Alex woke in the Ambulance and immediately tried to leave. "No... No Sergei... He's in danger... Yassen... Yassen's going to kill him." The policeman in the back helped the emergency medical technician subdue the eighteen year old.

"Mr. Rider... calm down." The patients heart rate was going through the roof. When the fratic struggle stopped.

"Ohh.. my head hurts." Alex mumbled and then fainted.

The gendarme then asked "Who the fuck are Sergei and Yassen? Sounds like the kid knows who was in on the hit."

...

Maria was in the Guerlain Boutique in the Champs Elysee when her phone rang. She listened to the short message from Sergei's head bodyguard, codewords for an emergency extraction to a place of safety. So, her boss was on his way to the airport. Misha who was with her, bundled her out of the shop and into a taxi. Back at the hotel, the pair learned the details of an attempted assassination on the Rue de la Printemps. Just after lunch had finished. Maria, herself, had picked out the modern, small restaurant as an up and coming place to eat with a fantastic menu. A place Alex would enjoy for his birthday. She had booked a box at the Paris Opera that evening. It was only after the details of the escape plan on the jet had been finalised, did the Russian PA find out Alex had been injured. She finished her brief phone call to her boss by promising she would stay in Paris to help out the police investigation and to find out the young poet's condition, which hospital he was in and get Alex sorted out.

Maria knew that a head shot was serious, dependent on the angle, velocity and caliber. It was likely Alex was dead.

...

The helicopter did not bank or change direction but carried on its flight path from Reims to Alencon. The pilot ignored the passenger, as the man carefully disassembled and packed the compact rifle away into its small component parts. Only the large telescopic lens gave its true function away. A low velocity .22 rifle was special forces sniper special issue. The shot had been perfectly on target. The sniper had aimed to wound not kill, a jagged flesh wound on the skull would bleed profusely, look much worse than it was. The young man would be in shock, may even have a fracture, but in the centre of Paris, the casualty would be in the Emergency Room at the American Hospital in five to ten minutes. Yassen was happy with the shot, it put Alex out of the game.

Yassen knew the boy would stay with Rushkov, if he had warned him of the danger. This way he had forced set events in motion. The Arms Dealer was about to be removed by Russian Special Forces as the present regime at the Kremlin were not happy to find out that Rushkov had sold weapons grade fissile material to the Chechen rebels via several intermediaries. State Security would not care if Rushkov's little toy was a collateral damage. They may even have tried to use Alex against Sergei. No it was better than Alex was safely separated from that man

Yassen had been busy on a job, happy to be informed the Triad had done a fine job dealing with the traitor Howell. Only for Alex to leave Australia early and return to Sergei Rushkov's side after the death of his godfather. Yassen had been busy for months on his last job in Columbia, but had heard that Ash had tried to make a deal with the new head of the Triad in Bangkok, only to be tortured and killed by the fact he was under investigation and unable to keep supplying information to his owners. The Triad boss had been happy to get rid of Yu's unwanted spy in an calculating callous way.

...

Maria's taxi stopped in the grid lock caused by the police incident on Le Rue de la Printemps, she got out after leaving a generous tip. She walked up to see the crowd of onlookers, various police vehicles, poilce tape and as she and Misha pushed through the crowd a bloodstained pavement. She saw a plain clothes officer. "Excuse me. I am Sergei Rushkov's Personal Assistant. I am here to help with your enquiries."

"Were you here when Mr. Rider was shot?"

"No."

"Where is your employer? At the moment he is our chief suspect."

"His security team took him to a place of safety. I can get hold of them." Maria knew full well they were probably already boarded the jet at Le Bourget Airport or in the air.

Another officer came up to the detective. "Was your boss' car a Black Range Rover, Licence Plate SA 99 RUS?"

"Yes?"

Maria then heard the other policeman say car bomb at Rue d'Amiens. Four casualties, no survivors. Professional hit. The professional business woman lost all composure and crumbled like a sack of potatoes.

...

The normally smart, perfectly turned out Maria Federova was visibly jaded by the last 24 hours. In a systematic attack her boss had been murdered by assailants unknown. She sat with Misha, her bodyguard and her lawyer in the interrogation room. She had been questioned by the French Police. The bomb had been professionally placed in the interior of the car to kill its occupants. She was a suspect. The detectives harassing her about her jealousy of Sergei and his boy toy. They had nothing to go on, so Maria had told them of Sergei's contacts with various governments and individuals in his line of work, selling death for over twenty years had made Sergei Rushkov many enemies. He was a man few friends, even in Russia. She had a file full of death threats and possible assailants on her laptop. The police were now going through each one.

Eventually after her lawyer had started to get shirty, she was allowed to go.

She quickly showered, dressed in slacks, blouse and jumper and made her way with Misha to the American Hospital to check up on Alex.

...

Alex woke wearing a stupid gown, aware of the sounds and smells of hospital. It must be serious, drip, catheter, heart monitor and oxygen. He did not want to open his eyes as his head hurt like a bitch. He fumbled around briefly with his right hand and found and then pressed the button to alert the nurse.

"Please, my head hurts."

"No more painkillers for an hour, Mr. Rider. You know the routine, you have a drug dependency problem noted on your file."

"Fuck... Recreational use... not an addict. Paracetamol... anything... Shit... Please."

"Calm down, Mr. Rider. You must not elevate your heart rate or blood pressure."

"Fuck you.. give me some fucking meds then, you bitch!"

"I'll get the doctor."

Alex then under his breath, "Only if the bastard has some fucking morphine, codeine or nurophen."

...

Alex was lying with his arm over his face when the doctor came in. "Good morning, I'm Dr. Du Clare I want to ask you some questions first. Your full name.." The doctor had sat on the bed and moved Alex's arm to look into his patient's eyes with his pen light.

"Alexander John Rider."

"Date of Birth"

Alex rolled his eyes "13th of February 1987"

"OK and todays date?"

Alex for the life of him could not remember the date. "Err... umm... 10th of Jan no February, I think."

"What is the last thing you remember?"

"I went for a nap after a 20k run in the gym. Wait, we're speaking french... Am I in France? I woke up speaking French? This isn't Moscow, is it? Is Sergei here? Or have I fucked everything up again?" Alex was confused. "Fucking bollocks, I did not take an overdose did I?"

"No, no Alex you have amnesia, its quite common after a head trauma?"

"Oh I bashed my head, then. Was I drunk?"

"No, you were shot. You had surgery yesterday. You are doing remarkably well. Now lets check your reflexes and mobility."

…..To be Continued as Stromfront 3