A/N: I hope everyone's staying safe and healthy during this crisis! Hopefully this chapter will brighten your day a little.

Disclaimer: All Alex Rider intellectual property belongs to Anthony Horowitz. I own nothing.

Remember to wash your hands and be kind to grocery store and healthcare workers!

"I don't know whether to kiss Agent Rider or kill him."

Taylor smirked and glanced down at the speaker's monitor. "You'd be surprised how common a sentiment that is. What have you got for me, Pritchard?"

Technical Analyst Pritchard leaned back from his computer with a sigh. "Seven layers of encryption broken through, up to seven hundred more to go, Ma'am."

"Only seven hundred?" Taylor replied dryly. "That should be child's play."

"Ma'am!" Pritchard protested unhappily, "You and Agent Bennet were able to bring back a ton of intelligence, which is great! But it's also a ton of intelligence, and no one in this department's slept for days, trying to extract out usable information before Scorpia figures out what happened and everything becomes obsolete. We've even brought over some of the boys from Vauxhall Cross."

Taylor's eyebrow rose slightly as she scanned the room's occupants. While Special Operations was only one division among many in the whole of MI6, they were afforded a certain amount of autonomy because they housed the most rapid-response Field Agents. The "Special" in their division's title wasn't just for show, their operations tended to be more exotic - and occasionally more illicit - than the operations conducted by other branches based at Vauxhall Cross. As a result, operatives from other MI6 divisions saw SO Agents as somewhat maverick, and SO Agents saw their counterparts as a bit… stodgy. It made for some interesting rivalries, and the administration had often accused Director Blunt of poaching operatives.

"They causing any trouble?"

Pritchard shook his head. "No, Ma'am, we need the extra resources. Might even get a convert or two. Anything to figure out what Scorpia's doing before they, well, do it."

"Anything useful from the encryption?"

Pritchard nodded. "Just consolidated the latest batch of SIGINT. We've got a lot from the encryption so far about patterns, and techniques for the future, even though we're lacking on immediate actionable intelligence."

"And Horseman?"

Pritchard inclined his head towards one of his neighbours. "Beth's working it up right now; we should have something to feed Scorpia in a few hours."

Taylor clapped the analyst on the shoulder. "Good, keep at it. This could be one of the biggest wins this division's had in years!"

Zeljan Kurst was angry.

Not that it showed, of course, that would never do. Especially not in a boardroom with the other executive members of Scorpia watching him closely. There were eleven members now; they had yet to recruit a replacement for Levi Kroll.

"Señor Santiago," Kurst began, the Spanish title falling from his lips as ugly as English did, "Would you like to explain to the rest of the Board why we are gathered here today?"

Miguel Santiago was a small man, with a weaselly face and wispy goatee he took inordinate pride in. His small stature belied the power he held at his fingertips, running terrorist training camps throughout most of Central and South America, and smuggling weapons throughout the region. One of Scorpia's prison camps had been overseen by him.

The same camp that had been discovered in ruins recently, all personnel dead and one of Scorpia's most important assets missing.

Miguel Santiago knew he wasn't leaving the meeting alive. After all, Ian Rider had escaped on his watch. He cleared his throat. "Four days ago, there was an… attack on one of our prison compounds."

Santiago looked around the room, taking in the stony faces, ranging from haughty to bored to completely expressionless. Everyone had already been debriefed on the situation before arriving, due to the escalated threat level. The Columbian swallowed heavily. "Ian Rider is missing."

There was no shift in anyone's expressions, though the Santiago could feel the intensity of his colleagues' ire boring into him. He steeled himself and forced himself to continue with his report. "All our on-site personnel are dead. All causes of death are consistent with Rider's tactics - bullets to the head, broken necks, quick, sometimes brutal, deaths. There are, as yet, no signs that Rider received outside help."

At this point, Seamus snorted. "You've got to be bloody joking. One man - one tortured, malnourished man - tore through an entire prison camp, staffed by Scorpia's supposedly best operatives in South America? On his own? What kind of staff do you even have down there?"

Mr. Mikato folded his hands on the table. "I share my esteemed colleague's disbelief. Ian Rider may be something of a bogeyman in certain circles, but at the end of the day, he is still one man, subject to the human body's limitations. He cannot have managed this without help."

"Well, as yet, my people have been able to find no evidence that Rider contacted anyone."

Mr. Mikato, despite being about the same size as Santiago, managed an expression so haughty, it looked like he was looking down his nose at him.

The Frenchman, Monsieur Duval decided to cut in with a more direct question. "How much of our information has been compromised? The initial report was unexpectedly vague on the matter."

Santiago straightened up, marginally more confident than before. "I have had the best of my people examining our archives. They can find no evidence of tampering."

Duval scoffed. "You expect us to believe that Ian Rider killed every one of his captors and then left a veritable goldmine of information untouched? C'est incroyable. Non, c'est ridicul."

There was a polite clearing of someone's throat, reminding the Frenchman that the agreed language for the meeting was English. Using any other language would considered quite rude.

"What does this mean for our plans?" Dr. Three asked, joining the conversation.

"One possibility is putting our South and Central American operations on hold," Zeljan Kurst replied, "But that would cost us considerably in money and reputation. Another is to assume MI6 is aware of our plans and adjust them accordingly, but continue the operations."

"There is no evidence that we have been compromised by Ian Rider!" Santiago protested.

"Rider's one of the best of the best," Brendon Chase replied. "If I had to rank him, I'd put him in the top twenty spies in the world, maybe higher. There are rumours - silly ones, of course - that he's not totally human, considering how many times he should have died, but didn't, and how many things he knows, but shouldn't. We'd be fools to assume he hasn't gone home and spilled everything he knows to MI6."

"How much can he really know?" Eduardo Grimaldi asked. "The man was tortured and imprisoned for a year, it is not as if he was reading our files every day."

Giovanni Grimaldi narrowed his eyes as his twin spoke. Santiago had turned even paler. "But perhaps Signor Santiago has a better perspective on Agent Rider's skills. Perhaps you were closer to him than you would like us to believe?"

Santiago's eyes widened. "That is preposterous!"

"Lads might be on to something," Seamus mused, "Security cock-up this big doesn't just happen overnight. Spies know how to wait, Rider's probably been biding his time, looking for an opportunity. Who'd you have working him over, anyway?"

"Many people," Santiago dismissed, "Even Dr. Three and Mr. Mikato have visited him. The point is -"

"The point is, Rider could have been playing you from the start! He could have been planted by Blunt to gather information."

"I rather doubt he could gather much information while screaming in agony!"

Kurst's gaze flicked to the only two members of the executive board who hadn't spoken yet: Razim and Kgosi Aidid. Razim was watching the brewing argument with a disinterested air, and Kgosi's gaze was sharp and watchful. The African's gaze flicked to Kurst, a faint glimmer of a challenge in them.

"I believe we are straying from the point of this meeting," Kurst declared, bringing a halt to Seamus' argument with Santiago. "Ian Rider has escaped from one of our prison camps. We do not know how much information he has. We do not even know where he is, though it is logical to assume he is on his way to MI6. In addition to compromised intelligence, we are down at least fifty people and several million euros of equipment. Señor Santiago, what information was stored on-site that Rider may have had access too?"

"Personnel files, arms, logistics…"

"So, basically, everything," Chase summarised derisively. "Great job on security, there."

"Now that we have assessed the situation, our next steps."

"If I may," Razim finally cut in, "There is a way to salvage the situation without great disruption to us. MI6 knows us too well to expect us not to detect their infiltration. If indeed they have Señor Santiago's information on us, then they will be expecting us to respond by aborting our missions. They will not expect us to expect them and to continue as planned."

"You're suggesting a counter-bluff."

Razim pulled out a cigarette, lighting it. "The most crucial of our current operations, Operation Horseman, is still untouched. I have received reports from my people, Blunt and Jones have fallen into our trap perfectly. Alex Rider should soon be in Cairo."

"And Ian Rider?"

"There is no evidence of him having made contact."

"How certain are you that your people have not been compromised?"

"As certain as I can be without seeing them myself. Things are already well in motion, the decoy has already been recruited. It would be remiss of us to throw away all of our hard work because of one… oversight."

"Perhaps," Kgosi said, finally speaking in his deep bass, "But Scorpia has not made it as far as it has by being reckless. We stand to lose a lot more if we continue and Rider gets the best of us, than if we withdraw now and regroup. We can be patient."

"Patience could lose us clients and further weaken our reputation," Seamus spat.

"I believe this would be a good time to call for a vote," Monsieur Duval cut in, before another argument could spark.

All heads turned to Kurst. He nodded. "All those in favour of aborting our South and Central American operations."

Some of the hands rose.

"All in favour of counter-bluffing MI6 and maintaining all operations as normal."

Some other hands rose.

"All abstaining."

Two hands rose.

Kurst nodded. "Majority rules, we will proceed with all operations. Notify your people accordingly. Is there any other business to discuss?"

Several heads shook.

"Very well. Meeting adjourned."

One by one, the members of the Scorpia Executive Board left the room. The glass boat docked, and they filed off, until Miguel Santiago was the only one left in the meeting room. He had not moved from his seat as the others left. There was a silver pistol laid on the table in front of him. The Columbian reached out and closed his hand over it.

Several minutes later, a shot rang out, and the boat began moving again. It would keep sailing, out into the Atlantic, until it ran out of fuel. Perhaps another sailing vessel would come across it, or perhaps with would run aground on some rocky shore. Perhaps a sudden storm would whip up and shatter it - glass was so very fragile, after all.

Razim's shirt fluttered in the wind as he watched a cargo ship pull into the dock. He was wearing loose linen Western clothes, presenting himself as a rich merchant, checking on highly sensitive goods pulling into the Port of Gibraltar. It was just before sunrise, dim light spreading across the docks, while the sun still hid below the seas. It would take another seventeen minutes for the sun to fully cross the horizon, and by that time, Razim intended to be long gone.

There was a shout from the ship's captain as a ramp was lowered, signalling that the ship was ready to be board. Razim made his way towards the ramp as two sailors appeared on deck, using the AK-47s strapped across their torsos to usher a figure between them. Even without the weak light of the pre-dawn, Razim would have known that the figure stood at 5' 10", with short-cropped blond hair, and cold brown eyes.

His eyebrow twitched ever so slightly as the sailors shoved the figure off the ramp, and then scrambled back up warily, guns at the ready.

"What on Earth did you do to the soldiers?"

"I didn't do anything," the figure whined, sounding every inch the fifteen-year-old schoolboy he was.

Julius Grief stepped out of the shadow of the cargo ship and looked at Razim, eyes gleaming with hate. "So. When do I get to kill Alex Rider?"

A/N: Thoughts? Comments? Concerns?

Thanks for stopping by!