He squared his eye against the Leupold 14x50mm Side Focus scope, adjusting the cross hairs against the door through which the boy would pass. He loved the feel of the gun in his hands, the snug fit, the perfect balance.
He had had it customized to suit his needs. The stock was laminated wood with water-resistant adhesive, making it stronger and less likely to warp. The trigger mechanism had been taken apart and polished for a smoother release. The rifle would reload itself as fast as he could fire it—but he would only need a single shot.
The sniper was content. When he fired, for the blink of an eye, as the bullet began its journey down the barrel, travelling at three hundred and thirty-one metres per second, he and the rifle would be one. The target didn’t matter. Even the payment was almost irrelevant. The act of killing was enough in itself. It was better than anything in the world. In that moment, the sniper was God.
He waited. He was lying on his stomach on the roof of an office block on the other side of the road. He was a little surprised that he had been able to get access. He knew that the building opposite him housed the Special Operations division of MI6 and he had supposed that they would keep a careful watch on all the other offices around. On the other hand, he had picked two locks and dismantled a complicated security system to get here. It hadn’t been easy.
The door opened and the target appeared. If he had wanted to, the sniper could have seen a handsome fourteen-year-old boy with fair hair, one strand hanging down over his eyes. A boy wearing a grey hooded sweatshirt and baggy jeans, and a wooden bead necklace (he could see every bead through the scope). Brown eyes and a slightly hard, narrow mouth. The sort of face that would have attracted plenty of girls if the boy had only lived a little longer.
The boy had a name: Alex Rider. But the sniper didn’t think of that. He didn’t even think of Alex as a boy. He was a heart, a pair of lungs, a convoluted system of veins and arteries. But very soon he would be nothing at all.
That was why the sniper was here. To perform a little act of surgery—not with a scalpel but a bullet.
He licked his lips and focused all his attention on his target. He wasn’t holding the gun. The gun was part of him. His finger curled against the trigger. He relaxed, enjoying the moment, preparing to fire.
Alex Rider stepped out onto the street. It was about five o’clock and there were quite a few people around. He was thinking about all the things he had been told in Alan Blunt’s office. They still wouldn’t quite register. It was just too much to take in. His father hadn’t been an assassin; he had been a spy, working for MI6. John Rider and Ian Rider. Both spies. And now Alex Rider. At last they were a family.
And yet…
Mrs Jones had told him that she wanted him to make a choice, but he wasn’t sure that the choice had ever been his. Yes, he had chosen not to belong to Scorpia. But that didn’t mean he had to be a lifelong member of MI6.
Alan Blunt would want to use him again: that much was certain. But maybe he would find the strength to refuse. Maybe knowing the truth at last would be enough.
All sorts of confusing thoughts were racing through his mind. But he had already made one decision. He wanted to be with Jack. He wanted to forget his homework and go out for a film and a blow-out dinner. Nothing healthy. He had said he would be home by six, but perhaps he would call and meet her at the multiplex on the Fulham Road. It was Saturday. He deserved a night out.
He took a step and stopped. Something had hit him in the chest. It was as if he had been punched. He looked left and right but there was nobody close to him. How very strange.
And here was something else. Liverpool Street seemed to be running uphill. He knew it was flat, but now it was definitely slanting. Even the buildings were leaning to one side. He didn’t understand what was happening. The colour was rapidly draining out of the air. As he looked, the world went from colour to black and white, apart from a few splashes here and there: the bright yellow of a cafe sign, the blue of a car…
…and the red of blood. He looked down and was surprised to see that his whole front was turning crimson.
There was an irregular shape spreading rapidly across his sweatshirt. At the same time, he became aware that the sound of the traffic had faded. It was as if something had pulled him out of the world and he was only seeing it from a very long way away. A few pedestrians had stopped and turned to look at him. They were shocked. There was a woman screaming. But she was making no sound at all.
Then the street played a trick on him, tilting so suddenly that it seemed to turn upside down. A crowd had gathered. It was closing in on him and Alex wished it would go away. There must have been thirty or forty people, pointing and gesticulating. Why were they so interested in him? And why couldn’t he move any more?
He opened his mouth to ask for help but no words, not even a breath, came out.
Alex was starting to feel scared. There was no pain at all, but something told him that he must have been hurt.
He was lying on the pavement, although he didn’t know how he had got there. There was a red circle around him, widening with every second that passed. He tried to call for Mrs Jones. He opened his mouth again and did hear a voice calling, but it was very far away.
And then he saw two people and knew that everything was going to be all right after all. They were watching him with a mixture of sadness and understanding, as if they had always expected this to happen but were still sorry that it had. There was a little colour left in the crowd, but the two people were entirely black and white.
The man was very handsome, dressed in military uniform with close-cut hair and a solid, serious face. He looked very much like Alex, although he seemed to be in his early thirties. The woman, standing next to him, was smaller and seemed much more vulnerable. She had long, fair hair and eyes that were filled with sorrow.
He had seen photographs of this woman and he was astonished to find her here. He knew that he was looking at his mother.
He tried to get up, but he couldn’t. He wanted to hold her hand, but his arms would no longer obey him. He wasn’t breathing any more, but he hadn’t noticed.
The man and the woman stepped forward out of the crowd. The man said nothing; he was trying to hide his emotions. But the woman leant down and reached out a hand. Only now did Alex realize that he had been looking for her all his life. She reached out and touched him, her finger finding the exact spot where there was a small hole in his shirt.
No pain. Just a sense of tiredness and resignation.
