AN: This whole chapter is the first six chapters of my story, as posted on AO3. General warnings for torture.

Mark Corwynn had spent the past two decades of his life with MI6. The past thirteen of those years he had been with Special Operations, first as a desk lackey, then working as a field agent. He had successfully stopped a terrorist attack in central London seven years ago, and he would label himself fairly successful at what he did. He was thinking of retiring soon and getting serious with his long-term girlfriend.

Twenty years in the business and he had been assigned a kid younger than his career with MI6. Not even a kid – a child! He was wearing a schoolboy uniform when they'd first met.

And Mark would like to assume they were not being treated as equals in this mission, but Jones had introduced the boy as Mark's partner for the mission.

The kid was nice enough. Polite. He had shaken Mark's hand and introduced himself as Alex – the same name of his cover, ironically. Mark felt reassured that the kid who was providing him cover couldn't even handle an assumed name.

Alex hadn't been at Mark's mission briefing, which was probably for the best. Mark didn't trust the kid not to carelessly slip up on their job. Why Jones believed in a kid she didn't bother to educate was anyone's business.

The Irish business mogul Conan Walsh was suspected to have ties to a few dozen suspicious individuals. Mark was being given the cover of a suspiciously wealthy British man (David Windon), and MI6 had managed to get invitations for Windon and his son to a party at Walsh's manor outside Dublin. His job was to personally meet Walsh and try to ingratiate himself with the man so the cover and mission could be continued later. Alex, playing Alex Windon, would be an excellent cover. MI6 suspected that Walsh knew MI6 and other groups were chasing him. An Irish agent had disappeared three months ago under suspicious circumstances, and his last known whereabouts had been Walsh's summer home.

Walsh knew to not easily allow new people into his social circle. But a wealthy Brit with a teenaged son could be trustworthy. After all, what intelligence agency worth their salt would employ a teenager?

Mark internally sighed. It was almost showtime. Here's to hoping the kid wouldn't muck it all up.

He rapped on the door to Alex's hotel room. "Ready, son?"

The door opened. The kid stepped out, in a dark blue suit. "Ready. Are we grabbing a taxi?"

"I have a limo booked."

On the ride to the manor the kid played a game on his phone, with headphones plugged in. Mark recognized the phone as one of Smither's altered iPhones by the phone case. Mark had a similar one, programmed with only a few saved numbers, including 'Son'. He knew the kid's had at least his number saved as 'Dad', from glancing at the phones when they got them yesterday evening before their flight to Dublin. How had the kid even had time to add music and games before the flight? And was the government paying for those games?

"Alex," Mark said. The boy looked up from his phone at that. "Take your earphones out, will you son?"

Alex complied, looking at him skeptically. "We've barely talked," Mark said. "You were buried in your phone the whole ride yesterday, and in your room today. Tell me, how's school going?"

"It's ok."

"C'mon son, more than that."

"No one calls their son 'son', dad."

The kid was probably right, Mark ruefully admitted to himself. He hadn't been around schoolkids much for the past decade and it showed. Oh well, all the better for their cover. Alex Windon lived with his mother most of the year anyway. This was supposed to be their bonding time.

"Have you been dating?"

"No."

"Well, that's good. Since you're still young." Suddenly Mark realized whatever cover the kid had been given to memorize, it probably wasn't at detailed as 'was he dating'. Alex was probably just answering with the truth. Did the kid have to do these awkward conversations with his own parents as well? Probably. Whatever sort of parents allowed their child to work as a cover for MI6 couldn't be close to him. Not close enough to know the intricacies of their son's life. Maybe they were a military couple who had enabled their son to have visions of glory. (Soon, Mark reflected, the kid would realize being a spy was tedious and lonely more than anything else).

Alex stared out the window.

"Ready for the party? I've heard Mr. Walsh has a lot of fun parties. Sometimes a couple a week."

"Will there be many teenagers?"

"No, probably not. Still, there will be some fun. Maybe you can talk someone into playing a phone game with you. What's popular these days, that Candy Crush I've heard about?"

"Sure."

Mark gave up on conversation soon after, and Alex returned to his phone game.

They arrived at the manor's gates soon after. Mark gave his name to the men watching the gate, and it opened to let the limo through. At the front of the manor, Mark and the driver exchanged numbers so they could coordinate pickup when they were done at the party while Alex got out of the car and looked around.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Mark asked.

The manor seemed to have four or five stories, with an elaborate façade and gardens stretching out around the front of the building to the gate in the distance. The manor was made of grey stone and had clearly been around longer than a few centuries.

"It's nice," Alex agreed with obvious disinterest. One of his headphones was still in, the other dangling loosely in the air.

"Put the headphones up. It's time to make a good first impression." That sounded like something Mark's father would have said, if Mark had been a teenager at a time when smart phones existed. Mark almost smiled ruefully. Maybe he wouldn't be a terrible father after all, despite what he'd been telling his girlfriend for ages.

The kid pulled his headphone out and wrapped the cord around his phone.

"Come on, let's go see if there's a couple other kids your age." Mark clapped Alex on the shoulder and then led the way inside.

The entrance hall was grand. Wide archways opened into a grand dining room and a large living space. There were a few catering tables at the back of the dining room, and some people loitering with small plates or drinks throughout all the rooms he could see.

"Don't drink a lot," Mark cautioned. Someone help the kid if he got drunk and forgot his last name or assumed identity…

"I don't drink," Alex responded.

Well, that was a relief.

"Do you want to grab some food? I'll make introductions."

Alex shrugged and walked to grab a plate. Mark glanced at the people. There were a few security men loitering by the doors, a grand spiral staircase down the entrance hall that led upstairs, and a lot of mainly middle aged and older men and women standing in small groups and talking. Classical music was being piped through the rooms.

Several semi-covertly placed security cameras on the ceiling pointed in different directions. Mark noted it quickly and then went to introduce himself to a few men around his age. They made some jokes about the Irish weather and golf. Soon Alex joined the circle, gave his name, and then quietly stood and ate a shrimp cocktail while the adults talked.

Between conversations, Mark fetched glasses of wine from the drinks table. He was nearly finished with his second glass when he realized something was wrong. Where was Alex? Mark looked around the hall with increasing irritation. The entire point of having a schoolboy with him was to prove that he himself was a real person with a family. That was made more difficult with Alex having disappeared. Oh well, maybe he'd gone to the loo.

Moments later, he felt his pocket vibrate. A text. He opened the message and frowned.

Walking the gardens. Staying out of sight. Don't mention you have a teenaged son.

Right, don't mention the main part of his cover that would show he was above suspicion of being a spy. If Mark had been irritated before, he was positively peeved now.

Mark continued to make the rounds, introducing himself to people, and carrying out brief conversations before he moved to another group. He had years of experience playing a boring business executive. Greet the executive, compliment their wife or girlfriend, comment on the travel from London to here, and remark on the beautiful manor they were in.

He was close to the door to the gardens when Alex reappeared, glancing around.

"Hey."

"You disappeared. I was worried about you." It was a perfectly fatherly statement. Anyone would take it as a concerned father's sentiments to his son, instead of his true barely repressed annoyance that the child couldn't do his one job.

Alex kept glancing around, surreptitiously. "The gardens are really nice. Let me show you some of them."

Mark followed Alex outside, past a fountain where an elderly couple were talking, and into a small hedge maze. "I think we're long past a point where someone could overhear us," Mark said dryly.

Alex stopped and turned around. "I saw someone who knows me."

"You saw someone who knows you. Like a friend from school?"

"No." Alex crossed his arms. "But he knows who I am, and if he knows that we came together, he'll have a pretty good idea of who you are too."

"Want me to talk to him?"

"God, no!" Alex said.

"Calm down." Mark reprimanded.

The kid nodded and took a deep breath. "Sorry, yeah. But I promise that wasn't an overreaction. If he sees me, you have to swear you won't say you're with me."

"Not a good guy, I'm guessing." Mark examined the kid. At least Alex wasn't openly panicking. The last thing Mark needed was to complete a mission while reassuring a child. "What's he look like? Are you sure he'd recognize you? This isn't someone you bumped into once and think they might recognize you?"

"He knows who I am," Alex said. "He's blond, blue eyes, you're a bit taller than him."

"Any recognizable scars? Walks with a limp? Fearsomely ugly or incredibly handsome?" Mark smiled, ready to reassure the kid.

It didn't work. Alex stared at him, hard. "You don't want to meet him."

Mark held two hands up in a placating fashion. "Bad guy, blond, blue eyes, shorter than me. Got it. If I see him, run away."

"You'll swear you don't know me."

"Alright, I'll swear I won't know you. I'm going to head back inside and make some new friends. Are you going to join me or keep wandering the garden? It's cold out here."

Alex shrugged. "I have a job to do. I'll do it."

Wasn't his job to stay with Mark? Apparently not.

"Well, stay out of trouble." Mark headed back inside.

The kid knew someone at a house party probably funded by a criminal. Not only that, whoever he knew would recognize him in turn. Not for the first time Mark figured that this assignment would be twice as easy without the nuisance of a teenager.

-AR-

The problem with trying to recognize someone you'd never met based on only a few vague clues was that plenty of people met those criteria. For example, the last three out of five businessmen and other guests Mark had spoken to were blond with blue eyes. One of them had been taller than himself, ruling that man out. To be on the safe side, Mark avoided mentioning his 'son' in any of his conversations. Not that Alex would have helped him, because Conan Walsh was nowhere to be seen. Mark had, in his conversations, travelled all around the first floor of the mansion. Walsh was not there.

"I was invited here to meet Conan Walsh, but I haven't met anyone that goes by that name," Mark remarked to the couple he was conversing with.

"Oh, Conan will be upstairs, playing poker," replied the woman in the pair. She smiled at her husband. "Sometimes Paul joins, but we're abstaining tonight."

"Poker?" Mark inquired.

"Conan loves the game. He'd play all day everyday if it was a choice. I think he's having a game night tomorrow. We might attend that."

"Does he allow new players to join?"

"As long as you pay in," Paul replied with a laugh. "They're playing for small stakes tonight."

Mark smiled, made small talk for a few minutes more, then politely extricated himself from the conversation and headed upstairs.

If he'd been expecting a den of sin or casino feel, he would be wrong.

There were perhaps 50 people in a large room with four round tables, three of them full of people and one full of poker chips, in the middle. A handful of observers sat on stuffed chairs around the outside of the room. Jazz music played in the background.

A man in a costume like the server's outfits walked up and introduced himself to Mark. Mark listened to a small spiel about the buy in, and a small donation to charity that was required of every player. Mark exchanged the equivalent of 500 pounds into poker chips and went to join the only table with an opening. Unfortunately, it was not Walsh's table.

Mark recognized one or two of the players at his table from his earlier conversations and reintroduced himself before the next game began.

There was a quote Mark liked about luck: The only sure thing about luck is that it will change. Over the next handful of games Mark had a round of rotten luck, one or two rounds he may have been able to win with more bluff, and enough luck to win two games.

He had a decent handful of chips in front of him by the seventh game. Mark examined his hand. Two pair, but they were twos and fives. Potentially a winning hand. It depended on the other players, as always.

Mark heard the boy before he saw him.

"Let go, I'm supposed to be here." Mark's head whipped around to see his supposed cover be roughly manhandled into the door by an armed member of the mansion's security. The teenager yanked himself free of the guard's grasp.

"I was just walking around," Alex insisted, taking a step back from the guard into the room. Mark prepared to stand and explain that his son was a troubled individual. And then the boy turned around and froze. Mark could pinpoint the exact moment Alex's expression changed from one of righteous indignation into something suspiciously close to fear.

Mark followed the boy's gaze across the room. A slim, pale man stood up casually. He didn't look like one of the security team. Like most of the other members of the room, he was wearing a suit. He had been sitting at the edge of the room, observing the game closest to him. He was blond, with blue eyes, and slightly shorter than Mark himself. Mark stayed seated.

"What's this?" Walsh asked.

"He was upstairs, in your private quarters," the man who had escorted Alex inside said.

Walsh looked at the teenager. "Who are you here with?"

"I'm here with myself." Alex said.

"I didn't invite any teenagers to my party," Walsh responded. Alex didn't respond, his eyes still watching the blond man.

Mark looked around the room. The music in the background was still playing, but there was no other noise. The room was captivated by the teenage intruder.

The blond man spoke for the first time, to the security man. "I'll find out who he belongs to. Tell the gate guards not to let anyone leave for the meantime."

"I didn't touch anything, and I'm leaving now." Alex said. "You're not the police."

"We'll go next door and call them," the blond man said.

Mark watched the teenager's eyes wander to the bystanders. His gaze skipped right by Mark.

"Does anyone know him?" Walsh asked loudly.

The room was silent until one of the drunken businessmen slurred out a comment. "Check him for valuables. He's probably fueling a drug habit."

"I didn't steal anything. If I turn out my pockets can I go?" The indignant tone was back. The teenager glared around the room. Mark had to hand it to the kid; he wasn't a bad actor. Unless his fear really did vanish as quickly as a drunk's first beer.

"That may help," Not a Good Guy said mildly. "We can do that next door."

"All I have is a phone." Alex turned his pants pockets inside out and held up his phone. His headphones fell to the ground.

"May I see it? To reassure myself it is yours."

"It's locked." The teenager said.

The blond man reached out for the phone. "That's fine."

The teenager stepped back and then threw his phone as hard as he could again the far wall.

A couple of the people playing poker laughed nervously. Mark looked at Marsh. His face was rapidly turning purple. A woman in a glitzy red dress stood up to retrieve the phone. She held it nervously. The slim man walked across the room to retrieve it. He looked at the screen and then pocketed the phone.

Mark looked in alarm at Alex.

"We'll go next door to handle this." The blond man said once again.

"I'll stay here, thanks."

Fuck, the kid had to think whatever awaited him next door was bad. Better to stay here and make a scene, apparently.

"Get him out of here," the second drunk man demanded. "I'll help if you need." He stood up and walked unsteadily to the teenager.

"I don't want to punch a drunk man," Alex said.

The blond man raised an eyebrow. He took a step away from the teenager, as if inviting the others in the room to take care of the problem for him.

"Enough," a large man with a faint Eastern European accent stepped into the center of the room. Alex took a few steps back until he was against the wall, and the Eastern European stepped forward and clamped a thick hand on the boy's shoulder. "Let's walk next door and the police can help you figure this out when they get here."

"Don't touch me," Alex snapped. Despite his protests, however, he didn't fight back.

The Eastern European forced Alex to the door he'd come through, then shoved him through. "Your scene is over."

The blond man stepped forward, nodded at the Eastern European, and walked into the next room. He shut the door behind him.

"My apologies," Walsh said. His face was still a deep shade of violet. "This is why I don't invite teenagers to my parties."

There was a scattering of awkward laughter before the table closest to the exit resumed play. Mark turned back to his table, thinking fast. The gates had been closed, so he couldn't just leave. And he couldn't leave anyway, because the kid was maybe 16 and with a man he had all but described as a 'bad guy'.

There were cameras in the building. Soon they would know who had entered the mansion with Alex. Mark had to leave, now, and get MI6 or their Irish allies here as soon as possible. He would play a couple more rounds of the game then cash out and find a way out before Walsh's men could trace him.

There was a series of vibrations in his pocket. Mark reached for it and turned the phone over. 'Son' was written across the scene. Mark felt his heart thud. He looked at his phone, unsure of what to do. The phone stopped vibrating as the call ended. Mark put the phone down. The vibrations began again. By now several people at the table were looking at Mark. "Pardon me, this is my wife. I'll be right back."

"Sir, we've already started the game," the croupier said.

Mark put his cards down, face down. "I'll be out for this round. Whoever wins can keep my chips."

Mark swiped to accept the call and headed to the hallway to hear.

"Hello," Mark said.

"Modern phones aren't always as easy to break as your partner would like." It was the man who had left with Alex. His voice was calm.

"Who is this?"

"Ask any security personnel you see to take you to the 3rd floor living quarters to pick up your son."

"Or what?"

There was a quiet moment. Mark heard his heart thump. "I imagine your phone receives pictures?" The blond man asked.

"Yes."

"Be here in 5 minutes, or I will start to send a few." The man didn't clarify what would be in the photos, and Mark didn't ask. The phone call ended.

Mark walked back to his table, dread laying heavy on him. The solution should be obvious. One spy is captured – the other walks away. But none of Mark's training included leaving a kid to die. And Mark was desperate not to find out what those pictures would comprise of.

What were his chances? On one hand, the Irish intelligence officer had apparently vanished a while back, not to reappear. On the other, the kid said the blond man knew him. If they knew each other and the man hadn't killed the kid when they met, maybe this situation wasn't as dire as Mark suspected. Unless the kid had been in a different cover last time they met, and simply by being in a different cover this time was how the man would know Alex couldn't be trusted.

Mark collected his chips and brought them to the attendant to cash them out. He pocketed the change and went to find a member of the security staff.

The member of security led Mark to a closed door on the third floor. Mark thanked the man then knocked and was bid to enter.

It was a small room, with two couches and armchairs placed around a television. The blond man was standing behind a couch across the room, facing the door.

Mark frowned uneasily. "I'm here to pick up my son."

"Yes," the man agreed. "Close the door."

Mark closed the door behind himself and walked into the room. "Where is he?"

The man nodded at the armchair across from himself.

Mark took a few steps forward into the middle of the room and turned to see Alex, slumped back in an armchair, arms folded across his chest. Mark coughed awkwardly and nodded. "He's, uh, a troubled young man. Thanks for finding him, and I can certainly smooth this over with Mr. Walsh if you need."

"That would be best. Take a seat."

"I would, but my son and I need to be going soon. We have a driver waiting for us."

The blond man shrugged. "We can solve that. Call your driver and say he is not needed for the rest of tonight."

"Then how will we get back to our hotel?"

The man's expression sharpened. "Call your driver. Tell him he is no longer needed."

"I'd rather not."

"Do it." Mark turned to see Alex staring pointedly at nowhere. "Do it, or he'll make you," the teenager repeated.

"I'm sure we can figure this out." Mark glanced back at the slim man. "How much do you need to clear this over? We need to be on our way. I'm not calling my driver off, I'm afraid."

The man lifted his shirt enough to reveal the partial outline of a gun. "Now," the man said calmly.

Mark glanced at the teenager. What the hell had Alex gotten them involved in?

He opened his phone and dialed the driver.

"Put it on speakerphone."

Mark did. The conversation with the driver was short. The man had been paid ahead of time and wasn't about to complain about getting out of work early.

"Put your phone on the table." The man waited until Mark had, then instructed further, "Take a seat."

Mark walked to one of the couches and sat. The kid moved his head to watch Mark's movement.

"Are you hurt?" Mark asked.

Alex didn't respond.

"He's unharmed. That will change quickly if you move." The blond man considered them. "Mr. Walsh will be here when his party finishes."

-AR-

Did MI6 know that Yassen Gregorovich was going to be here? Did they suspect it?

Alex should have made them leave. Fuck MI6. He should have abandoned the mission the moment he saw the familiar blond hair, blue eyes, and dancer-like gait of the man across from him now. Jones hadn't even told him why MI6 needed evidence on Conan Walsh; there was a nonzero chance the man wasn't even a threat that would impact Alex's day to day life. Let the bad guys win one. Jack was alive, SCORPIA was dismantled, there hadn't been a nuclear winter over most of Europe or an artificial drought in Africa. Couldn't that be enough?

It would have to be. Alex would be dead soon.

Seconds ticked by. Alex would have watched his watch but Yassen had taken it the moment they were out of Walsh's poker room.

Mark shifted. Alex tensed.

"I have close to a thousand pounds in my wallet. It's yours if we walk out of here now," Agent Corwynn said.

Yassen said nothing. His gaze was impassive.

"This has been interesting, and I'm sorry to have wasted your time, but my son and I are going to leave now." Mark stood up and gestured for Alex to do the same. "Alex, let's go."

Alex met Yassen's eyes. Neither of them moved.

The older agent took a step forward, expression determined. "Alex," he repeated, sounding impatient.

"I will shoot Alex if you take another step."

"No, you won't." Mark sounded self-assured.

Were all MI6 agents incompetent?

"He really will," Alex said.

Mark hesitated.

"Sit down," Yassen said quietly.

Time passed at a snail's pace. Alex would be lying if he said he hadn't considered begging or claiming his father's memories. But after the destruction of SCORPIA, and a year where Yassen had never reached out or let him know he was alive, it was pointless. A man who cared would have done more by now.

A man who really cared wouldn't put a child in a pit with a bull or killed the brother of the man he claimed to love.

Mark already thought Alex was a joke. There was no need to confirm it by begging.

Three men walked through the door. Two personal bodyguards, if Alex was guessing, and the man himself. Conan Walsh.

The two bodyguards stood on either side of the door. Walsh stood in the middle of them. He was a balding, older man. He wore a Rolex and a dark burgundy tie under his jacket. Alex caught his eye, and was reminded of the multitudes of other powerful, rich psychopaths that had tried to kill him in elaborate and painful ways. Walsh was considering Alex as if he wasn't a person, but a toy to play with. And then the man's dark eyes left Alex and took in his hired gun.

"Explain, Gregorovich."

"You're being tracked by MI6. These two were masquerading as a father and son."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

Walsh rubbed his hands together and smiled. "Good."

"This is a mistake," Mark protested. "My son is only fifteen. We were invited. My name is David Windon, and my son is Alex."

"They aren't related," Yassen responded.

Walsh laughed delightedly. "After that schoolboy interrupted my game, I was considering having him maimed in a ghastly way. This makes the decision easier." He met Corwynn's eyes. "David Windon? I heard his name for the first time two months ago. I suppose him being fake would explain that." He clapped his hands together. "Well, let's get on with it. I want to know what they know."

"Nothing," Mark argued. "We know nothing. Let us go now, or we really will go to MI6, and tell them how a child was threatened."

"Take your watch, tie, and shoes off," Yassen said. "And turn your pockets out."

Mark stalled for a minute and took his wallet out and tossed it on the table, kicked his shoes off, and gently placed his watch on the coffee table with his phone and wallet.

"What do you know? Answer me, or things will get fun for me," Walsh said with an expression that indicated he would enjoy the fun immensely.

"We don't know anything."

Walsh smirked. "Gregorovich?"

The assassin's gaze shifted between Alex and Mark before settling on Mark. "Alex, if you move, I will do the same thing to you." He beckoned to the two bodyguards near the door. "Hold him."

The two hulking figures stepped forward to surround Agent Corwynn. One stepped behind the couch he was in and braced his hands on Corwynn's shoulders. The other stood beside the agent and grabbed his left hand.

"Are you right-handed?" Yassen asked.

Corwynn swore.

Alex predicted the move and looked away the moment before it happened. He could still hear the crack of the bone, and the following scream. Fuck.

"What is your name?"

There was no response, and Alex closed his eyes and clenched his fists around the armrests of the chair.

Another crack and muted scream followed.

What do you know? What were you looking for? What is your name? Each question was punctuated with a brutal sound and a rough scream. Alex's arms were feeling the strain of clutching as hard as he was to the chair.

The ragged gasps coming from the corner covered the sound of footsteps. And then a cool hand was forcing Alex's head to turn.

"Open your eyes."

Alex didn't, for a second. There was a sudden silence as the ragged gasps stopped.

Alex's eyes flew open to see Mark being strangled by one of the bodyguards. The bodyguard caught Alex's horrified expression and released the older agent.

"Alex." Yassen tugged Alex's face up and to the left until their eyes locked. "I will do the same thing to your hand, and then the next one. I will have your hand crushed with a hammer and then cut off a few of your fingers." He let go of Alex's chin and tapped next to his right eye. "And then I will move to your face." Alex flinched back. "Unless you share what you know now, all of this will happen. And if you manage to make it through all of that, I will go back to your partner. It will continue until I know everything you know, and then perhaps it will continue some more, as a consequence for wasting my time."

"Don't," Mark struggled to say. The bodyguard behind him dug a thumb into his throat. Somewhere on the other side of the room, Walsh laughed.

"Help me with him." Gregorovich offered to the second guard.

The guard released Mark's mangled hand. Alex pressed himself back against the chair.

"His right hand," Yassen said.

Tears pricked the back of Alex's eyes. He held the armchair tightly, but it only lasted a few seconds before the guard was holding his arm in the air. Alex formed his hands into fists. Yassen grabbed his hand.

"They wanted me to bug the estate," Alex gasped. Yassen released his hand.

"Alex!"

"Fuck you!" Alex snarled at Mark. He was the adult; he had a choice. He wasn't the one being threatened.

"Did you?" Yassen asked.

Alex looked everywhere around the room. He wanted an escape even as he knew there wasn't one. "Yes."

"Where did you put them?"

"I don't know…there were several."

"Describe where you put them."

Alex did. In the background Mark refuted the claims, and Yassen quieted Alex long enough for the room to pause and watch the first bodyguard strangle the older agent for a minute – long enough to hurt him, not long enough to kill him.

"Is that all?" Walsh asked idly after Alex had described thirteen locations throughout the building. "The fact that you managed to get around all of the cameras is impressive, I'll give you. What did you do, climb up the outside walls into my bedroom?"

"That's all." Yes. After throwing a rock to disable the camera pointed down that side of the building.

"What else did you know?" Yassen asked.

"They didn't tell me anything – just to bug the house. That's the truth."

"If I find more than, what, thirteen bugs, I'll," Walsh started.

"Kill me twice?" Alex interrupted.

Walsh flushed. Yassen placed a hand on Alex's shoulder – a wordless threat, if Alex had ever known one.

"Aren't you clever," the man said at last.

Alex forced a sneer. "My teachers always said so."

Walsh gave an ugly leer. "Yes, well. What to do with you." He paced the room for a minute. "I had an Irish agent here a few months ago," he said. "He was a great guest. I customized a room for him and everything. What do you think Gregorovich, should I keep one of them?"

Yassen released Alex's shoulder. "Alex has a bad habit of disrupting plans," he said. "But he's a valuable hostage."

"And I want him to pay if he lied about the bugs," Walsh contemplated.

"Keep the older one as well and you can keep Alex in check." Yassen looked at Mark. "What is your real name?"

"You don't need to know," Mark replied without emotion.

Alex didn't see anyone give a signal, but suddenly Mark was being strangled yet again. His unbroken hand reached for the arm around his throat and tugged at it desperately.

"Do you know?" Yassen asked him.

Yes.

"I-"Alex trailed off, watching Mark's face.

"Now would be the time to give it to us."

Alex watched in horror. "You're killing him!" No one answered him. Mark was clearly seconds from passing out.

"Mark Corwynn!"

The guard released Mark. He doubled over, struggling for breath and coughing.

"Keep Alex," Yassen said. "Or both. But Alex is the more cooperative one."

Walsh paced for a few more moments.

"Both," he said at last. "I have my next party tomorrow, and a lone teenager sends more confusing messages than a father-son pair. And Alex has some apologizing to do, for interrupting my poker game tomorrow."

No one responded to this, yet Walsh seemed appeased. "Keep them both. That's my decision."

Yassen nodded. "Put them in the same room?"

"As the Irish agent? Yes."

"They'll need a guard. The door could be kicked down."

"Have Connor watch the door," Walsh said. "I'm ready for a laydown. Deal with them, and I want them ready to go by tomorrow night." Walsh turned and left, with his second bodyguard trailing behind him. The bodyguard behind Mark—Connor, Alex assumed— walked around to the door and waited there. Yassen pulled out his gun and gestured with it for them to both follow.

Alex spotted what he guessed to be the modification to the room they were led to right away. There was a lock on the outside of the door.

"Inside," Yassen said. Alex reached for the handle and opened it.

There was no handle on the inside of the door.

Alex led Mark inside, and the door was closed behind them.

It was a massive bedroom, largely empty of amenities. There was a king-sized bed with a night table next to it, a closet with no doors, and a closed door at the end of the room. There were iron grates over the two large windows.

Alex walked to the closed door and opened it. There was a spacious restroom inside, with a shower, toilet, and sink.

No window.

Fuck.

Alex went back into the main room.

Mark had dropped against the wall, cradling his right hand. Despite everything his face was calm.

"Are you…" Alex trailed off. No, he wasn't alright. He'd had every finger in his right hand broken for information because Yassen Gregorovich was a monster who regularly worked for sociopaths attempting to take over the world. And Mark hadn't given any information away, despite the torture.

Alex had.

He fought the sick feeling in his stomach. MI6 didn't get to drag a child with no more than a half days' worth of RTI training into actual danger and then get upset when he crumbled.

"I'm fine," Mark said emotionlessly.

"Sure," Alex said sarcastically before he thought it through.

The absolute venom in Mark's expression could have killed.

"And no one even fucking touched you and you squealed like a pig," the man snarled. "What, did you think being a spy would be fun? Did your mum and dad have connections? They wanted you to have a fun time and boost your resume?"

Alex schooled his expression. "No."

Mark glared at Alex with the rage that was only induced from pain. "And how do you know that man? The blond one?"

"His name is Yassen Gregorovich. He's a hired killer. He used to work for SCORPIA." That didn't answer the question, but Alex wasn't prepared to go that far.

"And how do you know this hired killer?" Mark insisted.

"We've run into each other before." Alex sunk to the floor against the bedframe. My father trained him and then he killed my uncle and saved my life from a madman once or twice and also I tried to kill him once didn't have the same ring, and Alex decided he preferred his version. Especially because his version didn't imply that the only reason Alex was even alive was due to this killer.

"You've run into a hired killer for SCORPIA." Mark's tone was hard to interpret.

"Yes."

"Any other details you want to give me?"

Alex shook his head. "No."

"Well, at least you're good for something. I have a name now."

Good for something? "I saved your life."

Mark stared. "You saved my life? Is that what you call it?"

Alex felt his anger rising. "Is that what I call you getting strangled until I say something that stops you from getting strangled? Yeah, I'd call it that. You're welcome."

"You put my family at risk!" Mark snapped. "Did you think of that, you posh, spoiled brat?"

No. He hadn't thought of that, because all he had was Jack, and she was currently in a safehouse somewhere in Wales.

Mark must have read his face, because he stopped.

"I'm sorry," Alex said.

Neither of them said anything else for a long while.

-AR-

The agony had diminished, but the throbbing, constant, ever-present pain was still there. Mark had broken his arm when he was a child, and his toe during basic training. Those had hurt, but not like this. Not like five fingers, broken purposely and with intent to hurt.

Mark stared out the window, watching a few birds fly around the foliage of the vast gardens surrounding the mansion. The sun was bright overhead, indicating that it was nearly midday.

He heard the door open with a creak. Mark turned around.

"Don't wake the kid; he just got to sleep."

Gregorovich glanced at the bed, where the child had passed out maybe an hour ago. "I don't need him awake."

"What do you want?" Best to get to the point.

"There's a doctor downstairs. He's not going to ask questions, and you're not going to say anything about the source of your injuries."

The doctor was, as Gregorovich had said, incurious. He prodded the fingers, set them against splints, and wrapped each finger in a cast.

"Put the whole hand in a cast. Make it look like an accident," his torturer said.

Subtle.

At least there were pain pills. Mark had expected Gregorovich to protest the pills, as a means to keep Mark too riddled with his afflictions to fight back. To his surprise, Gregorovich hadn't cared.

When he was dropped back off in the room, the killer left him with a piece of paper and a pencil.

"You and Alex need to write down your suit sizes and shoe sizes. I'll be back in 30 minutes."

"Fine," Mark said, clutching the pencil and paper with his left hand.

And then the killer was gone without a backwards glance.

Mark tried to wake the kid gently. It wasn't fair to the child; how harsh Mark had been last night. Mark disagreed with MI6 about his mission partner being 15 (according to the briefing – who knew how old Alex was) but that wasn't the child's fault.

Alex's eyes opened almost as soon as Mark touched his shoulder.

"Hey, kid, I need your shoe size and suit size. Written on this piece of paper." Mark held it out. Alex sighed and took the paper, scribbled some numbers down, and handed it back.

"Is there any food?" Alex asked.

"No."

"Usually my captors feed me. Oh well. There's always ritualistic cannibalism." Alex put his head back on his pillow.

"Usually?" Mark asked, trying to resist mocking the child.

Alex picked his head up to glance at him. "You have a cast on your arm."

"They want it to look like an accident," Mark said. "No idea why."

Alex pulled himself into a sitting position. "Yeah, that's a typical accident. All the fingers in a hand broken. Happened to me once when I fell off a swing."

"Funny."

"I thought so." Alex stared at the cast a minute longer. "Do you need me to write your sizes as well? Do they need that?"

"It'd be helpful." Mark gave his sizes and Alex wrote them down. "I did check for bugs in here earlier. I don't think there are any, if that's helpful."

"Sure," Alex said. "When I have an escape plan, I'll let you know."

Mark smiled ruefully. "I'm sorry you're here."

"Me too." The kid sounded honest. Then again, why wouldn't he be? He'd nearly been tortured himself last night. Psychologically he had been.

"Your parents worrying about you right now?"

"No." The boy didn't elaborate, and Mark wondered again why an English schoolboy was in Ireland stalking a terrible person. And how did he respond to that?

"I'm sure someone is worried about you."

"Someone is."

Good, good. At least someone cared about the kid. Of course, what this probably meant was that, someone cared enough to grieve the lack of a body when months went by and neither Mark nor Alex reappeared.

Mark hesitated awkwardly. "Do you want to go back to sleep?"

"I want to go home," the child said.

"Me too."

The door opened not long after Alex found himself drifting off again. From a long distance away, he heard a voice he wouldn't forget anytime soon asking a question, but the words didn't make sense. Another, unfamiliar voice answered. Time passed.

The familiar voice was now much closer. "Wake him up."

There was a tap at Alex's shoulder. "Alex?"

His eyes opened before his brain registered what was happening, but it didn't take long to make sense of the picture. Yassen was holding a folded piece of paper – the one with their clothing sizes, Alex would guess. Mark was standing next to the bed, exhaustion clear on his face.

Alex focused on Yassen.

"Thirteen bugs?" Yassen inquired mildly.

"Yes."

"If you change your answer now, it will be easier for you."

Alex bit the curse off before it left his tongue. "There were 13 bugs. You found 13 bugs; I told you exactly where they were, you found them, and if you found any extras, congratulations, you have a problem besides MI6. But they gave me 13."

The nod Yassen gave could be interpreted in a number of ways. Alex didn't allow himself to think on any of them long.

"Anything else?"

Yassen raised an eyebrow. Probably at Alex's tone. He turned to Mark. "Someone will be by with suits and shoes shortly. Get dressed then. Don't let him sleep in them." He left without further comment.

"Better not be a fucking matador's outfit," Alex muttered.

Alex turned to see Mark staring at him.

"What?" Alex asked. He didn't bother to disguise the annoyance in his tone.

"MI6 really hired you to plant bugs," Mark said, his voice flat.

"Yes." It will be challenging to avoid observation, Alex, but necessary.

The Englishman kept gazing at him. "Your cover said that you're 15."

Jones' people had been lazy this time around. The cover had been minimal, and details about his personal health and life were mostly copied from Alex's own file. Probably because 'David Windon' having a son had been a last-minute addition to try and cover Mark's story behind a gate of plausible lies that precluded Mark from being a spy. "They kept some things about my life the same."

"You shouldn't be here."

Did he expect Alex to argue that point? None of the past year should have happened. Alex shrugged and changed the subject. "Do you want the bed?"

Judging from the sun's position in the sky outside, it was several hours later when Mark woke Alex back up to a hanger with a fresh suit.

"They dropped off soap, shampoo, a brush, toothbrushes, dental floss, and toothpaste as well. And a Rolex. And cologne."

"Great. I'm sure my dentist will appreciate their help in keeping my dental hygiene up," Alex commented. "Did they drop off fresh socks as well? Underwear too?"

"Yes to socks. No to underwear."

"Ah well. I'll survive." Alex smiled wryly. "It's ironic, because I fully expect to be dead in a day." Mark didn't object to that statement.

In fact, Mark looked, despite his age, lost. "Should we get ready?"

Alex showered and dressed first. He had shadows under his eyes from staying up all night, but otherwise he looked, well, presentable. Like an older teenaged schoolboy dressed up for a formal affair.

"Bathroom's yours," Alex said, settling on the ground against the wall. He leaned against the wall and rested while he heard the shower running in the background. What did he know about this madman of the month? What did he need to know to escape?

The man liked poker. He was quick to anger, but then again, weren't they all. He lived in a luxurious manor in Ireland, his home country. He was a sadist. He had laughed yesterday as Mark's fingers were broken.

And that was it. Not much to go on.

Alex stood and walked to where the shoes were lining against the wall. The Rolex balanced on one of the shoes. Alex picked it up and turned it over, considering.

The restroom door opened.

"Kid," Mark said. He sounded ragged. "Can I get some help?"

Alex turned. Mark was dressed but his stiff white shirt was unbuttoned.

"My hand," Mark said. He trailed off. Alex's eyes, unbidden, went to the man's cast.

"Yeah," Alex replied.

One of the men who'd restrained Mark came for them soon after then. He held a gun on them and brought them to the first-floor formal dining room. The banquet table was set, and elegant floral arrangements were a centerpiece at the end of the table. A bar was set up at the end of the room. And in front of the bar, Conan Walsh was standing at the head of the table, holding a glass half filled with an amber liquid. Yassen was sitting at a chair on the edge of the room, looking at his phone.

"Alex and Mark," the man said. "I assume a first name basis is fine?"

Mark replied that it was.

Walsh beamed. "I thought it may be. As you are both guests in my house, I would hate for you both to feel restrained. And I am hosting a bit of a game night tonight. I thought perhaps you could join us?"

Yes, the man who'd had them locked in a room since last night would hate for them to feel restrained.

"I'm not sure we're of the same caliber as your guests. We might embarrass you," Alex said.

"That's what the suits are for. They're new, fitted to your sizes. And you both do look dashing."

"The watch was a nice touch," Alex said. "Really giving us the appearance of wealth, aren't you?"

"I thought you'd appreciate a taste of the nicer stuff. It's more than your salary affords, I'd imagine." Walsh took a sip of his whisky. "Does the government pay children?"

"Good question. I'll have to ask them when I get home."

Walsh smiled at the words. "Very good. Now, I do worry that what you meant when you said you'd embarrass me is that you might misbehave. Tell other guests that you're here with MI6 for example. Or what specifically happened to your hand. I wouldn't worry on that. On the advice of my council, I have a system in place." Walsh pointed between Alex and Mark with his small finger. "Whichever of you two misbehaves, I'll have the other hurt."

Yassen, Alex assumed, was that council.

Almost on cue, the assassin stood and pocketed his phone.

"Let's get our story straight, shall we? Mark, you hurt your hand in an accident. I don't think anyone will pry more than that, but if they do, shall we say you were playing sports? You're a reasonably fit man. Probably a requirement for the job. People will believe you play sports. Anyway, we met last night for the first time, and offered you to stay a few nights at my place after a misunderstanding with your son." Walsh eyed Alex. "Some of my guests are liable to remember your act, bursting into our game last night. I'd say it's generous of me to allow your family to stay here after such a scene. Have humility."

"I'll be the humblest person you've ever met," Alex replied quickly.

Walsh pointed at the other end of the table. "You'll be sitting down there. Find your names. My guests will be arriving soon. Put on a bright face, order a drink, and take a seat."

-AR-

The pain medication had never fully masked the pain, and now, hours later, the medication had completely worn off. Mark schooled his face. He wasn't weak. He had passed RTI three times now.

Walsh had gone to the front hall to greet people as they trickled in. Several people were now seated around the long banquet table, although no one was directly next to them yet. Mark was sitting at the base of the table, with Alex right next to him. The name cards in front of them said David Windon and Alex Windon. There was a name card next to Alex's that said Dimitri Lucas.

"They're playing poker after this?" Alex guessed.

"I assume."

There was a name card next to Alex's that said Dimitri Lucas. Gregorovich took a seat. "Talk to each other," he suggested quietly.

The child rolled his eyes. "You know a singer I really hate?"

Who were kids into these days? "Katy Perry?" Mark guessed.

"That guy with the Christmas album. He really hated drugs. Do you know who I'm talking about?"

This…was certainly making conversation. But Mark had no idea where the kid was going with this topic. "Elvis?"

"He died of a drug overdose. I think the guy I'm thinking of was a bit self-obsessed. Flew too close to the sky. Or maybe a plane engine." The kid looked at Gregorovich. "Any ideas?"

"Ricky Nelson," the hitman replied, clearly unimpressed with the kid's conversation.

"He died in a plane crash," Mark offered. "I don't know if he had a Christmas album, but he did have a Christmas song."

"Never heard of him," Alex said. "Changing topics, I wonder if the singer I was thinking of or our host tonight would throw a better party. Or pay better. Do you have thoughts on that one?"

"I think they would both pay very well."

Was this a connection to how they knew each other? Mark looked between the two, unsure how to proceed. Gregorovich's gaze shifted beyond them and he smiled pleasantly at an approaching couple. Mark recognized them. He'd spoken to them briefly last night. The woman next to Gregorovich and the man beside her.

"We met last night, but I'm terrible with names. Let's reintroduce ourselves. I'm Paul," the man said, extending his hand across the table for Mark to shake. "Oh, I see," Paul quickly recovered, seeing the cast.

"Bad accident," Mark apologized. "David , and this is my son, Alex."

"Esther," the woman said.

"Nice to meet you," Mark replied.

"Have you been to one of Conan's game nights before?" Esther asked.

"No, not yet."

"Well you're in for a night. They're always fun. Are you missing school to be here?" the woman asked Alex.

"It's a holiday."

"I have to say, you're a lot younger than anyone I've met here before." Esther took Alex in, and smiled fondly. "My sister has a son your age."

"My dad and I are staying here for the week. Is anything else like this happening later in the week?"

"There's another game night next Friday," Paul said.

"I'll see you then too, I guess."

Another couple sat down next to Mark, and a series of conversations ensued. At a certain point Walsh stood at the head of the table, thanked everyone for coming last night and tonight, and then invited them to dig in before the games. Several courses were served by waiters in black tie. Mark, against his better judgement, got up and went to the bar for several drinks. It didn't necessarily dull the pain, but it helped.

Despite it all, Alex was keeping up all appearances of a normal, innocent schoolboy. He talked to the couple that had sat down next to Mark about school for a bit before branching into a larger discussion of football. Esther and Paul tried to talk to Alex and Mark a few times, but Alex always disengaged right away – if they conversed, Gregorovich was in the middle of them, and he appeared ready and willing to engage. As a point of fact, almost every second Alex was looking at exactly the right place to avoid looking at Gregorovich. Mark couldn't blame the kid.

The main notable event from dinner occurred just after the main course. Gregorovich turned to respond to something Esther said, and Mark watched Alex adjust his grip on his knife's handle. Alex met Mark's eyes, then began to slide the knife off the table. Without turning back around, Gregorovich took the knife from Alex and placed it back on the table.

"Quite good food, as always," Esther said as dessert was being cleared off the table.

"Very good," Mark concurred. Now if only the rest of the night would go as easily, there was the chance no one was getting maimed tonight.

-AR-

After the dinner ended, the party migrated upstairs to the room Alex had been briefly pushed into last night. A few tables were set up and people chose tables to play. Alex settled on the wall and watched a game or two before Yassen joined him.

"Want something?" Alex asked.

Yassen rested his eyes on Alex. "You have come perilously close to putting your partner in danger several times tonight."

"Yeah, well, you've met me." He left the wall to wander among the non-prisoners before the assassin could give a response. Yassen didn't follow him.

"Alex," Alex introduced himself to the first guest he found standing somewhat away from other groups of people. "Am I crazy, or does Mr. Walsh seem a bit off?"

He was asking his third person if they had seen any weirdness related to Walsh when Yassen noticed that he was up to no good. There was a sudden hand rested on his shoulder. "They have a seat at a table," Yassen said.

"No thanks, I'm broke. And the last time someone fronted me, I won tens of thousands of pounds and nearly got killed." Alex smiled as if it was a joke.

"Nevertheless."

Yassen led Alex to the table Walsh was playing at. Walsh smiled delightedly when Alex sat down. A pile of poker chips was already at the table where Alex sat.

"Everyone," Walsh said, "If you haven't met already, this is Alex. He's the teenager who was trying to break into my personal rooms last night. It turns out he's quite the kleptomaniac, although his father is a great businessman. And they're officially my guests."

"For at least the next week," Alex said, staring down Walsh and ignoring the odd looks being sent his way.

Walsh ignored the comment. "We're playing Five Card Draw. You know it?"

"Yes."

"Then let's play!"

Alex played conservatively for a while, winning a little and losing a little. Most games he folded. And then he gambled and lost on a game where he thought his cards would have beaten the others. The next hand, he had three eights by the end. A blond lady, Alex, and Walsh were the only ones left. Walsh put a significant amount of his chips in the middle. More than Alex had.

Alex pushed the rest of his chips in. It wasn't his money.

The blond lady folded. Walsh and Alex flipped their cards.

Walsh won with a straight.

Walsh looked at Alex and smiled. "Alex, you're out of chips. You want to continue with another game?"

Alex looked around the crowd that had gathered. No one was at a good angle to see his hands. Alex had an idea, but it could backfire on him. "I'd love another game. But how about for a wager, instead of chips. If I win, I get your watch."

Walsh let out an incredulous laugh, and at that the other members of the table joined in.

"Confident, are you? Well, that's an enticing offer…give my guest my watch. Better than having it stolen, eh? But here's my problem." Walsh steepled his fingers and leaned over them. "What do I get if you win?"

"You can have my watch." Alex pulled on his jacket to reveal a Rolex. A dark anger passed quickly across Walsh's face. It was, after all, his watch that Alex was wearing. But no one else in the room knew that.

"You can't take advantage of a child, Conan," a woman said, shaking her head at Alex.

"No, no," Walsh said. "I want to encourage the young to have a bit of fun. Do you know what this is, Alex? It's an A. Lange & Söhne watch. It's a nice timepiece. And it will be my wager for this game."

The croupier dealt the cards.

Alex slid out from his sleeves the two ace's he'd pocketed earlier in the night and made his four and seven disappear.

He traded two of his cards in.

Walsh traded in three cards.

"We're not betting, we just have our wager. Let's just turn over our cards," Walsh said.

Walsh put down his cards. Two pair, kings and tens.

Alex smiled. "Four of a kind, aces high."

The crowd went quiet. They didn't seem to know how to react. Walsh considered Alex, shrugged, and took his watch off. There was no hint of the anger that Alex knew had to be there under the surface. "Even beginners have their day." At that, several of the people around Walsh congratulated Alex.

"Thanks." Alex took the watch. He waited a second for the room to be quieter. "I was worried for a second that you were going to have me shot for embarrassing you. I know we're supposed to be here for at least a week, so I guess if no one sees me then they'll just know I'm dead in a ditch somewhere."

Someone gasped. Alex looked around the gathered audience. "Kidding, obviously. I'll be here at the next party too."

"Yes," Walsh said. There was no emotion in his voice. "That's enough poker for me tonight. Alex, how about you and I talk later, as you are, as pointed out, staying with me, and we let some others take over the game."

"Sure," Alex agreed. He got out of the table, and went to a seat on the wall in the middle of the room. Several people were staring at him

Yassen sat down on one of the chairs next to him.

"Back to me being in trouble?" Alex asked. His throat was dry. Despite his fake confidence, his plans could easily backfire.

"It is incredibly difficult to keep you alive," Yassen murmured, low enough that Alex was barely sure he had heard correctly.

"Because you're trying so hard," Alex muttered.

-AR-

The party migrated back downstairs, people had final drinks from the bar, and then people began to thank Walsh and disappear. Yassen settled Alex down alone at the banquet table before going to talk to several people himself. A drunk man came and congratulated Alex before wandering away, and other than that Alex was left alone. He noticed several people give him strange looks on their way out. After a few minutes Mark came and joined him.

He looked at Alex with an expression that Alex couldn't read. "Was everything you did tonight a wise decision?" he asked eventually.

"I was betting on it."

"You were betting with me," Mark said.

Alex didn't have a response to that. In his experience, between doing nothing and doing something…something was always the right answer. But maybe this hadn't been the right time for that something. They would have to wait and see.

Eventually the manor was quiet. Yassen and Walsh entered the room. "Is the waitstaff gone?" Walsh asked Yassen.

Yassen looked at his phone for a minute. "The security feeds are clear," he said at last.

Walsh whipped around to see Alex. "I'll take my watch back now."

Alex handed it back. Walsh grabbed it and paced a few steps to either side of where Alex was sitting while putting his watch back on.

"Thirty-five thousand Euros I can never wear again, because some spoiled brat decided to cheat me at the card tables," Walsh snarled. "And four of a kind, aces high! You cheated!"

"Yes," Alex said.

"Yes?" Walsh said. He stopped pacing, in disbelief. "You did?"

"You could outspend me, so I took a route that would help me." Alex shrugged. "Your croupiers weren't Vegas dealers. They didn't even notice they'd been shorted."

"In Vegas, you would be shot," Walsh snarled.

"You can't," Alex said. "I talked to a few guests about how things seemed suspicious. I told another few guests that I was going to be here for at least a week. I told your entire table that if I wasn't here next week, it's because I was dead."

"A joke," Walsh said coldly.

"People are already suspicious," Yassen said. He let that rest in the air. Walsh glared at Alex. Then he tilted his head and smiled.

"Yes, perhaps they are. So, you will be attending my next party, wearing my watch and having the time of your life. The same does not have to be true for your partner."

"He's supposed to be my dad," Alex said quickly. "You can't just have a random 15-year-old at your party. That will look even more suspicious."

"He'll be alive," Walsh said. There was a sudden unpleasant fake nicety to his tone. Walsh stood and walked to the bar. He poured two fingers of whisky. He walked out and back over to where Mark and Alex were sitting. "I said whichever of you embarrassed me, I would hurt the other one."

"They've seen us," Alex bit back coldly. "How're your going to explain the second cast? Another sporting accident?"

"There won't be a second cast. Gregorovich, do you have a knife?"

Yassen reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade. He handed it to Walsh. Walsh offered the glass of whisky to Mark. "Drink up."

Alex's insides curled. This wasn't good. Yassen looked tense as well. Or maybe Alex was merely projecting.

"I've had enough tonight," Mark said.

"Drink up," Walsh repeated. "All in one go."

Mark reached for the whisky with his good hand.

"Cast on the table," Walsh said. Mark, visibly trembling, complied.

"I was the one who did things," Alex said suddenly, desperately. "He didn't do anything."

"No," Walsh agreed. "He didn't." He switched the blade open and used the flat of the blade to touch Mark's chin. "Drink up."

"No," Alex said.

"It's going to happen, kid," Mark said, and tipped the whisky back.

Walsh smiled, waited until Mark was done drinking, and stabbed the knife deep into the middle of Mark's hand.

Mark gave a garbled noise that could have been half of a scream or a choke.

"An exciting night," Walsh said, over Mark's cries. "I think at the end I enjoyed your games, Alex. Having you around for another week will be entertaining." He withdrew the knife, wiped it on the tablecloth, closed it, and handed it to Yassen. "Gregorovich, see that this one gets cleaned up." He left without a backwards glance.

"Alex, your jacket," Yassen ordered. There was a touch of urgency in his tone that Alex couldn't recall hearing before, unless he counted Yassen almost dying on Air Force One.

Alex took his jacket off quickly and shoved it down the table. Yassen took it and wrapped it around Mark's cast. "Hold your hand still," he said, and Mark's free hand pressed down. His face was pale and shaky.

"How bad is it?" Alex didn't want to know. If the other agent died, it would be because of Alex's 'misbehavior'.

"There's a first aid kit in the middle cabinet in the next room. Go get it."

Alex went to look for it. There wasn't any question of escape right now. He knew enough about medicine to know that cut arteries could easily lead to enough blood loss to pass out or die. With a first aid kit, Alex could maybe stabilize Mark's injuries, but possibly not even that. The cast would have to be removed first to get to the injury, which would require a knife. And enough finesse with a knife to avoid slicing into Mark's hand more than had already been done.

Alex found the first aid kit on the second cabinet shelf and brought it with him back to the dining room. Mark was still holding Alex's jacket firm around his injured hand. Sweat was beading on the edges of his hairline.

"Leave it there," Yassen said. He was returning to the room with a pitcher of water in one hand and a hand towel in the other.

"Can I help?"

The assassin shook his head minutely. He took a seat next to Mark and opened the first aid kit. Alex stood, numb and uncertain.

"You should look away."

Alex wasn't sure if that was directed at Mark or himself. If it was meant for him, he didn't listen. Alex took a step back and reached for a chair, stumbling into it while staring horrified as Yassen maneuvered the jacket to get at the edge of the cast.

"Press down harder."

"He's going to pass out," Alex objected.

"When you are a trained medic, feel free to give your opinion." Yassen left the second part of his statement unsaid, but Alex took the meaning all the same. Until then, shut up.

Mark groaned sickly.

Alex looked away.

The other agent's groans became muffled after a while, and Alex looked back to see Mark's uninjured hand now pressed against his mouth and suppressing pained sounds. Alex avoided looking at whatever Yassen was doing to Mark's hand. He wasn't going to faint if he saw blood – he'd seen enough in the past year and half to be at least somewhat desensitized – but he also felt responsible enough without the direct evidence being forced in front of his eyes.

"You have to have something for his pain," Alex said.

Yassen took a moment to respond. "He's been drinking."

"He won't be drunk all night."

Mark didn't seem aware of the conversation. His eyes were fixed in a horrified stare on his hand.

"There has to be something," Alex insisted again after a moment.

Yassen tilted his head in Alex's direction. "Would you like to continue to distract me?"

Alex bit his lip. No. He turned away, crossing his arms tightly and staring at the wall. He couldn't help right now – he should try and tune it out.

It wasn't much longer before Yassen spoke again. "We'll get a doctor here tomorrow to look at it with more detail."

Alex turned back to the two men. Mark was flushed and clearly in pain, but he nodded. Alex took in the man's hand. His cast had been completely cut away and his fingers were clearly splinted and his palm wrapped in a clean bandage.

"I'm sorry," Alex said, quietly.

"Not your fault," the older agent protested weakly. He moved his right hand off the table slightly with a barely concealed grimace. Alex's jacket, now soaked in blood, was knocked slightly aloof and slithered off the table, revealing the muddled pinkish stain of blood half washed away with water on the tablecloth.

"Is there medicine in there?" Alex gestured to the open first aid kit. "Or any pain relievers?"

Mark stood uncertainly. His movement showed he was trying to keep his hand still. "It's fine," he grunted.

"No," Yassen said, standing as well.

Alex stayed in his seat. "There has to be something," he pleaded.

The older agent gave a choked laugh and shook his head. Alex couldn't tell if Mark thought Alex was in denial of the situation, or if the man was just delirious.

Yassen started to shake his head, then hesitated. "I'll look," he answered.

Alex stopped in the door to the room before it could close behind them. He turned to face Yassen. "You said you'd find something for Mark," he challenged.

"I said I'll look." Yassen put his hand on the door, ready to close it.

Alex hesitated. "Now?"

"He's still drunk. Go inside," Yassen began to shut the door, and Alex stepped inside. As soon the door closed Alex realized that the man's answer most likely meant no, not now. Of course it did. Alex couldn't help the hysterical laugh that bubbled up. Assuming the assassin had even been speaking the truth about looking at all.

"You alright?"

Mark was sitting on the bed, hunched over and miserable. Still, the agent was eyeing Alex as if he was the one who had just had his fingers broken and his hand stabbed.

"I'm sorry," Alex confessed again.

"Shut up," the agent said. He smiled mirthlessly. "You did fine. You made sure we would live to see another week, and I don't know if that madman would have kept us around that long without you." Mark sighed. "Only problem is right now I'm not sure I want to live to see another week. Now go to sleep before something new happens tomorrow."

"You won't be able to sleep."

Mark shrugged and then immediately flinched in pain. He took a deep breath, then let it out again. Alex felt another stab of guilt. "I'm the adult. Let me take care of this." Mark forced a pained smile. "Thanks to you I have medicine coming my way, so you've been a help already."

The man's words weren't reassuring and there was a decent chance Yassen was lying, but Alex knew Mark already knew both of those facts.

"Do you need help with anything?" Alex asked.

"You can help me by getting sleep." Mark moved off the bed carefully. "You'll still be stuck with me in the morning. We can deal with everything then."

"Sure," Alex said without enthusiasm. "I'm sure everything will look brighter in the morning."

"That's the spirit." Mark leaned against the wall. "I'm telling you though, when we leave, I'm not leaving a great review. Our host's hospitality leaves a lot to be desired."

Except for the absolute silence of the room, the door wouldn't have been heard.

"You could knock," the boy said from his spot curled in bed.

The man who had both responsible for Mark's injuries and his current bandages walked to Mark, ignoring Alex. "This will help." He offered a small pill bottle and a bottle of water to Mark.

"Thanks," Mark said as he took the pill bottle and then the water.

The Russian nodded towards the bed. "He should go to sleep."

"Thanks for the advice," Alex muttered. "You've really got my best interests in mind."

"Do you need anything else?" Gregorovich asked.

"I wanted a pony for Christmas. Mind telling your boss?"

Mark looked at the other man. He appeared unbothered by Alex's background noise. Then again, he was also a former assassin for SCORPIA. In two days, Mark had enough experience with the man to know that Alex had no idea what the man was capable of, even after their torture the other day.

"He's harmless," Mark said.

Gregorovich raised an eyebrow. "Not quite."

Great. More hints to the fact that Alex was more than just a random teenager shoved into a situation he didn't belong in. Mark shoved his worry about the boy's past away. "He hasn't had much sleep. But we're good." Assuming, of course, that good was a relative term for we are not good and would like very much to leave.

"Take two every 4 hours." Gregorovich left as quietly and quickly as he'd entered.

Alex sat up as soon as the man had left. "What did he give you?"

Mark looked at the bottle. "Ibuprofen."

"That'll be a lot of help," Alex said sarcastically.

"It's something." At this point, Mark would take almost anything. Mark examined the childproof lid and gave a sardonic smile. "Come open it?"

Alex got out of bed and came to open the bottle. He handed it back, open, to Mark before opening the water for him. Mark shook out two of the white pills and gulped them down with a fresh swig of water. He wondered what would happen if he went ahead and swallowed another four. The pain had diminished a lot in the past hours but it was still there, endless and prominent.

"He was right. You really should go to sleep," Mark admitted.

"I know." Alex sat down next to Mark.

"Are you going to try again?"

Alex shrugged. "It's hard to sleep when you're fairly sure the madmen holding you hostage is going to torture you as soon as the sun rises."

"Did Walsh say that was going to happen?"

"No. But I've met at least one madman who was into torture at the crack of dawn, and I wouldn't be surprised if Walsh fits that mold."

Mark laughed. "You've got a dark and not that reassuring sense of humor, Alex."

The teenager didn't smile back.

Outside, it was still darkened night sky. Wind was rustling the trees. Mark suspected the next day would be dark and overcast, fitting the mood of this whole dismal affair.

"You said someone was waiting for you?" Mark asked the boy. He wasn't sure if it would help the situation to keep the boy awake and pestered by questions but talking was a distraction. And anything that could take his mind off his hand would help.

The boy grimaced. "I don't think she even knows I'm missing. MI6 never tells her anything; I don't see why they'd start now."

"Is she a relative?"

He shook his head. "I'd rather not talk about it."

"Fair enough."

The boy buried his head in his arms, clearly tired. Exhausted, probably. He should really go to bed; he also probably couldn't. Alex had been laying down for at least an hour before the arrival of the Ibuprofen had led to him leaving the bed.

How did Mark talk to kids? Let alone when the child was in a hopeless seeming situation with very real reason to be afraid of the looming day. Mark tried to remember conversations he'd had when he was at school – the ones that weren't about hitting on girls or his A-levels. "If you were stranded on a desert island, what 5 things would you bring with you?"

"A yacht, and 4 meals," came the muffled response.

"No loopholes," Mark rebuffed. He waited a while, but the kid didn't respond. "Alright," Mark acknowledged, "I guess you're someone for loopholes. I'm going to play fair though. I'd bring a decanter of Johnnie Walker, the good stuff, a copy of Crime and Punishment, a knife, a flashlight, and, after today, a first aid kit."

The kid raised his head. Mark rolled his eyes. "I don't want to hear you're sorry again."

That brought a half smile to the boy's face. "Sorry."

"Yeah, well." Mark smirked. "What's your best memory?" When the boy looked uncertain, Mark held up his good hand. "Take your time."

Eventually the boy answered. "I don't know about my best memory, but I had a football match a couple years ago."

Mark waited for the boy to expand. When no more information seemed forthcoming, Mark prodded, "Why that day?"

"Ian was," Alex hesitated, then started over. "My uncle was there, and my housekeeper. After the match we went out for dinner. I don't know, it was a good day. It was before all of this started and I didn't have to think about, just, everything."

"You're close to your uncle?"

"I thought I was."

Mark had the feeling he'd just wandered into a minefield of a topic. Probably now was a good time to retreat from this topic.

"How about you?" the kid asked.

There was no question in Mark's mind. "The day I met my girlfriend. It was ten years ago, and we knew right away." She had known right away, anyway. And a month later, Mark had known too. But they'd discovered it made a better story to claim the immediate knowledge that they would get together had been mutual. "You're probably a bit young to be in love," Mark accepted. "Maybe you've heard your parents talk about when they met each other." A sudden thought worried Mark. "Unless they're divorced."

"No." Alex said quietly.

Mark suddenly remembered earlier comments the boy had made – that his parents wouldn't be the ones worried about him. Maybe his parents weren't the best to talk about. Of course Mark had blundered into talking about something sensitive to the boy – his girlfriend would be shaking her head in fake despair right now, assuming she could keep her head to focus on Mark's faux pas over her horror at the overall situation. Brenda knew some things about Mark's line of work. Not enough to comprehend this situation though. "Sorry," Mark said.

The boy shrugged. "Tell me about her."

Grateful to have something to latch onto, Mark did.

-AR-

The visiting doctor was the same unperturbed man who had begun to heal Mark's hand before. Mark wondered how many scenes like this that man must have seen at this mansion in the previous months. How much money would it take to convince a doctor to ignore their oath to do no harm? Darkly, Mark hoped it was a lot. Torturing agents of the state should at least cost Walsh a pretty penny.

The doctor didn't ask questions. He did give a pointed look when telling Gregorovich that repeated injuries could cause Mark a shock or lead to other problems, but he took the folded cash Gregorovich offered without any outward indication of guilt.

"Pain management not a part of your practice, doc?" Mark asked when the doctor had finished packing up the supplies he had brought. He figured it was a calculated shot – neither the doctor nor Gregorovich had once asked Mark how much pain he was in (a significant amount) or alluded to any medication that could help Mark manage it, but at the same time the doctor had given him a few pills yesterday morning.

The doctor hesitantly referred to Gregorovich, who shrugged.

"He's taken doses of a NSAID. "

"That could help. There are certainly stronger treatments."

"I'll take the strong stuff," Mark commented.

"I don't have any more on me. I'll write a prescription." Without waiting for a reply, the doctor rifled through his bag for a pad of paper. He scrawled a quick prescription, tore the top sheet of paper off the pad, and handed it to the assassin. Gregorovich took the paper, folded it, and put it in his pocket.

The doctor left as Gregorovich and Mark headed back to the oh so accommodating guest room.

"I'll bring clean clothes," Gregorovich said outside the room. "Walsh wants you both to join him for lunch."

"Fine," Mark replied. It wasn't, but there wasn't much more to say.

"Perhaps talk to Alex about listening rather than being heard."

Mark almost smirked. "I'll mention it."

Inside, Alex was sitting on the bed with a blanket wrapped around him.

"We're getting clean clothes soon and we need to have lunch with Walsh." Mark said. He didn't have the patience to mince words.

Alex didn't appear surprised. "How's your hand?"

"It's alright," Mark deflected. It wasn't a teenager's job to be worried about Mark's injuries. Kind as the kid seemed, especially with his insistence on getting medication last night, he was still a kid. Mark could deal with it. "I meant to tell you last night, kid, but, you did well." Mark reached for reassuring words awkwardly. "I mean it, you really tried to help us. You were asking for medication when I needed it. And the talking last night really helped. Your family, or whoever is waiting for you at home, they'd be proud of you."

The boy accepted the compliment with a nod.

Mark went to grab a couple more Ibuprofen. After he swallowed them, he said, "The assassin wanted me to tell you to talk less."

Alex snorted.

Yeah. Mark gave a sharp laugh. If he had been in this situation as a teenager with a sharp mouth, he probably wouldn't have appreciated that either. Still, it might not be bad advice. He said as much; "Walsh isn't the right man to anger."

"They never are," the boy agreed.

Taking that as the most agreement he would probably get, Mark sat down and closed his eyes. He wasn't a religious man, but this might be the time to try a quick prayer-like-meditation.

-AR-

The room where the armed bodyguard brought them held a table which was set for three, but also an indoor garden. Alex hadn't seen any of the back part of the first floor either of the previous days, which made sense as this space was large but the table in the corner could only accommodate five or six people.

The garden room appeared to be almost a greenhouse more than a dining space. The room had vast windowpanes that started at the roof and came down to a meter off the ground. Shelves held an assortment of plants around the edges of the room and a fountain surrounded by flowers gurgled in the middle of the rom. A set of glass doors next to the table led to an outside terrace.

"Mark," Walsh greeted from the table. "Join me?"

The older agent headed to the corner slowly. Alex hadn't been acknowledged, which as far as Alex was concerned was an excuse for him to not engage the madman of the hour. Alex headed towards a stone bench next to the fountain. He sat down and realized right away that the noises of the fountain would drown out Mark and Walsh's conversation. Oh well. Mark could tell him about it later.

There was a ladybird on the Easter lily closest to the bench. Alex allowed himself to be distracted following the path of the ladybird as it crawled across the lily's white petals and then took flight for a violet spring squill.

He wasn't distracted enough to miss Yassen's entrance. The bodyguard at the door moved aside slightly to allow the assassin entrance. Yassen stepped into the room and looked towards his boss for only a second before he turned to walk to Alex.

Yassen sat next to Alex without acknowledging him. Alex wondered if another conversation about keeping quiet was coming, or if Yassen was only there to keep an eye on him. As if Alex was a threat right now, unarmed and watching a ladybird fly around some flowers.

"What are they talking about?"

"If they wanted you to know, you would be sitting over there."

Fair. Alex slid his newly provided grey hoodie off and tied it around his waist. The room was almost a greenhouse, and more humid than he'd expected. "How bad was his hand?"

"It will need time."

That could mean almost anything. It would need time to heal and be good as new; it would need time to see if his hand could recover to a point where it might hold something again; it would time to see if an amputation was necessary. Alex almost shuddered at the last thought. "It can't be a great practice to kill a foreign spy in your home," he considered aloud instead. "Would your boss have cared if he bled out?"

"I'm sure he would prefer to have two living hostages."

The yellow, white, and violet flowers mixing around the fountain formed a pleasant enough picture. They were neatly maintained, and the colors complimented the grey stone of the fountain. Alex could have found it beautiful in almost any other circumstance. Instead this room was just background scenery to a terrible set of circumstances.

And he hadn't missed Yassen's avoidance of the question.

"But you could have let him bleed out." It was a statement of fact, and Yassen left it unanswered. Alex felt another guilty tug at his conscience. The fucking bastard had told Alex that he would hurt Mark if Alex acted out, and Alex had gone and made a scene anyway. Mark could be dead. Reluctant as Alex was to thank Yassen, the only reason Mark was alive was the man. "Thanks for helping."

"It would not have been necessary, if you had listened when I warned you to stop."

"Yeah, well, I guess I'll sit here and behave until your boss tells you to shoot us both," Alex snapped reflexively.

"I would prefer to avoid that as well," Yassen replied.

"So you say," Alex said, mentally reeling himself in. Snapping at the assassin wouldn't help. "Any idea how to avoid both of those fates? Mark getting tortured or both of getting shot?"

Yassen shrugged. "What have you tried? Besides making a public scene?"

Nothing. But Yassen, if he didn't know that for a fact, obviously at least suspected that to be the case. And Alex wasn't about to seriously suggest plans of escape with the man charged with holding him hostage. Adding fuel to the fire was not Alex's intention.

"Alex!" The utterance came from across the room. Alex looked up to see Walsh waving him over, again with the twisted look of delight that a child possessed when cutting off their doll's head.

Yassen stood and headed over. Alex took a deep breath and followed.

The table had 5 chairs, but only three place settings were laid out – the head of the table, where Walsh sat, wearing yet another expensive watch, and the spot to his left and right. Mark was sitting at the right, and so Alex took the spot to Walsh's left. Yassen moved one of the empty chairs from next to the Alex to the vacant end of the table and took a seat.

"You didn't sleep," Walsh said. It wasn't a question and Alex had no intention of leading to another incident, so he stayed quiet. Mark was clearly uncomfortable, and Alex wasn't sure if it was due to anticipation of Alex doing something stupid, the pain he'd been quietly suffering through, or the conversation Walsh and Mark had been having before Alex joined. Walsh waited for a moment, eyeing Alex expectantly.

"No," Alex said eventually.

That seemed to be the right answer. Walsh gestured at the plates. "Are you hungry?"

No, but this wasn't really about Alex. His answers should focus on appeasing Walsh, not the truth. The truth was Alex would shoot Walsh in a second if it meant Mark and him could leave, but that didn't need to be said either. "I'll eat," Alex responded.

Walsh held his hand up and snapped. Alex resisted the urge to point out that waitstaff were people, not dogs. The bodyguard at the door moved again, and an elderly man with grey hair and a formal waitstaff outfit came through the door pushing a cart. He maneuvered the cart on the marble tile floor around the fountain and stopped it next to Alex's seat.

"We'll need coffee," Walsh remarked. The elderly waiter nodded and departed the room, leaving the cart next to Alex.

"Put the food on the table," Walsh said. He was clearly used to giving orders. Alex picked up a platter of sandwich sections carefully and placed it in the middle of the table. There was also a small platter of cake pieces speared with toothpicks. Alex moved that tray to the table as well.

Alex watched as Walsh selected a few finger sandwiches and loaded them onto his plate. Mark similarly waited for Walsh to go first. Alex eyed the food, wondering if there was a pattern to the food Walsh was picking. He wasn't sure what he expected to come from this meeting, but poison was not off the table.

"Eat up," Walsh said, noticing their hesitation. "I assure you: finger foods are nothing nefarious." He nodded in Mark's direction. "They won't even present a challenge to eat."

Mark chose a few sandwiches of different sorts for himself. Alex reached for a roast beef sandwich segment and put it on his plate, keeping an eye on Walsh all the while.

Walsh laughed as if at a joke. "Neither of you are the trusting sort, are you?" He dug into his food while Alex and Mark watched. Mark looked at Alex, grimaced, and then began to eat as well. Alex watched for a few minutes before he ate the one piece of a sandwich he'd picked at.

The waiter returned with a tray holding three coffees, 3 spoons, and a small creamer pitcher which he left on the table before departing. Alex considered the three coffees and wondered if Yassen preferred to have his presence ignored, or whether hired assassins just didn't fit into Walsh's inane fantasies of being a host.

"Are you both enjoying the food?" Walsh inquired.

"It was good, thank you," Mark said weakly. The older man wasn't looking good. Alex frowned. It could be the food, but he suspected it was just the pain."

"If anyone else is going to see us, he can't spend the entire time writhing in pain," Alex pointed out. "Can you give him something?"

Walsh looked over Mark in open amusement. "Gregorovich, get him something by tomorrow."

By tomorrow still left time for a lot of pain, but it was better than nothing. "Thanks," Alex said.

The Irishman laughed. "Feeling guilty, Alex?"

"I didn't stab him in the hand," Alex replied. It was a misstep, he recognized even before Walsh's eyes flashed.

"Yes, he does," Mark said, covering him. "He's a teenager. They have a tough time accepting blame, but he was apologizing all night."

Walsh nodded and took a drink of coffee. He made a low considering noise in his throat. "Yes, your partner is a teenager. Which opens several questions into how MI6 does business, doesn't it? Especially when he was the one planting bugs in my home while you played poker!"

Alex took his time pouring creamer into his coffee and stirring it in. Mark didn't say anything. Thankfully, neither did Yassen.

"Alex, you'll have to teach me something," Walsh said. "You tricked my card dealer last night. That can't have been an easy trick, especially for a schoolboy. Show me how you did it."

Among the various things Alex could be asked to do at proverbial gunpoint, showing a card trick was not the worst potentiality. Alex untied the hoodie around his waist and put it on. Then he asked, "Do you have a deck of cards?"

Walsh tapped a small wooden box next to his plate twice, then handed it over. Alex opened the box and pulled out the cards. He put the stack of cards face up on the table, and then moved one card at a time from the stack to a new stack, flipping each card face down as he went.

"They're all there," Walsh noted.

"I wasn't checking that they were all there," Alex responded. "I'm looking for the aces."

Walsh drew his chair back abruptly.

"Sorry," Alex apologized. "I think I kicked you on accident. I was just trying to stretch."

"Not a problem," Walsh said shortly.

Alex finished flipping the cards from the first stack to the second and pushed them over to Walsh.

"You can deal, and I'll show you the trick. Though it helps when everyone isn't staring at you," Alex said. "Or when you have a distraction."

"He already used his distraction," Yassen spoke for the first time. "He kicked you. Check how many cards you have now."

Walsh shuffled through his stack of cards, counting under his breath. With three cards left he stopped and raised his head to face Alex.

"You have a card."

Alex shrugged and shook out the right sleeve of his hoodie. The ace of hearts fell out.

"So that's your trick?" Walsh asked. "Distraction and sleight of hand?"

"That's the trick to pickpocketing too," Alex admitted.

"The tricks that someone taught a teenager," Walsh wondered aloud.

Alex had been nine when Ian Rider had taught him the card trick, but he doubted Walsh cared. Alex certainly didn't care to bring it up.

"Did MI6 teach you?" Walsh asked.

In a way, Alex supposed they had. "My uncle," Alex answered instead.

Walsh considered. "For your uncle, he enjoys teaching you skills that will get you killed."

Sometimes Alex wondered the same thing. More and more, he was trying to lean towards the idea that Ian had only been trying to protect him by teaching him these skills – but Alex definitely wondered, especially when he found himself in situations like this, if Ian didn't have a spy's life picked out for Alex by the time he was six. "I don't think he's going to teach me any more similar skills."

"No, I suppose not," Walsh admitted. Though Alex rather had a feeling that Walsh meant it was because he planned to have Alex killed soon, not because Ian Rider had been dead for over a year.

Walsh took back the ace of hearts and shuffled it into the deck. Walsh's smile was vicious again. "Would either of you like to play a game?" Noticing Mark balk, he waved a hand. "I have friends coming over soon, and you are both going to be guests. I assure you that this game won't lead to another deadly."

Alex and Mark glanced at each other.

"You're taking too long," Walsh said. "And I think a rejection of my proposal is a bit boring, in general. How about I reword the question – between the two of you, who is going to play my game? Alex? Mark? Both of you? You have a minute to decide, or I will."

Walsh took another sip of coffee, then tapped his watch of the day. "Choose quickly."

"Thirty seconds," Walsh said.

"I will," the boy said. He looked tired to the core. Mark couldn't help but think of the child's repeated comments – they were all to the effect of "this is always how it goes".

What the fuck sort of life did this boy lead?

"Both of us, then," Mark said.

Walsh smiled enigmatically. "I was hoping you would say that. It really makes this game all the more exciting. You see, I'm still upset about the last two nights. A teenager making a scene at my party – and then again the next night! I haven't dealt with anything like it before, and I'd rather avoid that unpleasantness again. So I think I really will need to leave you both with a reminder that I'm not to be crossed."

As if stabbing Mark in an already mangled hand wasn't already a painful reminder of that fact.

"If we already know we're getting hurt, what's the game?" the boy asked quietly.

"Oh, that part is certain. The game is to decide the uncertainty – which of you two will bear the damage. I'll leave it to the winner to decide. If you have a few good hands, you'll be in luck! You can just tell me the other's name and they can deal with my wrath."

Mark took in the teenaged spy he had been saddled with and instinctively knew that the boy would never choose to have someone else hurt instead of him. Which meant Mark not only had to fight through his current pain to stay lucid – he had to fight through the pain enough to win whatever card game was chosen for them. Because he wasn't, absolutely wasn't, going back to London to tell Jones her child agent was missing a finger or some equally important body part.

"Are you playing too?" the boy asked. The look of resignation in his face seemed almost permanent.

"Of course. If I win, you both get hurt."

"This isn't necessary," Gregorovich said. It wasn't clear from the assassin's body language if he'd known this "game" was coming, but Mark suspected from this remark that it was as new to Gregorovich as it was to Alex and himself.

"No, but it is exciting," the Irishman agreed.

"We won't cause any more trouble," Mark said. "I'll talk to the kid. And if you must hurt someone, it needs to be me. I'm the one in charge." That wasn't, as far as Mark could tell, technically true. Or true in practice. But Mark was already dying in pain; he might as well spare the kid.

Walsh waved a hand dismissively. "You can choose that if you win. Who knows, Alex may choose you if he wins. And if I win, it's a moot point anyway, because you'll both be suffering."

"He's fifteen," Mark objected.

"I was twelve when my father was killed by a roadside bomb. Obstacles overcome in youth lead to stronger men."

Mark felt a surge of anger. Obstacles defeated could lay the groundwork for a stronger future, he absolutely agreed with that in theory. But not when the obstacle was unnecessary torture, not when the subject was a schoolboy, and especially not when the person ordering the torture obviously planned to kill them both not long after introducing said "obstacle" into their lives.

"What are we playing?" the boy asked indifferently.

"Poker, of course. We have a deck of cards, but we'll need to get everyone some amount of money. I'll leave you two to discuss who you're choosing if you win, and I'll be back in a few minutes with chips. Questions before I go?" Walsh inquired.

No one responded.

"Very well." Walsh walked out of the room, with the bodyguard at the door turning to follow the man as he left. Mark watched the door for several heartbeats after it was left empty before he looked back across the table towards the boy, his stomach twisting. Alex had his face buried in his hands.

"Alex?" Mark asked.

The boy exhaled softly, then lowered his hands. He turned to the assassin.

"I really hate your bosses."

Gregorovich nodded, his face neutral.

"Do you want to talk about what we're going to do?" Mark asked.

Alex glanced at him then at the table. "Does it matter? If I win, I'm not going to choose you, and you should choose me, but I doubt you'll do that either."

The kid was right. No, Mark wasn't going to choose a fifteen-year-old to undergo torture from someone who thought a possibly fatal injury was fun.

"Do you want to play?" the boy asked the assassin at the end of the table. "If you win, congratulations – you earned the day off. No torture for anyone. Everyone wins."

The man shook his head. "No."

"Yeah, I didn't think so."

What was Mark supposed to do now? No part of his training had included this. Mark had passed RTI three times, and there had never been a simulation where a fifteen-year-old got hurt if Mark didn't win a fucking game of cards.

"How are you?" Mark asked. "Seriously."

Alex side eyed Gregorovich, then gave a hollow laugh. "I told MI6 no the first five times they asked me to do this. But they don't listen to me. And now I get to play a card game for the chance of getting hurt. How should I be doing?"

Which was about where Mark was. He didn't want to get personal and ask the boy, but his parents were idiots if they thought this was a good idea. Though judging by the previous expressions that had crossed Alex's face when his parents had been mentioned, Mark was getting the idea that parents weren't a significant part of the child's life. If he thought about it, the only time Alex's parents had been mentioned, they hadn't been brought up because of the boy. If Mark thought on it, the only adult relative Alex had mentioned in his life was an uncle.

"You said no?"

A messy combination of emotions warred across Alex's face.

"It shouldn't matter. He shouldn't have been given the choice," Gregorovich said.

"Then you'll leave him out of this," Mark bit out.

"He's here now." The assassin's even stare didn't reveal any hints of guilt or remorse for his part in this farce.

Mark scoffed.

Walsh arrived with a handful of poker chips of different values, and he sat down and began to count them out into three separate piles. He stopped when he had three separate piles with only a handful of chips not sorted. Walsh pushed a pile in front of each of them. "You're both my guest after all," he then said as he added several extra chips to Alex and Mark's piles. With a sly grin he added even more to Alex's. "And I suppose I should give the young a fighting chance. A warning though, if you cheat this time, I'll have terrible things done to your partner."

Gregorovich took the cards and counted them. The count must have satisfied them, because he shuffled them before waiting for dealing instructions.

"Do you both know Five-Card Draw?" Walsh asked. After they both agreed, the game began.

It was clearly from the second game that Mark was fighting a war of attrition. Mark was a true spy for special operations – he blended into the background of a scene and tended to get lost in the crowd. He wasn't flashy or good with cards like James Bond. He was struggling to think strategy clearly over the waves of pain emanating from his hand and playing cards with one hand was a physical challenge he could've lived without.

Walsh was good. Alex was as well. Walsh had an ugly smile each round regardless of how strong his hand turned out to be, and the only emotion Mark saw in Alex's face was exhaustion. After several rounds, Mark was out, and it was just Walsh and Alex, playing conservatively against each other.

The truth was that without the extra coins Alex had been given at the start, he might have lost. Instead when the boy revealed four 6's for his final hand to Walsh's flush, the final chips were handed over, and Walsh, smiling the entire time, congratulated Alex.

For just a second Mark felt relief that Alex had won. Then Mark realized that relief and hated himself for it. It hadn't been long, but for that moment Mark had realized that only the boy was going to be tortured – and he had felt relief.

This wasn't the making of someone who had practiced this scenario. Only a coward hid behind a child.

"And who are you picking?" Walsh asked mockingly.

"Myself," Alex answered quietly.

"Are you sure, Alex? You're young, and Mark here is already in pain. Will he really notice more? As I said, it's nothing permanent." Without giving Alex a chance to change his mind, Walsh added, "Of course, if you back out now, I might have you watch."

"He's choosing me," Mark insisted.

Walsh shook a finger disapprovingly. "You didn't win, so you've no say."

"I'm not choosing him."

"Is that your final choice?" Walsh challenged.

"Yes."

"No, it's not," Mark snapped. No one else said anything, but their body language was telling. Alex gazing at some fixed point at the window behind Mark; Walsh looked ready to burst into laughter. Gregorovich was coolly examining Mark as if waiting for a sudden attack while knowing all the same that it wouldn't present a challenge.

"Do whatever you were going to do to him to me twice," Mark said.

"Later, perhaps," Walsh said. "Alex, I look forward to watching you squirm later. I'm going to be doing some business this afternoon so I'm afraid I may miss the live show. Gregorovich, record it for me. Nothing permanent, remember, I'm entertaining tomorrow. But don't stop until you've got a few screams in there."

Walsh collected his cards and put them back in their wooden case. "Remember what I told you before lunch, Mark. keep your child spy on a leash and maybe your choice won't be needed for a while."

Mark couldn't feel anything but shocked disbelief on their walk back. He hadn't known what to expect from Walsh when they'd walked downstairs to join him—but it wasn't this. The results of their talk were much worse than Mark had imagined, even knowing from last night how volatile Conan Walsh was.

Gregorovich directed a few last words to Alex before leaving them alone. "I'll be back for you in an hour."

It might have been better for the kid if the words had been threatening in any way. Then Mark could see an excuse for anger, which might have let the time pass faster. Instead the words were stated with unimportance – the assassin could well have said "I'll bring fresh groceries to your nan in an hour." The sheer lack of care Gregorovich had for the terror his words had to induce was impressive in its cruelty, and ironic in that the assassin likely wasn't aiming to be cruel. This was a job for him. Nothing more. He was paid to hurt and kill people, so he would hurt Alex. He was paid to patch up Walsh's victim, so he had tended to Mark's hand when needed. It was apparent that Walsh hadn't hired Gregorovich for his sadism, merely his practicality.

"I'll convince him to change his mind," Mark said as soon as they were alone. "They can hurt me instead."

"It won't work, and I'd fight you if it did." Alex slumped against the wall. His eyes closed. Mark grimaced and went to shake out some more Ibuprofen. It was less than four hours from the last time he'd taken two, but could things get much worse? The pain was ever present, and the fact of their captivity hadn't changed. Worse was that he really, truly, desperately didn't know what to say to Alex right now. Mark went ahead and took another three.

The boy broke the tense silence. "What were you talking about before lunch?"

Even an unpleasant lie would be better than the truth. If Mark could think of a suitable lie he would give it in an instant. But assuming Alex believed it, Mark suspected Walsh might bring the truth up sooner or later. "It wasn't something you need to worry about."

"I'm here too."

Yes, that was true. Still, there were things children didn't need to know. Mark hadn't needed to know how nasty his parent's marriage had been (one of the reasons his girlfriend of a decade wasn't yet his fiancé or wife).

Then again, Alex wasn't a fool. He had to know the conversation was unpleasant. The boy was brave, too – Mark couldn't say that he'd make the same choice under pressure at 15, if an adult near him had been offering to be the sacrifice instead. "You can't unhear what I tell you."

"I don't care."

Mark didn't mince words. "He made me to choose which one of us should watch the other die."

The next hour passed by, somehow. And then Alex looked to the door and stood up. Moments later Mark heard the click of the door unlock. Mark wracked his brain for comforting words. What had his mum said when he'd been upset when he was young? Nothing that would help this situation. What advice would Mark tell himself before another session of RTI?

"It's not permanent, you're going to be ok," Mark said desperately.

"Sure," Alex said. And then he was gone, and Mark was alone.

It was impossible for time to trickle by at a slower pace, and yet somehow it did. The pain in Mark's stomach had nothing to do with the pain in his hand.

And then Alex was back.

Mark took the child in. He looked a mess. His eyes were red and there were visible tear stains on his face and hoodie. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his hoodie.

"Alex," Mark trailed off, unsure how to proceed. "What happened?"

"It doesn't matter. I'm fine," Alex said tonelessly.

He clearly wasn't.

"Was Walsh there?"

"No." The boy eyed the empty bed. "I'm going to sleep."

"Wait." Mark didn't want to push the kid, or make him relive the moments prior, but maybe Walsh's people had been careless with the kid – let him see something he shouldn't. An unguarded path, a spot without cameras. "Tell me where you went and what you saw – it might be useful."

A wry smirk crossed the child's face. "It won't be. He didn't show me anything."

"The assassin was with you the entire time?"

"How many people do you think Walsh is paying to torture his 'guests'?"

Mark wished he could say only one. Seeing how utterly sadistic Walsh seemed, Mark wouldn't be surprised if there were more mercenaries lurking in the mansion, popping in and out on whatever business MI6 had wanted to monitor in the first place. "Did you talk at all?" Mark meant, he supposed, whether the kid had talked with Gregorovich. The two clearly knew each other, even if not well. Too late Mark realized the other meaning of the word – had Alex talked, as in spilled details of his work for MI6.

"I don't want to talk about it."

And Mark didn't want to either. But he had to know. "It could be useful."

The flash of anger caught Mark by surprise. "Sure, we talked," Alex responded maliciously. "If one person conversations mean we talked. I said stop, and don't, and please, and he ignored me. I thought putting cigarettes out on my arm was fun, but we really forged an inspirational bond when he slid the knife underneath my thumbnail for the seventh time."

Fucking bloody hell.

Mark resisted the urge to ask to see Alex's nails. "You're saying my name if we go through another round of this."

The boy didn't pause to consider the offer. "No, I'm not. Can I go to sleep now, or do we need to keep talking about it?"

No, that seemed unlikely to help the kid's mental health. Mark shook his head mutely and Alex crawled into bed.

Despite his own lack of sleep, Mark couldn't manage true sleep himself, laying on the floor with last night's jacket folded under his head. He managed to drift off three or four times only to jerk awake to minor sounds – talking in the hallway outside ("Go take a break, I've got you") or a bird outside – and his own aching body. By the time Mark woke up for the third time, he was in a such a state of muddle that he almost thought he was in his own apartment in London.

The child was sleeping as the sky outside turned dark and Mark locked himself in the bathroom for a shower. If he couldn't sleep, he would at least be alert.

It took longer than he'd hoped to undress, fumble through the shower while keeping his cast dry, and dress again. Every second of his process was a reminder of how incapable Mark was of putting up a fight anytime soon. Of how incapable Mark was of almost anything.

Before he could brush his teeth or shave with one of the toothbrushes and razors that had been provided, Mark unlocked and opened the bathroom door. He wanted to hear if someone came for either of them.

Alex was still asleep.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Gregorovich was back.

"Leave him alone," Mark said. He strode forward, all thoughts of personal hygiene pushed aside. "He doesn't need to wake up to you."

"Dinner is waiting downstairs."

Mark stood glaring over the assassin. "I'll wake him up."

Gregorovich nodded and moved out of the way. Mark reached with his good hand to shake the boy, gently, awake.

"Are you hungry?" Mark asked as the boy woke up.

Alex sat up and got out of the bed. Mark tried to spot the moment Alex noticed Gregorovich, but the boy never reacted. Again, Mark marveled at the schoolboy he'd found himself here with.

"Is he going to be there?" Alex asked.

Gregorovich shook his head.

Even in dire circumstances there were minor miracles. Now it was up to Mark to just protect the child from the man who had tortured him only a few hours ago.

They went back to the garden room they'd been in earlier. There were two plates with rice, steamed vegetables, and shrimp.

Mark took a seat and began to eat, noticing that Alex was taking time to swirl his food together with his fork. Gregorovich sat where he had earlier at the foot of the table.

One approach to hostage negotiation was to see the perspective of the captor, but he doubted that approach would work. Which meant he had to be inventive. And goading a hired killer until his ire was focused on Mark and not the child next to him was an approach Mark was willing to try.

"Feeling guilty about earlier?" Mark asked, trying to make his tone rude but not dangerous enough to be a threat.

"No," Gregorovich said simply.

"You're holding a child prisoner. You hurt a child. When you're caught, they'll lock you up for life," Mark said steadily.

Gregorovich looked through Mark without interest. Then he shifted towards Alex. "You should eat something."

"Don't threaten him," Mark challenged.

"That wasn't a threat."

"He should be at home with his family," Mark said. This was ridiculous. Parents, uncle, aunt, grandma – whoever the kid had, they were the ones that had the right to care about the kid. Not this hired killer. "They can tell him to eat. You don't get to."

"Can we not talk about my family?" Alex interjected expressionlessly.

Another reminder that Mark really didn't know how to talk to kids. Mark had thought he was defending the kid, but he'd only bothered the child he was trying to protect. Mark looked at the kid and wondered, for the first time, what Alex thought of this entire situation.

Alex sat and eyed his food, listening to Mark continuing to talk. Could they just sit in silence?

"You're holding a child prisoner. You hurt a child. When you're caught, they'll lock you up for life."

Yassen, Alex suspected, couldn't have cared less about what Mark was saying if he'd tried.

"You should eat something," Yassen said. Yeah, Alex knew that.

Then the MI6 agent bumbled in again. "Don't threaten him."

Alex couldn't claim to be an expert on Yassen Gregorovich. He was still certain that if the man wanted to threaten him, it would sound a lot more menacing than 'eat something'.

"That wasn't a threat."

Mark didn't stop. "He should be at home with his family. They can tell him to eat. You don't get to."

"Can we not talk about my family?"

This was all too much.

Mark clearly thought Alex was afraid of Yassen. That wasn't an incorrect assumption, but it also wasn't about earlier. It had hurt, yes, and he'd rather not do it again. He'd also been through worse. Yassen had been quietly clinical, hurting him until the camera had several minutes of film of Alex begging for it to end, but Alex had never thought he was going die. Honestly, the CIA had done worse to Alex in Egypt.

It was the whole situation that was overwhelming – not Yassen's presence. Having to think about someone else, having to consider ways for 2 people to escape safely. Knowing that the man keeping them hostage was a true sadist. Accepting that Yassen didn't want to kill him, but also wouldn't leave the door unlocked for Alex and Mark to escape. Dealing with Mark asking personal questions about Alex while someone else in the room had actually known his dad (and then killed Ian).

And Alex didn't have the energy for this. Mark was in this situation with him, but it wasn't the same. Presumably, the older agent had been given a choice. MI6 had never extended that same principal to Alex.

At least Yassen was honest – if you paid him, he did it, and it wasn't personal.

Alex finished a few bites in silence, turning over the situation in his head.

"How are you doing?" Mark asked Alex again.

"I'm fine," Alex said. He'd been worse.

Mark's plate was empty. Now the MI6 agent was alternating between eyeing Yassen with a glare and Alex with concern. "You should eat though. Take care of yourself. I'll make sure you get home."

There was nothing for Alex at home right now, but that didn't matter. Mark didn't have any power over this situation and they both knew it.

Alex took another bite, not tasting the food.

"I guess from now on you can tell our bosses no the 6th time too, huh?" Mark said.

It was a throwaway line, meant to break the heavy silence and imply they'd be back in London soon. Mark couldn't have known how it sounded; he'd man had been in barely medicated pain for two days now.

It was still enough.

"You weren't happy when you met me," Alex said. "Were you upset that I was your partner because you thought I'd be an annoying schoolboy, or because MI6 was putting a schoolboy in danger?"

The stunned guilt on Mark's face answered the question.

"I didn't want to be here. And I never said I told MI6 yes. They asked me, and then they didn't. The only difference was this time they asked first." Alex glanced at Yassen. "I tried to go back to school. It didn't work."

"Alex, I didn't know," Mark said.

"It doesn't matter." He pushed another bite of rice around the plate before placing his silverware down. "I'm done. Can I go back to sleep?"

Mark led the way back to the room and so entered first. Alex was about to follow when he felt a light hand on his shoulders.

"Alex?" Yassen asked. The question was unspoken, but Alex thought he understood regardless.

Alex saw Mark falter and turn. The man stared at them, probably anticipating some other awful event to come. This was all too much. Alex just wanted to go to sleep and wake up in a year. Managing Mark's anger against Yassen was just another thing for Alex to deal with.

"I'm fine," Alex said. Yassen eyebrows raised in an uncertain expression. Alex shook the hand off his shoulder, stepped inside the room, and closed the door to his prison.

How many times had the child worked for MI6?

Mark had managed several hours of sleep last night between bouts of pain that even a medically unsound amount of Ibuprofen hadn't helped. And all through his periods of waking, he had wondered one question above all: how many times had MI6 Special Operations forced a 15-old-child to do their work for them?

Alex had given Mark the bed and the covers and slept on the floor under a sheet. Despite the circumstances, Mark hadn't seen Alex wake in the past 10 hours. At least, not during the time when Mark had been awake himself.

Every time he looked at the child asleep, he noticed the same thing: it was remarkable how different he looked. Mark hadn't realized how much tension the child was carrying when he was awake, even from the first time they'd met. The child Mark had met several days ago was polite and serious. The child Mark had seen for the past few days of captivity was exhausted, both physically and, from what Mark had seen, emotionally.

MI6 should never have used a child.

And did it really matter how many times Jones – or even Blunt – had employed him? It was illegal, regardless of the length of the boy's employment. It was immoral.

It should have never been necessary.

Mark saw the exact moment Alex woke. A sudden tension entered the boy's features. His hands clenched briefly before releasing and he moved to rub hair out of his eyes. The boy's blond hair was already slightly longer than Mark's dad would have ever allowed him to keep his hair – right now it was a mess.

"Good morning," Mark said softly. It wasn't a good morning, but they knew that already without rubbing it in.

The grimace that crossed Alex's features was heart tightening – not least because Mark suspected it was because of him. The child was schooling himself to face the people around him, and Mark was one of those people.

"Morning," Alex muttered as he pushed himself up.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Sure." Alex stood, pushing the tangled sheet off himself. He yawned, then headed to the restroom.

Mark waited until Alex was back to ask his questions. The boy sat down next to the restroom door. It was a good perch to face the door to the room, Mark admitted. Especially if you wanted to keep a few feet between yourself and whoever had just entered the room.

"Did you brush your teeth?" Mark asked, not sure how to open his questions. Alex's hair was brushed now, so it seemed a fair guess that the child had gotten all ready for the day – whatever that day might bring. Did you brush your teeth, fuck. Mark truly didn't know how to talk to teenagers. The boy was 15, not 8.

"Yes."

"Good." Mark tried to come up with a question to ease into the topic of Alex's 'career' with MI6, but none came to mind. Which wasn't surprising – he hadn't come up with anything in the past night and the last couple hours he'd been awake. "I tried to think of a better way to open this, but we should just start with the basics. How long have you been working for MI6?"

"Why?"

"We're stuck together. Might as well get to know each other," Mark said.

"We already did that."

"True. But we didn't talk about what we have in common." Mark thought for a moment. "What was your first mission?"

Alex crossed his arms.

"Alright, classified. Got it," Mark conceded. "What did you think of Blunt?"

Alex eyed him. "Are you supposed to be asking me these questions?"

And that answered that. Alex had been employed by MI6 for at least 5 months if he knew Blunt.

"And how many missions have you gone on?"

"For MI6? Hard to tell. In total? Still hard to tell."

What? Mark allowed himself to look confused, hoping the child would elaborate.

He didn't.

Maybe it would take gaining a bit more trust to get Alex to talk to him. "Do you want to know why I joined MI6 Special Operations?"

Alex shrugged.

The reason was, in truth, reasons plural, but only a part of the story was not what Mark would call "teenager appropriate." He had been with Special Operations for a while longer yet than he'd been with his current girlfriend, after all. And in Mark's experiences, with semi-decent looks, the ladies' part of Bond's reputation was not unachievable when you were visiting different cities every few weeks.

Mark told Alex the story of his early twenties that he'd hoped to one day tell his nephew Dylan, when his sister's son was old enough to understand words but still young enough to not take Mark too seriously. Alex listened quietly the same way he'd done nights ago when Mark had told the boy about Brenda.

"So love of country?" Alex summarized, when Mark had finished the last words of his story.

Mark thought of the French, Ukrainian, and Russian women he'd met his first few years on the job.

"Just about," he agreed.

"That seems to a popular reason."

"I wish it could have one day been yours, assuming you had actually wanted to join Special Operations. Probably a bit late for that though."

"I guess."

"Still, it's nice to visit outside the continent," Mark confessed. "If you get the opportunity, I mean."

Serious brown eyes studied him. "What have you done since joining MI6?" the boy asked.

Mark paused to think on how to answer that. It was all classified, of course, but perhaps he could take some tidbits of truth and turn them into falsehoods that wouldn't get Mark in trouble with Jones. Assuming that he ever saw her again.

There was the murmur of muffled voices from behind the door, and that saved Mark the trouble of lying, for the moment. Mark stood and faced the door, putting himself between Alex and whoever was coming in. Only a minute later, Walsh walked inside, beaming. He was dressed in a jogging outfit and wearing a watch Mark hadn't yet seen. Gregorovich entered as the silent shadow he seemed to spend his time being. He lingered next to the open door.

There was absolutely no chance that this was good news for Alex and Mark.

Walsh directed his first words at Mark. "Good morning."

"Good morning," Mark replied.

Walsh looked through Mark and smiled with a vicious delight. "Alex, good morning."

Their antagonist waited only a heartbeat for Alex to respond. When the boy stayed quiet, Walsh laughed. "Come here."

Mark watched helplessly as Alex stood and walked to Walsh. The Irishman maintained his smile and tapped Alex twice on his cheek. Mark couldn't see Alex's face, but the boy must have kept himself collected because the slap or punch Mark expected didn't come. Instead the man merely smiled and ruffled the boy's hair.

It was impossible, at least from Mark's vantage point, to see what (if anything) precepted the move – Walsh stepped forward suddenly and grasped Alex by the jaw. The boy stiffened but otherwise didn't react.

"Say 'good morning,'" Walsh instructed.

"Good morning," Alex said.

"When my guests come later, I expect you'll show them whatever manners your parents taught you. Can you do that?"

"Yes." Alex's voice was somehow calm. Not relaxed, no, but restrained. Mark wasn't even sure he could maintain his composure in those same circumstances as an adult. At 15, he wouldn't have been able to control his anger at having his personal space violated in that way.

The man made a soft considering noise. "I wonder. Tell me, Alex, what do your parents do when you misbehave?"

After a moment of silence, he laughed. "Nothing?" He gave a squeeze. Judging from Alex's flinch, it wasn't gentle. "Even when you were younger? They never washed your mouth with soap?"

"No."

"They never paddled you?"

"No."

"Parents these days," Walsh marveled. "Much too kind, the lot of them. When my parents disciplined me, they let me know I was in trouble. Yours never put you in time out or grounded you?"

"Sometimes."

"Did it work?"

"Yes."

"Interesting." Walsh repositioned his hand slightly and Alex squirmed. Mark saw one of Alex's hands reach up as if to grab Walsh's arm and then stop. "I suppose you were raised with respect, as they say. You had a choice on what you did when you were young, I suppose"

"Sometimes."

"Well, I'm not your parents, Alex. I am not giving you options. I will not put you in timeout if you misbehave. Unless you consider your situation a sort of timeout from the British secret services, which you well might. I am not into modern parenting. Disrespect my guests and I'll wash your mouth with bleach."

Walsh released Alex.

Mark exhaled.

The Irishman looked up at Mark. "And you – Mark. Did your mum and dad paddle you when you misbehaved?"

"Yes."

"Do you think it worked? It fixed your misbehavior?"

"Not always," Mark admitted.

"Perhaps a paddling isn't perfect," Walsh acknowledged. "Still, you aren't causing me the problems this child is, so it worked at least a little." He tilted his head and considered Mark. "You're a bit old for a paddling now, though. So I'll leave Gregorovich to come up with something else for you if you misbehave. You told my last guests that you'd be here until Friday, but I think I could come up with a reasonable excuse for either of you to leave my company before then. I rather think I'll have my moratorium on permanent damage rather goes away after tonight. And speaking of temporary damage, Alex, I watched a fun video this morning."

Alex shrugged. "It was made for you."

"Yes, it was. I had hoped it would be fun to make, but you didn't seem to enjoy it," Walsh observed. "Maybe you'll have more fun during the next one. Assuming that that a sequel is necessary."

"I'll be here if you want one."

Walsh laughed. "Yes, you will be." He put a hand on Alex's left arm. "Was it here?"

The boy nodded slowly.

Mark had a good idea what was going to happen next. Alex had mentioned cigarettes being put out on his skin – now Walsh, who had just watched everything that had been done to Alex, was enjoying his power over the child. If it caused pain, Walsh would do it.

As Mark had predicted, Walsh squeezed Alex's arm.

Whatever expression Alex made, it was enough to satisfy. Walsh released the child. "I hope you thank Gregorovich for how easy you had it. Now go sit down on the bed. Let the adults talk."

Mark allowed Alex to pass him, and then repositioned himself again so that he was between the child and Walsh.

"Oh, are you going to fight me off with one good arm?" Walsh asked.

Mark shook his head. He also didn't move.

"I'm tempted to call him back over here. Do you think you standing in between the two of us would stop me if I wanted him damaged?" The Irishman glanced for the first time over at his hired man. "If the boy makes so much as a face at me, hurt him."

Gregorovich nodded, turning slightly to consider Alex.

The boy glanced at the hired man in response, his own face indifferent.

Walsh opened his hands invitingly. "With that settled, on to business. Your child spy has ensured that you are both invited to my soirée tonight, in the very public view of some of my friends. It's casual dress, and I'll have things brought up. I expect you will both be on your best behavior and maintain the cover MI6 gave you. After we met at my party the other day, I invited you to stay for a while with your misbehaving son. You have been enjoying my hospitality since then. If for some reason we separate into other rooms, please remember that story. I do have cameras and I will always have at least one of you with me."

"We'll keep our cover."

"Good. There will be incredibly severe consequences for treating my friends impolitely, as I already told the child. If you break your cover, or god forbid, ask for help, you'll be begging for death."

"Of course," Mark said.

"I'm glad we understand each other," Walsh acquiesced. "Make sure your younger partner understands the severity of the consequences. It will be you suffering if he doesn't. I'll leave the specifics to your imagination, but perhaps you could run some possibilities by the child." Walsh glanced at his watch. "I have work to attend to, unless you have any questions."

"No."

"Good." Walsh clapped his hands together. "Gregorovich will make sure you are ready before tonight. I told Alex yesterday that I'd have stronger medication for your pain dropped off, so those will arrive at some point. Until tonight, I assume you'll keep out of trouble."

Walsh closed the door behind him. If Mark hadn't already heard the guard outside when Walsh had arrived, he would have known there was one now. Without a handle on the inside of the door, the only way for Gregorovich to leave would be for someone on the outside to help.

"Unlike my employer," Gregorovich spoke for the first time, "I will not be leaving the consequences of your misbehavior to your imagination."

"That's not necessary," Mark said, heeding the goosebumps on his arm. A child didn't need to hear this. Mark didn't need to hear this. "I'll make sure he doesn't act out."

"I imagine you would try. Allow me to make certain."

There was something truly dangerous about this man, and Mark despised it. For just a moment last night, Mark could have sworn he saw a moment of concern between the assassin and Alex. Now, the pure indifference in his expression said he wouldn't mind strangling Alex to death with his bare hands.

"Would you prefer I start with what happens to you if Alex acts out, or if what happens to him if you act out?"

"You can hurt me both times. If he acts out or I do."

Gregorovich proceeded as if Mark hadn't spoken. "Perhaps we start with what I will do to Alex if you are a problem."

"No!"

"No? You won't be a problem?" Gregorovich questioned.

"No."

The man considered for a second. "No, perhaps you won't. Let me assure you it would not be pleasant, and you would watch. Alex, however, has already proven he will present a problem without a particularly descriptive warning."

Even more than he hated his captors, Mark loathed himself for the fear that he knew Gregorovich saw in him.

"You're free to cover your ears," the assassin said. He took in Mark's mangled right hand and raised an eyebrow. Or perhaps not.

Mark almost cursed the man out. He would have if he was certain Alex wouldn't take the assassin's retribution. Alex – Mark realized he hadn't heard from the boy for several minutes.

Alex was perched on the edge of the bed, as Walsh had instructed him to be. His hands were clenching the edge of the mattress and he looked so tired Mark could have believed he'd stayed up all night.

"I'm not going to do anything," he said.

"That is good for your friend," Gregorovich said. "If you have the inclination to become a problem, remember this. There are knives and bleach in the kitchen. Your partner has managed to get by with one hand. What else does he only need one of?"

"I got it."

"In which case, perhaps I will allow your imagination to choose the third place I maim him. The second will be his right eye."

Mark needed to imagine those words were about anyone other than himself.

"Am I clear?"

There was a definite line in the child's jaw, but he nodded without speaking all the same.

Hard to follow those words up, though.

Mark would have to try. He eyed the hitman. It was time to see what he could get out of the man. Ignore the man's threats – Mark was the adult MI6 agent in the room; the one responsible for getting them out of this.

Showing the man he wasn't afraid would be a definite plus. "Gregorovich," he said. Both Gregorovich and Alex looked at him. The hitman was unreadable, but the child was definitely wary.

"I need to speak to you alone."

Was it telling that Alex looked reluctant about that prospect? Probably, but Mark didn't know the story between the two enough to know why. Or perhaps the boy wanted to feel involved in the conversation.

"You can speak here."

Fine. Mark would make do. "Alex, go turn the shower on and close the door."

Alex didn't move.

Gregorovich raised an eyebrow.

It would be better if he could keep Alex out of this, in case it went poorly. It also didn't seem that was the current reality.

"What do you want to get us out of here?" Mark asked.

Gregorovich shook his head. "That is not an option."

"MI6 has connections. People in all sorts of places, even places you wouldn't expect."

The assassin showed his first hint of personality with a sardonic smile. "I am aware."

"Then you know how useful it is to make alliances with us."

"Perhaps once upon a time."

In the corner of Mark's eye, Alex turned away.

"MI6 can arrange a ransom." Officially they didn't – the United Kingdom had publicly entered into an agreement that prohibited paying ransoms to terrorists and hostage takers years ago. Unofficially, Mark had heard things. The Queen's Government wouldn't pay the money demanded themselves. But they would arrange talks between kidnappers and the families of the hostages.

"With who?"

Mark wasn't sure – he hadn't yet found out about Alex's family, but his own was dirt poor and his girlfriend only moderately well off – but it didn't really matter. Gregorovich's question wasn't an invitation to expand but a dismissal.

"Whatever you want, MI6 can get it for you," Mark offered.

"Oh?" Gregorovich asked. "And what do I want?"

Money, probably.

Which they didn't have.

Mark grimaced.

Talking to the hitman had been a long shot anyway, and Mark wasn't fool enough to not recognize when his attempts at talking had failed.

When nothing was forthcoming, Gregorovich nodded and moved on. "Do you want something to eat? I can bring something up."

Some dark wondering in Mark's brain questioned how often the assassin had dealt with people offering him bribes to spare their lives. He shoved that question away with the threat against his body parts – he had practicalities to deal with. "Alex, what do you want for breakfast?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Coffee?"

Alex shrugged.

"You have to have something." At Alex's indifference, Mark took charge. "We'll have eggs and toast. Coffee as well."

Gregorovich knocked on the inside of the door to be let out. When whoever was outside opened the door, he left as quietly as he entered, leaving Mark and Alex suddenly alone again.

Well, good. They were safer without either of those men here. And Mark had questions for Alex.

The difference between being held prisoner by a madman and being held prisoner by a madman with another captive in the same room was the ability to think clearly, Alex was convinced. Mark was…truly an agent of MI6. Alex could remember his interrogation underground at the bank after he'd been grabbed in Mrs. Jones's apartment. The experience was not one of his fonder memories. The interrogator's questions had been constant and repetitive.

Mark's were the same. He had about 5 that he'd been circling through for the past five hours: How old were you when you started working for MI6? How did MI6 choose you? Where have you been? What have you done? And there was Alex's personal favorite – Where is your family? Mark would cycle through a few in a couple minutes, give Alex a few minutes of quiet, and then be back with the questions again. Alex had locked himself in the restroom and taken a long shower in the middle of the day just to get some peace. Of course, time in captivity passed differently, and despite the length of time Alex had spent with a door between them, the sun was still in the same place when Alex went back into the main room. And in that time, the stronger pain medication that had been recently delivered had clearly taken effect. Apparently when Mark Corwynne wasn't in large amounts of pain, he was astute. Some of the guesses Mark had started making based on small facial reactions Alex had unwittingly shown were alarmingly close to truths about Alex's life. Not that Alex would ever admit it.

About the only times Mark had been certain to not ask questions were the brief moments Yassen entered the room. And those respites, brief through they were, provided their own twisted version of 'fun'. Yassen hadn't addressed Alex since that morning's most recent warnings against misbehavior, but he had exchanged several remarks with Mark. So far, they'd been harmless exchanges about things Mark and Alex needed, but since Mark had tried to bribe Yassen that morning, Alex had only been waiting with dread for the agent's most recent terrible idea to take light.

Alex was positive it wasn't just him. Both he and Mark had to have a low-lying constant terror of the moment the other decided to do something 'smart'. Yassen's threats towards Mark had been specific and his threats towards Alex vague, but the words weren't really the part that caused the terror.

No, that was the certainty that Yassen would follow through.

It was like the old trope in movies and tv: it's a promise, not a threat.

Did Mark trying to bribe Yassen count as misbehavior? Was Walsh going to come back in with his ugly grin and tell Yassen to hurt him again? It seemed unlikely, but Alex wasn't sure. He wouldn't put it past Walsh to have a pleasant countenance throughout his dinner party with friends and then reveal an unpleasant after-dinner-torture-session the minute his guests had left.

And Walsh had mentioned this was his last public event for a few days. Meaning if he wanted to dispose of Alex – or maim him more permanently – after tonight was the time.

About the only thing separating Alex from panic over Mark's behavior was the fact that the person Mark had tried to turn was Yassen. And Yassen seemed, if not unwilling to hurt Alex, at least reluctant to have to.

Not that it mattered the moment Walsh spoke.

Alex wished he could go back to last night when Yassen had taken the moment to 'check up on him' and tell the man to go to hell. Yassen – probably – wasn't petty enough to hurt Alex for a curse.

He sighed and refocused on the present. Mark was staring at him again. "What?" Alex asked. Not that it really mattered. He hadn't answered any of Mark's questions since before he the man had forced him to eat something for breakfast. This would just be another question to ignore.

"You there?" Mark asked.

I wish I wasn't.

"Yeah."

"Ok. Where is your family in all of this, kid?"

Rolling in their graves.

"Where are yours?"

"Not the question," Mark countered. "I'm not the 15-year-old being forced onto dangerous assignments."

Alex could admit that at least Mark was trying to help. The man's questions had taken on a decidedly anti-MI6 bent in the past few hours as the man seemed to accept that Alex was telling the truth last night about being forced onto this mission.

Once again, the door opening brought respite from the questions. Mark shut his mouth and stood back.

Alex should find it reassuring that Mark insisted on standing between Alex and anyone else who entered their prison. In honesty, it was an annoying façade of safety. If Walsh or Yassen wanted to hurt Alex, Mark wasn't protection. They'd already proved that fact.

Yassen was holding a stack of clothes. He tossed it on the bed and then leaned against the wall. "Get dressed."

Mark walked to the bed and rifled through some clothes. Once he had his outfit, he turned to face Alex. "I'm going to go change. Stay there and don't say anything."

"Sure," Alex agreed. What did Mark think Alex was going to talk about - the incredibly unnecessary threats they'd gotten this morning?

Then again, if Mark thought trying to bribe the assassin holding them hostage with the power of MI6's thanks was a good idea, Alex couldn't imagine what bad ideas Mark thought Alex capable of.

Alex eyed Yassen warily for a moment but ended up resting his head against his knees after he realized the man was more interested in his phone than in Alex.

It must be the sign of a deranged mind to prefer being a captive alone than with someone else. That said, the space without Mark was quiet. It could be peaceful, ignoring the killer in the room and his boss in the mansion and the threat very real pain permanently hanging over his head.

Before Alex was ready, Mark was back and directing him to get changed. Alex took the clothes he'd been brought and went into the restroom.

The clothes were, as Walsh had said earlier, casual. There was a long sleeve navy polo and khaki slacks. Walsh hadn't sent Alex another watch.

Alex took the ace of hearts he'd stolen from Walsh yesterday out of his pants pocket and put it on the counter. He still wasn't sure what the card would be good for, especially without a lock or handle on the inside of the door, but it made him feel better just to have something that Walsh didn't know about.

He changed quickly, stopping only a moment to examine the bandage on his forearm before he put the polo on. His burns hadn't hurt today, thankfully. At least they hadn't except for when Walsh had squeezed his arm. Alex left his old clothes in a small pile under the counter and slipped the card into the new slacks. He was ready as he was going to be.

"The guests will be here soon," Yassen said, as soon as Alex stepped back into the bedroom. "I don't expect any problems from David Windon or his son."

"Of course not," Mark said tersely. "You're still going by Dimitri Lucas?"

Yassen nodded slightly.

"Ready?" Mark asked Alex.

"Sure."

The guard outside their room headed down the hall in the opposite direction as soon as Yassen confirmed they were heading downstairs. Alex eyed the oil paintings on the wall as they walked downstairs. They all appeared to be the portraits of family members. Walsh may have made his fortune from crime, but he clearly didn't come from nothing.

Downstairs, they entered the dining room off the main hallway. It was the same room as the dinner two nights ago. Alex noticed without surprise the changed tablecloth. Presumably the one they'd left with Mark's blood on it was ruined.

Conan Walsh was wearing a brown blazer over a white button up with jeans. A signature overly expensive timepiece adorned his wrist. The moment they entered the room he smiled at them. And then, because Alex was obviously such an attraction, Walsh's gaze sharpened in on him.

"Alex, good afternoon," Walsh said as he walked over.

Mark reached out and touched Alex on the shoulder. The older agent was trying to help him, Alex knew, but it was just more proof that Mark didn't realize how unfortunately capable Alex was when he needed to be. Walsh's words were such obvious bait that Alex could go fishing for sharks with them. If it made Walsh happy to have Alex dangling like a puppet on a string, he could play along.

"Good afternoon," Alex replied.

Walsh smiled appreciatively. "Good boy. It would have been a shame to start this affair telling you about an unfortunate consequence waiting for you after it all. Do you remember what I promised to do if you forgot your manners?"

"Yes." Alex wondered if there was a guidebook for sociopaths published somewhere on the internet read by all of the sick people who liked to play these 'games' with people. If such a book existed, by this point Alex's experiences had to contain a chapter's worth of material into how to threaten someone.

"Good. Enjoy tonight but do keep that old precept in mind: seen and not heard. I'll be watching for it." Walsh clapped his arm against Alex's – in the same spot the bandage was, again – and then headed out of the room into the hallway.

A large chapter's worth, Alex amended.

"Maybe don't talk unless someone speaks to you?" the older agent muttered.

"I got that."

Outside the dining room, Alex heard front door open, and then several people exchange greetings. The first guests were here.

Walsh entered the room with a couple Alex had met the other night, Paul and Esther, and a tall man Alex didn't recognize. The couple headed over to them while the tall man and Walsh walked to a table near the doorway. It covered in glasses and hard liquor bottles Walsh poured whisky into two glasses.

Paul and Esther greeted them all and began to talk about the weather they'd had the past few days.

"Alex," came an unfamiliar voice. Alex looked across the room to see Walsh and his friend looking at him expectantly.

"I'll join you," Mark said, noticing the pair across the room.

"No, stay here." Whatever was next, it was for him alone.

"This is him?" The tall man questioned when Alex joined them.

Walsh nodded. "Darrah, meet Alex. Alex, this is a good friend of mine, Darrah Ryan."

Alex had met a lot of unscrupulous people in the past year and a half. Darrah Ryan was one of them, he knew instinctively. The way Ryan looked at him made Alex want to shudder – like he was an insect in a glass.

"He looks a bit rough," Ryan said to Walsh. "What have you been doing to him?"

There was something in Ryan's tone that gave Alex a suspicion that some of Walsh's guests weren't quite as oblivious to the true nature of Alex's stay as others.

"Does he?" Walsh questioned. "How unfortunate. Perhaps he's not feeling the spirit of the evening. Smile, Alex." It wasn't a suggestion.

Alex had joined the theatre club at school for a while, in a moment where it had seemed that MI6 would finally let him be. The acting games he'd done during practices were about to come in handy. Pretend Jack is here, instead of Walsh.

Alex gave as much as a smile as he could muster.

He hoped both men choked on their food at dinner.

"How old is he, 16?"

"Fifteen," Alex answered.

"Did I ask you?" Ryan asked mildly.

"Sorry."

Ryan tilted his head. "Did I ask for that apology either?"

At Alex's silence, the man nodded in delayed approval. "At least he's not completely dense. Although I don't suppose a thick schoolboy would last long staying with you."

"He's clever," Walsh acknowledged. "It's why he's still here."

"I remember what you told me. Hard to control, is he?"

"I don't think he'll be a problem anymore, after his last lesson. I'll show you it later."

Alex had wondered if Walsh would keep the video evidence of a child being tortured in his mansion. It didn't seem like a good idea, but then again, no one had helped Alex or Mark yet. If people being held hostage were ignored even when MI6 likely had an idea where they were, there was little hope that a video laying around Walsh's mansion somewhere would somehow lead to problems for the man.

"Another time, though. Right now, there are drinks and friends to attend to. And Alex has quite a few people to make a different impression on. He's assured me he'll be on his best behavior tonight."

Mark was about 5 meters away, near the table. He was still talking to the couple and Yassen. Alex had wanted either Paul or Esther to look over and decide to join the conversation, but no one in the other group was paying attention to Walsh, Alex, and Ryan.

"What does best behavior mean to you?"

Alex assumed the question was directed to Walsh. A second later he was proven wrong. "Look at me when I'm talking to you," Ryan said sharply. The man gave Alex a second to focus on him. "If you want to apologize, now would be the time."

"Sorry," Alex repeated.

"That's his best behavior?" Ryan asked. Walsh took a drink and then wagged his finger mockingly at Alex. Ryan smirked. "Try again. Be specific, or I might worry you're insincere."

Clearly Walsh wasn't the only one in his group of friends who enjoyed toying with others. Would the others at this dinner be the same? The couple Alex had met two nights ago had seemed nice enough, but that was before Alex had ruined Walsh's fun at the poker table.

"I'm sorry for not looking at you when you were speaking," Alex said.

If Jack could hear Alex speaking right now, she would hit Walsh. If Ian could hear him…

Alex didn't know. What he knew was that the manners Walsh thought parents should teach their children were different from the manners Alex had been raised with.

"Better," Ryan commended.

Walsh poured himself another finger of whisky. "You can meet his father now if you'd like. Unfortunately, he's gotten into a rather nasty accident. I won't discuss it at length –it was quite unpleasant and gory. But I'll mention Alex didn't make it better. Quite the opposite, according to the doctor." Walsh smiled sympathetically. "I hope you don't feel too guilty, Alex. You were only trying to help."

"Do you feel guilty?" Ryan asked curiously.

"Yes."

A man and woman walked into the room then and saw Walsh. "Conan," the woman exclaimed, and she led her partner over by the hand. "We're delighted you invited us!" She saw Alex and dropped her partner's hand to offer her own to Alex. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Rose, and this is my husband Liam."

"Nice to meet you, I'm Alex."

The new couple began to talk to Walsh and Ryan about their week, and Alex walked away. Walsh would call him back if the man wanted to torment him more, he was sure. Alex avoided the second group and went to sit at the farthest edge of the dinner table.

There were only ten spots set at the table. Unlike the last time there weren't name cards set up, which meant there was the chance Alex could try to sit next to people who weren't actively tormenting him. Walsh would sit at the head of the table. The rest of the dinner party would have to arrange themselves.

Alex counted the number of people around the room. There was Walsh, Darrah Ryan, Paul, Esther, Liam, Rose, and Yassen. Once Mark and Alex were added to the count, nine out of ten people were here.

At least three of those people would hurt Alex without a second thought.

Alex recognized the last person that entered the dining room from the evening a couple of nights ago. He hadn't exchanged more than a few words with the man and couldn't remember his name, but the man had been at the poker table when Alex had played. The man saw Alex gazing at him and raised a hand briefly before he joined one of the two groups of people talking.

For the most part, though, Alex was being left alone.

The peace didn't last long.

Yassen wandered over and sat down next to Alex at the table. He held himself casually, his expression perfectly friendly. He was sipping a dark liquor. Anyone looking over would probably think he was stopping to ask Alex about school. "Stop making a scene."

"I'm sitting down."

"You're sulking."

Alex could have laughed in sheer exhaustion at the whole thing. "You heard what your boss told me, right?"

"Yes. Be seen."

"There was a second part as well – don't be heard. Everyone can see me, and no one's hearing me. Mission accomplished."

Yassen smiled as if they were having a pleasant conversation. "You wanted people to know you were visiting for at least a week. Now you are visiting for the week. Play your part."

Did Yassen not get paid if Alex didn't look miserable enough? Alex wasn't enough of a fool to ask that question, but if not for Mark, he might have been tempted.

"Stand up. Find your partner and introduce yourself to the people he is talking to. Remind him someone else depends on his good behavior." Yassen left the table before Alex could argue.

Mark was still talking to Paul and Esther. The man that had just entered the room had joined them. Alex walked over reluctantly.

"All right?" Mark asked, as if there was anything Alex could say except yes.

"Yeah."

The final member of the dinner party introduced himself as Sean O'Sullivan, and Alex introduced himself as David's son.

A few more moments of idle chatter occurred before Walsh started inviting his guests to take a seat.

Alex headed towards the end of the table with Esther, Paul, and Mark. Esther and Paul had been nice enough yesterday.

"Alex, come over here." Walsh was sitting at the head of table as Alex had expected. The man beckoned Alex over with his hand, then pointed to the empty seat next to him. "Sit there."

Ryan sat down on the other side of Alex. "I'm looking forward to getting to know each other some more," the man muttered.

Alex fixed his gaze on the empty place setting in front of him.

The chatter around the table subsided as everyone sat down. Two waiters began to bring out salads.

"David, tell us about yourself," Liam said. "All I know if Conan says he has guests at the moment."

Over the salad, Mark spoke with the other adults about his life in London, and his work in investments. Alex recognized the details from the file he'd read on the way to Ireland.

The salad plates were cleared away and the main course brought out while the other adults introduced details from their lives – facts about their children, where they lived, what they did for work. Darrah Ryan mentioned he was involved in importing and exporting goods into the country. Alex dully wondered if the product was drugs, weaponry, or something darker.

The adults' wine glasses were filled as they began to eat. Luckily for Mark – maybe because of Mark – there was nothing on their plates that would need cutting up.

"I'm wondering about you, Alex," Ryan said. For the first time, attention turned to him. "I know you're David's son, and obviously you're a schoolboy, but what do you do in your free time?"

"Football, mostly," Alex said. He might as well stick close to the truth.

"And trouble, from what David's told me." Walsh shook his head in mock reproach. "I've seen some of it myself. My first-time meeting Alex was a few days ago. David was attending my party when his son snuck away from him and into my bedroom. Apparently, he was trying to find something to steal. I keep my watches locked away to prevent things like this, but it was quite the introduction. Liam, you were in the room when they brought him to me. He was making a ridiculous scene at the time."

"You should have called the police," Liam said.

"Was it really that bad?" Liam's wife asked.

"Rose, if our son had tried anything similar, I would have called the police."

"Well, what were you stealing for?" Rose looked at Alex expectantly.

"Drug money, I'd assume," Ryan said. He was clearly amused. "Or maybe just the thrill of the steal. Which would you say, Alex?"

Alex shrugged.

"It's nice of you to let him stay. Even with your and David's business together, dealing with a teenager afoot must be a lot to handle. My children were always well behaved, but there are always days," Sean said.

"It was a generous offer," Mark said.

"And I heard something about a poker game?" Ryan asked.

Walsh's face coloured.

Esther jumped in to explain what she'd seen of the game, the bet Walsh and Alex had made, and Alex's winning hand.

"I thought he must have cheated," Paul remarked. "It was the brashest wager I've ever seen, and from a teenager!"

"Yes, it was a good hand," Walsh admitted morosely. "Alex was up to some mischief that night as well though. Apparently, he wasn't a fan of missing a party in London, so he spent the night of my game night walking around and spreading vicious rumors about me."

Ryan tutted.

"So that's what was happening," Esther remarked. "Judith said something odd to me about the other night, but I knew of course it wasn't true."

"It sounds like he has some apologies to make," Ryan said.

"I won't force him, of course." Walsh looked at Alex expectantly.

Alex looked around the table. "I'm sorry if I bothered anyone."

"A personal apology would be polite."

Alex was starting to resent Ryan as much as Walsh.

"I'm sorry I interrupted your game," Alex told Walsh. Then he addressed Esther and Paul. "And I'm sorry I bothered you both."

"And Dimitri introduced you the table where I was playing," Walsh noticed. "You may owe him an apology as well."

Alex's hand tightened on his silverware.

Yassen was smiling, but he shook his head. "That's not necessary."

Walsh laughed. All traces of his upset over his loss were gone. "You're letting him off the hook, Dimitri. Alex, apologize."

"I'm sorry."

"Now, is that the best you can do?" Ryan prompted.

"Leave the boy be," Esther admonished.

"Of course," Ryan said. "I thought Alex was attempting to be sincere, but if we're just practicing form, then I suppose that apology sufficient. Conan, maybe he can practice later."

Alex dug his fingers into leg. "I'm sorry that I caused a scene when you invited me to play poker."

Yassen tilted his head in acceptance.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Ryan asked. "It can smart, learning to give an apology. But it's a skill well worth having."

"I got out of several bits of trouble of my own by having a proper apology," Sean agreed.

Walsh sighed. "Similarly, after the scene Alex caused here the other night, I could only think of my own mistakes in my youth. Alex is lucky his father is the kinder sort than my own was. With or without an apology my father would have had me beat."

"Well Conan, you have to remember that our generation was still enduring the Troubles. Not that Alex would know anything about that, he's obviously from England, but our people had to be tough. The young aren't the same anymore," Rose said.

"They're much softer now," Liam agreed. "But maybe the older generation will always think the younger one is spoiled. My parents would tell me they spoiled me once a day."

"But they still disciplined you, darling," Rose said.

"When I was young, I would thank my parents if they needed to slap me," Walsh commented.

That had clearly turned out well.

Walsh eyed Alex. "I wonder if you would benefit from a light beating. Are you someone that benefits from what psychologists now label abuse?"

There was a limit to how much of this Alex could tolerate. "I don't think anyone does."

"That was a rhetorical question, Alex. The young never think they deserve what they need in order to grow. To be honest, you probably would benefit. What do you think, David?"

For the rest of dinner, the conversation focused on methods of punishment the adults thought necessary to correct the behavior of rebellious teenagers. No one explicitly mentioned Alex, but there were more than a few looks thrown his way. And when Sean and Liam got into a debate between the effectiveness of shock therapy versus a lobotomy, the entire table paused as Ryan asked Alex which he'd prefer.

Alex couldn't finish the rest of his meal.

Ryan looked delighted.

After everyone except Alex had finished their meal, Walsh stood and invited everyone to join him for more drinks. Alex stayed at the table while the adults headed over to the alcohol table to refill drinks. Esther lingered for a second as well.

"Are you feeling well?" Esther asked. "Conan can get a bit carried away at times."

"I'm fine." Alex forced a smile.

Esther offered him a sympathetic smile before she went to join the rest of the party. Alex closed his eyes for just a minute. Then he sighed, opened his eyes again, and walked to join Mark. He stood and listened to a minute of chatter about rugby before he was targeted again.

"Alex, come here," Walsh invited. The man was standing with Ryan and Rose.

Alex walked over before he could wonder what was next.

A part of him didn't even blame Walsh. Twice in a row Alex had interrupted Walsh's parties and disrupted his image. From what Alex had seen the man was a narcissist who expected his guests to revolve around him. Alex had spread rumors about the man and then 'won' his watch in a game while his friends watched. Walsh probably saw humiliating Alex as deserved retribution.

"One of the things I was talking to Alex about before dinner was that in my day, children responded when they were talked to. How do you think he's doing?" Walsh asked. "It's amazing how much he's picked up in the past two days. I almost think I could insult him to his face and he wouldn't say anything."

Hadn't that been all of dinner?

Yassen locked eyes with him from across the room. Alex schooled his expression and looked away quickly. Everything was fine. No one was being shot or tortured. There was no need for Walsh to resort to hurting anyone after his party.

It was under control.

"Despite your touch and go manners, it's been nice to meet you," Ryan said. "I'm glad you and your father could join us. It's been quite a lot of fun having you here tonight."

Alex couldn't say the feeling was mutual.

"Have you enjoyed your stay with Conan so far?" Rose asked.

Alex hesitated.

"That wasn't a rhetorical question, darling," Rose smiled cheekily. It was impossible to tell if the woman was in on the facade or not, but Alex didn't think so. She didn't know that every misstep Alex took had the possibility of severe pain later that evening. She just thought it was funny to laugh at his obvious discomfort. Did that make her better than Walsh, or just a less intimidating version of him?

"It was a kind invitation, but I think I'm ready to go home," Alex said.

Ryan smiled at that answer. "What a shame, since you'll be here so long. I'm looking forward to seeing you at Friday's game night. Although I suppose now we know better than to play against you."

"Everyone has their lucky days," Walsh said. "But enough talk of poker for now. We'll have more time for that Friday."

Walsh raised his voice and began to project his voice. Both the people around Alex and the group with Mark stopped their own chatter to listen to their host. "Everyone, I hate to interrupt. But I was thinking that while the waitstaff readies desserts, we might take a brief walk. It's not unbearable outside with a jacket."

"A brief walk," Esther accepted.

"Marvelous. I had a new hedge put in this summer. Let's grab our jackets and proceed," Walsh said in a jovial tone as he took a few steps towards the hall.

"I don't know if my son has a jacket down here," Mark said. Walsh waved a hand as if to dismiss the worry.

"Let the boy go outside without a jacket. It might be uncomfortable, but he'll toughen up," Ryan said.

"Does he have a jacket upstairs? He could go and fetch it."

Alex didn't say anything. He'd been through worse than a chilly evening without a jacket, but he hadn't been asked to give his opinion.

"Alex will be fine. Are we all ready? Or do we have any more concerns?" There was a touch of impatience in Walsh's tone.

"Instead of looking for jackets, I was hoping to show Alex the telescope in the library," Yassen said.

"You have a telescope, Conan?" Rose asked.

"Yes, but it's old," Walsh dismissed. "I'm not sure it's worth the boy's time."

Sean raised his glass at Alex mockingly. "Shooting stars are a better practice for a child to study than shooting up."

Because Alex hadn't heard enough accusations that he was a druggie at school.

"Alex mentioned he was in the astronomy league at school," Yassen remarked.

Moments of the party had passed in almost a blur, but Alex was positive that he hadn't.

Rose laughed. "Conan, you can't let him mess around in your mansion again, dear god. Wasn't he stealing your valuables the other day?"

Walsh considered Alex then shrugged in annoyance. "He won't be alone. And if he breaks it, he'll pay for another. No one has used that telescope in at least five years. Maybe Alex will get some use from it while us adults are outside."

"Interested?" Yassen asked.

Coming from Yassen, it wasn't really a choice.

Mark hadn't been much help tonight, not that Alex thought he would be, but Alex still looked towards Mark almost instinctively. The older agent's hand was clenched tightly around the stem of his glass.

"Sounds great." Alex couldn't have sounded further from enthusiastic. The increasingly drunk adults around him couldn't care less. Perhaps it meant a little less amusement at Alex's expense, but he'd back for round two of their attention when dessert was ready. Possibly while hiding some new hidden injury.

"This way," Yassen said. Alex followed. There weren't any other options that even had the potential of ending peacefully.

He glanced back at the rest of the group as they headed up the stairs. They were putting on jackets and chattering without a care in the world. Most of them still had drinks in their hands.

Mark was watching Alex go.

And then they were out of sight of the group, on the second floor of the mansion. Alone.

Yassen led them to a library on the second floor. The room had several floor-to-ceiling-length bookcase filled with richly colored tomes.

"The telescope is over there," Yassen said. As if that was the true reason they'd both come to this room. Maybe Alex would have been interested if this was a school trip to an observatory. Instead Alex just glanced at the telescope in the window alcove as he trailed the assassin across the room. There was a grey door on the opposite wall. It had a keypad above the handle. Yassen keyed in a code and opened the door.

The guard who had been in the garden room yesterday was inside, watching footage of the mansion.

"Wait outside," Yassen instructed. The guard left the small room without a word. Alex watched as the man took a seat in the library, then he followed Yassen into the smaller room.

The room was the size of a large closet. There was a desk, and on the desk were 4 large monitors showing images of the interior and exterior of the mansion. There was a chair tucked into the desk, and two metal foldable chairs leaning against the back wall. Yassen took a seat at the desk. Alex unfolded one of the metal chairs and took a seat.

Yassen watched the video feeds silently. Alex took in the images on the screen for a moment, feeling that there was some scene he was missing. He didn't know what to look for.

"Why are we here?" Alex asked at last.

"Did you want to be in there?"

"No." Alex would happily never see any of those people again if he had the chance. True, no one besides Walsh and maybe Darrah Ryan seemed intent on physically hurting him, but they also hadn't seemed shy of making fun of a troubled schoolboy to his face, as if that would help someone who needed help.

"Then not being in there is why we're here." Yassen glanced back at Alex, unreadable as always. "The party can survive twenty minutes without you."

Onscreen, high definition images of the rest of the group could be seen walking around the side of the mansion.

This wasn't some large gesture of kindness, Alex knew that. They would have to go back when dessert was served. Alex would return to the party's punching bag as soon as Walsh's guests grew tired of the frigid gardens.

It was still a moment to breathe. A small moment for Alex to not have to pretend everything was great – that another man's life wasn't in the balance if he so much as smiled at the wrong time.

How mistreated had Alex looked if Yassen thought he needed a break?

Alex looked at the rooms shown on the monitor in greater detail. He recognized several rooms from his first night sneaking around the mansion, and some from later. One room stuck out to him as the place he'd been accosted by the guard at Walsh's party.

"Is this how your people found me the first night?"

"I imagine so."

"They told me they hadn't found evidence of a security network in his house," Alex said. "They only knew there were cameras on the outside." Cameras had been mentioned earlier, but Alex had thought they were lying based on what MI6 had told him.

It was darkly ironic how often Mrs. Jones was wrong, for the head of MI6's Special Operations.

Yassen turned to make eye contact with Alex. "Don't tell others the information you know for free."

Probably good advice if Alex wasn't going to be dead soon. "It doesn't matter now. You've already found me."

"Even now," Yassen said quietly. "If you weren't asked, don't volunteer."

Yassen's advice was basically the policy Alex had begun to adopt with Mark.

Thinking of the other agent reminded Alex of the question he'd dwelled on earlier for longer than he'd care to admit. They were already talking; Alex didn't lose anything by asking (except hearing the answer.)

"What happens to me if Mark does anything you don't like?"

It took a minute for Yassen to respond. "If possible, I would find a way to deflect the punishment onto your partner."

Of course. That answer wasn't unexpected, given what Yassen had already admitted to Alex. Yassen didn't want to hurt Alex.

But he would if Walsh said to.

Maybe Alex ought to feel guilty that he didn't feel guilty that if Mark did anything that bothered Walsh, he would be the one hurt instead of Alex.

It didn't matter. Alex had already gotten Mark hurt. At least one of them should stay in good health in case an escape attempt was ever possible.

"Guess you had enough fun hurting me yesterday, huh?" Alex gave a tired laugh.

"No," Yassen admitted.

That made two of them. Alex hadn't been a fan of being tied to a chair and hurt for the benefit of a camera either.

"At least your boss enjoyed it."

The room grew quiet again, Yassen and Alex back at their silent truce. There really wasn't much to say, despite everything. If there had been, Alex would have tried it already. Yassen cared enough to not directly kill Alex without it being part of his job. He didn't care enough to help Alex for longer than a few minutes at a time

Alex took in the placement of the security cameras, noticing that the bedrooms, even his and Marks, weren't on the monitors. He tried to memorize what the cameras could see. On screen, Walsh's group was heading back into the mansion. Alex surveyed the monitors until he found the one showing the dining room.

The table was set with cakes and dessert wine. It was time to go back.

Yassen stood.

Alex should stand, really. Should go back to the party and sit through whatever veiled insults and petty talk were thrown his way next. Maybe it would even be worth trying a drink. Sure, he'd hated almost every taste of alcohol Ian and the Pleasures had ever offered him, but it might also be a distraction.

"Alex?"

He was so tired of this. Alex closed his eyes.

He counted 14 seconds before he felt a light tap under his chin. Reluctantly, Alex opened his eyes.

"Alright?"

No. Yes. He could be fine if needed, but he really didn't want to be.

His expression must have conveyed at least some of that because Yassen nodded and his hand dropped. "Two more minutes."

Which wasn't nearly the amount of time Alex needed, but it would have to do. Yassen had a job to do, after all.

"Interested?" Gregorovich asked Alex.

The boy looked towards Mark for a second as if he could help. Mark's stomach churned. Someone needed to object to this. Gregorovich couldn't just take Alex somewhere else and do whatever terrible thing he had planned to the boy.

And yet he could. And Mark couldn't say a single thing to stop him.

His fingers on his good hand were turning white with how hard he was holding his glass.

"Sounds great."

Jesus, Alex even sounded rough.

But that wasn't new. Walsh's entertainment that evening had revolved around publicly tormenting Alex. The man clearly still held a grudge against Alex's previous escapades.

Gregorovich and Alex left the room with everyone else. But while Mark's group grabbed jackets from the foyer and chatted about the lineups in a previous match, Mark watched the child head up the stairs.

Hell was making idle chatter about things that didn't matter while a 15-year-old boy was being hurt for no reason other than a narcissist's pleasure.

It was three minutes past when Mark's group arrived back to a set dessert table, and Alex wasn't back yet.

They boy hadn't been gone long enough for the worst to happen, Mark supposed. Then again, perhaps they had. Maybe Alex wouldn't be back at all.

If Gregorovich had hurt Alex again…hells, Mark didn't know. But the kid was his responsibility.

"This is the most exquisite crème brûlée I have ever seen," Rose remarked. "Liam, don't you agree?"

"I would love to taste it too," Liam replied. "Conan, where's your Russian?"

"That is an excellent question," Walsh agreed.

"Oh, give the poor boy the chance to play. Goodness knows Conan isn't using the telescope."

"He's staying with me; he can mess with it later." Mark's stomach twisted at the unmasked irritation in Walsh's tone. Walsh snapped at the only waiter in the room. "Go fetch Dimitri from the library. Tell him we're all waiting."

"No need."

Mark would know Gregorovich's voice anywhere by now. He exhaled and turned in his seat, half expecting to see the assassin striding in by himself.

"Alex," Mark breathed.

The kid glanced at him and slid into his seat across the table.

"I hope you have a good reason for running late," Ryan joked.

"Of course." Gregorovich smiled but did not elaborate. No one pressed him further.

"You feeling alright?" Mark kept his tone light, but he was positive Alex would understand some of the worry Mark had been feeling.

"I'm fine." Alex gave the same imitation of a smile that Mark had seen on the boy's face all evening.

Mark couldn't say he felt reassured.

He also couldn't do anything about it.

All through dinner Mark had tried to ignore the feeling that Alex's discomfort was as much the main course for the others at the table as the food. The vultures Walsh had invited to dine today knew the scenes Alex had caused earlier in the week and they wanted revenge. And Mark, the one person who was nominally there to protect Alex, would only be hurting the child later if he said anything to break up Walsh's fun.

Thankfully for them both, the first round of bullying the kid seemed to have sated most of the birds of prey in their group. During Alex's absence the group had found new topics of conversation. Now none of the guests were paying Alex much attention. Alex spoke perhaps nine words through dessert – all polite responses to trivial questions.

After dessert, the guests lingered around the table and talked as a waiter unobtrusively removed the food. Mark waited with a racing heart for everyone to leave. He needed to see if Alex was ok.

"David, do you let your son drink?" Ryan asked.

"No." Mark responded without thinking. Alex had already mentioned that he didn't drink; that was enough reason to say no.

"Don't encourage the habit for a young delinquent," Rose admonished.

"Give him a taste," Ryan suggested. "He's been good tonight."

"He's not a dog, Darrah," Esther said.

Alex looked exhausted. Mark bit his tongue and watched as Ryan poured more whisky than Mark would give an alcoholic into a glass and gave it to the kid. "Drink it all. It'll help you sleep."

The boy grimaced at the taste, but he did as he was told. Rose and Liam exchanged an amused glance and Mark gritted his teeth. He wanted the kid anywhere but here.

"If he doesn't like it, I've done you a favor," Ryan told Mark. "He won't drink again anytime soon."

There were some more small conversations, and then the guests said their goodbyes. Ryan patted Alex on the face twice as he left, and Mark watched the boy struggle to keep a neutral expression. And then it was just Walsh, Gregorovich, Mark, and Alex alone in the foyer.

"I think you were right to invite yourself to stay for a while, Alex," Walsh remarked. "I enjoyed tonight more than I thought I would." He looked at Mark. "You enjoyed yourself, I hope?"

Mark looked at Alex and then back at Walsh. "The food was delicious."

Walsh smiled. "Yes." He glanced at his Gregorovich. "Well, I suppose I will see them both soon. I'm off to bed for the night. Put them away for now, will you?"

The guard who Mark had seen for a moment earlier in the evening was back when they returned to the room. The guard was reading a book titled The Constant Gardener and sitting in a chair outside the door. He barely looked up at them as they entered.

Finally, the two were alone.

"Are you hurt?" Mark asked the moment the door closed. "What happened? What did Gregorovich do to you?"

"Nothing happened," the boy said quietly. "Can we talk later? I'm ready to sleep. You can have the bed."

No, they couldn't talk later. Mark felt for the kid, but he could sleep when Mark was sure he hadn't been hurt. "We need to talk now. And you need to tell me what happened."

Alex sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Nothing happened, really. I was in Walsh's surveillance room while you were in the gardens. I think I have a good idea of their camera layout now. He has cameras all over the place, but there are blind spots. I just need a bit of time to think."

A hired killer had taken Alex away from a party to show him a surveillance room? That made no sense.

A horrible idea occurred to Mark, and he promptly rejected it. Alex didn't look …well, however one looked after that sort of abuse.

Then again, Alex had managed surprisingly well right after his 'fun movie session', as Walsh had dubbed it.

Mark reached for the tone of his voice he'd last heard his dad use almost two decades ago – a tone that brokered no argument. "You need to tell me the truth. Now. What happened?"

"I'm fine," the child said.

Yeah, sure. Same as the last dozen times the kid had said that same line. "That isn't what I asked."

"No, but you're worried I got hurt. I didn't. All we did was take a break in the surveillance room. We came back when the cameras showed that the dessert was ready."

"You took a break." Mark let them both hear the disbelief clear in his in voice. Like the kid had just decided to take a pleasant stroll in the park with a hired killer.

Alex didn't change his story. "Yeah."

"And Gregorovich said, what? Here, relax a minute while looking at everything in the mansion we don't want you to see?"

The child returned Mark's stare. "Not the second part."

There was no possible way this was true. Not unless the man was hoping Alex tried to make a half-assed escape attempt and it led to getting rid of the spies. Perhaps that's what this was about – the man wanted to hurt them but needed permission from his boss.

But Walsh hardly seemed like the sort of man who would need an excuse to allow his prisoners to be hurt.

The evidence suggested that Mark's first suspicion had been correct, and Gregorovich had taken advantage of the party to bring Alex somewhere he could torment where no one else could see. And now Alex was putting on a brave face and hiding behind a ridiculous lie.

"You need to tell me if you're hurt," Mark tried again.

"Fine," Alex agreed. "I'm fine."

The assassin who had threatened them casually hours ago had just taken Alex out of the room for a meditative break. Right. And yet…Mark thought back to what he'd seen last night. There had been a split second where Alex and Gregorovich had stood in the doorway of their prison and Mark had sworn the man looked worried.

"Alright, you needed a break," Mark said. "Dinner was brutal. I was there. Anyone would have wanted out of your position. That doesn't explain why he gave you one."

Alex shrugged.

Mark had some ideas. Unfortunately for them both, Gregorovich's concern being real was not a top possibility. "Did you consider that he just wanted to keep an eye on you?"

"Yes."

Alex could have been agreeing with Mark's idea.

Somehow, Mark didn't think he was.

Mark didn't want to crush the kid's viewpoint, but he also couldn't allow the villains of the moment to blindsight Alex. "Look, he's trying to leave you compliant. He's making himself seem kinder than Walsh so you depend on him for mercy, and then when you don't try anything else he kills you on command."

An emotion close to frustration crossed Alex's face. "Yassen doesn't think he'll convince me he's kind."

Something registered with Mark that should have registered a moment ago— Yassen. "Are you on a first name basis with hired killers now? Becoming best chums with Gregorovich?"

The child's tone was suddenly much tenser. "No."

Mark recognized he was close to taking it too far. But he couldn't stop now– he needed to save them both. He'd been patient earlier in the day. He'd given breaks, made sure the child wasn't starving, and had asked less personal questions than several he'd considered. (Admittedly, where is your family was personal, but that one might be necessary for getting them out of here. And it still somehow seemed less personal than 'Have you ever killed anyone?', ludicrous though that last idea seemed.)

At the end of the day Alex was still a child. He needed to work with adults around him for help. And if Alex wasn't going to cooperate when Mark was giving him every opportunity, Mark would have to take away the opportunities to not cooperate. He'd keep the boy up all night if needed. Children needed sleep, yes - but spies could sleep when they were dead, and Mark had dark suspicions that without the information Alex knew, they would both have plenty of time for sleep soon.

"You said he worked for SCORPIA," Mark said. Alex didn't recognize the danger the man was, but Mark did. And it was time to impress that upon him.

"Yes."

"Do you know anything about SCORPIA?"

"Yes."

Alex had retreated to monosyllabic answers with Walsh earlier today as well. At the time, it had seemed a survival instinct. Now Alex's short replies were starting to remind Mark of himself as insolent teenager. Mark could now see why his mum had threatened to sleep in her car rather than deal with one more day of Mark at his roughest.

"Well, what do you know?" Mark demanded. "Because I assure you, whatever you've heard about SCORPIA isn't evil enough. They earned a living through terrorism, human trafficking, torture, kidnapping, and worse. They would kill your entire family without blinking an eye."

"But they don't exist anymore."

That was true, to the best of Mark's knowledge. At least not in the capacity they'd existed in a year ago. Why a child knew that, Mark didn't want to know. "No. But whatever he did with them doesn't go away, and it doesn't change who he is. He's working for Walsh now but he's still a killer. You don't need to have anything to do with him."

It was still impossible to read Alex. Mark took a second to calm himself. He tried a few meditation breaths from his last couple's yoga class "Kid, you need to let me be the one to deal with Walsh and Gregorovich," Mark tried. Let the adult be the adult. MI6 should never have put the kid in these situations.

"That's going well."

Better than when you got me stabbed. "I've been trained for this." And you haven't, Mark left unsaid.

"And I've done this before. Except the last few times crazy people held me prisoner, I didn't have to deal with rescuing someone else."

Which, ignoring the low level of attitude the child was giving him, brought them back to earlier. "If you told me what you'd done on your last missions, maybe I'd have some idea on how to help us both now."

"I've signed the Official Secrets Act."

Fuck calming breaths; Mark could slap the kid. "Yes, obviously. I mean, assuming you're telling the truth about madmen holding you hostage, what did you do to escape? Cry until they let you go out of pity? Call your parents and negotiate a ransom?"

"Do you want me to try crying?" Mark was positive the kid's empty tone was sarcasm. Well, he could return the favor.

"Why not? Maybe crying would work with your friend Yassen if he's so concerned with how you're doing. Maybe you don't even need to cry – just look tired or sad like tonight when he gave you a break."

Alex stared at him, blank. "Sure. That didn't work the last time I was being dragged to my death while he watched, or when he put me in the middle of a bullfight, or Walsh told him to record me getting hurt by him. He didn't really seem too concerned about me this morning either. But I'm sure that's completely changed because of twenty minutes in the past two hours."

Did he just say he'd fought a bull? How the hell did Mark respond to that? This kid either had the most convoluted life at fifteen since Alexander the Great or he had an imagination to rival Stephen King's, and the latter didn't explain why MI6 had sent him here.

Mark took one more deep breath and let it out slowly. Fine. Gregorovich had made Alex face off against a bull. Sure. That was a ridiculous story, but at least Alex was talking about his life. It was half nonsense, but maybe Mark could figure out the truth if he was persistent. "Why would he make you fight a bull?"

Alex might have been a mind reader. His jaw seemed to tense, as if he recognized he'd given away information he didn't want Mark to know. "You're free to ask him."

"You don't know?"

"Does it matter? It's over now."

Mark took a few minutes to choose his words. Alex had been on the verge of apathy for the last few conversations they'd had where the boy had even bothered to answer Mark's questions. This might be his only opportunity tonight to get new information on their captors.

And they might not have much more time together to speak. Mark needed know the truth about how the two knew each other, and he needed it now.

"It matters," Mark said. "Assassins, hit men, whatever you want to call people who kill others for money – they don't leave people alive without a reason. However you both met each other, he decided not to kill you. He must have had justification to let you go. And now you're saying you've met each other multiple times. But you're here with me now, not dead. I need to know how to use this to our advantage."

The boy took two steps back until he could lean against the back wall of the room, and then he slid to a seat on the floor. "I'm going to sleep," he said. His face was stony.

"Soon," Mark promised. "But I need you to work with me first. Help me so I can help us both get out here."

The boy didn't respond. His expression said he wasn't planning to respond either, at least not anytime soon. Mark watched as Alex reached for the sheet that had been left on the floor where Alex had slept last night.

Mark took a seat where he was, in the middle of the room.

One way to coax information from someone reluctant to talk was to offer options. Mark thought over the information he had available. "Did your family pay him off?" Mark offered. And, more importantly, could they do it again?

Alex was silent.

"Did someone rescue you?" This option wasn't as appealing – it implied it had been pure luck that Alex had survived previous encounters with the assassin. It was also one of the more viable possibilities.

Alex wrapped the sheet around himself and closed his eyes.

Mark continued his questioning. ""Did he leave you alive on purpose?"

He couldn't let the teenager sleep yet. This was important. Mark spoke his next words as gently as you could manage. "I need you to talk to me. Answer my questions and you can go to sleep."

Don't answer my questions, and you can't. Mark left that part unspoken. Alex would probably be angry. He'd be angry in his position– the kid had been ambushed from all sides since he'd woken that morning. Mark wasn't guiltless in that process. And now Mark, the person who was supposed to be on Alex's side, was threatening the one time the child seemed to have a moment of peace.

Hell, Mark wouldn't even take it personally if Alex wanted to punch him. He'd even let the kid if Alex would just work with him. Whatever it took.

The boy's jaw twitched, but he didn't open his eyes.

It didn't matter. Mark suspected Alex wouldn't be able to go to sleep with questions coming his way. If the boy did start to drift off, Mark would wake him up.

The kid was tough; Mark was patient. He had once, before Brenda but after the intrigue of different cities every few weeks had disappeared, spent two years living undercover on the continent for only the chance to turn an informant.

It took time. Mark repeated his questions every few minutes to no visible reaction. Two or three times he had to shake Alex awake, gently, with his good hand. Although Alex didn't react beyond visibly tensing, clenching his fists, and trying to sleep again, Mark knew without a doubt that he wasn't the boy's favorite person.

He wished he could have met Alex someplace else. The child might have liked Mark in other circumstances.

Now was not the time for these regrets. He needed answers.

The kid was tough. But every factor was on Mark's side. The boy was exhausted from one of the worst evenings Mark had ever experienced. They had all night. And Alex was only fifteen.

The boy broke his silence, finally, after Mark returned from a trip to the restroom. Maybe the minute he'd had alone in quiet was all he had needed to consider his options.

"If I answer one of your questions, will you leave me alone?" Alex asked quietly.

More than one answer would be useful. One answer was also more than he had to work on currently. "I can narrow it down to two."

One of the boy's fists tightened momentarily. "After that we're done talking."

"Deal," Mark agreed before the boy could back out. He would need to be careful with his second question, but his first he'd known for a while. Maybe Alex wasn't close to his parents, but the boy had never denied that his family could get them out of this situation. "Did your family pay him off?"

"No."

Fuck. He'd known this was a possibility, but some part of Mark had latched onto the idea and been ready to work with it. If Alex had survived someone who was motivated by money before, the rational reason was that his opponent had been paid off.

Admittedly this all depended on if Alex was telling the truth. But at this point, why lie? Whatever relationship Alex had with his family, it couldn't be bad enough to be worth dying in this prison just to avoid asking for their help. Which meant his family couldn't help them.

Mark reflected on the questions he'd already asked, and the information Alex had already given. Gregorovich and Alex had met before – more than once. Alex had mentioned 'bosses' plural the other day at the card table. There were a lot of possibilities Mark could pursue, but the answers to most would only lead to other questions. His mind flashed back to the last bit of information Alex had willingly given him before shutting down. If he pursued one of those leads, perhaps Alex would even expand on it.

"Do you know why he made you fight a bull?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Mark prompted.

The boy laughed hollowly. "I can tell you about it, but it won't help."

"Anything can help."

The dead-eyed stare Alex responded with seemed to say that sure, Mark was free to believe that.

"Anything," Mark stressed. "And then I'll leave you alone."

The boy was quiet.

Mark waited. He'd given his threat earlier – talk, or don't sleep. Now it was time to listen and let Alex make the smart decision.

Eventually, Alex did.

"I saw him in the south of France a year ago. He was there to kill someone. Someone I knew. After I realized that, I thought I needed to do something about it. I'd seen his yacht earlier in the day. It was still there when I went looking for it. There was only one person in my way, so I knocked him out snuck on board." Alex stopped for a minute, and Mark was getting ready to ask what happened next when the child continued.

"There was a gun was on the table, and no one was around to stop me, so I picked it up."

Mark's heart sank. He suddenly had the idea that Alex might, perhaps, know what he was saying when had mentioned this story wouldn't help them.

"He was lying down when I found him. But I couldn't pull the trigger, and a member of his crew grabbed me. They talked about what they were going to do with me. He said I'd given him a chance, so he'd give me one. Then he made me dress as a novillero and made me walk into a bullring with a live bull. He left before he saw if I survived."

Mark stared.

There was a resigned twitch in the corner of Alex's mouth. "It's not a story you can use to get us out of here."

The same way a part of Mark had expected that Alex's family was rich enough to bail him out of trouble, Mark had expected the boy to reveal he'd been, if not openly lying about the bullfight, at least exaggerating.

Alex didn't sound like he was doing either.

Did MI6 send him to kill Gregorovich, knowing all the while he would probably die?

After this week Mark wouldn't even be surprised.

The kid was fifteen.

In front of him, Alex had laid down, his face turned to the wall.

Mark watched the boy fall asleep, wishing he'd let him rest earlier. He could maybe use the story he'd been told to their advantage, but he couldn't think of how.

How had a child gotten tangled up in this?

Yassen was worried.

He had been concerned from the moment he'd spotted Alex at the party, but he had hoped the boy would be gone before Yassen would need to become involved. And then Alex had made a public scene. At that point Yassen had let go of any hope of letting Alex just leave, but he had still thought things would avoid becoming desperate.

Alex had interfered with Yassen's work before. The first time it had led to a termination of SCOPRIA's contract, and the second time Yassen had nearly died.

In a move that Yassen now realized to be a mistake, he'd sent Alex to SCORPIA. From what Yassen had heard after he'd rejoined the world, a sniper had shot the child outside of MI6's headquarters. Months later, SCORPIA was disbanded.

Plans didn't work around Alex Rider.

Unlike Yassen's previous employers, Conan Walsh didn't have plans. He had investments.

Investments that did not include keeping two MI6 agents hostage for a long period of time.

Yassen glanced at the security monitors, looking through the familiar rooms of Walsh's home.

He couldn't forget his first meeting with the boy – they had talked to the other across Sayle's corpse atop a skyscraper in London. He couldn't forget Alex's words either. He had accepted that it was possible they would meet again, and it hadn't come as a surprise to find his own gun pointed at his head by that same child months later. That boy had been determined to fight for his life and the lives of those he cared about, even when death seemed a certainty. John Rider had impressed Yassen in his youth; Alex Rider had impressed Yassen in his mid-thirties.

Yassen had avoided SCORPIA's disintegrating network of businesses as best he could for the past six months. He had done his best to keep the fact that he was alive far from the ears of those who knew who he was. All the same, he had not been completely removed from the whispered stories. Some of them were doubtless exaggerations – the rumors he'd heard about the hotel in space came to mind – and others he didn't doubt for a moment.

MI6 had been left John Rider's orphan the moment Yassen had killed Ian Rider. And they had made the best of the circumstances. The child who had aimed a gun at Yassen's head had also hesitated to pull the trigger. Somehow, Yassen rather thought that if France were repeated, he would be dead, or Alex never would have confronted him at all. The child Yassen had met in London wasn't gone, but he also wasn't the same. The events of the past year and half had changed him.

I tried to go back to school.

Yassen had thought, with how willingly Alex had chased after him in the south of France, that Alex had agreed to be MI6's child spy. MI6 would have manipulated the child of course. And Ian Rider had certainly not taken the fate of his brother and his wife as discouragement from working with MI6. Alex had doubtless been raised with the skills that led to MI6 choosing him. Without someone to tell them no, Alex was their model child spy. And later, perhaps, just their model spy. Assuming he survived his childhood.

Except Alex hadn't signed up for this. That new information changed things.

It explained Alex's exhaustion. And why a child with a life in London had followed a dying man's words to chase down and join – if only for a month – a criminal organization.

Again, Yassen's gaze drifted across the monitors, looking for any sign of movement.

There were none, as expected. He was looking only at the still scenery of a sleeping mansion, looking only at the monitors that showed how difficult it would be to leave the building without being spotted, if someone clever was paying attention.

Yassen had talked to Walsh that morning and suggested that the older agent would be unnecessary after the night's dinner. It had become apparent to Yassen that Mark Corwynne was good for one thing only – keeping Alex compliant.

Yassen should have let the older agent die from blood loss. The older agent would be no good in a fight, and Alex wouldn't risk his partner's life. Which left outside intervention to rescue Alex. MI6's history of helpful interventions was…shaky…at best. Which left Yassen as the possible outside intervention.

The instant Yassen did anything obvious to free to the boy his job would be gone. Possibly his life as well.

It was better for Yassen if he did his job for now. Walsh was still enjoying having two captives, regardless of what he was telling them. Alex was at least not in danger tonight. Yassen could change his mind later if needed. In the meantime, if threatening the older agent kept Alex out of trouble, he would do it. He would ignore the worry that keeping Alex compliant would prevent the escape Yassen hoped for.

Yassen had options, yes. There were always options.

The options did not always bring so many challenges.

Killing Walsh would present problems. It was expensive to be dead. Walsh's employment had been steady for seven months now. There was none of Cray's irrational paranoia or Sayle's unpleasant attitude making the job unpleasant. Even more, Walsh was generous with his employees both in compensation and in benefits such as keeping Yassen's survival hidden. So long as Walsh's notions of decorum were entertained, the man was one of the more agreeable employers Yassen had dealt with.

Killing the older agent would present problems. Walsh had decided the two spies were inextricably linked after Alex chose to take the consequences of Walsh's game himself. Hurting two people at once was undeniably entertaining Walsh more than his games his previous guest. Walsh was a good employer, but he had limits. Taking one of his toys out of the game without a reason would cross a line. And then there were the problems of Alex's perception of Yassen if Yassen took out his partner. Not that Yassen had ever had the chance to earn the boy's favor. Shooting Ian Rider had presented its own set of challenges.

Killing Alex was not an option.

Then, of course, there was the path they were currently on. The older agent would behave because he couldn't stand to see a child hurt in front of him. Alex would behave because someone else would suffer if he did not. And Walsh would keep the spies until he wasn't amused anymore, and then would have them both shot. Yassen couldn't allow that to happen.

Once again, Alex Rider's presence was interfering with his employment.

For the first time, Alex did not seem determined to fight back regardless of the consequences.

Yassen was worried.