One | The Chase

Rewritten Nov 2017 using a scene from the old chapter.

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Alex was being watched.

Well, he didn't actually know that for sure, but the hair on the back of his neck was prickling and his instincts were telling him that something was about to go very wrong very quickly. Ignoring them seemed ill-advised – after all, instinct was the reason he'd lived long enough to reach his sixteenth birthday.

If he were honest with himself he'd admit to wondering half-seriously if that was actually something he should be proud of. To be fair, he'd be a great deal happier with making it to sixteen if he were celebrating by doing something – anything – other than busting a human trafficking ring. Hell, he'd even take sitting through a painful double-period of maths over galivanting about in piercings and fake prison tattoos and pretending to be so rid of basic humanity that he'd kidnap and sell children. That he was a whisker away from being extracted and leaving the whole mess behind wasn't much comfort: he'd still aided in ruining the lives of innocent people as part of his cover.

A flicker of movement in the shadows had Alex alert once more. Mind on the job, Rider. If he wanted to be sixteen for more than an hour, he needed to focus on keeping himself alive, not on the morality of doing bad things to stop other people from doing worse things. He slowed under the pretence of peering into the window of a bakery, using the reflections to search his surroundings without alerting whatever had moved.

Nothing.

Alex nearly groaned in frustration. Maybe it was just his imagination's contribution to the 'make Alex's birthday terrible' party? It was a reasonable conclusion. It was one in the morning and the streetlights were flickering or smashed entirely, leaving him straining to see by the silver of the waning moon. To mistake litter tumbling down an alley for a threat would be understandable.

But no – there it was again. Another glimmer of movement. Once might have been chance, but twice? Even considering the number of lapses he'd had tonight, it was unlikely that his imagination was responsible for both instances. His hand strayed to his hip for the gun he'd carried constantly for the past month, only to curse under his breath when he realised he'd somehow forgotten it. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Regardless of how he felt about the assignment, being without a weapon while on assignment was a rookie mistake he should have been long past. Badgering Mrs Jones until she caved and finally allowed him to pack heat was all well and good until he left the damn thing in his room.

Alex turned back to the street, dropped his hand, and picked up his pace. He was fully alert now, scanning the gloom for danger even as he tried to remain optimistic. It might just be a couple of guys looking for trouble. He'd cut all contact with MI6; had overwritten the security footage. Hell, he'd even taken the precaution of waiting a few extra days before making his final move to ensure no one would suspect him. He'd been careful. There was no logical reason to think his phantom watchers were members of the trafficking ring.

But optimism had never been Alex's strong point and his instincts were telling him that he hadn't been careful enough. It might be time to call it in. Everything had been wrapped up but for a few insignificant details, so leaving a day sooner wouldn't harm the operation.

Decision made, Alex sidestepped the remnants of a streetlight and took a sudden right, aiming for the extraction point rather than the cheap motel he'd originally been heading for. Seconds later, he heard the scrape of glass behind him, as if someone had barely avoided stepping on the lightbulb shards.

Alex spun and eyed the darkness behind him.

The darkness eyed him right back with metal glinting at its hip.

Shit.

Alex took off in a dead sprint, the suddenness of his movement startling his stalker into hesitating for a precious second. In that moment, he managed to put another two meters between them but that still only gave him seven meters at the most. The margin for error was tiny. Any hesitation or mistake on his part and he'd be caught.

Movement out of the corner of his eye had Alex risking a glance over his shoulder and swearing. Another figure was rapidly ascending a fire escape, sniper rifle in hand. Clearly, they had planned to ambush him in the other street. If he hadn't changed his destination and interfered with the sniper's line of sight, he'd already be riddled with bullets. Even as the thought crossed his mind, his guess was confirmed by a glimpse of two more pursuers keeping pace in the next street over. They must have guessed what he'd been doing, but then why not take him out earlier, before he had a chance to pass on intell? And how had they known? Even under scrutiny, the final drop he'd made that night would have looked like nothing more than a drug deal – hardly incriminating given the company he'd been keeping-

The window beside him shattered at the same moment the spitting crack of a sniper rifle reached his ears. Alex threw up an arm, shielding his face from the glass, but didn't slow. He was too busy furiously recalculating his odds. There must only be the one sniper: there was no reason for them to think they'd need more, and the length of time between the figure climbing from the fire escape and the shot was long enough for them to have reached the new vantage point. And considering the forethought of having a sniper, there had to be a manned perimeter-

Another shot had Alex ducking, but also sent his lone pursuer jerking back in reflex. Alex judged losing his human shield to be worth gaining some breathing room and took the opportunity to extend the gap.

-there had to be manned perimeter somewhere nearby, but it wasn't likely to be too well-manned. Maybe half a dozen men at the most, spread out near the site of the planned ambush in case the sniper had missed. Now that he'd changed course, they would have been notified to form a cordon in his new direction.

The odds weren't good. Trying to outrun three tails, one sniper, and half a dozen unknowns would be suicidal, though the issue would be the perimeter rather than staying ahead. Alex was confident in his ability to outpace the team of three – the extraction point was only a few blocks away – but as long as someone had eyes on him, the cordon would cut him off long before he reached it. On top of that, one lucky shot from the sniper would solve all his future problems by killing him, which was fan-bloody-tastic! The only option which had a chance of him walking away alive was to lose the tails. On their own turf.

Christ this was a bad idea.

Alex made his move without warning, vaulting over a bench and hurtling across the street. His aim was a dark shadow on the opposite wall that he was fairly sure led to backstreet access lanes, though it was entirely possible that the shadow was just a shadow. This was possibly the riskiest thing he'd done so far, given the amount of open space and the sniper's-

Crack!

-clear line of sight.

Alex flinched so hard he stumbled, half-expecting the bullet to have lodged itself in his chest. But the sniper's aim had been off by meters and he wouldn't be getting another chance because Alex had already reached his goal.

The lanes were a narrow maze of filthy rubbish bags and cardboard, with new walkways appearing out of the gloom every few meters. This was his chance. His sudden change in course, coupled with the distance between him and his pursuers, had granted him a full three seconds where they wouldn't see which way he'd gone upon entering the alley. Alex took a left hidden by its proximity to the entry, then a right, then another left. When he rounded the corner, he threw himself behind a mound of rubbish bags and pulled them close, though he gagged on the sickly-sweet stench of rotting food. It had been easy to ignore when he was moving. In close proximity, though, the smell coated his tongue and made his stomach turn. Despite that, he burrowed further into the pile to hide the beacon of his blonde hair: given the choice between enduring the stench or being tortured and murdered, he'd happily pick the former.

What a way to spend a birthday, Alex thought sardonically. On the bright side, at least my body is convinced that it would be in its best interests to never breathe again.

Voices neared, and though their conversation was blurred by the echoing corners, it was still distinct enough for Alex to pick out three sperate voices. They'd clearly regrouped before entering the lanes, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing, though it wasn't ideal. Hopefully they'd sweep the area quickly. The longer they took, the more likely it was that they'd call for reinforcements, and then Alex would be really screwed.

All he could do was wait, which meant plenty of time to curse himself for his inattention. The tail should never have gotten that close. He'd practically been stepping on his heels! Only luck had saved Alex – if not for the glass, he would have been captured or shepherded to his death. And god only knew what he'd let slip to give himself away. He might hate MI6, but that didn't stop him from acknowledging his skill as an operative: a track record with a 100% success rate was unheard of. He was proud of that, in spite of everything. And that pride made the bitter taste in his mouth from his performance even more sour. He'd been criminally stupid tonight. This whole mess could have been easily avoided if only he'd been a little less brainless and had remembered his gun. And maybe if he hadn't been so ridiculously preoccupied with his birthday, he might have noticed the tail.

There wasn't much he could do about it now, but they weren't mistakes he'd be making again.

The conversation ceased moments before one of his tails rounded the corner at a jog. It was a woman with her hair pinned back in a long braid and a Beretta held loosely by her side. Alex mentally urged her to keep walking as she aimed her torch towards his hiding place. I'm not here; keep walking; I'm not here. His attempt at mind control was entirely unsuccessful. In fact, instead of glancing at the mound and moving on, the woman came to a stop on top of his hand and began to kick at the bags. Heart pounding, he forced himself to remain still despite the pain. Moving was the worst thing he could do right now: not only would it catch her attention immediately, but even if he managed to make it to his feet without detection, he'd still need to travel meters without cover. There was no way she wouldn't notice that. As long as he could remain hidden for a few more seconds, she'd believe that the lack of response meant no one was there and would move on.

Hopefully.

Alex was beginning to reconsider his plan when the rapid dismantling of the pile threatened to reveal his feet. Just as he was readying himself to make a move, a bag split under the force of a particularly hard kick. The woman reared back, swearing a blue streak in a comically posh English accent, as filthy liquid sprayed from the tear. He waited, heart pounding, for a long second before she spat on the ground and turned her attention to the rest of the alley.

Alex leapt to his feet the moment she disappeared down an intersecting lane and legged it.

After that incident, the ease with which he navigated the rest of the access lanes was almost insulting. He managed to emerge well ahead of the team of three, without seeing even a flicker of torchlight. In fact, he made it within meters of the multi-storey car park which was his goal without further incident. His escape had – for once – gone perfectly to plan.

Of course, that was when he collided with a member of the manned perimeter.

Alex, who had been looking over his shoulder for signs of pursuit, crashed into the guard, who had been on Twitter, with enough force to send them both tumbling to the ground. There was a sickening crack when the man's head connected with the concrete footpath. Somehow, he remained conscious – not that it was much help, as all he did was stare agape at Alex. Alex would have laughed if the situation had been less dire. Instead, he shamelessly took advantage of the situation to snatch the guard's gun and leap to his feet before the man regained his senses.

He was already inside the car park when the man finally reacted with a shout of "He's in the parking lot!" and rapid footsteps. Several calls responded, all of them far closer than Alex was comfortable with. He pushed his tiring legs harder as four men entered the garage to join the chase.

The bike was on level two, parked illegally close to the ramp but otherwise fairly inconspicuous. Alex yanked the keys from his pocket as he ran, and was twisting them in the ignition as he threw his leg over the seat. Nothing.

"Come on, come on…" Another twist. "Damn it, work!" His three pursuers were close enough that he could see the bloody gravel imbedded in the head and arms of the first guard in absolute detail. Alex gritted his teeth. He had mere seconds. Smithers had never failed him before – now would be the absolute worst time for him to start. It would work. He twisted the key one more time.

The engine roared to life! Alex yelled in relief and kicked up the stand. A twist of the throttle sent him shooting under the arm of the concussed guard and down the ramp.

But his relief was short lived. He'd barely started moving when he heard the roar of engines approaching the building. The fourth guard must have alerted someone to cut him off at the entrance, probably someone from the original three. Alex clenched his teeth and accelerated hard. Why couldn't he catch a break?! He'd got the bike; it should have been over. All he should be worrying about was a few stray bullets! Instead, he was courting death by doing forty miles an hour in a fully-occupied car park. He'd had some runs of bad luck in his time, but this had to take the cake!

Alex skidded out the entrance just ahead of two motorbikes, taking the sharp corner too wide in his haste and nearly crashing into the storefront opposite the garage. He came so close, in fact, that his shoulder grazed the glass, but he couldn't afford to slow so he squeezed the throttle and shoved himself away from the wall with a kick.

The road was better lit than the first one he'd walked down, but it was fiendishly twisty and the speedometer was ticking upward at an alarming pace. 65 miles an hour down a London street had to be some kind of record, he thought absently, leaning into the corners at an angle that made his head spin. MI6 would be getting one hell of a speeding ticket if he made it through this mess.

Hitting the main road at the end of the street brought its own set of problems. On the plus side, it was straight. On the other hand, there were ten times the number of obstacles and infinitely better line-of-sight to shoot him. The last thought had Alex glancing in his right mirror. He was greeted with the sight of the lead rider taking aim and swore colourfully – sandwiched between two sedans, he couldn't swerve. All he could do was press himself closer to the seat, crouching so low over the handlebars he felt like he was about to merge with the bike. Seconds later, a burst of gunfire buried bullets head-height in the boot of the SUV in front of him.

Alex finally pulled ahead of the sandwich and reached for the stolen gun in his waistband, swerving one-handed to cut in front of one of the sedans. The driver slammed her hand angrily on the horn, then cried out in fright as her back windscreen shattered. Alex ignored her. Instead, he spared a cursory glance for hazards on the road ahead, then twisted and fired three shots at the tyres on the lead bike. The front wheel blew out with a bang, sending the motorbike spinning out of control and into another car. Alex glimpsed the gruesome tangle of twisted metal and limbs before he turned back to the road. He veered around a corner. The side of a lorry loomed out of the night.

Panicked, Alex drew his right leg up so it wouldn't be pulverised and threw his weight to the side, slamming the bike over. The impact knocked the breath out of him, but he still managed to slide under the chassis with nothing more than a horrific screech of metal on gravel and the loss of only one side mirror. As he emerged, he remembered the horrific fate of the rider he'd dispatched and shuddered. Then he refocused. Unlike the other rider, he wasn't dead yet, and he didn't intend on allowing that to change.

Alex kicked at the bitumen, using every ounce of body weight to lever the motorbike upright again, then squeezed the throttle as hard as he could to regain his momentum. The remaining rider hadn't been incumbered by an altercation with a lorry, so they were gaining ground fast. The late-night traffic approaching the Thames hadn't thinned, so he couldn't get a clear shot on his tail to dissuade them. Instead, he employed every evasive manoeuvre his uncle had ever taught him in an attempt to pull away from the other rider. It wasn't working, but at least they weren't gaining ground either.

Alex pulled an earpiece from his pocket and used the connected keypad on the body of the bike to dial the direct number for Mrs Jones' office from memory. The cool voice of her new secretary greeted him.

"Hello, you've reached the Royal and General Bank. My name is Matthew, how might I direct your-"

Alex blew through two red lights in quick succession, and the sound of horns blaring cut off the rest of his sentence. "Look, it's Rider, I need to speak to Mrs Jones urgently," he yelled over the wind.

"Agent Rider, I'm afraid Mrs Jones is in a meeting right now. I can-"

Alex missed the old secretary.

"If you think you're equipped to deal with a high-speed, very public car chase, be my guest," Alex snapped. "If not, put me through."

"…putting you through now."

Thank god. Alex fired a round over his shoulder as he turned onto a new road with less traffic, hoping the bullet would magically connect with his tail. A glance in his remaining mirror left him sorely disappointed. Maybe Smithers could design him a gun which locked onto targets if he asked nicely.

The dial tone disappeared as the phone was answered. Alex didn't waste a second. "Requesting immediate extraction from a high-speed car chase – I've been burned."

The chatter of gunfire forced him to pause as he swerved, barely avoiding being hit.

The head of MI6 didn't waste time. "Report." Alex noted a male voice in the background and the tell-tale echo of speakerphone, but ignored both knowing he wouldn't have been put through if it hadn't been safe to talk.

"I've got one tail on a motorbike with an automatic weapon, and there's probably reinforcements on the way. We're heading north up Ann Street – it's probably on the news – and I've got one bullet left." No need to mention that he'd forgotten his original handgun. "The assignment objectives aren't in jeopardy; I made the last drop tonight."

Another burst of gunfire. Alex cursed as a bullet grazed his arm. Staying on a straight stretch of road would be suicide. He needed something with more cover. Above him and to his left was an overpass which would be better, but how to get there…?

"Good work. Make your way to our car park and we'll-" The rest of the sentence was lost in the squeal tyres as saw his opportunity and took a sharp left turn. He raced into another multi-storey car park and up the ramp to the second floor, which was level with the overpass. There was a speed bump at the end of the short straight stretch after the ramp. Alex braced himself and took it at full speed, letting it throw him over the concrete barrier. There was a split-second of weightless and terror, before the impact of the landing punched the breath from his lungs. The motorcycle crunched worryingly but didn't falter.

"What was that?!" exclaimed the background voice.

"Think I just totalled the suspension," Alex answered absent-mindedly while checking to see if he still had his tail. He did, unfortunately. For Mrs Jones, he adding jokingly, "Sorry, am I interrupting? I can call back."

"Yes, that would be very convenient," Mrs Jones deadpanned. Alex laughed, steered around a car, then braked hard again to skid across two lanes of traffic and down the off ramp towards Liverpool Street.

"Just tell me when to try again, and I'll leave you with…" he trailed off leadingly. Sometimes he worried he'd gotten too used to this – the middle of a car chase, and he was shamelessly fishing for information.

"The Prime Minister and the Minister for Defence." Mrs Jones sounded amused. There were muffled protests from her companions. Both operatives ignored them.

"Ooh, top secret business, huh?"

"Indeed. Did you need me to repeat my earlier instructions?"

"Yeah, thanks. I'm nearing the bank now."

"The gate is up for you. Go straight through, take two rights, and stop. Mind you stop quickly, or you'll become a pancake. We'll deal with the rest."

"Got it. See you in debrief, Mrs Jones."

"Thanks, Alex."

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It turned out that Smithers could not make a gun which locked onto targets – at least, not the right targets – but he did promise to give Alex a new motorcycle if he vowed not to ruin it as well. Alex dubiously told him he'd try his best, and opened his front door a week and a half later to a sleek, unbranded motorcycle. There was a bow on the handlebars and a card attached the seat. Inside, he found it signed by Smithers and Mrs Jones and, somehow, the little girl he'd been made to kidnap who was apparently safe and with her family again.

The crayon picture she'd drawn of a blonde stick figure saving a smaller stick figure in a pick dress definitely didn't make him cry. Really, it didn't.