snake and the other medic here mothering him. He was alert wondering if the medic would smuggle out notes for Sabina and Edward, that was his only plan for escape at the moment. Did the teenager think the SAS officer would send them on? Not likely in the long run, yet the guy had shown him pictures of his four kids and his soulmate, Keeley. The medic grinned as he admitted he had already broken all the rules on non fraternisation with the inmates. Only he was here for his own protection. Mostly a prisoner for his own good, because he was too friendly with the CIA or because he'd left once already and the stupid analysts had him down as future terrorist material. The real reason was to keep Edward Pleasure in line. He had to think about survival strategies. Would he be allowed to finish school? He wanted his GCSE's but was already so far behind.

The woman psychologist was appraising him like he was the devil incarnate. Alex sighed and then dutifully explained,"From your expression I can surmise you knew Julius Grief. I'm Alex and my psycho twin is pushing up daisies."

"I have read your file." was spoken so filled with spite and hate, as the woman introduced herself "I'm Dr. Flint. I am here to assess you." Then the woman stared at her list of questions, took a deep breath as of this was a total chore and then started.

The next hour passed with Alex saying very little. After the last question was ignored, the prisoner then apologised "Sorry, but I'm not in the mood for lying, small talk or sharing. Just tell Ms. Jones that I'm being difficult, I'm sure that's what she's expecting."

Dr. Flint could see the unmistakable signs of depression in the teenager's half hearted replies and pauses. Placed here against his will, imprisoned to keep him alive. Her report would be fair, stating that there had to be a better solution than slowly breaking a boy's spirit. A young man so different from Grief, one who seemed resigned to this travesty of safe. She wondered why MI6 had placed him here, as all casual observers with the wherewithal to hack top secret files, would assume it was the Grief abomination imprisoned here not MI6's teen wonder.

On leaving, Alex turned as he got to the door of the interview room, "I don't think you need to waste your time on me. I got by with no head shrinking before and well, its not like I need to be sane as I refuse to dance to Tulip's tune."

…..

Snake walked Alex from the hospital wing in the the main prison area, as the invalid's pace was alarmingly slow. Explaining ground rules as he went: Private rooms and allotted shower times, 90 minutes above ground during overhead satellite free intervals, with the walled garden to tend near the automatic lighthouse. The barracks above ground was always manned by two personnel, supposedly scientists studying the large avian population. No one could swim anywhere as the currents would drag the individual into the deadly whirlpool, which also meant no boats came near. Only forty to sixty days of good weather a year so being underground was the best option in this isolated island where birds outnumbered man by 10,000 to one.

Alex wore his new uniform already, it was dark brown and green. He hated it already, but it was warm. He bet the pyjamas here were made of this dirt coloured fleece as well. The illness had softened this hard transition in living arrangements, as had the friendly old brother routine from the medics and the few guards who had dropped by the hospital wing.

The new arrival had avoided the attention of the other special guests as he settled into his 4m by 3m home from home. His few possessions, cleared as non-threatening, were already on his bed, not that he had brought much from San Francisco. Just a few clothes, a handful of photos, books and DVDs and his iPod. His phone had been confiscated. His bag of toiletries was there and six months worth of replacements. He stared in distaste at the loo and sink in the corner with no screening from the CCTV or the door, which he could not lock. Life had become surreal in the extreme, as his future had morphed into the predictions of the bullies and teachers at Brookland. Druggie Rider was now a con in the worst prison in Britain. This was 5 star porridge with three guards to each prisoner. They had even supplied two porn magazines and some lube. Guess they figured he was a normal teenager on that front, then Spook Central probably had his wank session in the loos at the fourteenth floor of Liverpool Street Headquarters on tape.

He put his stuff away in the unit, made his bed and laid down, not expecting to fall asleep. His short nap turned into four solid hours until he was woken by the guard, a tall black guy called Cobra, for lunch.

"You were dead to the world, Cub. Now, you have to eat your greens and get your mojo back. Fucking arseholes in London drugging a kid with serious pulmonary problems, but then that bunch of jokers got us up shit creek with no paddle in Iraq. Three tours and not one fucking WMD in sight."

…

Six prisoners had been drugged during their transfer from Gibraltar to Scotland. From the balmy pleasant retreat to this cold hell. The silent assassin watched and waited. He knew there was another arrival in custody. The fact they had spent days recovering was surprising. He had shaken off the drugs aftereffects after 48 hours. His lessons in Malagosto meant he knew the side effects of that paralysing agent and he knew his body well enough to use meditation and yoga to realign his chi. Even with his recent chest surgery, he was still fitter than all the others staying here at Her Majesty's pleasure.