A/N: For those of you who have me on author alert and are thinking, what the xxx, I'm not abandoning my other stories, just taking a little side trip.

OK. First time I'm trying something in this fandom. Dipping my toes in so to speak. I must say I haven't read 'Snakehead', because my local library doesn't have it and I'm trying to find out how to get my hands on it without causing major trauma to my already thin wallet. I'm assuming he got out OK and went home. There's some French in here, translations are at the bottom.

04/02/2006 Edit: corrected the French. Thank you knighted lioness.

Disclaimer: Alex Rider belongs to Mr Anthony Horowitz. I do own the plot.

Conscience

It had become routine. He waited for them to pick him up, standing on the pavement in front of the Royal and General bank. Always the bank, never his house. He didn't want them to know where he lived, nor did he want to let Jack see them. It was better this way. The weather was bright and sunny, if a bit chilly. Springtime in London.

The blue Mercedes stopped along the curb, and a fair haired woman rolled down her window, brought up her hand to her dark sunglasses and lifted them up.

"Alex?" she asked.

He nodded, picked up his bag and quickly stepped up to the back of the car. The trunk opened, obviously operated from the inside and he put his bag in, next to two new looking sports bags and an equally new looking suitcase. His own looked old next to them, and he made a mental note to make a remark about that later. It was always the little things that mattered. He closed the trunk and quickly got in the back of the car. The blond woman in the passenger seat half turned to look at him.

"Fasten your seatbelt," she said.

He did as she said, and then proceeded to study the two people sitting in the front. They both looked to be in their mid-thirties – they'd have to be if they were posing as his parents -, expensive clothes, tanned complexion. The blond woman wasn't very tall, Alex thought he might in fact be taller than his supposed mother. She was wearing a beige sports jacket and looked comfortable in it. The man behind the wheel had black hair wore a dark blue jacket. The watch around his wrist looked expensive, the ring on his finger slightly scratched, as if it had been there a long time. Details.

"I'm Craig," he said without looking at Alex, but instead keeping his eyes on the heavy London traffic.

The woman turned around again and smiled at Alex. "Selma," she said.

She awkwardly extended her hand and Alex shook it. He kept quiet. He had never met them before, but for the weekend, they'd be his parents. When they were in public, he'd act like they were that. In private, he'd keep to himself. He wanted to stay away from them as much as possible. If anybody ever caught him at that, they'd put it down as normal teenage behaviour. He looked out the window, watching the familiar scenes go by as Craig navigated his way out of the city. Selma was watching him.

"You have done this before," she said.

It wasn't a question. Alex nodded, but kept his eyes on the scenery. It wasn't quite rush hour yet, but the traffic was heavy and the going was slow. The Mercedes, however, was comfortable and they had plenty of time so he didn't mind. As long as they left him alone.

"You'll stay out of our way then," Selma continued, "Once we're there. Just go lay in the swimming pool or something, and we'll get along just fine."

Alex tore his eyes away from the window for a moment and looked at her, purposefully giving her a blank look. He knew it unsettled people.

"I've done this before," he said pointedly, in a tone that was supposed to end all conversation.

A shadow crossed Selma's face and she turned around to watch the road in front of them.

They made it to the boat with plenty of time to spare, and once on it, Alex turned on his 'typical innocent teenage son' act, calling Selma 'mum', Craig 'dad' and then asked for some money so he could play the machines in the game arcade. Selma smiled at him and made some show of giving in. Alex didn't care. He just took the money and took off.

He knew any one of his friends would be excited to be where he was now, going to Dunkirk for a three day trip in a very nice looking hotel with a swimming pool, a gym and a game room, but his mind was elsewhere. He had brought some of his homework with him, hoping to catch up somehow, maybe even finish that essay he was supposed to do...

Before he knew it, the hour was gone and Craig came into the arcade to pull him out of the rally car race. He made a few obligatory objections to being forced to end the game early, but then went with him willingly.

They arrived in the harbour of Dunkirk, and from there it was only a five minute drive to their hotel, situated at the end of the boulevard, close to the entrance of the harbour. Alex had his earphones in and was listening to his iPod, a real one this time, as they hadn't given him any gadgets. He wasn't supposed to do anything other than providing a cover for the two agents that would do the actual work. Usually, observation of someone or other. Alex didn't bother to find out what exactly it was they were up to. Getting shot once forever put any thoughts about wanting to know what was going on out of his mind.

The hotel was large and white, close to the sea, with a balcony for each room. To the south side of the hotel some construction seemed to be going on, and when Alex looked closer, he saw that they were building an extra wing on the hotel, effectively doubling the size of it. It was connected at the stairwell. Business seemed to be booming in this small town.

Craig parked the car in the parking lot at the back of the hotel, a large open area which was bordered by the hotel on the west side, some office buildings on the east side and some sort of camper parking lot on the south side. Behind that, a pier and the harbour itself. Alex got out his new sports bag they had bought on the boat – good thinking, Alex, Craig had said – and they went inside. The receptionist smiled his perpetual smile, but otherwise didn't pay much attention to the little family on their weekend trip. They had two connected rooms on the fifth floor, and after unpacking some of his clothes, Alex opened the door to his 'parents' room.

And stopped.

The two sports bags were on the floor, untouched. The suitcase was on the bed, open. He could look right into it. It contained a sophisticated rifle, in pieces, with a telescope and something that looked like a silencer, all encased in dark grey foam. Alex stared. Craig stared back at him.

The utter silence in the room was broken when the toilet in the bathroom flushed, and Selma re-entered the room. She saw Craig and Alex staring at each other and stopped.

"Oh," she said.

She quickly walked up to the suitcase and snapped it closed. Then, she turned to Alex.

"Have you unpacked?" she asked in a tense voice, "Go unpack, Alex, and then we'll head down for dinner. And next time, knock."

Alex tore his eyes away from the suitcase and forced himself to breathe again. It wasn't his business. He was not getting involved. Slowly, he turned around and closed the door behind him. His eyes wandered through his room, the king size bed with flowery covers, the TV in the corner, the customary pictures on the wall, the kind that seemed to be in every hotel room around the world. The double doors to the balcony were ajar, and he walked to them and opened them further to let in the fresh sea air.

The view was great, he could see the beach, the harbour and the sea. The sea seemed endless, but he knew that behind the horizon was his own country. A country he served. Was he a patriot now, like his uncle? Somehow, he didn't feel that way. He was forced into this. And now, it seemed, he would be an accessory to murder. Could he live with that? Sure, he himself had killed before, but that was always in the heat of battle. Never a cold, premeditated sniper attack.

A slight sound behind him made him swirl, his fists already half raised before he realized it was Selma. He backed down a little. She raised her eyebrows.

"A little tense?" she asked.

He scowled at her. "Next time, knock," he said, "For your own safety."

He blushed at his cocky remark and brushed past her, ignoring her amused smile. Even if they knew who he was, even if it had been explained to them, as he always insisted Mr Blunt did, what he was capable of, they still treated him like a little boy. He was sick of it. He kicked his bag in passing and went out into the hallway, where Craig was already waiting. Selma followed, and the three of them rode down in the elevator to the hotel's restaurant.

It wasn't very busy, and they had a table in the corner, away from other people, with a nice view on the boulevard and the sea. On the horizon, they could see ships go north on their way to either Antwerp or Rotterdam, and south to where ever. The sun was setting, reflecting it's red-golden glow in the water. All in all, a very nice view. Alex briefly glanced at the menu and quickly decided on a lasagne. They all refrained from speaking until the waiter was gone.

"Look, Alex," Craig began.

"Save it," Alex said brusquely, "You're here to kill someone. I want no part of it."

He grabbed his coke and took a large gulp, glaring at his 'parents'. Craig bend over and grabbed his hand in a painful grip, making him almost spill his drink.

"Behave," he hissed, "We're a normal English family, on a weekend trip. Mr Blunt said you were used to these set ups. You saw something you weren't supposed to, but it shouldn't matter to you anyway. We'll be gone on Sunday. Just try and have a good time and do as we say."

Alex took a deep breath and was just about to place an angry retort when the waiter returned with their dinners. He ate in silence, listening to Craig and Selma talk about the town, the beach and a possible boat trip. All the while, he was thinking about the suitcase with the disassembled rifle. Why had they brought it into the hotel? If they were going somewhere, they'd have left it in the car. That meant they would be using it here in the hotel itself. Maybe the roof? Certainly not from their own room...

He looked outside, at the boulevard. People were walking there, there were some restaurants at the other side on the beach, with their names in neon signs in the windows. The flamingo club. La Cantina. Sunset. Beachclub Friends. Most of them had some people in it, but there was still plenty of space. They were obviously out of season.

Who were they going to kill?

He turned to Selma, who was just about to put a piece of salad in her mouth.

"Who's the target?" he asked.

She put her fork down. "I thought you didn't want any part of this?" she asked, raising her eyebrows mockingly.

Alex looked down at his half-eaten lasagne. He had been hungry before, but somehow had lost his appetite. He wasn't sure how to convey his uneasiness with their assignment, his assignment, without sounding hypocritical. Listlessly, he moved his fork around in the bowl that contained his food.

"Alex."

He looked up at Selma. Craig was staring out of the window.

"Why don't we go look around town tomorrow. We have time. Maybe do some shopping? Is there anything you want? A new computer game? My treat, all right?"

She looked uncomfortable. Maybe it was because they weren't used to having a kid with them. Alex shrugged.

"All right," he said dejectedly.

They finished their dinner in silence and afterwards Alex excused himself, saying he had homework to do. He went up to his room, sat on his bed for a while and then tried the door to the adjacent room. Locked, this time. He considered picking the lock, but thought better of it. Then he tried the TV, but there was nothing on, and finally, sighing, sat down at the desk and took out his math books. Might as well do what he'd said he'd do. He did that until the numbers started to swim in in front of his eyes, and he decided to call it a day.

The sound of voices in the room next to him told him Craig and Selma were there, and he rushed over to the door and pressed his ear against it. But either they knew he could be listening or the door was thicker than he thought, because he couldn't make out what they were saying. Now completely out of options, he changed and laid down in his bed. Sleep wouldn't come for a long time.

"Rise and shine!"

Alex tried to open his eyes to see to whom the obnoxious voice belonged which not only woke him up, but also proceeded to open the dark curtains, allowing the bright, sunny daylight in. He was somewhat glad that they were on the west side of the hotel, or the light would have been really bright, but it was bright enough. He squinted at the dark figure standing at the windows.

"Craig... dad. Do you mind? It's..." He looked groggily at the alarm clock beside his bed, "It's six-thirty in the freaking morning."

"You did bring your running shoes like I asked, did you?" Craig asked, ignoring Alex's annoyance, "Come on, son, we're going to do some father-son bonding. And reconnaissance. That too."

He rushed out through the door to his own room, leaving Alex sitting in his bed, shielding his eyes from the still too bright windows. He grumbled something, swung his feet out of the bed and purposefully turned his back on the new day.

"Running shoes," he muttered, "Right."

It wouldn't normally have taken him so long, but Craig kept popping into the room every minute or so to ask if he was ready. He put on shorts and a t-shirt, took some time to properly lace his shoes and finally splashed some water in his face. Then he followed Craig, who was clad likewise, out of the hotel and onto the beach. It was very quiet, the only other people they saw were a man and a woman walking their dog.

"Which way?" Alex asked.

"North," Craig said, and started off in a slow jog. "Tell me if I'm going too fast. It's only seven kilometres or so, you should have no trouble. Selma will pick us up on the other side."

Alex had no trouble. They ran close to the waterfront on the hard, wet sand. The tide was in their favour, running on the beach at high tide would have had them struggling on the soft sand. As it was, it was an easy run. Two kilometres out of town, Craig pointed at a path leading over the dunes, inland. He sprinted away from Alex, and rushed up. Alex followed more slowly. On top of the dune, Craig was waiting for him and the two of them followed a narrow trail consisting of broken shells. The trail twisted and turned, and they encountered several other trails, but Craig seemed to know where they were going. Only once did they meet somebody else, a large man with dark hair, running with easy, long strides. He glanced at them and raised his hand in greeting. Craig politely greeted him back and then grinned at Alex.

"See, it's working," he said, sounding satisfied.

"What is working?"

"You being with me. That guy is working for Michel Vandersteen. He would not have dismissed me if I had been alone. Come along, Alex, we're almost there."

"Vandersteen the target?"

Craig didn't answer, but instead turned right, crested another dune and stopped. Alex stopped next to him and leaned against the lone tree that was standing there, stretching the muscles in his legs that were now protesting from the unusual exercise.

A little bit down the hill, about three meters away was a high, barbed wire fence. In the distance, he could see part of a large two story house with a slanted roof. It was a red-bricked, nice looking mansion with a separate garage built next to it. The doors of it were open, and Alex could just make out two dark cars that were standing in it. He looked at his companion and found him staring intently at the house.

"Are you going to tell me about it?"

Craig shrugged. "Michel Vandersteen. Belgian, arms dealer. Kept a low profile for years, worked for himself, didn't attract too much attention by making too much money. Then things went wrong for him, he lost a deal and almost went broke. So he went to work for us."

"He's six?" Alex asked incredulously.

"Was. Last year, he managed to strike a nice deal. We didn't know about it until last month though. Seems he's been supplying arms to terrorist groups in Britain. We can't have that. Trouble is, he knows too much about us, so we can't just kick him out."

Alex stared at the house of the arms dealer. He felt cold. The man had proven himself untrustworthy. So they would kill him. His mind drifted to Scorpia. Not so much different after all. Craig was watching him and seemed to know where his thoughts went.

"Look, this guy was a scumbag to begin with. He only worked for us for the money, gave us information on other arms dealers, who they were dealing with, where the arms were going. We had a pretty good idea who was getting what through him."

His explanation did nothing to drive away the cold feeling Alex had. He felt betrayed somehow. After all, he too was coerced into doing this work. What if they decided they'd had enough of him too? What if he did something wrong, something that would give them the impression he was no longer loyal? Was he even loyal?

"We can't take him out here," Craig continued, "Bad angle. And no getaway. But he'll be in town tonight, and when he leaves his car... bang."

He surveyed the house some more. "He's here anyway. That's what I wanted to check. Come on, Alex, let's get some breakfast."

The three of them had breakfast together, and Selma loudly discussed their plans for the day. She and Alex would go shopping, Craig would hole up in their room to do some work.

"You're always working, darling," she chided him good naturedly, "But at least you got to go running with him this morning."

When they finished their breakfast, Selma took Alex by the arm and led him out of the hotel, while Craig went back upstairs. Alex wondered if he was going to check out the spot he would be shooting from. After making sure they were alone, he turned to Selma.

"Won't they know the shot came from the hotel?" he asked her, "Won't they come here as soon as he goes down?"

Selma frowned at him. "Don't you worry about that," She said irritably, "That's what you're here for. They'll never suspect a family. And we won't shoot from the hotel itself. It'll take time to figure out where the shot came from, and by then we'll be long gone."

They were walking down the boulevard, passing several souvenir shops with lots of children's sand playing material, post cards and shells. Selma smiled, and mockingly suggested she'd get him a bucket and a shovel. He scowled good naturedly at her and the mood improved. They walked all the way to the end, and then turned around to go back.

"So, what is it like to be an assassin," Alex asked.

Selma shrugged. "Don't ask so many questions," she said.

He thought back at the time when he almost killed Mrs Jones and shivered. He didn't think he could ever do something like that. The whole affair had taught him that, at least. He remembered the hatred he had felt, the uncontrollable anger at the woman who he had thought had given the order to kill his father. He could kill in anger. In cold blood? No.

On the way back, they took a detour, coming at the hotel from behind. They had a better view on the unfinished skeleton of the building next to it. There was nobody there, everything was quiet because of the weekend. Alex imagined the noise of the drilling and hammering all day, and was glad that they wouldn't be there during the week. Across the parking lot was an office building which seemed to be made entirely of mirrored glass. He could see the reflection of the hotel in it. It was impossible to look inside.

Selma stopped and started digging around in her purse. Alex saw that she was covertly watching the building. He pretended not to pay attention, and looked back at where they came from instead. A few people were crossing the parking lot. It looked rather desolate. He turned back to Selma when he smelled cigarette smoke.

"Let's go back," she said, "We'll pick up Craig, and we'll visit that war cemetery close by. Gives us something to do."

They proceeded to do just that, and Alex trudged along while Craig and Selma discussed their options, although it seemed like they had already decided what to do and were just restating the arguments. As he listened to their clinical approach to the thing he felt himself getting more and more detached from the world. Here he was, walking around a cemetery with hundreds, thousands of identical white gravestones, listening to two people discussing murdering somebody. The absurdity of it struck him and he almost laughed.

They drove back to the centre of the town to grab a late lunch in one of the many restaurants at the boulevard, and just as Alex began to relax a little, managing to push the oncoming events of that evening to the back of his head, a small, dark haired man dressed in a blue suit and a white shirt, but not wearing a tie, walked up to their table, grabbed a chair and sat down with them. Selma froze.

"Bonjour ma cherie," the man said, "Comment ca va?"

"Hello Jean-Luc," she said coolly, quickly recovering.

Jean-Luc leaned on the table and looked at her intently. She stared back at him. Alex glanced at Craig, but he was staring at his sandwich his hands, seemingly unperturbed by the interest the little Frenchman was taking in his 'wife'. Jean-Luc broke eye contact with Selma and glanced around the table.

"Ne vas tu pas pas m'introduire a tes amis?" he asked.

Craig now frowned at the man's familiarity, but remained quiet. Selma tilted her head and smiled. Alex saw the tension in her face.

"This is Craig, my husband," she said, a little defiantly, "And this is our son Alex. We're on holiday. Craig, Alex, this is Jean-Luc Grenier, a former friend."

"Pleased to meet you," Alex said.

"The pleasure is all mine," Jean-Luc Grenier said, shaking both Alex's and Craig's hands. He had only a slight accent, unusual for a Frenchman.

He looked around and then back at the little family he had intruded upon. "So you're married now," he said to Selma, "Interesting. I didn't take you for the marrying type. Tell me, cherie, did you tell your husband about your occupation?"

"Former occupation," Selma said pointedly, "Craig knows all there is to know about me. We have no secrets."

"Ah, but we all have secrets, don't we, Seline," the man said, smiling.

Neither Craig nor Alex reacted to the name, so he tried again. "Michel will be in town today. He is an embarrassment to MI6, non?"

Selma shrugged. "I wouldn't know," she said, "I'm on holiday."

"Are you now," Jean-Luc said.

"What's this about?" Alex asked, "Who are you?"

Jean-Luc shifted his attention to him, and it took an enormous amount of will power not to squirm under his scrutiny. Alex felt like the man could see right through him, and for a moment he was afraid the man knew who and what he was.

"Strange thing," Jean-Luc said, "MI6 has been pressing us to eliminate one of our key informers, but we won't have it, of course. He is much too valuable. And then, lo and behold, one of the agency's top assassins turns up here in Dunkirk, saying she's on holiday. I don't buy that. I'm sorry, Seline, but you'll have to come with me."

Selma's eyes flashed in anger. "Est-ce que tu vas m'arrêter?" she asked.

Jean-Luc smiled, but there was a glint of steel in his eyes. He looked around and raised his hand. Several men in dark suits suddenly appeared out of nowhere, standing quietly at the entrance to the restaurant and behind them.

"Mais non, pas du tout," he said, "Nous avons seulement quelques questions a te poser, Seline, et lorsque nous ayons termine au commissariat, je suis certain que tu pourras rejoindre ta famille tres vite... allons y?"

Selma looked angry, but then stood up and looked down on Craig and Alex. Then, with an irritated wave of her hand, she followed the quiet, dark suited men outside. Jean-Luc lingered for a moment, now studying Craig, who evaded his look, but instead looked outside where Selma was led to a dark car. His hands were in his lap.

"I've heard about you," Jean-Luc said pensively, "Craig Harrison. Am I right?"

Craig continued to look outside. Alex wondered what was going on. Jean-Luc smiled again, and this time Alex shivered, because the smile was in fact very unfriendly.

"I won't have to worry about you," the man said. He turned around and left.

Silence settled over the table. Alex was confused. Some French organization, not police but something else, had just taken away Selma, but left them alone, as if they didn't matter. Craig didn't matter. Selma was the shooter, obviously Jean-Luc thought he had eliminated the threat by taking her away.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked Craig.

Craig's head jerked up and he stared at him, and Alex was shocked at the pain he saw in the man's blue eyes. Then he looked down again, sighed deeply and laughed.

"Of all the bad luck," he said, "Thousands of agents in France, and we have to run into the one that actually knows Selma. What are the odds of that?" He shook his head and put his napkin on the table. "He'll keep her at the police station until tonight, and after that the target will be gone."

He looked pensively at Alex, and Alex didn't like the look on his face.

"You were trained by Scorpia," he said slowly.

Alex started shaking his head. "No," he said, "No way. You're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting. You do it. I'm not a killer."

Alan Blunt obviously had told the two assassins a little too much about him. Alex ground his teeth. One day he would shove all of it back into the man's face. What had been the point in telling two assassins that he had been trained by Scorpia other than putting the idea in their heads that he could be a backup shooter? Craig shifted in his chair and waved at the waiter, who came rushing to them. Obviously, the man wanted to see them gone. Craig paid him, left a generous tip and got up.

"Let's go for a walk," he said.

Silently, they walked on the boulevard, passing the pastel coloured houses, restaurants and souvenir shops. The sun was still shining and Alex felt the warmth of the rays protruding his jacket. It felt nice, and for a moment he let himself be distracted.

"Alex," Craig said.

Alex picked up pace.

"Alex, I can't do it."

Alex suddenly veered to the left, jumped off the small dyke and landed on the sand of the beach. Craig followed him and grabbed his arm.

"Alex, listen to me. Look."

He stopped and turned around, facing Craig. Craig held out his hands in front of him, right in front of Alex's face. They were shaking. He took a deep breath.

"Years ago... I was good. Very good. But I had... problems. Personal problems. I started drinking... You know what happens when you drink too much? I mean, way too much, and not eat properly? You develop something called Korsakoff's syndrome. Took me two years to get rid of the more annoying symptoms like the memory loss and the depression. The tremors stayed. I can't shoot."

He again grabbed Alex's arm, but Alex jerked it away, turned around and walked to the surf, splashing his feet in the water and not caring a bit that his shoes got all wet. This was what it all was coming to. His own mistake for joining Scorpia willingly. The decision would haunt him for the rest of his life. The problem was, Craig was right. He could do it. He was an excellent shot. He just didn't want to.

"The guy is scum, Alex," Craig said behind him, "The French want to keep him, as an informer, but we are through with him. He double crossed us, and we can't let that get out. You don't play with us. If you do, you'll pay the consequences. He knew that."

"Oh yeah?" Alex turned around. "Now, it's a villain, a bad person, a crook. And next time? Who do you want me to shoot next? Another inconvenience? Another necessity? Where does it stop, Craig? At a bottle? So I end up like you?"

Craig stood very still, his face a mask. "That was low, Alex," he said.

"So is what you're suggesting. I'm fifteen, Craig. I shouldn't have to deal with this."

Craig was silent. They stood together, watching the waves roll on the beach, wash around their feet, soaking them. A few people passed them, looking curiously at the man and the boy standing with their feet in the water, but they ignored them.

"You've killed before," Craig finally said.

"Yes."

"Was it necessary?"

Silence. Alex clenched his fists. He didn't want to think about it.

"Sometimes, we have to do things we don't want to, but they are necessary. They weigh on our conscience. That's our burden. Our job. So that other people may live in peace, in happiness. Oblivious."

Alex swallowed, but still refused to look at Craig, speaking quietly beside him.

"We were sent here to do a job. It's gone awry, we're handicapped, but we're not beaten. They think they are safe now, now that they have Selma. I was her cover, I watched her back while she did what she had to do. I'll watch your back too, Alex. You won't have anything to worry about."

Alex felt a hollow pit in his stomach, a sinking feeling that he was going to give in, was going to do that what he most despised, that what he had hated about his father. His father... hadn't he been an assassin too? Like father like son... Darkness enclosed him, his mind shut down, a cold ruthlessness took over. He knew he wasn't himself now, knew that this state of mind wouldn't last, that he would pay for it later, but for now it would do. He turned around, his eyes cold and empty.

"Show me the gun," he said.

There was no smile on Craig's face, no triumph. He simply nodded, and together they walked back to the hotel.

Once in his room, Alex took off his shoes and replaced them with the trainers he had worn that morning. They too were damp, but at least not soaked. Then, he opened the door to the adjacent room, where Craig was sitting on the bed, the suitcase next to him. He opened it and allowed Alex a look of the disassembled sniper rifle. The thing looked black and ominous, even in its disassembled state. Craig carefully took out the parts and quickly put them together. Alex watched quietly.

"This," Craig said, "Is what is called a CIA rifle. It's called that because it's made on the specifications of the CIA. They wanted an semi-automatic, silenced, assassination rifle. The name is generic, because nobody will ever admit having built or used this weapon."

He didn't look at Alex, but instead stared down at the rifle, holding it almost lovingly. Alex felt repulsed, but suppressed that feeling.

"It has a silencer, which we'll use, and a tripod for balance. The bullets are hollow point."

He held out the weapon, and Alex took it. It was heavy in his hands, but he knew that didn't matter. He wouldn't have to hold it up, he would be resting it on the tripod, probably on the ground. Still, he heaved it up to his face and peered through the telescopic sight, careful to point it at the window and not at Craig, who was watching. He lowered it again and gently placed it on the bed.

"When will we do it?" Alex asked. His voice sounded strange, as if coming from very far away.

"Michel Vandersteen will be at the office building on the other side of the parking lot behind the hotel at around five. To be absolutely sure, we'll take position an hour in advance." He glanced at his watch. "Which is an hour from now."

He proceeded to give Alex detailed instructions on what to do and what not to do, what to wear and how to leave. Then he had Alex repeat him several times, making sure he got everything. Finally, he sent him off to his own room, saying he needed to make a few phone calls and Alex should get some rest.

"Some rest," Alex thought, standing on the balcony of his room, overlooking the sea, "Like I can relax now."

A few cars passed, some people walked by, and he pointed his finger at them like an imaginary gun. Bang. Just like that. It was so easy, too easy. One minute, you're walking there, the next, some murdering maniac shot you with a sniper rifle and there was nothing you could do about it. He knew. He had been shot by a sniper once. And now he would be on the other side of the barrel. Pulling the trigger. Ending a life. Absent-mindedly he rubbed the scar on his chest, the permanent reminder of what he was doing was dangerous.

All too soon Craig knocked on his door to get him. Alex had changed into black jeans and a black, hooded sweater that belonged to Selma. He could smell her scent on it. Craig was clad simply in jeans and a long sleeved shirt and was holding the gun. He walked to the door and peered outside into the hallway.

"All clear," he said.

Together, they slipped out of the room, and Alex closed the door quietly behind him. He followed Craig to the fire escape, which was conveniently located only two rooms down the hallway. They entered the bare, concrete construction and quickly descended down to the fourth floor. Craig paused, listening for a moment. Then, he bend down and opened the padlock on a new, temporary door to the new part of the hotel, still under construction. Alex entered the dusty, open building, and felt the sea breeze in his hair. He placed the plastic bag he was carrying on the ground next to the door. The sun was still shining brightly, lighting the western half of the empty building. The east side was in the shade. Craig pointed, and Alex understood. Stay out of the light.

They made their way through the bare, dusty concrete of the building under construction, careful not to trip over the many steel scaffolding, loose laying wooden planks and occasional tools. It was quiet, Alex could hear no other sound than their scraping footsteps and the faint rush of the sea. Craig led him all the way to the other side of the building, pointing out the hole where the lift was going to be. Alex looked down. He could see all the way to the bottom. Some rubble was down there, but that was it.

When they reached the open area on the south side of the building, Craig stopped Alex, pointing at the black balaclava tucked in his belt. With some reluctance, Alex put it on, but didn't pull it down over his face just yet, thinking it made him look like a thug in a B-film. It would prevent his white face from standing out against the otherwise dark interior on this side of the building.

Craig cautiously approached the edge and put the gun down, placing the tripod right behind a small rim.

"Take a look," he said.

Alex let himself down on his stomach and eased himself behind the gun. Placing the stock against his shoulder, he leaned a bit and peered through the sight. The image shook a little, and he removed his hands from the gun and, leaning on his elbows, closed his eyes and tried to relax. This wasn't for real, yet. He could look. Slowly, eyes open again, he grabbed the gun, readjusted it somewhat and looked again. Rock steady. Perfect view on the office building across the parking lot. About three hundred meters.

"Perfect," he said.

He let go, wiggled backwards and got up. The office building was bathing in the sunlight, the weather was clear and the ever present wind wasn't so strong here behind the hotel. They couldn't have found a better spot.

"They'll arrive from the left," Craig said quietly, "Remember, wait for him to get out and stand straight. Everybody always pauses when they get out of a car. That's the moment. Aim for the head, he may be wearing a vest." He sighed and didn't look Alex in the eye. "I'm sorry," he said. He turned around and left.

Alex watched him leave, watched him find his way through the building until he disappeared from sight to take his place. He turned around and looked outside again, at the half-filled parking lot, the long shadow of the hotel, the cranes and office buildings of the harbour to the right. He felt slightly ridiculous and utterly alone. Slowly, he let himself down on his knees and then on his stomach again, positioning himself behind the gun.

He had studied pictures of the man, the target. Arms dealer, he had thought, traitor, supplier of death, terrorist. Anything but 'person', somebody's son, friend, lover. He shivered. Less than forty minutes to go. He wondered if he really would be able to do it.

Time passed. He watched the shadows move over the parked cars, growing longer. He felt the uneven floor against his stomach and he moved a little, trying to get comfortable. The road was empty, they were close to the pier here, only people who needed to be here came here. The wind blowing through the structure he was in got chilly, and he flexed his muscles a couple of times. His earpiece remained quiet.

He peered through the sight again. Imagined the car stopping in front of the office, imagined people getting out. There would be French secret service people there, they would hunt him down the moment he fired. Try get him in the first shot, Craig had said, that way they'll have the most trouble pinning you down. Try to get in a second shot if you miss, but after that, abort. Don't hit any of the others.

Easier said than done, Alex thought. Inexorably, his thoughts went back to Scorpia and his training there. He had believed this was his destiny then. And he had thought he had turned his back on it. He blinked. This was no time to get sentimental. His earpiece cracked.

"Two minutes."

His heart started pounding and he gripped the gun tighter. The image through the sight shook. This wouldn't do, if he couldn't calm down he wouldn't be able to hit an elephant. He willed the muscles in his arms to relax, consciously slowing down his breathing, ordering his heart to stop hammering in his chest. In the distance, a lone black limousine appeared, slowly rolling down the street.

"Just like training," Alex thought desperately.

With an effort, he pushed his mind back to the Scorpia training camp, digging up memories he had buried deeply, had pushed away during the past months. He had to get back in that mindset again quickly. This was it. He could do it.

The car stopped and the driver, a slim man with a black leather jacket, got out. Alex could see him through his sight. The man walked around the car, looking in every direction as if checking out his environment. He even looked straight at Alex for a moment, but he didn't see him. Alex breathed slowly. His finger was around the trigger, putting pressure on it. The man opened the back door.

The world vanished. Everything disappeared, it was just him and the black limo in his sight. He breathed out slowly. A man in a dark suit got out of the car, straightened, and stood still for a moment, looking around. Not him. The man stepped aside, bend down and stuck his head into the car as if to say something to the people still inside. Then, he stepped back, and a second man got out. Like the first one, he straightened, then paused. Alex pulled the trigger.

There was no sound. He could see people moving, two more men spilling out of the car, carrying guns, waving them around in all directions. He saw their mouths moving, but couldn't hear what they were saying, shouting. He laid frozen for a moment, still looking though his sight. Coming to his senses, he looked around and picked up the shell. Then he wiggled backwards, pulling the gun with him. Once out of sight, he got up, stared at the edge of the building one last time and then turned around, rushing to the other side.

He ran as fast as he could between the mess, careful to stay upright and not trip over something. When he got to the south end of the building he stopped, pulled out the clip with the remaining bullets and emptied the chamber of the gun. Then, leaning over the edge somewhat, he dropped the thing. It landed with a thud on the pile of sand underneath. He pulled the balaclava from his head and dropped it too, then the black pullover and, with some more trouble, his black jeans. Down below, a figure appeared, collected the stuff and rushed away with it. Alex didn't wait to see where he went, he knew Craig would hide the things in a place he had picked that morning, that very same morning he had gone for a walk with Selma, when everything had been alright.

Quickly, he put his trainers back on and picked his way back to the entrance of the hotel again. At the door, he picked up the plastic bag and retrieved a white hotel towel from it. Then he slipped into the stair well and closed the door behind him, making sure to close the padlock. He hung the towel around his neck and quickly, but unhurriedly, went down the stairs to the ground floor. Just a guest on his way to the swimming pool. Underneath his black clothes he had been wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and under that his swimming trunks. The whole thing hadn't taken more than a minute.

He arrived at the pool unchallenged, and to his relief it was empty. He threw his towel on a chair, stripped out of his clothes and dove into the warm water. He swam to the bottom, touched it, and then proceeded to swim to the other side. Out of breath, he had to come up before he reached it. Turning on his back, he let himself float. The lights in the ceiling blinded him.

Hollow point.

Craig had said it. He had known what it would do. Images flashed in front of him. He had had an excellent view through his sight. He shuddered. Never again.

Jean-Luc Brezier rushed into the hotel, followed by two of his men. He controlled his rage and the distant feeling of dread that had overwhelmed him for a moment when Vandersteen's head had exploded next to him. There had been no sound, obviously a silencer had been used, and they'd have a hard time figuring out where the shot came from. Logic would suggest the hotel on the other side of the parking lot, and they had rushed to it immediately, guns drawn, well aware of the fact that the sniper could still be out there, taking aim at them. Getting inside the fence had taken precious seconds, and when they had finally managed to climb the bare concrete stairs, the shooter had long gone.

He had left then, instructing his men to leave everything alone, to wait for the police and a forensics team. He wasn't sure that was the place the shot had come from, but that was what he would have done. Triangulation from the office, the position of the body, would tell them if if his hunch was correct. Then they'd have to comb the building, to try to find the shell if the shooter had been foolish enough to leave it, or else try to find marks that would tell them where he had been. But all of that was irrelevant to him. He knew who was responsible. The only problem was, she was still sitting in an interview room at the police station, two kilometres away. He had checked.

He slammed his fist down on the counter, and the receptionist looked up from his magazine.

"Yes?" he said in a bored tone.

There weren't many guests in the hotel, the season hadn't yet begun, and the man obviously considered his motorcycle – judging from the cover of the magazine – more important than helping guests.

"Craig Harrison," Jean-Luc said between clenched teeth, "His room number."

The receptionist rolled his eyes at his rudeness, but quickly got up when Jean-Luc flashed his identification. He typed the name on the keyboard and a screen popped up on the monitor.

"Five-oh-nine," he said, "But he's not there. He left his key."

"Give me the key," Jean-Luc ordered.

He handed the key to the agent standing next to him, a man in a dark suit at least a head taller than he was, wearing an earpiece and dark sunglasses. He stood out, his whole demeanour screamed 'bodyguard'. Jean-Luc was fine with that, he could use the image right now.

"Search his room," he said.

He turned back to the receptionist, who was staring past him at the entrance of the hotel. He looked over his shoulder, and stared right into the surprised face of the person he had been looking for.

"Jean-Luc," Craig said pleasantly, "Have you released my wife yet?"

Jean-Luc was seething, but he didn't show it. "Where were you?" he ground out.

Craig blinked and looked around. "Outside," he said, gesturing vaguely.

Jean-Luc stepped up close to him and tried to stare him down, not an easy task, given his size.

Craig looked down on him and arched his eyebrows. "Something wrong?" he asked.

"You know what's wrong," Jean-Luc said, "Vandersteen is dead. And you have something to do with it, I know. I'll find out. Where's your son?"

Craig tilted his head. "Have you tried his room? He was doing homework. Or maybe he's finished, in which case he is in the swimming pool."

Jean-Luc brought his hand to his hand to his hear. "Raoul?" he said in his communicator to the agent who had gone upstairs, "Check the connecting room. See if the boy is there."

A moment later Raoul's voice in his ear told him the room was empty, and that there were several history books open on the desk and an half finished report. Jean-Luc relayed that information to Craig, who frowned at that last piece of information. He turned away and walked to the other side of the hotel lobby, where the entrance to the swimming pool was. Jean-Luc followed close behind.

They entered the pool area together. There was only one person there, a boy, doing laps at an impressive speed. A towel was haphazardly thrown on a plastic chair at the edge of the pool, together with some crumpled clothes. The boy swam towards them and stopped, placing his arms on the edge of the pool, panting a little.

"Hey dad," he said.

Jean-Luc wondered if the boy was really Craig Harrison's son. It could be, he supposed. He was certain, however, that Seline, or Selma, as she called herself now, wasn't his mother. He should know. He had been her partner and lover on several occasions up until a few years back. He would know if she had ever had any children. A shimmer of doubt entered him. Would they have taken their son with them if they were planning to assassinate someone? Did the boy know what his father used to do for a living, what his mother was?

Probably not, he decided. Knowledge like that would scar the boy for life. He sighed. There was someone else in play, someone he hadn't counted on. He had screwed up badly. He had thought he had eliminated the threat by taking Seline into custody. Bad mistake. A mistake that would cost him.

"I thought I told you to finish your homework first," Craig said to the dripping boy.

"I thought you quit smoking," the boy retorted.

Craig turned red and looked away. He did smell like cigarette smoke, Jean-Luc noticed. That was probably what he had been doing before he entered the hotel. Standing outside, smoking. Inside, smoking was prohibited.

His earpiece cracked, and he listened to Raoul's brief report. There was nothing either room, no smoking guns, no schematics of the hotel and the parking lot, no nothing. Everything was as it was supposed to be. Just a family on holiday.

He looked at the boy again, who looked back at him, eyes wide open. He looked totally innocent, an ordinary schoolboy. He dismissed him.

"Sorry to have disturbed you," he said stiffly, "I'll tell them to release your wife. When did you marry?"

Craig grinned. "Two years ago," he said.

Jean-Luc nodded at the boy still in the water. He wondered for a moment why he didn't get out. "And the boy's mother?"

A shadow crossed Craig's face. "Dead," he said curtly.

Jean-Luc kept his eyes on the boy and saw what he had expected to see. A flash of pain shooting over the boy's face, gone instantly. He was satisfied. His mind already elsewhere, he waved goodbye to them and left the hotel. Damage control was now his first priority. He knew he'd never catch the shooter.

"...And if we plot the points on the graph here, see the hyperbolic shape of this function..."

Alex looked down on his notebook, doodling idly in the margin, keeping a half eye on what the teacher was drawing on the blackboard. He was sitting in the back of the classroom, allowing him to space out without the teacher noticing. Not that the teacher would mind him spacing out a little, he was doing well in this class and as long as he continued to get good marks, the man couldn't care less. Although lately, he had stopped Alex, asking if there was anything wrong. His marks were still good, but they were slipping. Alex had shrugged and the teacher had shook his head, probably dismissing it as being normal teenage problems.

How Alex would love to have normal teenage problems.

The back of the chair he was sitting in was cracked, and one piece was sticking painfully in his back. He didn't shift though. He liked it that way. It kept him grounded. He turned his attention back to the teacher and quickly took some notes. Then the bell sounded, and the class erupted in chatter and the sound of chairs scraping on the floor. Alex got up and gathered his books.

"Hey, Alex," Tom said, "Are you doing something this weekend? I thought maybe we could go see a film..."

"Sure," Alex said. His voice still sounded strange.

"Come on, Alex, what's going on?" Tom asked, following him out of the classroom, "You've been all quiet-like the whole week. Did something happen last weekend?"

Alex knew what Tom was hinting at, but he was determined not to talk about it ever again. Not that Tom would understand, even if he was allowed to tell him, which he wasn't. He looked at his friend's friendly, somewhat goofy face and suddenly felt immensely grateful that he at least had a friend that was normal, who was his age, and did have normal teenage problems. For the first time that week, a genuine smile spread across his face.

"Nah," he said, "Just the usual."

If I were to stick close to canon, Alex wouldn't have pulled that trigger. Mr Horowitz's Alex Rider is not a murderer. In my own twisted little world however...

My sincerest apologies to the town of Dunkirk, which I regretfully have never visited (yay for google earth). I took some liberties with the area. The hotel they were staying in obviously doesn't exist, there are no restaurants on the beach (I took that from another seaside town) and the office building comes straight out of my imagination. There are dunes to the north of the town, but I doubt there is a mansion with a large, fenced off area there.

Translations, in case you need them:

Bonjour ma cherie, Comment ca va? – Hello darling, how are you doing?

Ne vas tu pas pas m'introduire a tes amis? - Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?

Est-ce que tu vas m'arrêter? - Are you going to arrest me?

Mais non, pas du tout – No, not at all.

Nous avons seulement quelques questions a te poser, Seline, et lorsque nous ayons termine au commissariat, je suis certain que tu pourras rejoindre ta famille tres vite...allons y? - We have some questions for you, Seline, if you would only accompany me to the police station, I'm sure you'll be back with your family quickly... shall we go?