While the special ops took care to covertly entrench themselves in the surrounding area, Jerome was inside talking to the mobster. Five minutes after the forces arrived, money, computers, and paper trails were bundled together to leave. Someone blindfolded and handcuffed Alex, carelessly flinging him onto a chair within earshot of Molotov gathering his family. Guards and the maid prepared their own belongings to leave.

Twenty minutes after the forces arrived the group was leaving.

-break

Inside a black van down the street from the apartments, temporary CIA agent Sylvester incessantly tapped his fingers. He was appointed for the duration of rescuing Alex Rider, after already being in Russia with the rest of Alex's company. And he was ready to snap Alex's neck.

"Stay out of the fighting," the Russian commander reminded Sylvester. "When we get the boy we'll bring him in here."

"If you get him," Sylvester said. "He might fight you – he's probably unarmed but he's got just as much training as you."

"It's fine," the Russian laughed. "We're the best. Better even than your Western forces. We aren't known for failures."

-break

The maid and Jerome, paid off in full, left minutes before the group was ready to leave. A guard escorted them to the parking lot before choosing the appropriate getaway vehicle and driving it the front of the apartment.

Molotov's wife carried the two nine-month old babies with her to the van a few minutes ahead of time, accompanied by her nine year old son and a second guard holding packed suitcases full of children's clothing and supplies (since the nearest safehouse was built for adults).

Jerome was abundantly clear when he specified that the men were there because of "that kid", and Yassen planned the exit plan around the philosophy that the Russian troops would want to take Alex and get out with minimal loss of life, especially of Molotov's family. "It's bad for their safety if they endanger civilians," he'd said. And the Russian government wouldn't be attempting to completely sever their ties with the mob, if past scrimmages between the KGB and the mafia were examples. So the family and guards sat in the car and waited as the mob leader and his accomplices prepared to leave, using Alex as a shield.

It was hell from the first moment. Yassen was distracted enough that he hadn't noticed Alex slip the handcuffs and blindfold off – or perhaps he thought it was one of the guards, because Alex made no attempt to hide his unbound state once he discarded the accessories, relying on his mannerisms fooling the men into thinking he was supposed to be let alone.

Bullets were fired around them only seconds after they left the door, the Russian special ops unprepared to launch a full out assault but in position to fire on a target. Yassen fired back, holding Alex as a full body shield while Molotov and three more guards decked in SWAT style armor hurried the group along.

When someone released a smoky concoction, Alex took advantage of the chaos and managed to pull free while Yassen was busy forcing a stumbling Molotov forward.

One of Yassen's side fell.

Alex could have gotten away then, it would only have taken another few hundred feet. But suddenly someone had thrown a grenade, and it was seconds away from exploding, and there was Molotov's nine year old son standing there in the middle of the street looking at the thing like it was a new species of lizard. "Move," Alex screamed, but the kid just looked up at him with wide eyes. Did he even know English?

Yassen appeared, running towards Alex. There wasn't time to rescue the kid and escape. Alex changed his path, lunging towards the grenade, and grabbed the boy around his waist and kept running until an explosion pierced the air, throwing him off his feet, and his body landed on the kid.

His eyes watered and ears rang, and he could feel the pandemonium occurring all around, and the child squirming underneath him crying. His arm and the right side of his face burned, from where he had propelled across the sidewalk landing. Gloved hands grabbed his shoulders and shove-carried him to a black shape in the fog. Wordlessly he was shoved through the door of a van, and a guard inside grabbed his hair, dragging him into the corner and slamming his head against the wall before releasing Alex to fall onto a seat.

Yassen crawled in after, and the van screamed into motion. Across the van the kid looked roughed up but alive, sobbing his eyes out into Molotov's shoulder while the man himself was yelling at two of the guards, asking how his child escaped into the bedlam. Outside bullets sounded, but none met the walls of the van, and only one of Molotov's men was gone while Alex remembered hearing several bodies fall.

"Let me guess," Alex choked out between wheezing gasps. "That was stupid."

Yassen finished buckled himself in, and gestured for Alex to do the same, angrily shaking his head. "Yes, and no."

"Guess it's a good thing it won't happen again, then." Yassen didn't respond. Five miles passed while the children were calmed down, and from the lack of explosions it was clear the special ops lost their tail. Finally able to breathe, Alex looked around.

They were in the back corner of a van that would have naturally fit four rows of three people. Instead someone had modified the inside so that everything behind the driver's row (where the two guards from the front of the apartment yesterday sat) was removed. The sides and windows were reinforced with a bulletproof metallic material (excluding the one door). The seats had been put back in lining the walls, so that two parallel rows of seats faced each other.

Two other guards station themselves across from and beside the door. Molotov and family sat across from several seats filled with suitcases, and then Yassen and Alex occupied the corner.

The mob boss put his son down, buckled him in, and moved himself to the end. With a façade of calm, he looked at Alex, waiting until the boy met his eyes. "Are you satisfied? You used a child as a shield, mentally and physically scarring him for life."

"I didn't -"

"If I have to tell you to be quiet one more time I will burn the words into you." The hair behind his neck stood on end. "I hope you are satisfied, because you will have a long time to consider those actions. When we arrive at the safehouse I am going to take a knife and carve all of the scars you gave my son into your skin, and then I am going to chain you a wall and allow every single member of my entourage a chance to introduce themselves to you. And when that is done we will have a lengthy conversation with knives about the exact details of your bank account."

"Alex didn't hurt your son," Yassen interrupted. Molotov paused and glanced over hatefully. "A soldier threw a grenade near Abhi and Alex pulled him away. He would have escaped if he hadn't saved your son."

Hazel eyes lingered on Alex's scratched face. "You've found yourself a hero, Alexander Rider. I believe you. That doesn't change the fact that my family wasn't in danger before you came."

"Yassen brought me here, and you kept me. I didn't volunteer," Alex whispered. He was lightheaded; the hunger and exhaustion were back in full force now that his burst of adrenaline was defeated. His fingers clenched around the edge of the couch.

Lips curled in disgust, the mobster sneered. "You're pitiful. Stay that way. If you can keep out of trouble the rest of this journey I'll consider the debt of my last dead man erased." Switching to Yassen, "I want your eyes on him at all times."

Yassen shrugged and the man retreated to his family, taking the two babies onto his lap. Alex glanced at Abhi. His mom made a face at the child and he laughed, before seeing Alex. Waving with a smile stretched across his face, he'd forgotten the wounds.

"That was very noble of you," Yassen commented, in such a low voice only Alex could hear, and barely.

"Is that supposed to be a compliment, coming from you?"

"It wasn't an insult." A pause, "But nobility won't get you anywhere."

Alex's eyes dropped, and he0 leaned against the car's side with the left side of face. The stinging on his right side was almost gone, and there wasn't much he could do now. He closed his eyes.

Yassen pulled out a book from his jacket. That stupid, stupid boy.

-break

Alex stared mesmerized out the front window (or only window, after the redecorating of the van). The driver was weaving in and out of traffic, trying to stay at least twenty miles over the speed limit. Inside the van a Russian kid's radio program was on, and Abhi kept bursting out in laughter, but otherwise a sleepy atmosphere took hold. Yassen's eyes were closed while he reclined.

A baby started mewling, and Alex flinched. The vehicle was pulling off the highway, he noticed. Were they at the safehouse already? Or maybe they needed gas – the colorful fast food icons sticking thirty feet into the air indicated a pitstop instead.

Almost on cue, the mobster's wife was stretching, and she leaned over to ask the two guards closest what they'd like to eat. She was obviously English herself – so Abhi probably understood English. On the other hand, asking a mobster's kid for help was pushing suicide. And no nine year old deserved to discover the hard way their dad was a monster.

Molotov scooted to the back again. "Same as last time, Gregorovich?"

Yassen replied in Russian. Molotov nodded, turning to Alex with a smile that said he wasn't forgotten. "Water for you, I suppose? I doubt you need anything to eat so soon." When Alex was unresponsive, he added "We'll be stopping for the kids and some of the men to use the restroom, but the house is only another two hours away. The government isn't aware of our next point of operations, if you were concerned."

Molotov returned to his wife, who was writing a list of meals.

Clearly he was taunting Alex. Torturing, actually, with close to 36 hours passing without even a cup of water headed his way. It wouldn't do lasting damage, and it didn't create a show to entertain the wife and kids, but it kept him from escaping.

"There wasn't any way for me to bribe your boss to let me go, was there?" Alex asked. "Last night he promised I'd be released if I paid, and the moment I offered he laughed it off."

Yassen's lip curled. "I doubt it. Perhaps if MI6 or your company was willing to pay several million up front an exchange might have occurred."

"But otherwise it was a waste of time to offer a deal, right?" Alex remembered bitterly. The answering silence was affirmation enough.

A moment later the wife and Abhi were back with food – Molotov, the driver, and the babies were still gone. Abhi, still small enough to walk in the van while standing straight up, walked over to Alex. "That explosion was cool. Can we do it again?" He had a slight accent, but his English was perfect – spoken at home, if his mom was an indicator.

Yassen was reading. He didn't appear concerned, so what was the harm in responding? "Ask your mom, but I'm guessing not."

"Oh." He frowned. "I can get your food."

"I think I had a water."

"Aren't you hungry?" Abhi asked curiously. Alex's position was obviously not evident.

"A bit," Alex admitted. "But food's expensive, and I don't have any money."

"My dad could buy you food," the child pointed out.

A grimace crossed Alex's face. "He could."

Yassen looked up, and spoke rapidly to Abhi in Russian. The boy nodded and went back to his mother. A moment later he came back with two waters and a bag of food for Yassen. Alex recoiled at the smell. "I wanted to give you some of my food, but my mom says I can't share because then I'll get hungry," Abhi said seriously, handing Alex his water. "I don't think my mom wants us to be friends, either." The boy tilted his head. "Are you bad? My dad said I shouldn't talk to you."

Abhi's mom was glaring at Alex. "If your dad says you shouldn't talk to me then you should listen. Why don't you go back to your mom?"

"The twins are noisy." Abhi wrinkled his nose, indicating how undesirable his siblings were. "You aren't. And I haven't talked to you yet."

Alex looked at Yassen desperately. He couldn't handle this – he wasn't used to kids, let alone one who could have him whipped just for talking. He continued reading. Alex could deal with it, apparently. "I need some sleep Abhi, I'm tired," he hedged.

"You were just asleep," the boy giggled. "You aren't a cat."

"Your parents will get angry at me if we keep talking. I want your parents to like me, so I can borrow some money for food, ok?"

"They'll give you money for food anyway! My parents aren't mean."

"Ok, then, why don't you go ask your mom to get me something," Alex snapped. It hadn't come out harsh, thankfully, at least Abhi didn't look upset, but he was losing control. Not eating he could survive. But stressed out, hungry, and alone while carrying on an idiotic conversation with a child whose parents would have you tortured for disturbing him? Two years of target practice didn't train him for this, and what little experience with children he had boiled down to them wailing while Alex consoled and rescued them.

"Ok," Abhi agreed helpfully, and sidled back to his mom.

"That wasn't wise," Yassen observed. "Asking is only going to guarantee you'll be waiting longer."

"I couldn't think of anything else! If you're so concerned you can tell him to shove off."

Molotov had gotten into the van with the children and driver now, but no one was looking Alex's way. Either he hadn't upset Abhi's mom much or he'd feel it in two hours.

His thumb circled the water bottle cap. If he took a drink now, he might feel even hungrier. On the other hand, if he didn't drink now he could lose the water soon. And Alex couldn't survive much longer without water.

"Drink something," Yassen commanded, annoyed with Alex's fiddling.

"I'm too hungry."

Wordlessly Yassen handed him the unopened fast food bag Abhi had brought over. "You won't get anything else today, after your stunt."

"I don't think I was getting anything else anyway, and my stunt meant saving his son." Alex dug into the food, ignoring a scathing glance Molotov sent his way, and the drive continued on, thankfully, without incidence.

At the safehouse, a church in the middle of an unpronounceable, sprawling suburban city, several men came out to greet the family and escort everyone inside. Yassen kept a strong hold on Alex's arm and dragged him into an administrative building where a homely woman in her late twenties manned security cameras. One of the cameras showing a door to the back rooms briefly featured Molotov's family walking through. "Close your eyes," Yassen admonished, destroying Alex's hope to build a blueprint of the building in his mind.

He was lingering in a dreamlike state, leaning against the wall, when Yassen shook him awake. Startled, Alex looked up and realized the voices he'd taken for a dream conversation were Molotov and Yassen speaking in Russian.

"I'm tired of waiting, Alex," Molotov said, and with two fingers signaled a stocky man into the room. Addressing the guard, he waved at Alex. "Beat him up until he gives you his bank information. I might need him alive for some talks later, so leave his face alone."

"I'll just tell you," Alex offered.

"I imagine you would." Alex tried to plant his feet immovably in the floor.

"Does your wife know what you do? She might object to screaming teenagers in her house, it might wake your kids."

The leader's eyes narrowed. "If you were older you'd understand marriage is a partnership. And I understand you already bothered my son enough today. You won't be given that opportunity again."

"I'd hate to bother anyone – I think he was just thanking me for saving his life after your guards couldn't keep track of him." Yassen shoved Alex into the unnamed guard. "I'd hate to bother your guard," Alex gasped as he was grabbed. "The effort of dragging me into an elaborate dungeon only to have me ready to give up everything I know, and then he'll have to go get pen and paper…"

"I'm sure that would be a trouble. Unfortunately, I think you're a bit more resistant than that – thirty minutes before you start giving the details I want? Better men have lasted less time; your struggles were certainly admirable."

"Alex did have a plan that might net more than the contents of his bank account," Yassen suggested, avoiding Alex's glare. "It depending on contacting MI6, if I recall."

"They'd be willing to pay if I was handed over alive," Alex lied, willing himself to believe it. MI6 occasionally did trade prisoners, but hand over money to criminal organizations?

"We'll see," Molotov allowed. "Thirty minutes of your time first, though."

Yassen watched as Alex was shoved out of the room. "There's no reason to keep him long. MI6 will pay."

"There's no reason to keep him alive," Molotov responded. "He's seen my family, and my safehouse, and my son will be scarred because of him. I'll keep him a day more and get all that I can out of him, and then he'll be shot."