A/N: Hello, everyone! This is my first fic, so please feel free to offer insights, criticism, and corrections as you see fit. I'm pretty comfortable taking feedback, so no need to use kid gloves. As I'm sure you'll pick up from my word choice, I'm American, though I've tried to mind the nationalities of each character in their dialogue. Let me know if I fumbled anything as I'm always happy to learn! Also, bear in mind that while this story does have a few OCs, they are neither romantic interests nor main characters. As for timelines, my next great weakness, I did my best to cobble together a rough estimation of Alex's missions. As for the current time period, I went with "vaguely after the year 2000 to the present", since Horowitz himself seems to enjoy tap-dancing around the topic. Honestly, I kind of admire the strength of his backpedal in Eagle Strike: "but that assassin we met in the first book only LOOKED twenty-eight, because now I've decided he needed to have trained with Alex's dad and he has to be thirty-five for that to make any sense. Murder is amazing for the skin, guys."

Takes place after Scorpia Rising, with some minor tweaks. For the sake of the story, Alex never went to live with the Pleasures.

O

Yassen Gregorovich watched with little interest as Agent Scully drew her weapon and fired at the swamp creature charging her. Across from him, feet kicked up on the warden's wife's floral patterned couch, his therapist rolled her eyes as the creature toppled backwards.

"It's almost like the intern stuffed into that costume fell and they kept the cameras rolling," she said, her western American drawl decidedly pronounced as the credits began to roll. Twisting to stare at him from her perch on her couch, she added, "Season four has some weird episodes. I promise, though, they kind of figure out what to do with Mulder's character in the next."

Yassen made a non-committal sound, having only half paid attention to the episode anyway. It was marginally better than actual therapy, he supposed.

His sessions had all the hallmarks of little to no oversight, though Yassen was well aware that nothing in the Gibraltar prison went truly unobserved. While the ever-present cameras and audio recording devices were naturally absent in the warden's private domain, the thermal imaging surveillance and motion tracking were in full force since the Grief child had managed to escape.

The therapy sessions themselves were testament to both that and Yassen's own capture. While Yassen had been captured and revived by British officers, the problem remained that he had been removed from Air Force One- technically a small chunk of American soil that could travel anywhere in the world without losing it's sovereignty. The CIA and MI6 had some drawn out pissing match over who had jurisdiction over him while he'd been interrogated, even if he'd never heard the exact details. He knew enough, however, to guess that the American administrator that arrived at the prison the same day as Yassen must be part of their eventual solution.

After the Grief child (with his unnerving, twisted face and cold, flat voice) had made his great escape, the bored American administrator had evidently found himself an escape route from his boring desk position: Julius Grief had taken his therapist hostage. Later, it would be chalked up to Dr. Flint's failings rather than an inherent flaw in the position. According to the guards, the Grief boy revealed the existence of a note in his bed during a game of spontaneous word association.

Therapy became mandatory for all inmates. Yassen wasn't naive enough to think that a prison that only thinly veiled it's intent to warehouse prisoners for the rest of their natural lives gave a single shit about the mental health of said inmates. The half-trained, young, not-quite-a-CIA-agent-or-therapist proved that. However, it made sense as an early detection system: the right or wrong comment could unveil a shifting intent in one of the prisoners.

Yassen wasn't concerned with his own weekly sessions. He hadn't talked during interrogation and he would reveal nothing now. If making his way through the X-files was the price he had to pay for a therapist who didn't even attempt to ask questions, it was an easy enough one to pay. He doubted anyone in charge at the prison cared either: he'd either decide to talk of he wouldn't. "Enhanced interrogation" had already failed. The therapy was more of a bureaucratic formality, an empty gesture to show some consideration towards improving the facility's security using any means available to them.

Glancing at her notebook, the only sign of her actual position, Dr. Wood cleared her throat. "Right, right. Anything you want to say about how this episode made you feel, Six?"

Yassen raised a single eyebrow.

"Ambivalent," she scribbled carefully before looking up at him. "That counts, you know. Anyhow, you're session is up for the week. Just two more episodes and we'll be in season five. Think about your feelings or something."

Standing, Yassen left without bothering with any kind of farewell. It was unlikely she'd noticed anyway.

The sun shone brightly over the lush green manicured lawns and raised flower beds. Staring out over the vegetable garden, Yassen could almost ignore the electrified razor-wire fence lining the perimeter of the compound and the guards on constant patrol. Every detail was familiar to him, ever face memorized. He'd long since assessed what he could about the security and found it impenetrable, even to him. All he could do was wait.

How long had he been here now? The answer came quickly. Fourteen and a half months.

There were worse places to rot away the rest of your life, he supposed.

Not exactly thrilled to be revived in the care of the British authorities, Yassen had to admit that his current position mimicked at least a portion of his retirement plans. Long stretches of boredom, unlimited free time, only without the possibility of performing the occasional hit for the sake of staying sharp.

Empty day stretching before him, Yassen followed the weaving, dusty path past another series of raised flowerbeds towards the small library. He'd already read most everything in it and their lack of selection was a constant source of frustration for him. Review was boring, but his only relief. Still trying to learn Japanese, the library only possessed two donated books on the language: one a traveler's introduction to easy phrases while the second focused on medical terminology. Hardly ideal if he wanted to ever pass for a native speaker, but it would have to do for now.

Unhurried, he loped his way across the grass, taking a small shortcut between the warden's house and the library. On the lawn, the two terrorists reclined in their favorite rickety chairs and enjoyed the warm late summer sun, chatting sofly in Arabic.

Fluent as a native, Yassen's ear picked out a few choice words: "guards", "nervous", and "new arrival". His steps slowed.

Interesting.

They both spotted him, half turning in their chairs to face him.

"Done with your session, Six?" Ahmed asked, still in Arabic. It was no secret that Yassen spoke their language. If anything, it endeared him to them; after all, there was something soothing about hearing your own language when you were constantly surrounded by English. At Yassen's nod, he continued, "I suppose that means it's almost time for mine. Dr. Wood is very interested in my high school years lately-so unlike her own…."

Yassen knew for a fact that she was not. She'd made no secret of despairing over anyone who entered her office with the intent of engaging in actual therapy, rather than watching various television series she was interested in. He might actually hate her if he allowed himself the indulgence of an opinion. Willful incompetence had always grated on his need for precision: he'd shot men for less. Here, it was hardly his concern.

"Talking to that woman is a waste of time." The other terrorist, Abed, shook his head and looked at Yassen directly. "Have you heard the guards talking? Mateo mentioned a new arrival, but something's got them worried."

Painfully aware that he had nothing better to do, Yassen waved a hand for the man to continue and sat in the chair next to the man, accepting the obvious lure into the conversation as Ahmed started towards the warden's villa. "What about?"

"I didn't hear all the details, but-" Abed lowered his voice another few decibels, despite the fact that they were almost certainly being listened to with perfect clarity somewhere in the control room. "-they kept bringing up Julius."

That was interesting. Yassen folded his arms, expression unchanged. "I thought they concluded he was dead after his car went off a cliff."

Abed shrugged with obvious delight, waving a sharp hand at the entrance of the prison. "That's what I heard too! How shocking would it be if he returned after all these months? Or perhaps it is one of his brothers. The clones."

Yassen shrugged. "I doubt the French would share custody with the British. I assume this facility only held Julius because he was arrested in Britain." He had heard the filtered version of the story, including the ever vague connections to Alex Rider, which shifted with every retelling. Even that had not compared to his initial shock when the cloned boy arrived wearing an uncomfortably familiar face.

"So far as I know," Abed said, studying him. He smiled. "Unless you know something about the French and British custody chain that I don't, Six?"

Yassen didn't take the bait, staring back impassively at the man. Every so often his fellow inmates would try and squeeze a hint of information out of him, something that would reveal another clue about who he was. Everyone at the prison, from the warden to the janitors, had no idea of his actual identity. His file had been deliberately kept bereft.

Not everything was unknown, of course. It was common knowledge that he was a contract killer of enough importance to warrant formal cooperation with the CIA, but his name, age, and nationality weren't included in the sparse amount of information. As far as the world inside the prison was concerned, he was simply prisoner number six. All other information was limited to what physical characteristics were plainly observable: 5'10", blonde, blue eyed, and male.

It didn't take much to guess the motivations for keeping his jailers in the dark. While the warden would undoubtedly prefer as much information as possible, MI6 could hardly take the risk of moles or sleeper agents within their own organization. He was a high value target, one of Scorpia's top earners for over a decade. Despite his unwillingness to chat, Yassen was a potential treasure trove of information that could be used to take down several central segments of the organization. It would behoove any number of people to see that Yassen died well before he had the chance to spill his guts, not that he had any intention of doing so. After the failed efforts to interrogate him, the next best thing MI6 could do was to hide him. He doubted anyone lower on the totem pole than the head knew exactly where he was.

After another few moments of silence, Abed waved a hand in defeat. "Can't blame me for trying. I suppose we'll know by the end of the day who our mystery prisoner is. Hopefully, it's someone old enough to drink this time. I'd hate for them to remove the mini-bar from the dining hall again."

O

Alex Rider blinked as the afternoon sun assaulted his eyes. As the darkness provided by the blacked out windows of the van now peeled away, he squinted at his surroundings. The two agents transporting him grabbed him by the arms, grips only slightly accommodating the cuffs that secured his wrists together. Staggering, he managed to get his feet under himself as two unfamiliar guards in olive shirts and dark pants approached.

The first of the new guards nodded to the agents and tapped something on his radio. It let out a small bleep. "Glad to see you arrived in one piece. Take him directly to the villa, please. He's expected."

Whatever sedative had been in the injection last night must have been quite potent. He still couldn't quite work observations into thoughts, still feeling half asleep, but that didn't stop his initial instinct to look around for clues as to where he was, to scan for the ever-present danger.

At least his relocation hadn't been a surprise. The three weeks he'd spent confined in the psychiatric ward they'd moved him to after he'd escaped Saint Dominic's notwithstanding, Mrs. Jones explained that they could no longer provide him with the care he needed.

It was nice to speak with her so frankly: now that he was too sick to function in the field, it wasn't like she wanted anything from him.

"I'm very sorry, Alex," she'd said, voice crisp but just wavering enough to make him think she half believed the tired sentiment. "You just aren't getter better. We're going to move you somewhere else to recover. A new facility where you can get the long term support you need."

If it hadn't been for the heavy sedatives coursing through him at the time, he would have lunged at her instead of scowling mutely. That, and the straps securing him to his hospital bed, put there to prevent him from attempting that particular action a second time. What could Alex say? He had the heart of a problem solver.

Flames seemed to coil around her, erupting out of the floor, surrounding his bed, and washing his face with a blast of hot air. He'd cringed back, coughing, unable to climb away from the searing heat threatening to bake him alive. Sweat broke out across his forehead. Even though he knew it was pointless, he couldn't help but attempt to point out the obvious. "I'm going to burn. Why are you just standing there and letting me burn?"

Her smile was sad and edged with pity. She couldn't see the flames, of course. Or maybe she was the devil and secretly enjoyed his distress.

Alex knew on some level that they weren't real, that Julius wasn't actually lurking around the corner of his school at the moment, and that Alex himself, in fact, was not located there at all. Tulip Jones was not the devil and had little to do with the Point Blank academy apart from sending him there in the first place. He was in the psych ward, and as much as that made his stomach twist, he understood. If only he could convince his racing heart and frantic brain of any of this, already kicking into overdrive and urging him to get out and get away right now. He fought the restraints until eventually Jones called a nurse to sedate him.

Scowling, he glanced around at this "new facility". His first impression was of a lot of white weatherboarding, pretty in a Spanish style he'd become familiar with when Ian had taken them to live abroad. Curved red tile roofs baked warmly in the sunshine above painted blue shutters, and a distant villa winking at him from the walls. Flower beds and dusty winding paths wove around various buildings, shining in the mist generated by an automatic watering system. Glancing at the wood and brick buildings, Alex frowned with a quiet hum he wasn't quite conscious of making. If it wasn't for the barbed wire fence running along the interior of the wall, as well as the patrolling guards carrying automatic rifles, he would have said he was at some high-end rehab facility.

Where was he?

Jack would have said that she was glad that MI6 had finally shelled out the dough to put him up somewhere swanky. That he'd earned it. Detoxing with the stars and getting sober with all his favorite celebrities. She would have laughed and asked him to get her Robert Downey Jr.'s autograph.

His throat closed, feeling pain and grief penetrate his fog. Not even three months ago, she'd burned. Well, the parts of her that hadn't exploded all over the Egyptian desert.

Still wearing the thin blue scrubs provided by psyche facility, Alex found himself unceremoniously dragged down the closest path, courtesy of the agents MI6 had provided to escort him and much to the consternation of the new guards. They stared, eyes raking over him with uneasy disbelief.

Alex fought the sudden urge to touch his face. Had the crocodiles eaten it while he'd slept? Surely not. That would be crazy.

He wasn't entirely able to convince himself.

Alex blinked, suddenly aware that his escorts were trying to wrangle his uncooperative legs up the stairs of the villa he'd seen before in the distance. With a start, he straightened out his limbs and began the short climb. The slippers provided by the psyche ward slapped softly against the brick.

One of the new guards, a rifle slung across his chest, knocked twice on the front door before pulling it open. "Warden? Prisoner seven has arrived."

Prisoner? Alex supposed that was more honest than calling him a patient. Almost refreshing, actually. He smiled at him. The guard started and quickly stepped away, clearly unnerved.

Alex wiggled his nose experimentally. It seemed to still be there, but maybe his face had been eaten after all.

Landscape paintings hung along the walls of the entryway, featuring various seascapes and small boats, while the rest of the area had been surrounded by floral arrangements and polished wood furniture. On a handsome wooden table sat small series of screens that showed the exterior of the porch. They'd been seen coming long before they arrived.

The warden himself was a short, muscular man with close cropped silver hair. His crisp army fatigues seemed rather at odds with the upscale Disneyland resort appearance of the rest of the place. "Right on time. Let's move this into my office. I hope your stay here will be more comfortable than your trip, Mr. Rider."

Alex stared at him. He opened his mouth to say something along the lines of "Let's hope your rehab is more comfortable than a windowless van with shot suspension", but the words caught in his throat. A flash of teeth ensnared his mind, the whisper of a scaled belly dragging itself across the warden's polished wood floors. Instead, he twisted his hands in his restraints as he was led into an adjacent room and let out a strained giggle.

Maybe he should ask if he could speak with Robert Downey Jr. instead.

The warden's eyes narrowed, pausing beside his desk. A quick glance at the agent to Alex's left. "How lucid is he?"

The agent, a grim, light-haired man in his mid-thirties that Alex had nicknamed Chin, exchanged a glance with his partner, a hispanic looking man Alex had begun to refer to as Bull in his head. Simultaneously, they pressed on Alex's shoulders until he collapsed into the plush, green leather chair set in front of the walnut desk. "It comes and goes, sir. The sedatives used to ensure his smooth relocation were atypical for his condition but should wear off soon. We were told he may have some temporary cognitive impairment. You may have to re-explain things to him."

Nodding, the warden sat in his own chair. "I see. Complete the transfer paperwork at the gate before you leave. My men can take it from here." As they removed Alex's handcuffs and left, the warden wiggled his mouse until the light of his screen flashed across his face. Alex got the impression that he was trying to avoid looking at him, lips pressed into a hard line. "Mr. Rider, I'm sure you've had a tiring morning, but I'd rather get straight to the point. You need to understand that this is a prison first and foremost. While we have every intention to see to your psychiatric needs and address any lingering chemical dependency on recreational drugs-"

"I'm not dependant," Alex muttered. His stomach sank as he hunched in his chair.

Prison. Jones hadn't sent him to rehab or a new psych ward. She'd sent him to prison.

One of the guards shifted uneasily behind him, covering the door.

He'd killed that agent, he was certain of it, but somehow he hadn't expected to be locked up for it. He hadn't even known the man. In a hazy way, it felt like another mission. Was this punishment for failing his last assignment?

The warden ignored his outburst. "The safety of my staff and the security of the other prisoners comes first. If you put a toe out of line, expect to be treated as a violent inmate. I'm not thrilled to have another child grace our complex, so expect to be treated as an adult. You will follow any orders and instructions you are given at all times. Any deviation will have severe consequences. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Alex said, tongue feeling thick. Or maybe it was his eyes filling with liquid. Prison. His fuzzy brain plucked another thought from the warden's speech. "Wait. Another child?"

The man turned to face him, meeting his eyes at last. "Previous to you, we had another inmate around your age. There were problems with his incarceration. He is no longer with us."

Studying Alex's face, taking in his furrowed brows and his hunched position as he curled up in his chair, the warden sighed. "Normally, I wouldn't discuss a previous prisoner, but I'm afraid there are some… additional complications that will need to be addressed. It would seem you two share a lot of similarities. There is bound to be confusion on the part of the staff and other inmates."

Alex drew his legs up onto the chair, only half convinced he'd imagined the slide of scale and carapace along the back of his calf. "Because we're both children?"

The silver-haired man hesitated, eyes flicking sharply to his screen before he apparently decided how he wanted to approach the matter. "Because you have identical faces. Or near identical. My files on you include a note that you should already be familiar with the history of Julius Grief, given your involvement with him."

Alex couldn't breathe. He twisted in his chair, voice rising. "This is where Julius lived? She sent me to where Julius was?" A new thought branched off of that one. "I've replaced him?"

Tensing in his seat, the warden shot a glance at the guard "I'm going to need you to calm down, Rider. You will be sedated if necessary."

Sucking in a deep breath, Alex forced himself to sit rigidly in his chair. No sudden movements. "But I can't- He killed- I had to, you don't understand-"

The warden held up a hand, eyes hardening. "I don't know the full story and frankly, it's my job not to know. This facility is designed to operate in isolation. Most people don't even know it exists. Your file only includes the most essential information and only a few notes on the matter of your relationship with Julius as a special consideration. At any rate, it doesn't matter beyond the confusion you may encounter from the staff. We were unaware that we would be receiving you until last night and have not been unable to update all of our personnel regarding the resemblance. I'm only telling you this because I simply want to avoid any nasty surprises for you."

Alex could barely focus on the man. He was in prison, the very same secret prison where Julius Grief had been held until Scorpia had rescued him. Until Rahim had supported his mad delusions of revenge. The place he'd lived before he'd kidnapped Alex and Jack and…

He felt as though he were falling into an endless void yawning beneath him. What were the odds? How could this happen? His fingernails digging into the skin of his hands helped clear his head of the sedative fog.

"I need to speak with Mrs. Jones," Alex said, clenching harder. The pain gave him something to focus on. "There's been a mistake. I can't be in prison. I was never even tried, must less sentenced. I never even spoke to an attorney. I shouldn't be here."

The warden's face smoothed so swiftly that Alex knew he was about to hate whatever came out of the man's mouth next. He carefully swept a hand across his desk, pushing the mouse out of his way before he brought them together in a loose clasp. "Normally, I don't have this conversation very often. Most within our walls know exactly what they've done to earn a place here. This is not your typical prison, son. No phone calls, no letters, no barristers. In most official records, we don't exist."

Alex's ears rang. "I need to speak with Mrs. Jones. Call her right now."

"I'm afraid that's not possible." The warden didn't break his steady gaze. "I can submit a request, if you like, but it is unlikely to be approved."

"How long am I going to be here?" Alex demanded, his voice having dropped to a ragged hush. He stared at his lap, willing the tears away.

A new facility where you can get the long term support you need….

For probably the millionth time in the last month, Alex wished he'd killed the woman when he'd had the chance.

Considering him for a long moment, the warden ultimately took a deep breath and shook his head. Alex knew his face was being scoured for any other signs of mental instability. Bad news then. Alex fought the mad urge to clap his hands over his ears; no point in robbing himself of confirmation.

"There are no fixed sentences here."

Alex wanted to lash out, to scream at the warden that this wasn't fair and couldn't possibly be legal. He felt the terrified energy working through his limbs, threatening to spill over into some desperate escape attempt. The only thing keeping him from going down that route was the opposing sensation spreading through him; all of his spirit drained from his head to pool into his toes, leaving pinpricks of dread to flare like drowning embers in their wake.

Jones had said that they wanted him to recover but she had lied. He was almost surprised at his own surprise. Of course she had. They didn't want him back, they wanted him out of the way. Why else would she send him to a prison and not another psychiatric hospital for proper treatment? Why send him to a super secret barely-exists-on-paper facility if they intended to send for him? He was being discarded permanently, somewhere where even if someone was willing to believe an insane teenager with a so-called drug problem, his story would never be permitted to leave its walls.

I never wanted any of this. Alex wrapped his arms around himself and swallowed back the tears pricking at his eyes again. He'd praise Blunt as a humanitarian philosopher before he allowed any to fall in front of these fucking people, but he couldn't stop the panicked gasps that ripped their way up his rib cage. That particular brand of panic attack had been coming and going over the last few weeks. It's not fair. I didn't even want to work for them in the first place. They did this to me and now that I can't handle missions anymore they've stuck me here to forget about me?

It was like waking up, again and again, to find himself trapped in the same nightmare.

Shifting awkwardly in his seat, the warden averted his gaze while Alex rode unwillingly into the storm of his panic attack. Turning back to the boy, he assumed a much more cheerful facade, seemingly now hyper-aware that he was addressing a psychologically damaged fifteen-year-old. "Now, son, I don't mean to make it sound like a death sentence. Our facilities here are quite lovely, not at all what I imagine that you're expecting. We've got plenty to keep you busy, from our library and our workshop and even our gym. I'm sure if you wanted to, you could even help out in the garden. Once you've caught your breath, we'll take a nice tour and I'll explain the rules. Have you eaten lunch?"

Alex didn't want a nice tour, he didn't want lunch, and he especially didn't want to stay anywhere near this cold warden with his uneasy eyes. All he wanted was to be back in his Chelsea house, listening to Jack drop things as she threw together a ten-minute meal that came fifty percent from a package. He wanted to work on his homework with Tom, with Spongebob or some other easy, stupid kid show on for background noise.

The warden stood, grabbed a clipboard from his desk, scribbled something, and otherwise averted his gaze from Alex. After another minute or two, Alex's breathing had yet to even out. He nodded to one of the guards. "Alright, son. You've got two options here: you can calm down on your own or take another round of sedatives. Which will it be?"

Alex glared, still sucking air. "If I could calm down, don't you think I would prefer to?"

They exited the warden's private villa just as the little blue pills they'd forced him to swallow kicked in. Rather than feeling fuzzy around the edges, these had a floaty sensation, leaving him only semi-interested in whatever was going on around him. Half present, Alex decided he was actually okay with this strange, partial awareness he'd slipped into. Had they accidentally gotten him high?

He hoped so.

It probably wasn't great for his reaction time, should something jump out at him. His years of rearing by Ian fought against that, but whatever they'd given him had thrown a damp cloth over the burning fear that ate at him ceaselessly these last few months. Everything was broken but that was fine. The cool relief was worth it.

The warden started talking again. Alex forced himself to pay attention with half an ear, mustering the energy to take stock of the complex as each building was introduced, followed by the same standard rules Alex would have expected any prison, private school, or mildly overprotective summer camp to have. Obey all orders and instructions without hesitation, stay only in the approved areas, lights out at ten, do not enter another inmate's room, do not approach the electrified fence, do not attempt to tamper with any of the surveillance equipment…

Alex swallowed the urge to ask when they'd be making friendship bracelets, half afraid that they'd have an actual date and time set aside already.

Nodding to a collection of rickety chairs arranged beneath a small cluster of wide cyprus trees, the warden went on. "As you can see, right next to the library is one of the three outdoor areas we have within the walls. Occasionally, we hold lectures here but they are generally unreserved. The other two sitting areas are located next to…."

Alex squinted. There was something familiar about the figure reclined in one of the lawn chairs. Something about the posture, or maybe the short blonde hair catching the mid-afternoon sunlight. His eyes lingered on the red cover of the book in the man's hands: Seventy Simple Travel Phrases for Touring Tokyo! An odd choice.

Alex blinked, unsure of when exactly his path had deviated away from the tour and onto the lush green grass. It seemed unusually bright out. He blinked again, meeting the clear blue eyes regarding him cooly for the first time.

"You look well for a dead boy," Yassen Gregorovich said, returning his gaze to his book.

Alex fell back a step, eyes going wide.

Of course. That explained everything!

The prison Julius had stayed at, the lack of a trial for Alex's crimes, the way reality flickered back and forth between making sense and descending into Cheshire cat levels of madness….

"I'm dead too now?" Alex asked, tilting his head. Unsure. Should he be more upset?

A heartbeat passed, excruciatingly slow.

Yassen's head snapped back up. His eyes narrowed, taking in Alex standing there wearing the hospital-provided scrubs and slippers. The assassin himself was dressed exactly as Alex had remembered him in France: white t-shirt and blue jeans, fitted well and a little expensive looking. Cool, in a way Alex resented in his uncle's murderer.

Swallowing, Alex's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "When did it happen to me? Do you know?"

"Little Alex?" the Russian asked, a hint of surprise creeping into the diminutive.

A hand gripped Alex's elbow. "The warden isn't-"

-Cray's men were closing in, still disguised as US military members as they dragged the bodies off of Air Force One, bloody trails in the carpet-

Spinning around, Alex swung his elbow up and into the stomach of his attacker before his brain was able to recognize the olive green of the guard's uniform. "Stop it!" he snarled, without thinking. "Don't touch me."