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Chapter Text

MI6 spent three months training John Rider for his undercover mission. It would be dangerous no matter what and everyone knew it, but it was at least as safe as anyone could manage. He didn’t have the traditional intelligence background that prior attempts by several other intelligence agencies had relied on, but SCORPIA had shown an unpleasant ability to hunt down those undercover agents in the past. John Rider was still unknown in the intelligence world, he had no official connection to MI6, he had the background SCORPIA wanted, and he had enough of a killer instinct to thrive with the organisation. He was the best bet MI6 had and they weren’t about to waste it.

Helen Rider was three months pregnant when John Rider decided that intelligence work could go bugger itself and told MI6 in no uncertain terms that they had six months to finish up their operation.

Or I’ll do it myself, he didn’t need to say. Hunter had already gained a reputation beyond MI6’s wildest expectations. He was not a potential rogue agent but he was also not the undercover soldier they had first sent into the lion’s den.

Alexander John Rider was born a week overdue; enough time for his parents to get settled a little and the debriefings to be handled.

“He wanted his father there,” Helen told him afterwards, all exhausted smiles as she held the tiny miracle in her arms, and John felt his heart clench. For the woman who had stood by him through everything and the baby that had just become his world.

Whatever it took, he promised, he would keep them safe.

Ian, caught half a world away for another several weeks, called a florist and had flowers and a teddy bear delivered.

Jones sent her congratulations. Blunt looked a little constipated.

The Rider family, newly expanded, prepared to move to France.

Ash visited two days later on their first evening home and looked like hell warmed over. John had expected it. For the kind of injuries Ash had survived, his recovery so far was impressive, but he still had months to go.

“Bloody hell,” Ash said when he arrived. “He already looks like his father. My condolences, Helen. We all hoped he would take after you.”

John flipped him off. “He’ll be a handsome devil, that’s what you mean.”

“A devil, all right. You’ll need this, that’s for sure.” Ash half-threw a bottle of quality scotch at him and handed Helen a large box of chocolates with somewhat more care. Alex stirred a little and yawned, half-asleep on his mother’s chest where she rested on the couch.

Ash settled down with slow, careful motions. He had been given a cane but had stubbornly ignored it. John would probably have done the same.

“Thank you,” Helen said. Dark, experienced eyes gave him a long look. “How are you, Ash?”

If John had asked, the answer would have been half-hearted. Ash had never been able to lie to Helen, though. It didn’t work with a nurse with her experience. He didn’t look that good to John. Tired. Pale. In pain, to those who knew him well enough to tell. It was a miracle he was even doing that well. Yassen had been vicious. Hunter was proud; John Rider was conflicted. Yassen had fought for his life and for Hunter. Everything considered, Ash was lucky to be alive.

Ash grimaced. “Some days are better than others. No more field work, though. Maybe in the future, but Blunt …”

He trailed off. Kept his language nice for Helen, though his expression said it all. John didn’t have the same qualms. Helen had never liked Blunt, not since he had first tried to order John to keep her out of the loop.

“... Is a bit of a cunt?” he suggested. Helen snorted. She had called him much worse.

“Yeah,” Ash agreed. “That.”

Alex seemed to realise someone else was there beyond his mother because he stirred again, this time followed by an unhappy sound as he made the first hungry, rooting motions.

John picked up Alex and held him as Helen got to her feet. Eight pounds of tiny, helpless baby. He weighed less than the sniper rifles John had used in his career, and John held him a little closer, hands curled protectively around him. Alex settled a little but John could tell he still wasn’t happy. Their son had a healthy appetite and no patience when it came to food.

Helen smiled. Kissed his cheek and accepted Alex back, then vanished upstairs to feed him.

John opened the bottle of scotch and poured a glass. Offered Ash one as well and the man nodded after a second.

“Probably shouldn’t,” he admitted but accepted the glass, anyway.

They both drank it slowly. John savoured the taste, something he hadn’t had much chance to do for more months than he cared to think about. Rothman had favoured expensive wines to go with her taste in expensive restaurants. John had never cared much for either of those.

“How’s parenthood?” Ash finally asked.

“… weird,” John admitted. “I was all set for an MI6 career and now I can’t get out of that mess fast enough. I won’t let Alex grow up in that kind of life.”

Have him come home from school one day and just … not have his dad come back home again ever. Missing in some enemy country or another, fate unknown but presumed dead, and that was assuming they would even get the truth. Helen knew his job. That still didn’t mean MI6 wouldn’t give her some lie instead.

John Rider had joined MI6 to serve his country. Now he found that England could go hang if it would keep Alex safe.

“Ian’s going to be disappointed.”

“Ian thinks it’s all a laugh. Ian’s going to get himself killed one of these days.” Some days John thought his little brother was the dumbest shit that had ever managed to walk and breathe at the same time. This was one of those days.

“He’s a good agent,” Ash said neutrally. “Blunt likes him.”

“He’s fucking naïve, that’s what he is. You know it just as well as I do. Blunt likes me, too. He likes me so much that I’m about to be shipped off to France to hide with my family under a whole new identity because of that whole SCORPIA mess. John Rider will be dead. He’ll die as a disgraced former soldier and that’s all he’ll ever be. That’s how much Blunt’s approval is worth. I’m getting out before it puts Alex in danger, too.”

Ash nodded. He didn’t argue. John hadn’t expected him to, either. Not after Ash’s own recent experiences with Alan Blunt. Mistakes happened but Blunt wasn’t the type to accept them. John didn’t have much of an opinion on it. Sure, Ash had screwed up and people had died but Blunt and Jones hadn’t exactly been blameless, either. Ash had followed the script but everyone had underestimated just how deadly Yassen was. Maybe John held part of the blame for that, too. He hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about details on the kid. Yassen was a good kid caught up in shitty circumstances. He didn’t deserve the sort of attention he would get if MI6 decided he was useful.

They fell silent. Ash brought out a smoke. John turned it down. He had liked them once. Still did, and the craving was right there, the urge to smoke just one, but months with SCORPIA had kept him on the straight and narrow. Well, when it came to alcohol, smokes, and drugs, anyway. Anything that might slow him down in any way. In that kind of environment, the slightest mistake could get him killed.

“France, then,” Ash eventually said. “It’ll be all wine and cheese and baguettes. I’ll make sure your scotch finds a good home.”

John grimaced. “Just keep it away from Ian. He’s got shit taste.”

Young, impulsive, and drunk on the rush of adrenaline and the surprisingly decent salary MI6 could actually manage for the really dangerous missions. John wouldn’t call it impressive, not with the sort of money SCORPIA had paid, but surprisingly decent for a government agency.

Ash snorted and winced at the movement. John Rider was grateful the man had survived. Hunter, dark and sharp and deadly, wanted words with Yassen. You do not leave an enemy alive, and Yassen had been trained better than that. There were things John would never admit. Hunter was one of them.

John took a slow breath. Let it out again. Drank the last of his glass in one mouthful.

“… Here’s hoping Alex will grow up in an easier fucking world than us,” he finally said.

Ash grimaced. Polished off his own glass with the look of someone who did it solely to spite his own body. “I’ll drink to that. Fuck Blunt. Fuck MI6.”

Fuck espionage. John Rider was done.

In the end, John went in for one last go. Get that kid out of SCORPIA’s claws. Fake his death. Tie up the last loose ends and close that part of his life for good.

“You’re done?” Helen asked when he finally got home in a new suit, a bruise on his back, fake blood washed off of his skin, and his old clothes destroyed.

“I’m done,” John said and meant it.

In one world, Yassen Gregorovich heard about Albert Bridge and chose to ignore it. He held no loyalty to SCORPIA or to anyone these days, but Hunter had saved his life and Yassen would not forget that. He was sure Hunter was still alive. He was sure SCORPIA would pay a fortune for the truth. Yassen Gregorovich still never spoke a word about it.

In another world, Yassen Gregorovich heard about Albert Bridge and, for a second, hesitated. He held no loyalty to SCORPIA or to anyone these days, but Hunter had saved his life, Yassen had trusted him like he hadn’t trusted anyone since Estrov, and Yassen needed to know.

Yassen hesitated. Then he bought a ticket with money SCORPIA didn’t know about and went to London.

Two days after his faked death and permanent extraction from SCORPIA, John Rider opened the front door of the home they’d already sold and found Yassen Gregorovich on his front step.

Before John could say anything – this was the last thing he expected – Yassen spoke.

“I know you were a double agent,” he said, bitter and a little rushed, like he wanted to get the words out before he changed his mind. John wondered how long the kid just stood there before he rang the doorbell. “I knew they wouldn’t have shot you.”

Hunter, mostly dormant since his return to London, uncurled in John’s mind, cold-blooded and serpentine. He liked Yassen, he was a good kid that John would have helped in a heartbeat if he’d been able to at all, but if he was a threat to Helen, to Alex -

Maybe Yassen knew, maybe he could tell, because he continued, the bitterness still in his voice. “I haven’t told anyone, I don’t think anyone else suspects. I just – had to know.”

Whatever happened to turn that kid from someone ready to run and never look back and into a cold-blooded killer, John never found out but now he thought he had a pretty good idea.

Betrayal. Yassen found out about John’s role and lost the one person he trusted unconditionally. Hunter never had a moment of guilt about the things he did during his time with SCORPIA, couldn’t afford to feel guilt, but now it was there, dark and bleak and toxic.

Self-preservation told him Yassen was a threat, a danger to be removed. John ignored it and made a split-second decision.

“Get inside,” he said, “before you catch a cold.”

“I’m Russian,” Yassen replied but stepped inside, anyway. John closed the door behind him.

“And London this time of year is perfect pneumonia weather.”

Footsteps in the hallway and Helen appeared a moment later with Alex in her arms, drawn by the sound of voices.

“This is Yassen,” John introduced him. “My student in Venice. He covered for us in Paris. Yassen, my wife, Helen, and Alex. He’s four weeks old.”

Helen shifted Alex slightly and smiled, small but genuine. John never imagined the two of them would meet, Helen and Yassen, but he always hoped they would get along.

“Thank you, Yassen. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

She didn’t know all the details but she knew enough despite the best of MI6’s efforts to keep her in the dark. John was familiar enough with Yassen to tell that he was adding the clues together, too, and the moment he understood that Helen knew and didn’t judge.

Yassen’s attention drifted to Alex, the tiny baby that made John go enough, get me out, and there was both loss and vulnerability in his eyes. It wasn’t the future master assassin in the making that John left with SCORPIA but the kid that John first saw, young and unsure of his place in the world.

Outside, John Rider looked calm. At ease with the situation. Inside, Hunter was rapidly shifting through their options, discarding one after the other with brutal efficiency.

If Yassen found them, others could, too. Sure, Yassen knew he was alive – suspected, anyway – but all it would take would be one suspicious person, a single board member who wanted to look closer at things, and the game would be up. Every hour they spent in London now would bring them one step closer to discovery.

MI6 had guaranteed their safety. That had been John’s price for going undercover. A few weeks in London, then permanently relocated to France and a brand new life.

Yassen’s presence was proof they failed. Maybe for lack of trying, maybe because they underestimated the danger, maybe for more sinister reasons – John didn’t know and didn’t care.

His family was in danger and the list of people he could trust beyond his own family – beyond Helen and Ian – just narrowed down to … well. Yassen, he suspected.

He couldn’t trust MI6 any more. SCORPIA had plenty of moles and he had been a fool to believe their reassurances. He could trust no one, not Blunt, not Jones, not Ash. No one.

As John watched, Yassen accepted Alex from Helen, unsure but infinitely gentle, and Hunter’s plans shifted a little more. Yassen didn’t trust him any more, not the way he used to, not that unconditional faith and loyalty, but – enough. Enough to do this, maybe. He was not the kid who wore his heart on his sleeve any more, but he wasn’t SCORPIA’s creature, either. Not yet.

Helen could read him like an open book. She glanced at him but John shook his head minutely. They could talk later.

Yassen stayed the night. It was late, it was cold, he was tired, and he seemed to have arrived on a whim more than anything. Sometimes it was easy to forget the kid had only just turned twenty.

“John?” Helen asked that night, Alex nursing and clinging to her blouse.

“If Yassen found us, others can, too. We have to leave. We can’t risk France.”

MI6 never wanted Helen involved in things but John kept her up to date, anyway. They could both keep a secret. It was priceless now when she didn’t need the background explained.

“You want to bring Yassen along.”

“Yes.” Because he was a kid, because he deserved better, because John wouldn’t let SCORPIA have him if he could help it, and because he had the sinking feeling he might just owe Yassen his life – his and Helen’s and Alex’s – for what that kid just did.

Helen was silent for long seconds. Then she nodded.

“All right.” She shifted Alex slightly. “Ian? Ash?”

John had already considered that. The conclusion was not a nice one. Alex should have grown up with Ash as his godfather and Ian as his uncle. They had already decided that if they had a second child, Ian would be the godfather. But then SCORPIA had happened, SCORPIA and Malta and everything and -

- It wasn’t John’s business any more. He was out of it now. Out of intelligence work, out of MI6. He was too well-known to be useful to them now.

Helen and Alex came first.

“We’ll tell Ian if it’s safe.” Eventually, he didn’t add. He didn’t mention Ash and that was all the answer Helen needed.

Helen nodded again. Just like that, their future was decided.

Yassen took a bit more convincing.

“You don’t owe me anything.” Still angry, still bitter, still betrayed, and now prideful on top. Sometimes John was painfully reminded of just how young Yassen really was.

“I think I do,” John told him bluntly. “We would have trusted MI6 to keep us safe. If you found us here, others could, too. That’s not the point, though. I’m giving you the choice, Yassen. Something other than SCORPIA.”

Yassen stilled. He couldn’t keep his expression completely unreadable but close enough these days. John had the dark suspicion that Yassen’s discovery of his true loyalties had caused a lot of that sudden ability as well.

“They trained me. I owe them.” The words lacked any conviction.

“You owe them nothing.” Yassen opened his mouth to argue but John cut him off. “Money? Your servitude for the next five years? Yassen, they calculate that a certain number of students don’t live long enough to be useful to them. You have potential, yes. A lot of it. They still won’t bother hunting you down. Stay out of their way and they’ll write you off as just another failed student.”

Something flickered through Yassen’s eyes, wounded pride or stubbornness. “I didn’t fail.”

“So you’ll go back to them and let them hold your leash?” Yassen didn’t answer. John sighed. “They’ll take anything they can get. Your life, your loyalty, everything they can. You’re young, much younger than their usual students. They know that by the time your exclusive contract runs out, you’ll be so dependent on SCORPIA that you will have nowhere else to go. MI6 needed someone with my background to go undercover but they also needed someone older and settled. It’s too easy to get caught up in that world when you’re young and still trying to figure things out. They’ll vet your assignments, arrange for travel, weapons, and cover identities, they’ll handle your payment … eventually, it’ll feel like just another job.”

Yassen was silent, the way he had been at Malagosto when he considered one of John’s lessons. That was a good sign, at least.

Vanish into Russia, John had told him. Get out of this world. This was no different.

Cool, calculating eyes focused on John again; a glimpse of the man Yassen might one day become. “And if I want to keep doing this without SCORPIA?”

“I would prefer if you didn’t but I’m not going to stop you.” John didn’t like it but Hunter, brutally pragmatic, understood. This was all Yassen had. This was what he had trained for. This was what John Rider’s betrayal had pushed him to. If that was what Yassen wanted, John wasn’t going to stop him. He had already tried once and failed. “It takes a lot more to make it as a freelance operative without that kind of support network than you think, but if you can do it, I won’t stop you.”

Yassen was still for long seconds. “Why?” he finally asked.

“Because I like you and I’ll be damned if I’m letting SCORPIA have you.”

The answer was blunt and honest in a way that SCORPIA had never been. It also seemed to handle what calm logic and reasonable arguments couldn’t.

“… How would we do this, then?” Cautious curiosity, but enough that Hunter knew in that moment that he had won.

“Family makes the best cover. You can pass for a year or two younger. I can bump my age up a bit. Ten years age difference is a bit hard to work with. Put you at eighteen and me at thirty-five, and it’s seventeen years instead. That’s a bit of a young age to have your first kid but not unheard of. You’ll be my son. Alex’s half-brother. Any difference in looks will be credited to your imaginary mother.”

It was a gamble; a big one. John knew Yassen’s history; the bare bones of it at least. If Yassen took the suggestion badly, it could all fail. If he went along with it, though – SCORPIA would be looking for a family with an infant, not a family with a teenage son and a newborn. It would be a lot safer that way for all four of them. If SCORPIA took badly to Yassen’s disappearance, they would be hunting a twenty-year-old young man on his own, not the eighteen-year-old son of a stable, loving family.

Yassen hesitated. John wondered what went through his mind. The family he had lost? That moment of betrayal, when he had realised just where John’s true loyalties lay?

“Yassen.”

Blue eyes met warm brown and John continued. “I won’t apologise for doing my job but that doesn’t mean you were just part of my cover. I trained you the best I could because I wanted you to survive and have a chance, even if you’d end up working against me at some point.”

“You wanted me to leave. I almost did. Then I found that battery in your bag. The Power Plus one.”

John had wondered about that, too. Just how Yassen had found out. Now he knew. He wanted to laugh. “Figures. A damn beginner’s mistake. You could have damned me a dozen times over. SCORPIA would pay a lot to get rid of a mole in my position. Let me do this. I’m not trying to replace your family, I know I can’t, but I can give you a chance. What you choose to do with it, that’s not my business, but let me give you that choice.”

Trust me. Give me the chance.

Silence. The seconds stretched on. John didn’t move and neither did Yassen.

Then, finally -

“… Yes,” Yassen said, and John made a silent promise to prove himself worthy of that trust.

John Rider had money. Not everything he got from SCORPIA ended up in the account MI6 knew about. He had enough hidden funds for new identities that could pass for legitimate. He had enough to get them out of the country and to settle somewhere else. He did not have enough to start over completely from scratch.

John Rider drained two of SCORPIA’s slush funds. Not the ones Hunter might know about, of course. He wasn’t suicidal. He still left Zurich with almost three million in Swiss Franc.

The bank asked no questions. He said the right things, showed the proper authorisation. They didn’t care about anything else.

Someone would probably die for that little slip in security. John couldn’t bring himself to care.

They had decisions to make. A place to settle. John wanted a bit of distance to the Iron Curtain. Italy was out of the question, at least the northern parts. So was France, too close to their original plans.

He kept drifting back to Switzerland. Away from Zurich, of course, and the accounts he had just drained, but SCORPIA would not expect him to stick around even if they figured it out.

… Geneva, maybe. John had never told anyone but he had always liked that part of the world. He suspected Helen would, too.

The day they left was a carefully orchestrated dance. John transferred the money in his official accounts the day before, just before the end of banking hours. The money would pass through several more banks before he picked them up in person in Madrid some four weeks later; a new person with a new identity.

He had almost left them in the bank and written them off as not worth the risk but it wasn’t exactly spare change and it was a matter of principle to him. And he had no way to know if they would need them one day.

The Rider family left for Germany. Yassen met them in Frankfurt.

Five hours, three burned passports, and some new paperwork later, the trail ended for any pursuers they may have had, and the Morrison family left Frankfurt by car, bound for Switzerland.

In one world, a small plane bound for France exploded shortly after take-off in the early hours of a cold April morning. There would be no survivors.

In another, that same morning, Séamus and Caroline Morrison signed the paperwork for a lovely, somewhat secluded house outside of Geneva for themselves and their two sons.

Chapter Text

John Rider left London in the middle of April. He left chaos in his wake.

Ash knew nothing until Tulip Jones arrived and interrupted his Monday morning paperwork. Report after report after report that needed registered and archived and he didn’t see the words any more, just a piece of paper in front of his eyes with JOHN RIDER written on it in sharp letters and the flash of red from Julia Rothman’s dress.

I can be useful to you. Let me prove myself.

It wasn’t even ten. There were already three squashed cigarette butts on his desk, ground spitefully into the wooden surface because fuck you, Blunt. It was not a good day.

Will you kill for us?

Tulip Jones’ arrival in his new, small office – out of the way now that he was useless to MI6 – sent a surge of adrenaline through him. Even that wasn’t enough to clear the memory of Julia Rothman’s voice from Ash’s mind.

This is your assignment.

She closed the door behind her. An office in such a remote corner of the building saw very little traffic in the hallway outside. She wanted privacy, then. She also looked tense. Unhappy.

JOHN RIDER

Did they know? They couldn’t – he had been careful, Julia Rothman had been careful, but maybe it had been a setup, maybe he had missed a bit of surveillance and it hadn’t been Rothman at all but a skilled actor, and -

“John is gone,” Tulip said instead. “He left with Helen and Alex. They flew from Heathrow to Frankfurt Saturday morning but we lost track of them after they landed.”

That wasn’t concern, not in the way Ash would have expected. Tulip and John were friends – John was friends with just about bloody everyone – but that wasn’t friendly concern.

It took long seconds before Ash’s pain-clouded mind caught up and when it did, that concern made terrible sense.

This wasn’t just a recently-retired MI6 agent that had vanished with his family, Ash realised with sudden, sharp clarity through the pain and the doubts and so many regrets.

This was the man who had been SCORPIA’s best assassin during his time with them, and he was now a rogue agent with a forty-eight hour head-start.

Ash stilled.

Had John known? He had to, hadn’t he? Everything had been arranged with MI6, a new life with new identities, and now John was gone. More importantly, Ash realised with a chill – how had he known?

Did John still have contacts with SCORPIA? Had it been pure chance? Or would Julia Rothman reach the logical conclusion and assume that Ash had warned him, deliberately or on accident?

Ash wanted to hyperventilate. Felt his chest tighten, the vice-like grip of panic, and -

“Ash.” Tulip’s voice was deadly serious. “If you know anything …”

He understood there and then that he had a choice to make and he couldn’t afford to get it wrong.

SCORPIA – he had been ready to kill anyone for SCORPIA, angry and bitter and betrayed, but the piece of paper had said JOHN RIDER, and even if Rothman didn’t think he had warned John, what sort of test would they give him instead? They had told him to murder his best friend. What was their back-up idea?

MI6 – Blunt, grey and cold and so fucking condescending that Ash wanted to kill him, and they would want to lock him away for the rest of his natural life if they found out about it if they didn’t just have him conveniently vanish, but …

… Not if Ash played his cards right. Maybe he had fucked up in Mdina but he was still a good intelligence agent. Could he manage to be convincing enough in front of Blunt and Jones? For the chance to pull one over that grey bastard, Ash would give it his damn best.

Ash had heard rumours. He had contacts. SCORPIA was possibly on to John. He’d taken a risk, found those contacts – John was his friend and he owed him for … fuck it, something, he’d think of something – and … that had led him to Julia Rothman and proof that SCORPIA knew John was alive and planned to kill him. Before he could act on his intel, find a way to do it without getting both himself and John killed, John had found out some other way and acted on his own.

Right. That would do. It would have to.

“I want complete immunity and a new identity,” Ash said. “You need to handle the paperwork yourself, you’ve got at least one mole somewhere in this place, and that’s all I’ll say for now. Give me complete immunity and a new start somewhere else, and I’ll give you what I know.”

Tulip’s expression tightened. Ash wasn’t surprised. She would know he wouldn’t have had demands like that unless it was ugly.

Still, she nodded once. Sharply. Ash wasn’t surprised about that, either. They needed his intel. He had gambled on it.

“Agreed.”

SCORPIA would never trust him, not after John’s escape. He’d be lucky if they didn’t shoot him on sight. MI6 it was, then.

Yassen felt awkward in the house. He was twenty and hadn’t had a home or a family since fourteen. He had a place to live – not a home, not yet, but perhaps in time – and people that his paperwork claimed were his relatives but -

- not.

He had looked up to Hunter on Malagosto, the mentor and almost father figure he hadn’t had in years, who might have played a role but still seemed to have genuinely cared about him, and now he had an identity that called John Rider ‘father’.

Yassen didn’t sleep all that well. He didn’t sleep that long to begin with any more, and in a new house, with a new identity, and a whole new life …

“Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, smiles await you when you rise. Sleep, pretty baby, do not cry, and I will sing a lullaby.”

And then there was Alex.

Hunter was gone for the week. There were people to contact and supplies to bring back. Enough to ensure they could have a considerable arsenal in the house. Yassen had stayed behind. Hunter had called it protection. Of his family or Yassen himself, Yassen wasn’t sure. Maybe both. He wasn’t sure what to think about that.

The soft sound of footsteps had drifted up and down the hallway for a while now, followed by the low sound of singing and the occasional small, unhappy sound from the baby. Hunter’s son.

Yassen got out of bed. Slipped soundlessly out the door. Hunter’s wife still glanced over when he appeared.

It felt odd to think about her as ‘Helen’ or ‘Caroline’, much less call her ‘mum’ in public.

Alex was clinging to her shoulder, face pressed against her neck and not quite asleep. She gave Yassen a questioning look but kept up her humming. She didn’t look annoyed at the interruption, just … curious.

Yassen shifted a little, not actually sure what to do.

“… Can I help?” he asked quietly, low enough not to disturb the baby.

Hunter’s wife glanced down at the child. Alex chose that moment to rub his face against her neck and make another unhappy sound.

“… If you would hold him while I make a cup of tea, that would be lovely,” she said. “I think this could take a while.”

Hold him.

Yassen froze for a second at the thought of being responsible for Hunter’s tiny child but then he nodded. Slowly.

Helen smiled slightly. She could probably tell his hesitation. Then she eased Alex over in Yassen’s arms and gently shifted Yassen’s hands around until the baby was settled against his chest, snuggled firmly against him.

It was not the first time Yassen had held him but he couldn’t help the brief flash of panic as Helen vanished downstairs and left Yassen alone with an infant in his arms.

Alex’s hair brushed against his skin, so fine and blond it was almost invisible. Tiny, clenched fists rested on his collarbone, and every light breath was a whisper of warmth against his throat.

Alex made a small sound. Yassen stilled, instant panic back, but Alex seemed content to stay where he was and Yassen relaxed slightly again.

Downstairs he heard quiet sounds from the kitchen as Helen prepared her tea and he glanced down and watched Alex again.

This was the child that had made Hunter call off his undercover mission. This was the child he was willing to let the world burn for. Hunter had been everything SCORPIA had wanted. Intelligent, skilled, lethal and ruthless, and with a chameleon’s ability to fit in anywhere and befriend anyone. Julia Rothman had liked him. Yassen got the impression a lot of the executive board had.

Hunter had been on a fast track to the highest echelons of SCORPIA … and then he had stopped. Not for any worry about his body count, not for the blood on his hands or the assignments he would have to carry out or the risk if he were discovered, but for Alex.

For the tiny baby in Yassen’s arms that Hunter’s wife had trusted him with. For the tiny baby that Hunter had been willing to leave Yassen around, with only his wife to step in if Yassen turned out to be untrustworthy.

Alex made another sound, this one a little more insistent. Yassen pushed the brief panic aside and forced himself to focus instead. He could call for Helen and she could be there, but …

… Hunter had trusted him. They both had.

Yassen hesitated. Then he began to hum, low and careful. He didn’t remember the words and could barely dredge the tune from his memory, but it seemed to be enough.

Alex calmed down again. Pressed himself closer to Yassen.

Long minutes later when Helen returned, two mugs of tea in her hand, Yassen was still humming.

It was June when John picked up the first whispers that there was a prize on Hunter’s head, and he felt the close brush of a scythe. It wasn’t a safe place, being hunted by SCORPIA, but it would have been even less safe to be hunted and not even have known.

He still had his old network. He hadn’t been sure it would be worth the risk but he had decided to keep in touch with it in the end. He was careful, of course, but in that moment every risk had been worth it.

Would MI6 have found out? Would they even have bothered to let John know? And just how long had SCORPIA suspected he was still alive?

Long enough to put a bounty on him, obviously.

John didn’t know how they had discovered it but he had to assume everyone back in London was potentially compromised, including Jones, Ash, and Blunt.

… Including Ian.

Fuck.

“You’ll need to learn self-defence,” John told Helen. He wasn’t sure how he felt about teaching his wife to kill – and she would need to, with the sort of people that might one day target them. His wife was a nurse, care and nurture and life to balance out the darkness of his own career. Now he would need to teach her, too.

Mainly he felt determined. He would do whatever he could to keep his family safe and this was part of it. When Alex was old enough, they would need to train him, too. Whatever it took.

“It would be a shame to waste a live-in instructor,” Helen agreed, and that was all the discussion they needed.

She didn’t have Yassen’s youth or John’s skills and excellent physical condition, but she had one of SCORPIA’s best instructors to teach her and the determination to see it through.

Helen Rider would never be a match for one of Malagosto’s assassins but she would have wiped the floor with a number of intelligence agents John had known.

He was damn proud of her.

“What do you want to do?”

Yassen got the distinct impression that Hunter meant the question a little more long-term than just his immediate plans for the future. He was the first person to ask Yassen that question since Estrov and Yassen wasn’t actually sure what to answer.

“You must have wanted something,” John continued. “No one just wakes up one day and decides to become an assassin.”

They had talked about his past in bits and pieces at Malagosto but that had been to give Hunter an idea of what he had to work with. What he needed to fix to turn Yassen into Cossack, like SCORPIA wanted. This was – different.

Did it even matter? Yassen was a very different person than he had been in Estrov, so long ago. He had followed John Rider away from SCORPIA in a moment of impulsiveness but he was still Cossack. Still the trained killer.

Still the man who had vowed to become the best assassin in the world to prove Hunter wrong about his potential.

“… I wanted to be a helicopter pilot,” Yassen finally said and he wasn’t quite sure what he felt about admitting that out loud.

John made a low, thoughtful sound.

“Useful,” he said, and Yassen should have known better than to expect Hunter to get sentimental about that sort of thing. Even now. MI6 would not have sent someone undercover who did not have that killer instinct and ruthlessness at their core.

“What do you want to do?” John repeated and somehow the question felt different this time.

Yassen couldn’t imagine a normal job. Couldn’t imagine fitting into a normal world with normal people, doing normal small-talk and just – being normal.

He had skills, Malagosto and Hunter had seen to that, and he had no real feelings one way or the other about killing any more. Not since his one, brief return to settle his past in Russia.

It would just be a job. A little more dangerous than most, a little harder to arrange now that he had lost SCORPIA’s vast support network, and a little trickier to avoid the attention of his former masters, but … a job. A well-paid one, and Yassen was still petty and spiteful enough to want to prove that he could do it, he could admit that much to himself.

“It would be a pity to waste the skills I have worked hard to gain.” If there was a challenge in the words, Yassen would never admit to it. Hunter had said he would allow it. Time to put that to the test.

“It’s a lot more difficult as a freelance assassin than your experiences with SCORPIA.” Hunter paused. Looked at Yassen, really looked, and Yassen stared right back.

“I’ll resume your training,” Hunter said abruptly. “You’ll listen, you’ll obey, you’ll learn, and we do this together. If I turn down a job, you listen. No arguments. If you want to do this, you’ll need to be able to figure that stuff out on your own eventually, and the only way to learn is through experience.”

Yassen stilled. “You would let me?”

He hated the faint uncertainty in his voice, hated the part of him that still craved Hunter’s approval, but it also wasn’t the answer he had expected and he was – surprised. Hunter had a family now. A son. That wasn’t the sort of career Yassen expected a family man to have.

“Like you said,” Hunter replied, “it would be a shame to waste those skills.” He paused. “I don’t like it but I’m not going to stop you, Yassen. Just make sure you won’t get yourself killed or lead anyone back to Helen or Alex in the process. Do it right and it pays well. Just have a good cover and an excuse for your income.”

“… Like being a pilot,” Yassen said and realised what Hunter implied.

Hunter shrugged. “It’ll work. Most people don’t know the first thing about pilot salaries, especially not for freelance ones. Me, I think I’ll look into investing. I’ve got some money put aside to work with. It’ll be a decent cover and excuse some travel. Go look into new investment opportunities and all. You’ll need your license, of course.”

“Of course,” Yassen echoed, still a little off-balance from the way the conversation had very much not gone like he expected.

John nodded, seemingly satisfied, and just like that the matter was settled, like it had been nothing more than a discussion about school grades and not resuming a career as a hired killer.

Sometimes Yassen wondered how MI6 had found someone who had fit so effortlessly in with SCORPIA. Sometimes he wondered if MI6 even knew what they had unleashed when they did.

In one world, Yassen Gregorovich became the most lethal weapon in SCORPIA’s considerable arsenal.

In another, Yassen Gregorovich left SCORPIA but spent a lot longer under Hunter’s tutelage. The end result was no less lethal.

“I don’t like this.”

Calm. Even. Helen was probably the most steady, level-headed person John knew and that was part of why he had fallen in love with her in the first place. She had never been fazed by his injuries, never asked for details he couldn’t give, never once let anything come before the well-being of her patient.

It was evening. Alex was finally asleep in his crib, restless from teething. The sun had set. The world beyond the window was the hazy darkness of approaching night.

Her hair glowed golden in the soft light of the bedroom lamp and John reached out to stroke a curl with a gentle touch.

“I know,” he admitted quietly. “I need the skills. I need my network. I need …”

He trailed off, not sure how to explain it. He needed to keep them safe. He couldn’t trust MI6 to do it so there was really no one left. Not without running unacceptable risks. He needed the money from the jobs, he needed to keep his skills honed and his reputation lethal, and he needed access to the network he had slowly built up and which had already saved their lives once when he used those contacts for their new identities.

Did he like the job? Of course not. Did he mind it enough to stop? Not when Alex and Helen’s safety was on the line. Hunter had thrived with SCORPIA for a reason. John would have no qualms about picking right back up where he had left off if it kept his family safe.

His job came with dangers of its own but ignorance and a vain attempt to hide in perfect anonymity would be even worse. This way he would at least be more likely to have advance warning.

Helen reached out and entangled her fingers with his. Her ring caught the light with the motion, gold and a little scratched, a silent witness to the fact that his wife was no fragile flower.

“I wish you didn’t have to.”

Her hand was warm and calloused. He squeezed it slightly. Felt her squeeze back.

“Yeah.” His response was little more than an exhale.

He wished he didn’t have to as well. He wished they hadn’t had to flee London, entirely on their own. He wished MI6 would have done their damn job.

He wished, not for the first time, that he had never agreed to go undercover with SCORPIA.

John Rider wished for a lot of things when he allowed himself to. Most of the time he didn’t. Maybe he wished but he wasn’t about to let that stop him from doing what he had to.

Helen understood everything he didn’t say. He had known she would. She didn’t say anything but melted into his embrace and for a long time they just stood here, her head against his chest and the steady beat of his heart, her hair draped against him and the soft scent of her perfume.

In the crib, Alex stirred and made a small, unhappy sound.

John reluctantly let go of her. “He has great timing,” he murmured, fondly.

Helen squeezed his hand one last time, then let go to see to their son. “I know. He takes after both of us.”

John couldn’t even argue.

Yassen had been starstruck as John Rider’s pupil. It was not an entirely comfortable realisation but it was true. He had admired the man, would have done anything he asked and -

- Maybe it was still not so different, these days. The admiration was still there. Tempered by realism but no less strong.

Hunter was a virtuoso. His art was lethal and violent but his skills were indisputable and all the more so now that he chose his own jobs and his own methods. He was an exceptional sniper, the sort of skill that Yassen strived towards and slowly but steadily approached, and even unarmed, he was a lethal weapon on his own.

“SCORPIA was all about business,” Hunter said. “They trained their assassins just the way they wanted them: all obedience and no imagination. You’ll be on your own. Your reputation will be one of the most valuable things in your arsenal. Consider what you want to be and stick to that. At the end of the day, you still need to be able to look in a mirror.”

All obedience and no imagination.

Yassen wanted to argue. He was one of those assassins. Had been, anyway. Then again, so had Hunter and he had trained a number of students, too. He would know, wouldn’t he?

His doubt must have shown because Hunter sighed.

“SCORPIA handles assignments, paperwork, transportation, weapons, everything. No independent thought or imagination needed. If some of their assassins become a problem, a little too independent or too much of a liability, they’re easy to replace. SCORPIA’s network doesn’t care who the operative is, just that someone is there to carry out the actual assassination. You know the term for that?” Hunter asked bluntly. “Expendable. They’re just another weapon and only slightly harder to dispose of if they become incriminating evidence.”

Against his will, Yassen was reminded of Julia Rothman who had killed Grant for his failure, and Oliver d’Arc who’d made Yassen bury the body as a lesson.

A lot of things felt distant and muted after Sharkovsky, like the memories had been stripped of emotions. Even then he still vividly remembered the blisters on his palms, the dampness of the air and the wet, heavy soil, and the overwhelming knowledge that this was the life of an assassin. Death. Your own or others’, it didn’t matter. In the end it was all the same.

“And you’re different.” The words were pure, spiteful stubbornness, contrariness for the sake of it, and Yassen knew it even as he spoke the words.

Hunter’s only reaction was a wry, amused smile. “Well, I’m certainly not going to do your work for you. When I’m done with your training, you’ll be able to manage all of that with no help from me. Win or lose, Yassen, your life will be your own.”

Deep in Yassen’s chest, some small, neglected part of him slowly uncurled.

He thought it might be hope.

Hunter taught Yassen to survive on his own without SCORPIA’s support or convenient network. SCORPIA had taught him how to kill and escape again, but Hunter taught him everything else that came with it. The bullet or knife was but one moment among weeks or possibly months of work, and Yassen needed to know everything.

Hunter’s wife taught him to survive in other ways.

“I wasn’t just a nurse,” she said matter-of-factly. “I was a nurse in a private hospital, in the ward favoured by special operations for their people. When Alex gets a little older, I’ll look into expanding my skills but there’s still plenty you need to learn.”

Malagosto had taught only the bare necessities of survival. Most of the medical knowledge the school taught was meant to kill or torture, not patch someone back up. Hunter and SCORPIA had taught him to kill. Helen Rider taught him the skills that might one day save his life.

Yassen learned first aid. He learned medical skills. He learned to suture on pig feet and orange peels. Knots and different types and needles and materials -

- “If you have the luxury to be picky, anyway,” Helen conceded and carried right on -

- and anything else he needed to know to patch himself back up. He learned the theories of bullet wounds when they weren’t merely something inflicted on others. He learned about knife wounds and concussions and dislocated limbs. He learned the names and usage of useful drugs, much like Malagosto had taught him about poisons.

Yassen never breathed a word of it but in some ways Hunter’s wife reminded him of a blonde mirror image of Dr Three. Life against death, healing against torture, nurture against the sadist’s delight, but the same relentlessness and the same medical knowledge just put to very different use.

Yassen had once wondered about the small, blonde woman who had come to Paris at six months pregnant for a few, stolen hours with her husband. Living under the same roof taught him fast that she could be every bit as stubborn and ruthless as her husband.

The Morrison family settled down. A well-to-do family in a well-to-do area, Caroline Morrison stayed at home to raise their youngest son and dismissed any well-meaning suggestions that she should hire a nanny and get some time to herself. Séamus became a familiar face in Geneva’s financial circles. A social man, genuinely charming, a little absent-minded but an intelligent investor with a sharp wit, he easily made friends and slipped into professional networks that had been around for years or decades like he belonged there.

No, his oldest son didn’t share his father’s interest in investments but he was still young and deserved the chance to enjoy his freedom a little before adult responsibility beckoned. He wanted to be a pilot, and his parents could afford to pay for it, and it was a nice, respectable job. And if Séamus looked a little sheepish if the age difference between his two sons was brought up, well, no one could blame him. Everyone could do the maths, and Séamus could hardly have been much more than seventeen when he had become a father.

No one doubted the story. The gossip was just too juicy not to share and with every retelling, the story grew that bit more convincing. After a month, it was wonderful gossip. After a year, it would be the widely accepted truth that Séamus Morrison had got a girl pregnant at seventeen but done the responsible thing and raised the boy to the best of his ability and done a damn good job of it.

The Rider family vanished. Yassen Gregorovich became a ghost. And for the first time since London, John Rider breathed just a little easier.

MI6 approached the likelihood of a leak – of multiple leaks – with the seriousness it deserved.

Tulip handled the investigation herself with the help of a few, trusted people she had personally vetted in advance. It was done quietly, without even the whisper of a rumour, and they did not skip a single person on MI6’s payroll, however unlikely their treason might be. It could have been blackmail. It could have been carelessness.

In the end, it turned out to be money. Enough to make most people on an average, modest salary at least pause.

Their leak was a mousy man, meticulous in his work and well-liked if a little dull at times … Tulip had walked past him in the hallways countless times and never really noticed him.

The sheer list of files he had passed on to SCORPIA, though, everything from undercover agents to regular workers, to the leadership, to Tulip’s own family -

She took a sharp breath.

Her husband. Her children.

And SCORPIA knew everything about them. About them, and a number of other vulnerable spots for their higher-ranking people.

She understood in that instant just what John had felt. What had driven him to risk everything on a mad escape, because if SCORPIA knew he was alive, there would have been literally no one he could have trusted. His survival and true loyalty was highly classified information. If that had leaked, there would have been no way to know who to trust.

Tulip’s family would be moved to a safe-house before the end of the day and permanently relocated under new names before the end of the month. They would not be the only ones.

Tulip Jones had Alan Blunt’s assistance and an MI6 that she had personally vetted.

John Rider had had none of that. Only his own resources, his own contacts, his own skills, and they hunted him as a rogue agent for the crime of protecting his family when MI6 could not.

Anthony Howell would get his demands. Tulip’s family would get protection. Their leak would quietly vanish. And somewhere out there, under new names and new identities, John and Helen and Alex were entirely on their own, hunted by SCORPIA and with no one else to trust.

MI6 had learned its lesson. Tulip just wished they had learned it six months sooner.

Chapter Text

MI6 got the first bit of proof that John Rider was still alive in December when the first rumours reached them.

Hunter was active again, now as a freelancer and no longer on SCORPIA’s payroll.

Just as important, Hunter had an apprentice.

Tulip Jones, who had an inch-thick file on John Rider’s career, could fill in the blanks just fine. There was only one apprentice she could imagine he would accept – ignoring, of course, the brief, mad thought that he might have decided to train Helen. Yassen Gregorovich had seemingly vanished from the surface of the earth after Mdina. Now Tulip supposed they knew where he had been.

It also explained how John had known SCORPIA was on to them. If Gregorovich’s loyalty to John was stronger than his loyalty to SCORPIA, even with John’s deception … if Gregorovich had warned him, Tulip would not be surprised if John had taken the boy with him. He’d always had a soft spot for his student and Gregorovich’s file with MI6 was suspiciously bare of any actually useful information. They had never questioned it before – Gregorovich was but one trainee assassin and John had plenty of other information that mattered far more – but now it had become blatantly obvious just how much John had shielded the boy.

John Rider was not a psychopath, MI6 had made absolutely sure of that before they approved the SCORPIA mission. He was a stable, patient individual, he was capable of genuine emotions, he loved his wife, he was loyal to his country, and his men and superiors in the Paras had had nothing but praise for him. It did not change the fact that he still had enough of a psychopath’s traits to thrive in a place like SCORPIA. John Rider was a good man. He was also a cold-blooded killer, callous and skilled enough to charm and befriend anyone and betray them the moment later without a flicker of guilt, and his concern for anyone that wasn’t his immediate family was close to non-existent.

Tulip knew that these days ‘immediate family’ was defined more or less as ‘Helen’ and from what little they had seen, Alex now as well. John had cared about his men in the Paras, he had risked his life to keep them safe, but he wasn’t with the Paras any longer and his time with SCORPIA had changed him. Tulip had genuine doubts that John even cared that deeply about Ian these days.

Maybe Yassen Gregorovich was counted in that small group now. Maybe it was just some sense of obligation because the boy had warned him, but John had made an effort to protect Gregorovich before and that spoke volumes to Tulip now.

John was back to his career as a contract killer. A risky career, but Tulip understood. It paid well, and John had never really liked the thought of a quiet, anonymous life. This career had risks but with Hunter’s reputation it would also offer some protection to Helen and Alex. Few people would want to cross someone like him.

It wasn’t like John was bothered by murder. MI6 would not have sent him undercover with SCORPIA if that had been an issue. And now Hunter was out there, with the best training MI6, SCORPIA, and a military career could offer, and no one to answer to.

Cossack had been lethal in Mdina. Tulip didn’t want to consider what the boy might be like after several more years under Hunter’s wing.

“The kill,” Hunter explained, “is the least of it.”

It was late May and they were in Monaco, two tourists out for a week or two of mindless fun, and Hunter’s appearance matched that perfectly. Khaki slacks, an eyesore of a shirt, sunglasses, and a pair of dusty, worn sandals. Yassen still sometimes had a hard time joining the image that Hunter presented with the lethal assassin that lurked beneath the surface.

Another reason why he was so successful, Yassen knew. It was not about ego. Ego got you killed. Routine got you killed. Showing off got you killed. Hunter adapted to whatever role he had to play, and it mattered nothing to him if the people around him wrote him off as a snob or a tourist or a homeless drunk or whatever other role he had taken on to do his job.

“Anyone can kill a target that’s easy to get to. A few hundred dollars and the right words to the right gangs will buy you a murder. A messy one, sure, and the killer would probably get caught, but the point stands. If you want to make enough of a living from this to survive and afford to retire, you need to be good enough to handle those assassinations that others can’t. SCORPIA will handle the clients and arrange for weapons for most of their assassins, and they’ll charge for it, too, don’t doubt that for a second. I handled things myself, they knew I could, and because of that I kept most of the payment and the ability to survive alone.”

The Mediterranean Sea shimmered bright blue beyond the buildings and the harbour and the expensive yachts. The sun was pleasant, the sky clear, and the whole thing looked like a postcard to Yassen. A perfect little place for those with the money to afford it.

… Or not so perfect, perhaps, given the amount of money someone had offered to see their target dead. How much did SCORPIA make from their own assassins? How much of that pay did they keep themselves? Yassen had never considered it. He supposed it made sense. SCORPIA did nothing for free; they had not been so helpful to their assassins because they were good, kind people. He had been a fool for not looking past the well-oiled machine he had become part of.

“Take our target,” Hunter continued. “Lovely villa with a view of the sea, lots of room, nice and secluded. Bulletproof windows if he’s got any sense after the last assassination attempt, of course. Assume they’re bulletproof even if you can’t prove it; never trust on luck to see you through.”

Ironic words from a man said to have the luck of the devil but Yassen didn’t say so. Hunter had not survived through luck alone. Perhaps luck had carried him through where others might have died, but he had not survived on that alone.

“No proper sniper spots less than half a mile away and even with that one, you need to be one hell of a marksman to work with the angles you’re given and still avoid unwanted attention. Heavy security, no way to get to his cars, and while grenades and explosives in general will certainly give a nice big boom, they’re notoriously unreliable for individual targets.”

Yassen nodded. “So what approach will we use, then?”

Hunter smiled, a sharp thing with an undercurrent of the killer that he was. “The sniper spot, of course. You need to be one hell of a sniper to work with it. There’s a reason no one has spotted that weakness before. It’ll take a bit of planning and a lot of waiting but I think the pay will be just about worth it.”

Yassen had no idea of what the job paid. Based on Hunter’s reaction, he assumed it was quite the acceptable fee.

Alex had learned to walk in January. By August, a year and a half old, he could run. Yassen didn’t remember much about small children from Estrov but he wondered if all toddlers were quite that … suicidal.

Alex Rider had been a hazard to himself from the moment he learned to crawl, walking really hadn’t improved on that, and now that he had learned to run, Yassen wondered how any children survived to grow up.

The house had been toddler-proofed to the best of their ability. That only meant that Alex had to put a marginal bit of effort into endangering himself.

“He’s learning,” Helen said after she caught Alex the moment before he could face-plant in a flowerbed. The roses, of course, not the much softer asters. She seemed to have a sixth sense for her son’s taste for trouble. “Children take a while to learn self-preservation.”

Alex squirmed out of her grip, spotted Yassen, and immediately held up his arms.

“Mine!” he demanded firmly.

Yassen felt his lips twitch but obeyed. The child was getting heavy but it was still no problem to lift him high enough to settle him on his shoulders. Small hands gripped Yassen’s own but there was no fear or tension. Just an utter trust in Yassen’s ability to keep him safe.

Yassen still wasn’t sure what to make of that sometimes. He had seen the child grow from restless baby to energetic toddler and even then … sometimes that unwavering trust still caught him wrong-footed. He was a killer. Hunter was a killer. How long would that unwavering trust in them remain? Yassen didn’t want to consider it.

“I’ll make some lunch,” Helen said. There was a ghost of fond amusement in her voice. “He’ll be hungry soon enough.”

Yassen nodded. Alex tugged insistently on his hand and Yassen obediently followed directions as they began their tour of the garden and Alex watched from his vantage point.

Eventually, reality would intrude. For now, Yassen had a toddler to entertain.

Yassen was twenty-two the first time Hunter let him go on a job alone. He still looked over Yassen’s plans and all his research first, but he allowed him to go.

It felt … very different from his graduation with SCORPIA, Yassen decided. It was no less of a turning point but he had several years of training compared to mere months and Hunter’s education had been thorough.

Yassen felt calm. Confident. Not overconfident, Hunter had made sure to stop that in its tracks, but prepared. He treated the job with the seriousness it deserves and never once let down his guard, and he returned two weeks later to Hunter’s calm approval.

“It’s not the sort of thing anyone should congratulate you for,” he said when Yassen had settled down and Helen had sent Alex to bed. “But you did well. A good, clean job. Don’t get cocky, don’t start to slack, don’t believe your own reputation, and never ignore your instincts. Listen to that, and you’ll do just fine.”

“Just like that?” That sounded – strangely simple.

Hunter shrugged. “I trust you to stay alive. The rest is stuff you need to learn on your own through practical experience. No one can teach you that sixth sense, only experience will do that. Just don’t get killed. Alex would never forgive you, and I’d have to hunt down whoever did it.”

SCORPIA wouldn’t have bothered. SCORPIA wouldn’t have cared, just that they had lost a useful weapon, not about Yassen himself.

He didn’t say thank you. With Hunter, he doubted he needed to, either.

The Berlin Wall fell in November of eighty-nine.

John Rider watched from the comfort of their Geneva home as world politics shifted. It did not come without warning – there had been unrest in the Eastern Bloc for months, for years – but the sheer speed was beyond anything he had expected.

Alex was asleep. On their TV, reports from Berlin ran across the screen over and over again.

None of them spoke. Helen watched as he did, with the somewhat distant fascination of someone who knew they saw history in the making but had no personal investment in it. John had only ever briefly been on the wrong side on the Iron Curtain on MI6 business. Helen had never been closer than Frankfurt.

Yassen, though …

John glanced over but the kid’s expression was unreadable. There was something in his eyes, though, a ghost of dark satisfaction, and John thought he understood.

The regime in Moscow had taken everything from Yassen. His parents, his family, his home, his friends. His name. His very identity. Yasha Gregorovich did not exist, nor did Estrov, or any of the hundred or more unfortunate souls who had lived there once.

And now the Wall had fallen. The regime would fall with it. History had shifted.

It wasn’t all good, of course. Political upheaval like that meant competition. The bastards on SCORPIA’s executive board had been right when they saw the writing on the wall and left to create their own lucrative futures, but most others probably hadn’t even suspected something that monumental and certainly not that swiftly.

There would be competition, a lot of trained killers from the Eastern Bloc that no longer had a powerful government to sponsor them or who simply saw a lucrative career in the West, and he needed to be aware of that. Him and Yassen both.

Some of that competition would be killed fast enough, too used to government backing to manage alone. SCORPIA and her like would recruit some of them. A few would be skilled and stubborn enough to remain freelance.

For now, though, John simply watched as the future changed.

With sudden, easy access to the Soviet Union, the criminal world around John and Yassen saw a flood of weapons on the market. Killers, too, like John had predicted, but unlike those, that sudden, easy access to Soviet supplies was a welcome change.

It had never been an issue to get what they needed but John always appreciated alternatives and sometimes a Soviet weapon just made a different sort of statement.

Much more important to John, though, was the disappearance of Nikita Zhernakov, one of the twelve founding members of SCORPIA.

The details were scarce. The man had vanished without a trace and while he was presumed dead, no one actually had any proof. If SCORPIA did, or it had been an inside job, John heard nothing about it, not even a whisper.

John didn’t know the current state of the executive board. He wasn’t up to date on SCORPIA politics. He had no idea of what the man had even been working on.

What mattered was that SCORPIA’s board was down to eleven and that Zhernakov’s disappearance would hopefully give them something else to focus on. And if the political unrest in the Eastern Bloc would get a few more of them killed, well, John wouldn’t complain.

Helen and Yassen never acted like mother and son. No one ever questioned it and Helen wasn’t surprised. On paper she was James’ stepmother, a woman who had only entered his life when he was twelve. The age difference between Séamus and James was small enough that they acted more like brothers than father and son at times and Caroline was in many ways more the older sister to James than the mother she was to Alex.

She suspected Yassen was much more comfortable with that role, too. There was a childhood of trauma hidden beneath Yassen’s unruffled exterior, a thousand reminders of the family he had lost, and Helen had no intention of trying to replace his parents. They had died to give their son a chance to survive. Helen did what she could to help him live now.

John believed they owed Yassen their lives. Helen was inclined to agree. Even if she hadn’t, this was still the young man – boy – that John had taken under his wing, the boy who had covered for them in Paris, the young man who had become Alex’s brother in every way that mattered, and she genuinely cared about him.

It was an odd life they led now but one she had slowly grown used to. Her job and marriage to John Rider meant she knew how to keep secrets and to live a lie. Their years in Geneva had given her enough practice that it had become her new state of normal.

From the outside, they were a normal family. Not quite the perfect nuclear family like most around – though a lot was appearances; Helen was observant enough to have picked up on quite a few issues in their social circle – but good enough to fit in.

Those things that wouldn’t quite match the image they worked so hard to keep up … well. No one had to know about those.

The safe room in the basement. The weapons in every room. The extensive surveillance and security. The packed bag ready to grab if they had to leave at a moment’s notice; documents and papers, two guns and ammunition, any necessary medicine, and enough cash to last them for at least a month. That bag was checked every two months at a minimum; as was the bag in the car with a change of clothes, food, snacks, and water, and extra weapons and ammunition.

John Rider never forgot what sort of people might one day target them. Neither did Helen or Yassen.

John ran into the first serious conflict of interests almost five years after he left London and MI6 behind. He had known it was only a matter of time. With his old life on one side and John himself on … well, whatever side paid him, it had been unavoidable.

The meeting took place in a mostly deserted East German village. Well, simply German now, John’s mind added. The Wall was a thing of the past but the marks it had left still lingered. He would have called it the height of stupidity to meet with a Soviet defector on Soviet soil -

- Russian, Russian defector, on Russian soil -

- But it was also the sort of audacity that would make most other sensible people write it off as an option.

John supposed it was as good of an idea as any other, except that the mission was compromised. That happened, intelligence work was never safe. Maybe someone had tattled, maybe someone had been careless, maybe it had been pure, dumb luck. What mattered was that someone had found out in enough time to hire Hunter – barely, it had been a tight schedule, and he had charged for that kind of risk – and late January found him watching a rundown little German village through the scope of a high-end sniper rifle from a significant distance away.

It was right on the limit for the sort of shot even Hunter could manage but he didn’t dare move closer. The place was too quiet, too deserted. Any closer and he might very well not be able to get away again.

Hunter had the file on the Russian target and recognised the man even through the slight disguise someone had attempted. Dyed hair and the lack of a beard was not enough to change the target’s features all that much.

The MI6 agents had been unknown to the client but John recognised the primary one immediately.

Ian Rider had barely bothered with a disguise as well and something in John flared dark and angry. Four years after John had been forced to go underground with his family, had been forced to leave everything behind just for a chance to survive, and Ian still treated the whole thing like a god damn game.

It didn’t change John’s objectives. Kill the defector. Kill as many people with him as possible. John assumed Ian would be smart enough to take cover after the first shot. It wouldn’t even look suspicious when John failed to target him, then.

John didn’t recognise the other agents and he wasn’t sure that would actually have stopped him, anyway. He just focused on the small group of people, found his primary target, and rested his finger lightly on the trigger.

Someone had grown lax about security since the Iron Curtain fell. John doubted that would be the case for much longer.

Ian Rider returned home after extensive debriefings. The past four days had been a disaster, starting with their mission. They had lost their contact, most of their people at the meeting, the intel they were supposed to get, and they had no idea who had been behind it or why. Russian agents? Private ones? They had found no evidence, no trace, nothing.

He opened the mailbox, still lost in thought. As a result, it took him a few seconds to spot the postcard.

Ian hesitated. Picked it up after long seconds and recognised the image immediately. Berlin. The same city he had just flown out of. The handwriting on the back was achingly familiar, too.

I did the brotherly thing this time. Get that careless again, and next time I’ll take the shot.

It came back in a flood; adrenaline and fear and panic, blood and failure and death and Ian took a deep breath. Slow. Steady. Breathed out again, a little calmer.

Maybe he had been a little too careless. Maybe he had been a little too drunk on the easy of their mission until then. He didn’t know how John had found them, he didn’t know who had hired him – and his brother was one of the best contract killers in the world, fucking hell – but someone had fucked up.

Ian burned the postcard but kept the warning.

Yugoslavia disintegrated in slow motion. It came with more warning than the fall of the Berlin Wall had and took somewhat longer but it would be no less of a headache for John and Yassen in some ways.

More competition. More uncertainty as the criminal underworld adjusted to the sudden influx of uprooted criminals and new opportunities. War was profitable but John stayed clear of it and had made sure Yassen knew to do the same. The risks were too large for a single foreigner, the situation too unstable.

Eventually things would settle down. The underworld would find a new balance. Weapons and other supplies would find an easy market, much like things from the former Soviet Union had done after the Wall.

John watched. Then he went back to work. Yugoslavia would sort itself out or it wouldn’t. Whatever the outcome, they were far enough away that it didn’t matter.

Ian could go save the world. John Rider had a family to protect.

Chapter Text

Séamus Morrison travelled often. His wife was used to it.

John and Yassen rarely worked together any more and Helen was faintly amused that they seemed to make a point that at least one of them was around on a regular basis. She didn't mind. She understood the long weeks and months away, just as she understood why they were a little protective, and the company was nice. She did have their social circle and the parents of Alex's playmates for company, but it was nice to have someone around she didn't have to lie to.

It was a bright, sunny April afternoon when Helen heard the door open and the soft, familiar sounds of her husband's footsteps across the hardwood floors. Strong arms wrapped around her and warm lips pressed a kiss against her neck.

"Missed you," John murmured into her hair.

Helen entwined her hand with his but didn't look away from the wide double doors. Yassen was outside, Alex carried on his shoulders as they enjoyed the warm spring sun. Her sons. Or her son and whatever Yassen was comfortable with. He deserved much better than what he had been given and Helen's heart hurt for the orphan he had become and the years of pain that had followed. It was too easy to see Alex in his place.

Yassen shifted his grip. Pretended to almost drop the child on his shoulders. Alex shouted but there was laughter in his voice. 

It was warm enough for t-shirts. Warm enough for shorts. Helen suspected she would miss the winter cold again before summer even started.

"I expect you to be home in October," she said, less of a request and more a statement of fact.

"Hmm?"

"I would like you to be home for the birth of our child." She was three months along. John had just left on his most recent job when she had confirmed it. Five long weeks later, he was finally home again to share it with in person. It had been a painful echo of his months undercover in MI6's service and the wall of classified that had surrounded them.

John stilled against her. For long seconds, the only movement was the soft heat of his breath against her neck.

"We're having a baby," he finally said, a low note of wonder in his voice.

MI6 had robbed Helen of the chance to see his reaction to her first pregnancy in person. This time they couldn't. His grip tightened slightly, at once both infinitely gentle and tight enough that she suspected he never wanted to let her go again, and his other hand drifted down to rest against her stomach.

There were so many things he had missed out on the first time. John hadn't been there when she had first stared at the positive pregnancy test, hadn't been there the first time she felt Alex kick, hadn't been there to hear his heartbeat for the first time, hadn't been there to help prepare Alex's nursery. This time – this time he would be.

"I'm due on the eighth," she said. She expected he could do the mental maths about events leading up to that just as well as she could. Mid-January. Right before he had left on a job on short notice, and things hadn't quieted down much since.

"I'll be home so much, you'll get sick of me," John promised.

Helen smiled, a little wryly. "That's the morning sickness."

Another thing he had missed out on the first time; stupid little things she suddenly couldn't eat or couldn't live without, the urge to turn around and make a joke about how much milk she was drinking but there hadn't been anyone there, and in that moment she hated Alan Blunt with an anger she hadn't felt in years.

She tensed slightly, the only reaction she showed. John still picked up on it and his grip eased slightly, carefully, like he was worried he had held her too tightly.

"Okay?"

"Just – Blunt."

Helen didn't offer details. With John, she didn't need to.

"Yeah." His answer was little more than a breath. Helen had missed out on a lot during her first pregnancy. John, deep undercover with SCORPIA and one mistake from death – he had risked the one meeting, the few hours all they could afford, and then he had been forced to lock it all away again. Helen had been well into her third trimester before John had been able to allow himself to embrace the fact that he was about to be a father.

For a while they just stood there, the two of them, and watched as Yassen carried Alex around the garden and looked like nothing more than a pair of brothers. Finally John broke the silence.

"So I'm thinking camo for the nursery."

"Don't even try it."

John laughed, open and genuine, and a small part of Helen that she had carried with her since Paris finally started to heal.

Alex took the news well enough. A little impatient – nine months was forever to a five-year-old – and a little baffled but mostly he was immensely proud that he was about to be a big brother.

Immensely proud and – much to Helen's fond amusement – immensely protective, too. He brought her water, he left a mountain of pillows on her bed, and when he apparently decided she had been on her feet for too long, his disapproving look reminded her so much of her own expression that she wasn't sure if she should hug him or laugh.

She settled for both and carried on like she always had.

John hovered when he was home. Yassen was almost as bad. Helen Rider, endlessly pragmatic, just let them.

In one world, Ian Rider left a five-year-old Alex Rider alone with a housekeeper for three weeks for the first time.

In another, Alex Morrison watched his newborn little sister in her crib. He was a little underwhelmed. Matilda Morrison had spent most of the time so far sleeping and eating.

"You weren't much bigger than that when I saw you the first time," James told him.

Alex glanced over. His brother was home for a whole month to meet the new member of the family and help out. Alex mainly cared that he was back. James was the coolest brother ever.

"She's tiny."

"You were, too," James said. He offered Matilda his little finger and she latched on to it without ever opening her eyes. "She'll need you to watch out for her."

Alex peered a little closer at her. She still looked tiny to him but he guessed that made sense. She was his little sister, after all. That was all right, then. He was a big brother now and he was going to be as awesome as it as James was.

Séamus Morrison was a devoted father, adoring husband, and competent investor. He made enough to pay for their house, for an expensive private preschool for their youngest son, and for his wife to stay at home, first with their son and now with their newborn daughter … which, in their social circles, made them solidly middle class.

He was a charming man with a keen sense of humour, helpful and generous … and he was also, it was generally agreed, probably the most absent-minded person in Geneva. Vacations were planned at the last moment -

("Well, we don't know where we want to go until then, anyway, so it would be a waste to plan it sooner. And you know I can never make up my mind. Caroline is a saint, she really is.")

- He was either ridiculously early or embarrassingly late -

("I just wanted to be sure I was there on time. There was construction work last time, you know, and it took forever to find a way around."

"… It was one street that was closed. One. You've lived here for five years!")

- And he was only a casual acquaintance of 'sense of direction'.

("You've driven here at least weekly for years."

"I thought I was supposed to turn left. I did last time."

"You got lost last time, too."

"… I got there eventually. You know, I found this lovely cafe on the way; you should visit it one day.")

He was, however – as it was also agreed – very good with numbers. It took him three months to remember the names of his son's best friends, but he could rattle off the exchange rates of about a dozen different currencies and had anniversary presents planned for his wife at least three years in advance.

("It's customised; all very lovely. There's a waiting list, though."

"For two years?"

"… It's Caroline's favourite.")

It was also generally agreed that Caroline Morrison was quite possibly the most patient woman in all of Switzerland.

It was always bemusing to Yassen to visit the Rider family in Geneva. He had embraced his own new identity as James Morrison but Hunter, Hunter seemed to delight in being the harmless, absent-minded family man.

It was an excellent cover. A touch of plastic surgery – enough to change his appearance slightly but still keep it obvious he was Alex's father; enough to change his fingerprints – and a solid backstory. Yassen, a trained killer himself, recognised the coiled predator lurking right beneath the surface but he doubted most others would ever suspect a thing.

Séamus Morrison was a harmless man. Charming and sporty, genuinely kind, and couldn't hurt a fly. Hunter beneath, every bit as lethal as the first time Yassen had seen him … Hunter still watched and waited, ready to act in an instant.

"You never tire of the disguise," Yassen observed.

Hunter shrugged. "It's an easy one. You can make up a ton of excuses why you don't want to share your holiday plans or travel the same route or be predictable, or you can be an easily distracted geek, more focused on his investments and numbers than silly little real world obligations like arriving on time or figuring out the way to the nearest grocery store. Séamus is harmless. No one looks twice at him. He bears some superficial resemblance to Hunter but he's greying, his nose and cheek bones are a different, and his body language takes care of any lingering suspicions."

Yassen supposed that made sense. Helen had adapted easily and Alex and Matilda had known nothing else. Yassen himself wouldn't have the patience to keep up that sort of pretence but then, Hunter was a very different person, too. There had been a reason why he had been so successful as an undercover agent.

Hunter gestured towards the intricately carved wooden cabinet in the corner of the office. "Now grab a glass and tell me what you've been up to."

Predictable. Familiar. Yassen didn't mind. Just picked a bottle of good whiskey, poured a glass, and settled down for the afternoon.

Alex Rider was barely six years old when he learned to shoot.

It was not something Helen approved of. It wasn't something she was about to veto, either. Their small sanctuary had never been a permanent thing. Sooner or later, someone would find them, and while she desperately hoped he would never need to know how to handle a weapon, she also knew there were no guarantees in their situation. If nothing else, he had to learn to respect the weapons they kept in the house, even if they were well out of reach of curious, young hands.

Any one of them could have taught him. Even Helen was a competent shooter these days. In the end, though, the job fell to John.

The shooting range was silent. It was a small, private one, and they were entirely alone. They wanted no distractions and it had been no issue to pay for a few hours to themselves before it would normally open on a perfectly ordinary, quiet Tuesday. They would arrange for the same once or twice a month until Alex was comfortable with a gun, then however often it would take to keep that training sharp.

Helen watched from behind heavy glass, Yassen by her side, as John patiently went over gun rules and safety and showed Alex how to take the gun apart before he ever made even a single step towards actually firing it. She couldn't hear anything, the sound-proofing good enough that even the actual gunshots would be muted, but John had taught her to shoot as well. She knew how it went.

Matilda was asleep in a sling, snuggled against her mother's chest. Helen had wanted to be there with Alex, some silent acknowledgement that while she didn't like it, she still supported it, but she hadn't been willing to leave Matilda with a nanny, either. It had been different back in London with Alex. Now, in Geneva and hunted by … more people than Helen liked to consider, Alex hadn't left her side until he started preschool. It would be the same with Matilda if Helen had anything to say about it.

For now, though, Matilda's soft breaths were a quiet reassurance. A reminder that for now, they were safe. For now, Alex's lessons were just a precaution.

It was a little strange to watch from the outside and remember her own lessons. John had taught at SCORPIA's assassin school, too. She wondered what he had been like back then. She got the impression that his students had looked up to him, but assassins had very different standards than the rest of the world.

"I was eight when I first fired a gun."

Yassen's quiet voice broke the silence. Helen knew snippets of his past, bits and pieces he had shared over the years, but this was new to her. She didn't rush him. Yassen rarely spoke of his childhood. If he wanted to now, she would do what she could to encourage it, even if that meant to simply just listen.

"Military training was compulsory in school."

Somehow, Helen was not surprised. She tried to imagine Yassen at eight, blond and blue-eyed and so awfully young, and the image of him with a gun felt almost painful. It was bad enough to see Alex learn. That, at least, was something they all hoped he would never need. Yassen and everyone else in his school had prepared for war.

A heartbeat. Another. The seconds stretched on. Helen wondered what Yassen saw as he watched the lesson. The differences between military training and the assassin's lethal skills now put to use to teach a child how to shoot.

"My best friend could strip down an AK-47 in twelve seconds. He could reassemble it in fifteen. He cared little about school but he was very good with guns."

Silence. Something told Helen he wasn't done and so she didn't speak but merely watched her son and her husband. The gun, a perfect fit for Helen's hand, looked enormous in Alex's, and her heart twisted both for Alex and the child that Yassen had been. Her hand drifted to stroke Matilda's hair reassuringly, soft and fine under her touch.

"… He died of anthrax," Yassen finally said. "We escaped the soldiers. We could not escape the spores."

We. Yassen, with the experimental vaccine in his blood, had lived. His friend had not. If they had fled together, Yassen had very likely seen him die. Helen had enough medical experience to be able to imagine that in awful detail. Most likely the two of them had been the same age. Fourteen. No more than children.

She didn't ask. She knew he wouldn't answer. If Yassen Gregorovich wished to talk, he did so in his own time.

Instead, she spoke herself.

"I had already worked in the classified hospital ward for several years when I met John. We had an agent admitted with acute radiation syndrome. We never heard the details but the exact circumstances wouldn't have mattered much, anyway. We did everything we could. That only meant that it took him a week to die, and not just a few days."

There had been no visitors beyond MI6. No cards, no flowers. No worried loved ones. No one who knew the truth. No one but MI6 and those few people who had cared for him in his last days.

"The official cause of death was a boating accident. Lost at sea, the body never recovered. I never found out if he had family. Most field agents don't, but …"

She trailed off and didn't need to finish the sentence. One of the exceptions to that rule was right in front of them, teaching his son the correct way to handle a gun.

Helen's hand drifted down to rest on Matilda's back and hold her a little tighter. If John had been killed on some mission or another, she doubted they would have ever been told the truth. She would never have believed whatever explanation they would have been given, however realistic it might have sounded. She had too much experience with the intelligence world for that. Though at least MI6 didn't wipe out entire villages to hide their crimes.

In a perfect world, Yassen would still have his parents and his best friend. In a perfect world, they would still have lived in London, John and Alex and Matilda and her, and MI6 would have been something from spy books and films and not the entity that ruined their lives. In a perfect world, Alex would never have needed to touch a gun. In a perfect world, there would have been no SCORPIA, no Alan Blunt, no Hunter and Cossack.

A decade ago, maybe Helen would have allowed herself to linger on the thought. These days, older, harder, and far more pragmatic, she pushed the fleeting thought aside again. They couldn't afford the should-have-beens. Whatever it took, her family would be safe. That was all that mattered.

Like most intelligence agencies, MI6 had assassins on staff. It was an unpleasant truth, perhaps, but also a simple matter of convenience and national security. Tulip had been responsible for the section – small, isolated, and heavily classified – for eight years and that was part of why she had been made John Rider's handler as well. In another year or so, she expected Agent Crawley to be able to take over and ease the workload that had been part of the package as Alan Blunt's deputy. For now, the man remained her shadow as he learned the ropes and Tulip, like it or not, was MI6's final authority on their in-house 'consultants'.

It also gave her the unusual ability to, every once in a while, tell Alan Blunt no.

"We don't have the necessary skill on staff." Tulip didn't bother to be diplomatic about it. Alan was not a man who appreciated wasted time. "It is an exceptionally good opportunity and we likely won't get it again, but that doesn't change the fact that we don't have anyone good enough for the job."

Alan blinked, the only reaction he bothered with. The rest of him was as grey as his office and only years of experience and a sharp eye let Tulip read him well enough to spot a flicker of – something. Not annoyance, he rarely bothered with that, either, but … something along those lines, perhaps.

"We did not train them for mediocrity."

Part annoyance, part displeasure in Alan Blunt terms. Tulip expected their instructors would be summoned for a meeting soon, though she planned to stop that line of thought before it could go any further. Their instructors had done their best. They couldn't work miracles.

"You're not asking for competence. You're asking for skills and training possessed by perhaps a dozen assassins in the world, not counting those employed by other agencies. Most of those are either employed by another organisation or are at the very least on retainer for one."

"Agent Russell?"

"In another two or three years, maybe." Tulip could be as blunt as Alan himself. She had high expectations of Russell and he had impressed her so far, but he still had years to go. "It's not just training. It's adaptability, personality, and experience. We suspect Usenko is SVR. We never had solid proof he was KGB but the likelihood is there. Even with their training, it took ten years to reach that level of skill and instinct for the job. Very few reach such skill on their own. Heron? SCORPIA. Cypress? Glaive. Manansala? Winston Yu's snakehead. You're not asking for an agent trained for assassination. You're asking for the sort of skills that go for millions."

Silence. The faint annoyance lingered, then faded and left nothing but grey behind. Tulip didn't speak but let Alan consider the situation. Finally he spoke.

"I expect you have an alternative, then."

Alan Blunt wanted potential solutions from his closest people, not helplessness in the face of adversity. Tulip was used to that, too.

"John Rider." Alan did not speak and Tulip continued. "He has the skills, he's reliable, and he is perhaps the only one of that calibre that we can state with absolute certainty is genuinely independent. Cossack, perhaps. He's skilled but not quite at John's level yet. Offer the job to John. Make sure the payment is suitable. It will still be less than the cost of several dead agents or the political fallout if we're caught assassinating foreign politicians."

Tulip wondered what went through Alan's mind at the reminder. John Rider – Hunter – was still a sore spot for Tulip sometimes. She wondered if Alan had enough emotions to feel the same. A sore spot of conflicting emotions; sometimes the pang of betrayal, sometimes the muted ghost of failure, but mostly just weariness. There had been a lot of mistakes made, most of them by MI6.

The seconds ticked on. The silence in the office would have been suffocating if she hadn't been used to it. Finally he nodded. Once, but all Tulip needed.

"Approved."

The first time MI6 hired John felt – odd.

A little weird, a little awkward, a little pensive. A little like he was finally, permanently closing the last open door to his past. It hadn't been open on more than a crack for years, anyway, but it had still been there. The tiny thought that if everything went completely wrong, maybe MI6 was still an option.

Maybe they still were but he wasn't John Rider, star MI6 agent any more. The person that MI6 had hired was Hunter, one of the best assassins in the world and one of the very few freelance ones of his level. That list pretty much came down to him and Yassen.

They knew who he was, of course. That didn't make it any less weird. Still, it was just a business transaction. Be cautious, be suspicious, never let down your guard. MI6 was just as capable of betraying him as any other client.

Hunter took the job.

Chapter Text

SCORPIA remained a constant worry in John's mind. The prize on him remained as it was, flatteringly and inconveniently large. It didn't increase, which at least implied they weren't actively hunting him, but it didn't go away, either. Not that John had expected it. He had thoroughly screwed over the executive board. Even if revenge wasn't a factor, and it most definitely was, the fact remained that SCORPIA could not afford to let him get away with that. Not without giving an impression of weakness they couldn't risk.

SCORPIA's bounty was the largest but it was by no means the only one these days. Any sufficiently skilled assassin made enemies. Often it wasn't even personal but simply that he was a danger, or in some assassins' cases that they worked for a competitor. It also meant that he got tangled up in politics despite his best efforts to avoid it. Glaive had started to court him – patient and low-key, but they still made no secret of the fact that they would offer him a generous retainer's fee. Several drug cartels had tried the same, though he suspected they wanted his reputation more than his skills. John had turned them all down, very carefully and extremely politely, and that seemed to have gone all right. An assassin with a large organisation to back them could afford to make enemies, though it still wasn't wise. Someone genuinely freelance like John … well. His experiences with SCORPIA's executive board politics came in handy, if nothing else.

It would be a lie to say he wasn't tempted by some of those offers. Companies like Glaive could offer protection of Helen and Alex and Matilda that John couldn't on his own. Unfortunately, it would also mean getting tangled up in not just his own politics but those of his backer as well, and SCORPIA was growing into a behemoth that few were willing to cross. SCORPIA was not currently hunting him. He had no delusions that things would stay that way if he joined up with one of their competitors. An independent contractor was one thing. A competitor … SCORPIA's reputation wouldn't allow it to pass unpunished.

So John kept up the careful balancing act and almost unavoidable drew Yassen in with him.

Cossack at twenty had been a promising student and future assassin but SCORPIA had dozens of those. Cossack at twenty-six, far more skilled and with six years of experience and Hunter's training to draw on … that Cossack was a valuable asset, and people knew it. John was not particularly surprised, then, when Yassen settled down in his study, a peculiar look on his face, and opened the conversation with the words John had almost expected to hear sooner or later.

"SCORPIA contacted me. They offered to wipe the slate clean. No debt, no exclusive contract, no resentment, but an offer to return to their employment on good terms and on generous conditions."

"For what it's worth, I'd say they mean it," John said, his voice carefully neutral. Yassen did not take well to being pushed, perceived or otherwise, and certainly not when there was so much baggage to deal with. He didn't think Yassen was interested but that didn't mean he couldn't have a lot of conflicting emotions about it. Helen and Alex and Matilda and John himself was family to Yassen these days, but SCORPIA's offer was security.

And, John knew just as well – if Yassen turned it down, they would not take it kindly. Yassen had to know that, too.

"I betrayed them." Yassen's voice gave little away. Mostly thoughtfulness as he worked through all the implications.

Which was true, John knew, but 'SCORPIA does not forgive' was only true to a certain extent. The board could be pragmatic people, too.

"When it all comes down to it, you were twenty and my student. They want revenge on me more than they want to be petty about you, and even more, they want a share of the profits. If they can get you back, on good terms and working for them – your reputation has already grown by magnitudes. Another five years, and I expect you'll be among the best in the world. Better than me. Better, I think, than any of the biggest players right now. SCORPIA knows that. You're valuable, Yassen. Extremely so. With their extensive influence and your skills, it would child's play to move you into position as the best assassin in the world. They would claim a percentage to send clients your way – probably a very reasonable percentage, too, to keep you happy – which would generate a nice, steady profit, with little risk or effort required. Far more valuable would be the boost to their own reputation that would give them. The chance to strike at me by luring my apprentice and former partner back to their service is just a bonus."

Silence settled. Yassen didn't speak but worked quietly through John's words. He was a clever kid – and sure, he was twenty-six already, but John doubted Yassen would ever stop being a kid to his mind – but he didn't have the extensive experience with mercenary politics that John did. He didn't have the personality for it, either, though John was sure he could learn if he had to. Yassen was an immensely practical person. Sometimes he forgot just how much people like SCORPIA's executive board or the upper echelons of the intelligence world revelled in their games.

"And I'm sure they would conveniently forget to mention that my first target would be you."

Yassen's tone of voice would reveal nothing to an outsider and barely more than that to John, but it was still enough. Annoyance. Faint disgust. Yassen Gregorovich had little patience for politics and even less respect for those who thrived on that sort of thing.

"To be fair, it probably wouldn't be. They'd want you happy to work for them. Maybe they would offer the job some years down the line, but most likely not. Not unless you in some way indicated you might want it. They're courting you, Yassen. Not the other way around. They won't risk anything to mess that up."

"Unless I refuse, of course."

John shrugged. That went without saying.

"You'll be a target no matter what. Right now it's partially because of me. In five, ten years, when I retire, you'll be enough of a threat on your own that I'll be just a footnote in your file. No, SCORPIA won't take kindly to your refusal, but that goes for anyone they try to court. If you're good enough to be worth that kind of effort, you're enough of a danger to be worth taking out if you refuse, even without the implied insult. They can afford to be polite about our association. They're still hunting me but not actively so since I haven't done anything to cross them since I left. If that stays the case, they'll probably quietly stop the hunt when I retire. Write me off and just pretend it never happened. Let people draw their own conclusions, maybe that we have a deal or that maybe I always low-key worked for them and made it look like I didn't for political reasons."

Silence again. Yassen didn't seem to be in any rush and John let him take whatever time he needed. Yassen had obviously made his decision already, but the stakes were still high enough that John wasn't surprised at the long stretch of silence. The many unspoken what-ifs that had to go through his mind. John had done most of the talking but he doubted Yassen's mind had ever stopped going though the potential courses of action during their conversation.

"So what do you suggest?"

"Refuse," John answered. "Politely. Don't piss them off more than you have to. Don't make it personal. You'll still make an enemy out of them, but at least it'll be purely professional."

And in their line of work, that was really the best anyone could hope for.

Alex Rider was seven years old the first time he spent his summer holidays with Yassen. Well, part of his summer holidays, anyway. Two weeks of it while Hunter and Helen took the opportunity to check up on their safe-houses.

The decision to agree to the arrangement had been easier than Yassen had expected. Alex always wanted more time than Yassen usually had to give – irregular visits in-between numerous jobs – and Russian was on the list of languages that would be useful for Alex to know in the future. Time with Yassen would build a good foundation. In time, perhaps, with practice and sufficient instruction, it would be good enough to pass for native and so add another country to the list of place that Alex would be able to adapt to if the need arose.

There were a lot of places Yassen could have picked in Russia, and certainly now that it was far more open than it had been in the old days. With a pilot licence and enough money that the charter of a private helicopter for a week and a half didn't even make him blink, he chose Kamchatka. Alex liked the outdoors and would undoubtedly be fascinated by the geological activity, and Yassen enjoyed the nature and chance to fly. It would immerse the boy in the language as well, though that was merely a bonus. It was a remote location that attracted few tourists. Alex would have little opportunity to speak English.

The airport was small, the hotel serviceable, but the helicopter – a military model kept in excellent condition – was exactly what Yassen had wanted. Large, powerful, reliable, and with plenty of room for supplies, it would do just fine for a week and a half removed from civilisation.

Alex had already been restless, impatient on the flight there and not much better the night they spent at the hotel. At the sight of the helicopter, however, he stopped and stared, eyes wide and impossibly bright. Yassen imagined what his own reaction would have been to the same at that age, and the thought brought a muted sting of – something he did his best to keep suppressed. Loss. Bitterness. The quiet hope that against all odds – SCORPIA and MI6 and everything – perhaps Alex and Matilda would get some imitation of a normal childhood. A normal life.

"You got us a helicopter," Alex breathed.

"Yes," Yassen answered in Russian and saw Alex respond immediately, bright, inquisitive eyes turned to Yassen instead. "I got us a helicopter."

"Yes," Alex repeated and sounded out the word. He had heard it when Yassen had talked with others in Russian but he was smart enough to realise what it meant that Yassen spoke it to him now, too. "Yes?"

It was a guess but Alex's voice was confident. Yassen merely nodded.

"I got …" Alex continued but trailed off, the language too foreign and the sentence spoken too fast and too casually for him to be able to remember all of it.

"I got us a helicopter," Yassen repeated, first in Russian, then in English.

He could almost see Alex consider the unfamiliar sounds and listen for any resemblance with the languages he already spoke. He would find little, of course, but that would hardly matter. Yassen had high expectations of Alex's ability to learn Russian. It would take time, of course, an informal class alongside everything else he learned outside of school, but he had an exceptional ear for languages. Yassen planned to take advantage of that.

Reward him with flight lessons if he did particularly well, perhaps. An early start on lessons that Yassen already planned for the child when he grew older. For now, it was time to see just how much Alex could learn from a week and a half of Russian exposure.

In one world, Ian Rider hired Jack Starbright. She would become the closest thing Alex Rider had to a stable, adult influence.

In another, Ian Rider spent five months on an undercover mission, Jack Starbright returned to the States, and Alex Rider grew up in Geneva with a brother and sister – and two parents who were both only children.

John Rider travelled. Helen Rider was used to it. Seven years into their escape from London, it had become routine. She had adapted to weeks alone with Alex. She adapted to weeks alone with Alex as well as Matilda, too.

The security in their home had been designed to handle that situation. To the ever-present knowledge that John Rider had enemies, that Yassen had, too, and that Helen was one adult alone with two vulnerable children and an obvious target if anyone ever tracked them down.

The safe room. The weapons. The surveillance, and the doors and windows chosen to slow any attacker down, and the regular check that they were still ready to leave at a moment's notice, to leave their entire life behind with no warning at all, and -

- seven years later, it was routine. Marked by the bitter, muted anger Helen still held against MI6, the quiet resignation that this would always be their life, but … routine.

That routine was broken an unremarkable Friday night in mid-September. John had left earlier that week and was now in South America. Yassen was in Europe, finishing up a job of his own. Alex and Matilda were asleep. For at least a brief while, Helen was entirely alone.

The alarm was more muted than most would expect, an insistent beeping rather than the ear-piercing alert that would trigger if she had gone to bed.

It was quiet. Low enough not to wake the children. It was also enough to make Helen still for a second before she got out of her chair, every instinct on high alert as adrenaline sent her heart racing and cold sweat clung to her skin.

There were false alarms sometimes. Mistakes happened. Not with this one, though. This was the back-up, the one that watched for any signs of tampering, and if that went off and the main system didn't -

- They had company. Unwanted company.

The small screens were hidden away so they wouldn't draw attention. Helen opened the cabinet door that hid the surveillance set-up and found her fears confirmed. None of the screens were black, of course. That would have an amateur's mistake and Helen knew that the people who might one day come after them – who might just have – were anything but amateurs. The primary cameras – the obvious ones, the bait – looked fine and showed nothing but the sight she expected: the gardens and the driveway and the outside of the house, undisturbed in the cool autumn evening.

The secondary cameras – the redundant ones, the hidden ones – showed four masked figures working on the primary cameras in teams of two. Out of sight and fast enough that Helen would have had no chance to see anything wrong if John hadn't been cautious enough to plan for just that sort of thing.

It took her less than ten seconds to make a decision and turn the alarm off.

The intruders seemed intent to get inside unseen, There were numerous cameras and even past those, the men would need to get either a door or a window open, and those were heavily secured, too. Four people for a woman and two children, along with that careful approach – she had the dark suspicion that it wasn't an assassination team but a kidnapping one.

Helen picked up the phone and wasn't surprised that it was dead. The mobile was of no more use.

They could try to escape. Take their chances with the car. The driveway was clear. The fact that the phones were out and the people so professional would make it unlikely they hadn't taken that into account already, though. On foot was unthinkable, against four people and with Alex and Matilda to protect …

… No choice, then.

It had always been a possibility they had planned for. Helen had the training and it had always been an unspoken but very real fact that if they were attacked at home, the odds were that they would have to fight their way out. It was one of the downsides of hiding in relative anonymity. There was only so much they could do for security before it became blatantly obvious that their house was a fortress, and then people would start to wonder.

Helen took the stairs two steps at a time. Alex sat up the moment she entered his room, either because she had make no effort to be silent or just as likely because he had sensed something wrong.

"Mum?"

"Get your emergency bag, honey." Helen kept her voice calm and level. It would still not have been enough to keep most children calm but Alex had also trained for just this kind of situation since he was old enough to understand it. It had broken her heart the first few times. Now, she hoped it would be enough to keep them safe.

Alex didn't question it. He got out of bed, messy-haired and groggy and confused and with nothing but his pyjamas on, but he followed the instructions he had gone through so often in less dire circumstances.

Helen waited just long enough to see that he obeyed, then she stepped into Matilda's room. This time she made an effort to stay quiet and took the extra seconds to pick her daughter up as gently as possible and hum softly when the girl stirred.

Please.

She had very little time and a lot to do, and an upset toddler would take time she already didn't have to spare.

Matilda settled down again. Alex waited for them in the hallway, a bag over his shoulder.

"Safe room," Helen told him. "Don't open the door for anyone but me, no matter how safe it looks. They messed with our cameras outside. You won't be able to trust them."

Alex nodded. There was no hesitation as he followed her downstairs and into the basement. The safe room wasn't exactly luxurious but it had everything needed to survive for days if necessary. And, Helen knew with a horrible, sinking feeling – It was Friday. Worst case scenario, no one would realise anything was wrong until Monday and Alex didn't show up at school. She didn't doubt they had planned it like that, too.

Four people, undoubtedly highly trained. Helen did have the element of surprise on her side, surprise and training. If she was fast enough … it was risky but not impossible.

Alex must have somehow caught on to her plan because he didn't argue when Helen carefully handed Matilda to him when they reached the safe room. Just swallowed and watched her with worried eyes.

"Be careful."

Helen hated SCORPIA for a lot of things. In that moment she could have killed every last one of them and never felt a flicker of remorse; for making her son worry like that, for making him have to worry, and for the knowledge that this was their life. That this would always be their life.

"I will," she promised and meant it with every part of her being.

She wanted to kiss his hair, wanted to hug him, but there was no time and a glance at the screens on the way down had shown that their unwanted visitors had finished with the cameras and moved on to one of the large windows furthest away from the living room and the lights she had on. Where it would be least likely she would spot them working.

She had ten minutes, maybe fifteen. They still seemed to favour the silent approach and that cut down on a number of methods they could use. They were also conveniently all at the same spot again.

Helen moved fast. There were weapons scattered all over the house in various little hiding spots and she knew all of them by heart. She didn't want to risk going outside on ground level but there were spots on the first floor that would give her the angles needed to take the shots.

She worked on routines trained into her subconsciousness through relentless repetition. Three guns. Suppressors. Ammunition. A quick check of the weapons. Sensible shoes. Another check of the cameras. Upstairs.

Helen didn't allow herself to think about what she was doing, too worried that she could freeze if she did. Four people, likely trained assassins like John and Yassen, but she had two children to worry about and no one for back-up and -

- She took a slow breath. Stepped into John's office and across the room. The window unlocked easily and slid open without a sound. Helen stilled. For long seconds, she just listened. Then she slipped outside, slow and deliberate and without a sound as well.

Had John kept this sort of situation in mind even as they had chosen the house? Somewhere with enough spots and angles to give any defenders the upper hands? Somewhere with plenty of places to hide unseen cameras and other kinds of surveillance? It wouldn't surprise her.

The roof tiles were wet from dew and slightly slippery under her feet but nothing her shoes couldn't handle.

One careful step after the other, make herself as small of a figure as possible, keep an ear out for anything, no matter how insignificant, and never lose focus.

The gables had been a charming touch when they had bought the house, a bit of cheerful personality to an already charming home. Now one of them hid her approach and offered her the support needed for stable aim in a very unstable position.

It was silent around them. There was a faint, muted whisper of what was probably a party somewhere in the neighbourhood, dulled by distance and nature. The four intruders were as silent as Helen was, but they were expecting a housewife with two children. Not Hunter's wife.

Helen finally reached the right spot and realised that her estimate had been optimistic. The four worked fast. Another minute or two, and they would have the window removed. They kept an eye on everything around them in case of trouble but they were still too lax about it. A little too overconfident. They watched the dark gardens and the equally dark kitchen beyond the window. They didn't watch the roof.

Did they have backup somewhere? Helen didn't know. Would someone know the moment the first shot was fired? She didn't know that, either. Just eased into position, careful not to slip on the tiles. Mostly hidden by the gable roof and with the element of surprise on her side, it was the best chance she would get.

She brought the gun out.

It changes you to kill someone deliberately, John's words whispered through her mind, memories of endless lessons from a master assassin. Even in self-defence.

A slow breath. She was almost out of time but she couldn't afford unsteady hands. Not now.

Don't hesitate. Don't see them as human beings.

Helen knew what weapons did to the human body, probably better than even John did. He had a killer's training and experience, but Helen had spent her career patching people up again when they survived against all odds. She knew exactly what her gun would do.

If they're SCORPIA's, they're trained killers. They wouldn't have survived their training if they had even a drop of compassion.

All four were within range. If she fired fast enough, none of them would have the chance to find cover or return fire.

Don't show them any mercy. They wouldn't show you any. Not you, not Alex, not even Matilda.

Helen thought of her babies, alone in the safe room and with no idea of when – if – she would be back, and she pushed aside any other thought but their safety.

Steady. Aim.

Don't hesitate.

Helen fired four times in quick succession, just enough time between each to find her next target. The first round was – sharper than she expected, the recoil somehow real in a way it wasn't when it was just the shooting range, but she didn't allow it to stop her.

Even with a suppressor, the sound was horribly loud to her ears. The first of the men collapsed, the second close behind. The third and fourth started to move, their reflexes good enough to understand that they were under attack even if they hadn't consciously started to analyse the situation yet. They were fast but they had everything against them. The surroundings, their unfamiliarity with the terrain, Helen's training. In any other case, she would have had no chance. Now it was just enough to tip the odds in her favour.

It took mere seconds before silence settled again. It had felt like eternity.

The four bodies on the ground didn't move. There were dark spots on the terrace that she didn't want to think about; thick, metallic stains that would probably take forever to remove.

Had anyone heard the shots? They had deliberately found a house a bit removed from everything else, so hopefully not. She could not afford to deal with official interference now. They had to leave, they had plans for this sort of thing, and the Swiss police did not figure in those plans.

Was there backup on its way even now? She couldn't know. All she could do was hope it wasn't the case.

Slightly more familiar with conditions on the roof, it didn't take her long to get back inside. There was nothing in the office they couldn't afford to lose; nothing in the entire house they couldn't afford to lose. It had always been a risk that they would one day have to flee with nothing. It still hurt, the horrible thought that this was seven years of memories, their home, and … this was the end of it. Alex's toys, Matilda's nursery, their books, everything – it would be gone. The photo albums were copies, the originals and a second set kept in separate bank vaults with the rest of their most valuable belongings, but that didn't make it hurt any less.

There was nothing she could do about it. She had to focus on survival now. Push it aside. The loss and the four lives she had just taken, and – everything. She could break down later when she didn't have two children that depended on her.

Helen stopped briefly in the kitchen. She found the Eiffel Tower magnet in the mess on the fridge door – a hideous ceramic souvenir thing that John had brought home along with a number of other more or less tasteless additions to the décor – and moved it on top of the note with the emergency numbers instead.

She grabbed the emergency bag from the closet and added the mobile phone to it on her way to the safe room. They had a spare and a charger in the bag already but she was almost sure that the mysterious malfunction would vanish as soon as they got away from the house. She could always use an extra phone.

Emergency message to John and Yassen. Bag. Weapons. Phone.

Don't think. Just move.

Helen vanished downstairs again, into the basement and the safe room. The door was closed but it opened when she waved towards the hidden camera.

Alex still held Matilda, probably as much for his own comfort as hers. His expression was grim and far more mature than any seven-year-old's should be.

"I'm fine," she said before he could ask. "We have to leave."

Alex nodded. Helen took Matilda again. The girl stirred and opened her eyes to stare groggily at Helen. Helen could see the moment the tiredness registered, the fact that she was awake and did not want to be, and she started talking before Matilda could cry.

"I know, baby, I know." Low and soothing, and it didn't matter if Matilda didn't understand what was happening, not if her voice helped calm her down again. "You can sleep as much as you want in the car, I promise, but we have to leave. We have to leave."

Helen could feel Matilda's body relax as she settled into groggy half-sleep again. She didn't have time for a tantrum, not now.

The brief walk through the house felt like forever. Helen kept expecting to hear the sound of sirens, or gunfire, or voices, but there was nothing but silence. Their home, warm and inviting just an hour before, felt hostile and alien now, like an armed intruder could be hiding in every shadow or behind every door.

Helen kept calm. Kept her grip on Matilda steady and even. Alex looked paler than usual but kept calm, too, and she was so proud of him that she could have cried. He should never have had to be but he managed better than most adults would have.

The garage was as silent as the rest of the house. Alex didn't wait for instructions but slid into his seat and buckled his seatbelt as Helen strapped Matilda into the toddler car seat. The two bags she put on the fourth seat within easy reach if she needed them.

It was still silent. They still had no company. They could have hours. They could have minutes. She had no way to tell.

The driveway still looked clear according to the cameras, though she couldn't be sure she could trust them. Not even the secondary ones.

Keys. Engine. Garage door. The sounds woke Matilda up with a cry, but Alex started talking to her, a low, steady stream of words to soothe her before Helen could. He was so much older than his seven years at that moment and he shouldn't have had to be; shouldn't have learned to understand the deadly seriousness of the situation they were in.

Helen took a deep breath to steady herself. The car was armoured. The windows were bulletproof. That would have to be good enough.

The drive to the actual road felt like it went on forever. Helen passed a large, dark van right by the entrance to their driveway. It had a logo from some expensive-looking carpentry company or another and seemed utterly abandoned. If Helen hadn't lived there, if she hadn't known beyond any doubt that they hadn't called the company, it would have looked perfectly at home.

There were four bodies on their terrace. How many people had been in that van? It was big. Big enough to fit four people easily … and probably four people along with three kidnapping victims, too, especially if two of them were children.

Don't think. Just keep moving.

The neighbourhood was mostly quiet. There were lights on in some places, a few brightly lit houses with company over amidst the rest of them, but Helen met no one else on the short drive.

A glance in the mirror revealed that Matilda had fallen asleep again, her favourite stuffed toy held tight against her. Alex was still awake and met her glance, eyes wide and frightened but with a familiar, stubborn look on his face, scared and brave and determined, and he reminded her so much of John in that moment that she could have cried.

Neither of them spoke. Not when they left Geneva. Not when they reached the motorway. Helen finally stopped by a deserted rest area and found the mobile phone in the bag. As she had expected, it worked just fine now that they were away from their house.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she found the right number and she took several calming breaths before she actually called.

Yassen's phone rang five times before it went to his answering machine, much as Helen had expected.

"James, honey, it's Caroline. Would you get three bottles of your father's favourite white wine? The French one. The store here stopped carrying it and all we have left at home are four bottles of red. Thank you, you're a darling."

The message on its own didn't matter, only a few of the words did. Three white meant they were all three alive and unharmed, French referred to the safe house she had picked, and four red referred to the bodies she had left behind. Four of them, none that had escaped to her knowledge. It was simple and not particularly secure but served its purpose.

The call to John was almost identical. She started it with 'I told James to pick up some of your favourite white wine' but the words were much the same.

She didn't know when they would check their messages. She didn't know how long it would take them to return. Maybe a day for Yassen. Maybe a week or more for John. Whatever it was, she was on her own with Alex and Matilda for the immediate future.

The back seat had fallen silent. Matilda was asleep under her blanket, Alex against the window and wrapped in his jacket. Helen felt her heart twist but forced herself to ignore it and focus on simply surviving for now.

They crossed the border to France shortly before midnight. The children didn't even stir. Helen had a story ready about a sick relative but no one asked. Simply checked their passports and waved them through. She was a mother with two children. About as harmless as anyone could look.

They continued into France for another half an hour. Then, with a fake and decently obvious trail left behind for anyone not John or Yassen, Helen turned north and continued into the night towards Germany.

The Morrison family vanished without a trace late one Friday in mid-September of ninety-four.

They would not be seen again.

Chapter Text

The safe-house was a decently secluded, old-fashioned house – cabin, almost – not too far outside of Bonn. They arrived well into the morning. Matilda had slept most of the way but was now awake. Alex had woken up in the early morning and slipped into the front passenger seat when they stopped briefly to stretch their legs.

Helen's exhaustion was almost a living thing; so deep she could feel it in her bones and with the weight of a long, tense, sleepless night.

The adrenaline was still there, as helpful at keeping her alert as it was useless in its jittery restlessness, and all she wanted to do was sleep. For days if she could, though she knew the best she could hope for right now was a brief nap.

The worry was there; for John and Yassen and her babies and herself, the fear that someone might track them down, but she knew that the risk of that was at least very small. Their house in Geneva had been wonderful. Perfect. She had loved it and – maybe they had stayed for too long. Grown too comfortable. Too complacent. Not enough to slack on security but maybe they should have moved again before Matilda was even born.

This place was much smaller but it was anonymous and safe and that was what they needed now.

At least groceries could wait. They had toured their safe-houses just a few months ago; Helen knew the pantry was stocked. Shelf stable food, sure, cans and jars and bags and boxes, but good enough. She could easily feed a family for a month on those supplies; they would be fine for now.

Helen opened the front door. Herded Alex and Matilda inside. There was a postcard pinned to the cork board in the hallway. It had a Claude Monet painting on it and it was the only thing that marked the place as the 'French' safe-house.

"Mama?" Matilda gripped her hand. Helen reached down automatically to pick her up and felt her relax in her arms.

It was an unfamiliar place but Matilda was young enough that she didn't really care so long as her mother was there. Alex …

Helen glanced down. Alex met her eyes, at once young and frightened and too old for his age and so determined to be strong for her and Matilda, to be the mature older brother and not be scared, and her heart hurt.

She reached out. Felt Alex's hand sneak into hers and grip it tightly, a brief moment of vulnerability in a situation that no child should ever have had to go through.

There were things to be done, Helen knew. The house was kept ready but it was only a temporary solution. They would need fresh food and clothes. And, less urgent but no less important, the little things to make the place feel like home of sorts and not merely a place to hide. Toys. School books for Alex. Games. Familiar little things that would make a world of difference once the reality of it all set in.

The air in the living room smelled stale, the remnants of sunlit dust and summer warmth and the first chill of autumn nights. Most of the master bedroom was taken up by an immense wooden closet and a massive bed, the largest size they had been able to find mattresses for. There were two smaller bedrooms for Alex and Matilda but it had always been an unspoken acknowledgement that if they needed one of the safe-houses, something had gone wrong. Odds were that at least Matilda would want to sleep in their bed and have the reassurance of her parents close by.

Even though Alex was seven and had never really slept in their bed, Helen would not rule it out with him, either. A quiet, unfamiliar bedroom at night when they had just been attacked in his childhood home and had to escape with no warning … Helen would be surprised if Alex didn't want that reassurance, too. The ability to check that she was still there and not gone when the night was dark and lonely and overwhelming.

Living room. Bedrooms. Bathroom. Kitchen. The house was small but it was everything they needed for now. It was the first time Alex had seen the place. Matilda had been there that very summer but Helen doubted she remembered it.

And, she understood a second later, Matilda would most likely never remember their house in Geneva, either. It would fade with the rest of her earliest childhood memories, a whisper of dew gone in the morning light. Alex was old enough to understand what they had left behind – or would, at least, when the reality of it started to sink in. In a few years, Matilda's earliest memories would most likely be whatever home and identity they settled into after this.

It should not have surprised Helen. It still hurt in a way she hadn't expected. The loss of all the memories that would never be, the garden that Matilda would never remember and the school and playmates Alex would never see again.

Because of SCORPIA. Because of Alan Blunt and Tulip Jones and MI6. Because of whoever had finally tracked them down. Because of a hundred honeyed reassurances about safety and new identities and whatever it takes, and they had been fools to believe for even a second that MI6 could live up to those promises.

Alex didn't speak during the brief tour. He hadn't talked much in the car, either. Mostly he had slept or stared out the window.

They ended up in the kitchen. Helen unwrapped a granola bar for Matilda and let the water run for a while before she filled a glass. Maybe it wasn't the healthiest of breakfasts but it would do for now.

Finally Alex broke the silence.

"Are dad and James okay?"

The first words Alex had spoken in hours and it was worry for his family. The guilt was a heavy knot in her chest, bleak and dark and toxic, and she closed her eyes for a second.

He shouldn't have had to worry. He was seven years old. His biggest concern should be school and friends and whatever new toy he wanted. He should have grown up in London, or France, and never have known anything but love and the freedom to be a normal child.

"Yes," Helen said, a small lie that she desperately hoped was true. She didn't know, had no way to know until John and Yassen reappeared, but that wasn't what Alex needed to hear. He was seven years old. That burden was hers.

Alex still looked doubtful but didn't ask again. Instead he unwrapped a granola bar as well, though he didn't make any move to actually eat it.

"Who were they?"

A glance at Matilda revealed she was busy with her improvised breakfast. Helen took a slow breath.

"I don't know but I think they were looking for your dad or James. They both have enemies. We'll find out and make sure it doesn't happen again."

Silence. It was a more adult explanation than Helen maybe should have used but Alex deserved as much of the truth as she could give. They had kept him as sheltered as possible, him and Matilda both, but that was about to come to an end.

Alex glanced over. "Why?"

And wasn't that the question? There was so much to cover in that one word, so much no child should have to deal with, so much they would need to explain and explain soon, and Helen took a few seconds to consider her answer.

"Your father was a soldier when I met him," she finally said. "His last job before you were born was to go undercover in a large group of criminals and find out how to stop them. They found out and wanted revenge. They've never stopped looking for him."

For him. For us.

It was a very simplified explanation of a very complicated situation but the best she could do for now. It wasn't a lie, at least. Just – something that left out a lot of details that she would prefer Alex was much older before he found out about.

She had left out Yassen's part. Based on Alex's expression, he had realised that, too.

He didn't ask, though. Just reached over and hugged her tightly and fiercely, with everything that he didn't want to say out loud, and then returned to picking at his crumbling granola bar.

It should have made her feel better. The hug and explanation, however simple, seemed to have helped Alex a little, at least.

Helen's guilt remained where it was. Bleak. Dark. Toxic.

Somewhere, half a world away, John was – somewhere. Maybe he had heard the message. Maybe he hadn't. She had no way to know. No way to be sure he was safe. That he was even still alive. Him, or Yassen.

Helen unwrapped a granola bar. Forced herself to take a bite. It tasted like ash.

They slept in the immense bed, all three of them. Alex and Matilda against the wall and Helen on the other side, between them and the door.

The safe-house was perfectly anonymous. There was nothing to connect it with the Morrison family, or the Riders, or even Yassen. She had checked security. She had double and triple checked as well. She still slept only the lightest of sleep and woke with every whisper of sound.

There were four dead bodies outside of their home in Gena. Four people who had been minutes from getting inside. Four people who had wanted them kidnapped or killed or worse. Helen did not for a second regret that she had killed them but she still saw the way they had crumbled and the stains on the terrace when she closed her eyes.

Someone had decided to target them. Someone had found out their identities. Someone would have found out John and Yassen's identities, too. Helen could only hope that their attackers had targeted her and the children because John and Yassen couldn't be found.

It could be days before she heard anything. Possibly even weeks.

It was a long night.

Yassen got the message first, in the very early hours of Saturday morning some five hours after Helen had left it. It was not a welcome message but one they had expected sooner or later. They'd had seven years undisturbed; sooner or later, someone would have found them. Hunter had enemies. Enemies that liked and respected him to a surprisingly large degree but enemies nonetheless. The prize on his head spoke volumes about that.

Helen had sounded perfect calm. Perfectly casual. It was impossible to predict how someone would respond to a situation like that but Yassen had expected nothing else from Hunter's wife.

They had contingency plans. They had always been ready to leave at a moment's notice. If things had gone according to those plans, Helen and the children would be en route to Bonn and, for now, Yassen had no reason to believe otherwise.

There were a few loose ends to tie up with his own job but nothing he had not already planned to handle that day. He merely worked a little faster and arrived at the Morrison home late Saturday afternoon.

It was a risk. There was nothing worth his life. Still, with precautions … it was a risk Yassen was willing to take. Someone had targeted Hunter's family. If there was any way to identify the attackers, Yassen knew Hunter would want them to pay. To do that, they needed information.

Any evidence might already be gone. The house could have been destroyed. There would have been plenty of time to set a trap. Yassen still went.

It was a risk but worth it if it could lead to the sort of information that would ensure such an attack would not happen again.

Yassen was familiar with the neighbourhood. It had been years since he had last lived there but he had still visited often enough and that gave him an advantage now.

A careful drive around the area found nothing out of place, only the reasonably quiet Saturday evening of a place with mostly families. The occasional house with guests, cars outside and the buildings brightly lit; a couple of young teenagers outside and away from watchful eyes; a car or two as people went about their business. Nothing to immediately trigger Yassen's instincts. Nothing that looked suspicious.

Only after a thorough check did he park on a different road, the one that bordered the dense bit of forest behind Hunter's home and where he knew the terrain well enough to take a more unexpected approach in case the place was under surveillance.

It would have been too suspicious with heavy security around the property, of course, but that had not stopped Hunter from having a stone wall built in place of the original wooden fence that marked the border between the forest and the Morrison home. Rustic-looking and aesthetically pleasing enough to be written off as a decorative choice, but intimidating enough not to invite random visitors. It barely slowed Yassen down.

The place was silent. There were four unmoving figures on the terrace that overlooked the gardens, the right shape and size for adult human males. The four red from Helen's message. Based on the positions and the stains on the terrace, they had been shot from a position above them. The roof, then, probably using a gable as shelter and support, and fast enough that none of them had been given time to respond.

It would be risky to approach the house, even riskier to step inside, but based on what Yassen had seen, the operation – if it could even be called that – had clearly been abandoned. Those four might have been professionals but the whole thing gave off the impression of something rash and impulsive and not the sharp, efficient style he would have expected from one of Hunter's enemies.

A closer look confirmed Yassen's suspicions about the angle of the shots. He didn't recognise any of the four – and hadn't really expected to, either – and their clothes and equipment was all perfectly anonymous. That, too, was mostly expected as well. He still brought out a camera and documented everything.

The four had obviously targeted the large windows by the kitchens. The tools were familiar and the damage to the window was precise and significant. Another few minutes and they would have made their way through.

A closer look revealed that the primary security cameras nearby had been looped, and a cursory check revealed the same for the rest in the immediate area. They had clearly believed it would be enough to remain undetected for the time needed to get inside.

Yassen entered the security code. The safe thing would be to turn around and leave. Yassen trusted his instincts enough to run the risk.

The house itself was silent. Unnervingly, unnaturally so. Yassen could not recall the last time the house had been that empty, as if the place itself knew that its owners had left and would not be back again.

It was no matter.

Yassen moved swiftly and soundlessly. A check of the interior revealed nothing but a home that had been abandoned in a hurry, the children's beds unmade and Helen's half-full mug still left on one table.

His next stop was the safe room and the surveillance tapes kept there. A few minutes later, he had whatever evidence the cameras had managed to catch. The tapes vanished into a duffel bag from the closet. Those tapes and Yassen's photos would be their best chance to identify those responsible.

Evidence secured, the sensible thing would have been to finish the job and leave. Yassen still hesitated, then continued upstairs. It took little time to pack a few changes of clothes and the toys Yassen knew Hunter's children were most attached to; priceless objects to a child and all the more so now that they had abruptly been removed from everything they were used to. Their entire lives had been uprooted and they would need to become someone new as well. If this made the process easier, it was worth the small risk. He could always check for unwanted surprises well away from the house.

Downstairs again, Yassen added two of the albums to the duffel bag as well. There was nothing in the house they could not afford to lose, nothing in those albums that was not a copy of an original that was safely locked away, but he knew Helen would still appreciate it. Those were the albums with the baby photos; the ones she had looked through the most over the years and the ones with the most marks and creases from inquisitive children's hands.

Evidence, surveillance, a few sentimental things. There was only one thing left to do, then. The house was an expensive investment to leave behind but Hunter had known that before the papers had ever been signed. It was expensive but it wasn't worth their lives.

There were three jerrycans of fuel in the garage along with a case of incendiary devices, carefully hidden well away from curious eyes. It was mildly unsettling to Yassen to realise just how little time it took to finish the job. He had done it before often enough to erase any evidence. This was – different. A place that had, for a little while, been the closest thing he'd had to a home since -

- Estrov.

When he was done, the house reeked of fuel. The safe room. The basement. The ground floor. The first floor. Even the bodies outside for good measure. The incendiary devices had been placed strategically inside where the flames would have the most to feed on.

With the timers set, all that was left to do was leave.

When the first device went off ten minutes later, Yassen was safely out of the neighbourhood and on his way to the French border. By the time the first fire engine arrived, it would already be too late. Yassen had done a thorough job. There would be little left but stone and ashes when the fire had run its course.

All that was left of their lives in Geneva was Yassen's duffel bag and whatever Helen and the children had brought with them.

Yassen did not look back.

"Séamus, love, it's Caroline. I told James to pick up some of your favourite white wine. Three bottles of that French one. The store here stopped carrying it and all we have left at home are four bottles of red. I'll see you soon. Love you."

John Rider got the message on Saturday afternoon in an apartment in São Paulo.

For a second, the world stopped. Started again in a lurch and left John half a heartbeat behind and struggling to catch up.

The message was almost twenty-four hours old. If everything had gone according to plan, Helen and the kids would be in Germany by now. If not -

- If not, John could do nothing. Not now, not half a world away, not without intel. Was Yassen there? He didn't know. He hadn't been there when Helen had called, the message said as much, but Yassen was in Europe and about to finish up a job of his own. He could have arrived already. Even if he hadn't, he would still be there days before John could. And even that was pushing it. John had a lot of loose ends to tie up.

In the end, he could do nothing. He had to trust their contingency plans were enough. He had to trust Helen could handle herself and keep Alex and Matilda safe. Had to trust that even if Yassen wasn't there, the safe-house would be enough until John could get back.

They had trained for it. They were all three unharmed. Helen had sounded perfectly calm. Perfectly at ease. There had been four hostiles but she had handled that, too. They would be safe, John would get back home, they would find out who had done it, and then they would fix the problem permanently. Between him and Yassen, they would find a way.

Helen was safe. The kids were safe. He had to trust they had planned and practised enough.

Half a world away, that was all John Rider could do.

Yassen arrived at the safe-house Sunday morning. He had stopped to sleep along the way. There was little point in showing up in the middle of the night and they all needed at least a chance for some undisturbed rest.

Yassen rang the doorbell. Followed up with three sharp knocks. Waited.

He could get inside if he wanted. He knew the security system and where the spare key was. That wasn't the point. This was the polite thing to do and, even more important, it was the safe approach as well.

Helen Rider had been attacked in Geneva, alone with two young children; had killed four people and fled across two borders in the dead of the night to reach a safe-house, and Yassen was not about to test the ruthless, protective instincts that had seen them escape their attackers. Yassen didn't want to traumatise the Rider children further, and he certainly did not want to test how literal Hunter's wife took 'shoot first and ask questions later'.

The door opened. Yassen's first glimpse of Helen Rider was blonde hair and hard eyes and the pale edge of exhaustion. Then something seemed to ease, the relief that she was no longer alone, no longer the only thing between her children and their enemies, and she stepped aside to let Yassen in.

He did not even get the chance to put down the duffel bag before a small, blond tornado slammed into him. "Jamie!"

Yassen picked Alex up without second thought and the boy clung to him not with of the enthusiasm of having his brother back but with the edge of desperation that followed a glimpse of normality in a life that had been brutally uprooted. Alex's grip was a little too tight, his voice a little too frantic, but Yassen merely held him as Helen closed the door.

Matilda appeared a moment later, a stuffed bunny in her arms. Helen picked her up as she reached them and Yassen ended up in an awkward sort of hug-and-a-half, with Alex attached to him like a limpet and Matilda in her mother's arms but with one hand tightly gripping Yassen's t-shirt.

Yassen did not object. He couldn't recall the last time he'd had that kind of reassurance – the last time he had been allowed it – but it had been … a long time. Before everything. Before the anthrax. Before Estrov. Alex and Matilda had their mother but they'd had no idea about their father or older brother, and Yassen's reappearance was the first step towards … something more than their sudden, brutal escape. If this was the reassurance they needed, Yassen would give it.

Eventually Alex let go and Yassen put him back down, only a little relieved. He had worked with weaponry heavier than Alex – not much, but some – but it was still quite a bit of weight to have resting in his arms, especially with the duffel bag still slung over one shoulder.

Matilda had grown distracted, too, and Helen put her back down as well, though the girl still kept a tight grip on her mother's hand.

Alex wandered over to the couch where Yassen spotted a half-eaten plate of breakfast. The TV was on as well, unfamiliar cartoon figures going about their business on low volume. Alex returned to his food. At least he still had an appetite.

Only then, with Alex distracted and Matilda still a little too young to understand, did Yassen speak.

"You are well?" he asked quietly.

"Alive. Unharmed. I didn't sleep much," Helen admitted, as quiet as Yassen had been.

Nothing Yassen had not expected. She had shot their attackers in self-defence but it was still the first time she had taken a life. Four, in this case. He would be surprised if she didn't have a reaction eventually when things calmed down again.

He didn't ask if she had heard from Hunter. Part of the security measures around their safe-house was no communication. Her mobile phone would have been discarded on the way, and she would not have risked any kind of contact with him or Hunter. Not even a brief message that they were safe. Nothing anyone would be able to track in any way.

"The house?" Helen asked.

"I ensured there was no evidence."

She understood the meaning. There was a flicker of pain in her eyes, the loss of home, of stability and everything that had come with it. Then it was gone and Yassen continued after a glance revealed Alex still enthralled by the TV. "I retrieved the surveillance tapes and made a record of any useful evidence there. They were decently trained but the operation lacked the professionalism I would have expected. The bodies remained. I had expected them to have been retrieved."

"There were only four of them. I – expected more than that," Helen said. "There was a van at the end of our driveway, too. Large, dark, supposedly from a carpentry company."

It sounded suspicious to Yassen's ears based on the description alone, and Hunter's wife had good instincts. "It was gone when I arrived."

The driveway had been deserted. Yassen expected that van had been their means of transportation. Someone had been alive to remove it, then, or known it was there, but had not made the effort to do anything about the bodies or any evidence they might provide. It smelled increasingly like an unsanctioned operation. A sudden opportunity rather than a properly planned attack.

Helen nodded. Filed that information away somewhere. "We need to get out tomorrow. I need clothes for Alex and Matilda. Toys. Fresh food, too."

"I brought a few things from the house. Clothes. Toys. A few of the albums."

He slipped off the duffel bag. Handed it to Helen. There was no tremor in her hand when she accepted it, no hesitation, but he could see the gratitude in her eyes. It was nothing, one bag out of an entire house, but it was also memories and the thought that Yassen had cared enough to take the time to do it, to run the risk for purely sentimental things, and her grip on the bag was tight enough to turn her fingers white.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Tiny things but enough to make a world of difference to Alex and Matilda. Yassen himself had been left with nothing. If he could do this much for Hunter's wife and children, it was worth it.

Neither spoke of the future. They both knew the plan. Stay. Wait until the last member of their small family either contacted them or four weeks had passed without word. Then settle on a course of action, with Hunter or without him. He was in South America somewhere; that was all that Yassen knew. He himself had not been a target. Had Hunter? Most likely not but they would have no way to tell. Not until they heard news or the lack of same.

Time to focus on the immediate future, then. Supplies. Security. And, once Alex and Matilda were in bed, Yassen and Helen would start to piece together the puzzle that was the attack.

By the time Hunter returned, Yassen planned to have a name. A name, a motive, a plan for revenge.

And then they would make sure such a mistake would not happen again.

Chapter Text

MI6 had the information by Wednesday. It was both painfully slow as any trail or evidence would long since be gone but also remarkably fast, Tulip would acknowledge as much. It had been pure luck. An upper-class home reduced to stone and ashes, with four dead bodies in the backyard burned to a point where only DNA or dental records would offer any chance of identification … it had gathered quite a lot of interest but no one had much to go on. The Morrison family was mostly average by the standards of their social circle. A stay-at-home mother, a successful father working with investments, two young children and the grown son from the father's first marriage. No trace of anything criminal in their past, nothing worth a second look … but there were still four dead bodies in their garden and no trace of the family. The last time any of them had been spotted was Caroline Morrison's car crossing the French border, presumably with both her children, though the quality of the surveillance tapes made it impossible to tell for sure.

It could have taken months to figure out what had happened. As it was, MI6's agent stationed in Switzerland had looked through the files out of obligation and vague interest and had recognised not Séamus Morrison but the nurse who had watched over him for six weeks in a private hospital in London after a mission gone catastrophically wrong. A little older, with a different haircut and style of clothes, but Caroline Morrison was very clearly Helen Beckett.

He forwarded the information along with everything else the local authorities knew. The desk officer in London took a look at it – a British national under a potentially false identity, involved in an incident in Switzerland – and dutifully set about writing a memo.

One check of Helen Beckett's suspiciously thin file -

- RIDER, HELEN; née BECKETT

INTERPOL YELLOW NOTICE

Security clearance: SC (09-01-1983), withdrawn (21-04-1987)

See: OPERATION: ORCUS

See: RIDER, JOHN

See: SCORPIA -

- And he did the sensible thing and forwarded the whole damn mess to his boss, who was paid to deal with that kind of headache. His boss took one look at the word SCORPIA and kicked the mess upstairs.

The file was on Tulip Jones' desk within two hours of the message from Zurich.

With Helen Rider's identity established, it didn't take long to identify the rest of the people behind the Morrison cover. John Rider had clearly had a touch of plastic surgery and his body language was leagues from the agent that MI6 and SCORPIA had prized so much, but that was not enough to hide his identity when someone knew just who they were looking at. Of the three Morrison children, MI6 had a file on Alexander John Rider and while he had been no more than two months old in the most recent photo, the details all matched. Matilda Morrison was only two, and James Morrison …

… James Morrison. Tulip had almost laughed at that from sheer disbelief. Who but John Rider would have the sheer audacity to steal away one of SCORPIA's most promising students and give the boy a new identity as his barely-legitimate son?

MI6's most recent photo of Yassen Gregorovich was several years old and showed the man in disguise, but the photos of James Morrison left little doubt they were one and the same man.

John Rider had been hunted by everyone from SCORPIA to MI6 for seven years, had become one of the best assassins in the world and trained the man who would very likely take over that position one day … and all the while played house with his wife and children and Yassen Gregorovich in Geneva. Less than four hundred miles from Venice and Malagosto and Julia Rothman.

It was so outrageously John that Tulip's heart hurt for a moment.

For a moment. Her finger brushed the photos briefly – Alex, who looked so much like his father that it hurt; Matilda, who took more from Helen but the eyes were all John – and then she packed the file back up along with that lingering regret. However much she liked John, however much they owed him, he was still Hunter. Still one of the best contract killers in the world.

A quick call to Alan's secretary confirmed the man was in his office. A few minutes and one floor later, Tulip placed the file on his desk.

"John was in Geneva."

Alan paused. Opened the file. The office was silent but for the sound of shifting papers as he read through the report. Unlike Tulip, he did not linger on the photos, though she hadn't expected him to, either.

The file completed, he returned to the summary in front.

"Seven years," he said, and there was a touch of – something in his voice. The ghost of approval. John had been everything MI6 had wanted, everything SCORPIA had wanted, too, and he'd had a remarkable ability to somehow get on decently friendly terms with just about everyone. Maybe MI6 had failed him in the end, maybe John was an internationally wanted assassin now, but Alan had still been genuinely fond of him … in his own Alan sort of way. And what John had managed with no resources but his own wit, money, and connections was impressive.

Then the flicker of approval was gone and things were back to business again. "Conclusions?"

Because Tulip had been John's handler, the one who had recruited him in the first place, and probably the one person in MI6 who knew him best … for a given definition of that term. John Rider had been social and a master at small-talk – and, in the end, even more of a master at saying nothing whatsoever that could actually be used against him.

"They had obviously planned for this sort of situation. They had seven years of anonymity but never let down their guard. John trained Helen," Tulip said clinically. It had been a mad thought, Helen Rider taught by the man who had been one of SCORPIA's best assassins and instructors, but the evidence was substantial. "He would want his family as protected as possibly. A safe room in the basement, extensive surveillance, the best defences money could buy that would still be able to blend in – the house was better protected than some of our safe-houses. And the attack itself: Four people, all shot in the head from somewhere on the roof – John trained her. To protect her and their children, certainly, but the same training he himself received. If he hasn't started to train Alex in some sort of self-defence, he will do so now. Presumably Matilda will learn as soon as she is old enough as well."

Whatever it took. That had always been John's approach. Once, it had seen him rise in the ranks within SCORPIA with unparalleled ambition. These days, that approach would be aimed towards keeping his family safe.

John Rider had never suffered from the same male chauvinism that Tulip had faced in her early years with MI6, that condescending attitude she still saw in some of their agents, and Helen Beckett had been a ruthlessly pragmatic woman. John would want her to have every advantage he could give her.

SCORPIA, Tulip remembered, sudden and unbidden, had some exceptionally successful female operatives.

"Gregorovich?" Alan asked. "Rider himself?"

"Unknown," Tulip reported. "Phone records show that Helen made two short calls on the way to France; the phone has not been used since and was likely discarded afterwards. The local authorities have tracked the numbers but it was a dead end. All evidence indicate that they were not at home, though. Presumably the calls were to let them know what had happened and where Helen and the children planned to go to ground."

The phone numbers would already be abandoned as well, Tulip didn't bother to point that out. It was common sense. The Riders had obviously planned for such an emergency. Tulip doubted there had been anything left to connect the family with the Morrison identity by the time the house was destroyed. The fire would have removed any remaining evidence.

Alan was silent. Tulip wondered what went on in his mind. Alan Blunt and Helen Rider had never seen eye to eye. She had been a particularly persistent annoyance to Alan when she should have been satisfied with classified and endless months of silence, and he had in turn been one of the few people Helen had actively loathed by the end of John's SCORPIA assignment.

"Your assessment?"

Tulip paused for a moment. Glanced at the file. Whatever else John Rider might be, he was also Hunter, and Hunter had learned the lethal politics of international crime from SCORPIA.

"He can't – won't – allow to let the attack go unanswered. This was a direct attack on his family; a lack of response will imply a weakness he can't afford." She paused. "He is also John Rider. We didn't pick him for Operation Orcus because he was a paragon of virtue. Someone targeted his family. He'll want revenge."

A slight nod. Agreement with the assessment or approval of John's likely course of action. Maybe both.

They didn't have much to go on and Tulip knew it. They had what the local authorities had uncovered so far, along with the benefit of their own records on John and his family but … it wasn't much. How had the attack taken place? No one knew, just how the four attackers had died. Had there been more? Another unknown. The fire had claimed anything useful, and what was left was guesswork.

'Guesswork', Tulip supposed, was a decent description of intelligence work some days and in this case it wasn't even a surprise.

If it hadn't been for their asset in Switzerland, they might never have known John had been in Geneva. This had been between Hunter and whoever had been behind that attack. MI6 were the intruders, trying to piece together the truth based on nothing more than shadows on a wall.

"SCORPIA would be the first suspect," Alan said, "but this lacks their efficiency. Someone would have died for a failure of this magnitude."

And it wasn't like John was short on enemies. Tulip had seen just how much her former colleague was worth. More than enough to tempt even the most sensible people into taking that risk if the opportunity presented itself.

The silence stretched on. Finally Alan spoke again.

"Put out a general alert for any usual incidents. When he retaliates, I want to know."

As expected. Tulip nodded, left to handle the report and practical parts of the order, and pushed aside the part of her that remembered a charming smile and a young nurse and a time when John Rider had been just another agent.

John Rider arrived at the safe-house on Friday afternoon, a week after the attack.

Helen's early dinner preparations were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell, then three sharp knocks. The first sound made her freeze. The second, the pre-arranged signal, sent her heart racing as hours and days – a week – of worry bore down on her, and she moved, salad forgotten on the kitchen counter.

Yassen reached the door before she did. An achingly familiar voice, a flash of brown hair and clasped hands, and then he was there, alive and well and home.

The next few minutes were a blur to Helen. John's embrace, strong and warm and familiar. Calloused hands and the lingering scent of his aftershave and then Alex and Matilda were there, twin hurricanes of blonde hair, and Helen buried her hands in his jacket as the full weight of everything hit her.

For a week, she had known nothing. Yassen had been there, but John had been half a world away and Helen had had no way to know if he was even still alive. She had been strong for Alex and Matilda, had split the nights with Yassen so one of them was always, always awake, and she had dragged herself up every morning, pushed it all aside, and gone about her day because her children needed their mother. Needed that bit of normality in a world that had just disintegrated around them.

Minute by minute. Hour by hour. Day by day.

And now he was home.

"I love you," John murmured, low and fierce and as desperate as Helen felt, "I love you, you're incredible, my god -"

- And Helen hugged him tighter, one hand still in his jacket, the other wrapped around Alex while Matilda rested in her father's arms.

Helen wiped her eyes; the tears she had not allowed to fall since Geneva. Missed you, she didn't say but knew he understood and John's eyes were suspiciously red as well. Then Alex wanted his attention again, and Matilda hugged him tighter, and Helen felt something in her chest slowly ease as she watched her family, finally complete again.

She glanced over and met Yassen's eyes. He was still Yassen, still half a step separated from the family – by choice or trauma, and Helen had learned to respect that – but there was relief in him, too, the whisper of slowly easing tension as well as the last bit of their small puzzle fell into place again. There was still a whole new life to figure out, a new home and new identities and how to explain it all to Alex, but for now -

- For now, John was home.

It was well into the evening before things calmed down enough that Hunter had the opportunity to look through the file Yassen had put together. Helen had gone to bed early as a full week of exhaustion had finally caught up with her, but Yassen needed little sleep these days and Hunter – Hunter wanted answers.

Yassen's file on the attack was factual, to-the-point, and every bit as detailed as anything short of a crime scene technician with a fully equipped lab could manage. Malagosto had focused on the practical necessity of not leaving evidence. Hunter, without the backing of a terrorist organisation, had turned it into an art. Malagosto's lessons had been perfectly fine for a comfortably employed assassin with a network to do the hard work. Hunter had taught him the whys and the hows and the technology; the theories behind and the art of intelligence work and anything else that might help Yassen stay alive and undetected later, and that investment was returned in full now.

Hunter watched the surveillance records twice. Opened the folder and read through the file in silence. Once, then once more with the photos on the side and scribbled notes to himself. Only then did he put the papers down and focus on Yassen.

"This is exceptional work," he said and kept his voice low in the silence of the living room. "You spent … what? Thirty minutes there?"

A curl of warmth in Yassen's chest at the honest praise, a response he had never quite managed to crush and had mostly just learned to accept. Their history was complicated but – the admiration had never quite faded. Hunter was a virtuoso. His praise mattered.

"Twenty-five," Yassen said. It was all he had dared risk. "Helen's observations account for most of the details about the attack itself. She is … meticulous."

Yassen wouldn't call her cold-blooded but it took strong nerves to manage the detailed observations she had in the middle of an attack on their home. Calm under pressure, with a sharp mind, and merciless when required. She still reminded him of Dr Three at times like these.

"She's a nurse," John murmured. He was focused on the file again but there was warm admiration in his voice. "She's more observant than some agents I knew. And she worked in the classified ward. Half the time, they only got what MI6 deemed the relevant parts of the story and had to piece it together themselves. God forbid they admitted to something unsavoury."

He focused on Yassen again. "Tell me your conclusion."

Yassen didn't quite hesitate. More … wanted to find the right words. He had considered the case for the past six days and was no closer to a firm conclusion. "I want to say SCORPIA but this is – rushed. Impulsive and ill thought-out. It lacks the planning and the care."

John made a low hum of agreement. "They'll go through a lot of effort to keep up that image of infallibility," he said. "But that's all. An image. A very valuable one, but mistakes happen. You're right, this doesn't quite have the feel of it, but I still think this was carried out using SCORPIA resources."

Carried out using SCORPIA resources. Those were his exact words. Not was carried out by SCORPIA, and there was a difference. Hunter was careful about his words.

"The strategy and approach were familiar," Yassen agreed. Hunter didn't speak and Yassen hadn't expected him to. It had been a while but he remembered Hunter's way of turning things into a lesson for Yassen to work out himself. "It is a contradiction, though. The attackers had SCORPIA training but there were fewer people than I would expect, the expected clean-up did not happen, and there was an unforgivable amount of evidence left behind."

Well, there had been, anyway. The fire had handled that. The only useful evidence left was the file in Hunter's hands. The remnants of the house and bodies there would yield little of use.

"It looked – unauthorised," Yassen finally said. "It looked like an attack planned by someone without the practical experience."

Hunter nodded.

"I think," he said, "that SCORPIA shot themselves in the foot with my bounty. That was a team of grunts. Trained grunts, sure, but nowhere near the sort of skills expected of an operative. Soldiers, not trained killers. Not too many people have the authority to order around operatives, but grunts like that are a little more available. I think someone took a risk and overstepped their authority. Probably the assistant or right hand to a station chief. Someone who's got the authority to handle smaller issues in his boss' name but not enough for a larger operation."

Yassen paused. Considered the words. It seemed reasonable. It made several of the pieces fit where they hadn't before as well. And Hunter's bounty was – significant.

"Greed, then."

"Greed," Hunter agreed. "My guess? Someone made the connection between the Morrison identity and us. How, I don't know and maybe we never will. Probably pure dumb luck, we were pretty careful, but that's how it goes. Probably some low-level grunt somewhere got lucky. So grunt does the sensible thing and goes to his boss with the intel. Maybe he knows about the bounty, maybe he doesn't, it doesn't matter. Maybe his boss has a decent rank, maybe it has to go a few more levels up, but the point is that sooner or later it gets to the desk of someone who can actually make a decision. Possibly a high-ranking operative but more likely a station chief somewhere. Now, someone like that is a busy person so they've got assistants to pick up the phone and sort through their mail. Assistant answers the phone, gets the intel, looks up the name, and sees two-and-half million dollars staring back. And he's not going to get a cent of that. His boss will handle the retrieval and get the bounty, the grunt will probably get five or ten percent for the intel, but all assistant there did was pick up the phone. And two-and-a-half million dollar is a lot of money."

Even for them, and never mind one low-ranking criminal of middling ability. Yassen didn't speak. He did not have Hunter's experience with the inner workings of SCORPIA but it sounded disconcertingly likely. It made a lot of things fall into place.

"Now," John continued, "the lowly assistant to a station chief can't arrange a full-out attack without his boss' permission, but he's got some leeway with smaller stuff. They have to be able to handle the things that are too insignificant for the higher-ups to bother with. So assistant takes a look at things and realises that we're both elsewhere and all he has to deal with is a housewife with two children. Easy targets for a kidnapping. Hand Helen and the kids over to SCORPIA as bait for me, and he'd be rewarded. He can't call in an actual combat team or operatives for it, but he can use some of SCORPIA's local resources. So that's what he does. It's a risk if it goes wrong, people have been disposed of for less, but it's a lot of money and it looks like an easy job. Except Helen is not an easy target. She kills the team sent to handle it, assistant panics and flees, and nothing happens like it's supposed to. No clean-up, evidence still around, and the targets escape. Four of SCORPIA's people dead, a valuable target spooked, and he's going to have to explain it."

Explain it. It was no wonder if the assistant had fled. A mistake of that magnitude was a death sentence.

… If that was what had happened, at least, and Yassen had no reason to believe otherwise. Hunter's reasoning was sound. MI6 had not sent him undercover to be an assassin. They had sent him to destroy SCORPIA and to do that, he would have needed to know everything about the organisation. To survive and to do his job. Both of his jobs.

If this was Hunter's conclusion, Yassen did not doubt it.

"… How do we respond?" he asked instead. Hunter would want revenge, Yassen didn't doubt that, either, and he agreed with that approach. It was a direct attack. If they did nothing, it would happen again.

Hunter took a slow breath. Turned his attention back to the file and slowly flipped through the photos again. "That's the question, isn't it?"

There was a seriousness to his words that echoed past lessons, the unspoken awareness that this was higher stakes than usual, and Yassen simply waited.

"It's a balancing act," Hunter continued. "If we don't respond, it'll weaken our reputation and invite additional attempts. Go too far, and SCORPIA will respond in kind, and we'll be caught in a rapidly escalating war. If this was an unauthorised attack, they will look the other way when we retaliate … up to a certain point, anyway. Odds are they'll even wait for us to act. What we choose to do can say a lot about us to the executive board, and they can always step in afterwards and clean up the rest if we didn't go for the right people."

Politics. Was that was he would have had to deal with, had he remained with SCORPIA? They had been insistent about his potential. How much of Hunter's political experience was part of his very deliberate strategy to work his way to the top of the organisation and how much was the simple result of being their best assassin?

Yassen's silence was obviously longer than Hunter expected because the man looked back up.

"Whatever else SCORPIA might be these days, it was founded by intelligence agents," he said. "Cold War veterans, black ops, analysts, interrogation specialists, government sanctioned assassins – their backgrounds were all a little different but they were all, without exception, some of the best in their field. Maybe it sounds like politics or petty little games to outsiders, but the board enjoys those games and it helps them keep their skills as sharp and deadly as possible. You want to know why there have been so few successful undercover agents with SCORPIA? That's why. This isn't a drug cartel run by your average criminal. These are people trained by the best instructors money and influence can buy and tempered by years in the field in some of the most hostile places in the world. Any agent sent undercover will be a rookie in comparison and sooner or later, they will slip up. All it takes is a single mistake. Just the slightest suspicion and they're dead. It's not just politics, Yassen. It's survival. What we do in retaliation will give them a good idea of our resources, our priorities, and our current situation. Whatever we do, there'll be a thorough analysis of it ready within twenty-four hours and we have to be sure we won't give them any information we can't afford them to have."

Politics, Yassen repeated to himself a little spitefully. Maybe it wasn't accurate but he could still blame it on that as the first whisper of a headache settled somewhere near his temples.

Hunter had thrived in that kind of environment. Yassen had little patience for it and he doubted it would have been any different if he had stayed with SCORPIA.

"A lot of effort to spend on one man," he said. A lot of effort the board could have spent on more profitable things.

"A lot of effort spent on someone considered one of the best assassins in the world along with his former apprentice who will most likely claim that position from him one day," John corrected. "All it takes is one lucky shot. One assassin skilled and lucky enough, and the board knows it. We're worth that effort."

Skilled and lucky, and Hunter was both. The luck of the devil. Yassen wondered if Alex and Matilda would inherit it, too.

Hunter shook his head. Packed the file together. "That's for tomorrow, though. Get some sleep. Clear your head. Then we'll look at it again and figure out a plan."

Part of Yassen wanted to argue. Another part, the one with the headache, knew that one more day wouldn't matter. This was about patience. About planning. They didn't even have the intel to know where to strike and even if they did, hasty retaliation would be suicide.

Instead he simply nodded.

Hunter probably knew his feelings on the matter because he gave him a smile, small and wry. "We'll figure it out. It'll take a while but it'll be safer that way. You did good. Now we'll make sure it won't happen again."

He made what would be a complex situation sound remarkably easy but it still eased something in Yassen. Hunter believed it could be done and that was all Yassen needed to know. For the first time in a week, they had an objective. Perhaps they would succeed, perhaps they would fail, but for the first time in an endless week, Yassen could actually do something.

Chapter Text

The sound of the church bells of Venice echoed through the Widow's Palace. Behind armoured windows and solid walls it was reduced to little more than a whisper in Julia Rothman's office but it was still a familiar refrain from years in the city.

Julia rather liked it. The sound had echoed through the grand home for centuries, marking hours and months and years, and would continue undisturbed for long after she was gone.

Some would consider it a bit of a morbid memento mori. Julia considered it a reminder to seize every opportunity she could. Life was transient. Luxury was transient. It was, however, the most delightful sort of transience around.

The last whisper of the bells was interrupted as the door opened and her second-in-command stepped soundlessly inside.

"Clean-up has been handled, ma'am."

Corvo was tall, muscular, and lethal – and also, Julia would readily admit, quite easy on the eyes. He was certainly one of the more competent seconds she had claimed. She still let him wait until he clearly wanted to fidget in the silence; small shifts in his posture that were only visible to those who knew what to look for.

"I expect you made it clear that another hiring mistake of that magnitude will see the full staff replaced."

Assuming, of course, their station chief in Zurich lived long enough to find a new assistant. Hunter would want revenge. With the people directly responsible for the attack dead, SCORPIA expected he would find other ways to express his annoyance.

"Yes, ma'am."

To his credit, he did not babble to fill the silence. He was skilled; top of his class at Malagosto and with an excellent track record … but he wasn't Hunter.

The muted flicker of annoyance that followed that thought was familiar and expected, and Julia despised it. Hunter had been an investment; the only operative she had found so far that would have been the perfect second-in-command, and that investment had failed.

With time and patience, he would have been everything she could reasonably demand. Lethal, skilled, intelligent, and absolutely loyal. It had been a simple enough plan. Build up a connection. Find his weaknesses. Wait for the inevitable divorce as he grew too distant from his wife and she grew tired of the loneliness and uncertainty. Be there in the aftermath. She had played that role before, patient and empathetic and so very understanding, and it would have been easy to turn that familiarity to – something more. Loyalty. Devotion. That edge of obsession. Impervious to bribes and threats and the lure of another woman.

Julia had made her fortune through a man like that. Her husband had been a ruthless businessman. Intelligent, brutal, and distrustful enough that he could have made an excellent career in the intelligence world if things had happened differently. He was the sort of man who knew better than to trust anyone, and certainly a beautiful woman far younger than himself. The sort of man who had every reason to be spiteful enough to put legal protections into place that would ensure Julia would have received nothing of his fortune in the event of his death.

Julia had still managed to twist things to her advantage. She had been a widow within a week of the wedding and had sold off his business empire at a sizeable profit within a year. Intelligent, brutal, and distrustful had mattered little in the end. All men had weaknesses. Julia had made a career of using those against them.

What Hunter had wanted would have mattered little in the end. Julia always got her way, and so much the better if he had believed it to be his own decision.

Instead Hunter had played house with his wife and two children and one of Malagosto's most promising students, and Julia wanted to crush something.

She did not appreciate having her careful investments ruined.

Helen Rider could be forgiven; Hunter was an excellent specimen and Julia hardly blamed her for reclaiming her property. Based on their intel from Geneva now that they had a name to go on, Hunter was by all accounts a devoted husband and attentive, loving father. Well worth, Julia supposed, the bother of going on the run with him. Hunter had certainly provided well for his family based on their house and the price he charged for his time and skills. Far better than a mere intelligence agent could ever have managed.

Julia had put up with a year and a half of her husband's bothersome attention before her investment had paid off. Helen Rider had been on the run for seven and a half years but Hunter was also far more charming company and significantly easier on the eyes than the dear, departed Mr Rothman had been, so Julia supposed it balanced out.

Corvo had remained where he was, a silent statue but for the slight, restless shift of muscles as he waited for either further instructions or a dismissal.

At least the obedience was there. Malagosto did not tolerate disrespect in her students. Three's lessons had worked wonders to ensure their graduates possessed a suitable level of politeness in all dealings with the Board.

Julia glanced at him. "If Hunter hasn't murdered the lot of them in two months, send internal affairs their way. I want a full audit. And arrange for a suitable funeral bouquet for Petrescu."

Corvo hesitated for no more than a second. "… Yes, ma'am. When is the funeral?"

Excellent question. And certainly given that there hadn't been even a whisper that one of the members of the Board had died, not even around someone as close to them as Corvo was.

"In about a week, I expect."

It was far simpler to arrange for such things when you knew the time of death in advance. Julia simply – helped things along. Radiation-induced cancer was a dreadful thing and the last thing SCORPIA wanted was a Board member babbling classified information in the middle of a drug-fuelled hallucination – or worse, felt the need for some bothersome deathbed confession.

This time there was no hesitation.

"Yes, ma'am."

Julia made a small wave. "Dismissed."

Corvo left without a sound.

Handsome. Skilled. Loyal. Lethal. He still wasn't Hunter.

Morning was … odd. John Rider had spent a week torn between bleak worry and sharp focus, between thoughts of his family and the job that could get him killed if he made even a single mistake, and now he was home again. In a safe-house, sure, but home.

Home is where the heart is, love.

His mum's words whispered through his mind, clearer than they had been in years. Maybe because of his sudden focus on family. Maybe because of the sharp reminder of how close he had come to losing them all. Maybe for the memories of calm and love and the bleak darkness that had followed when it had been torn away.

Yassen had already left for the day to handle some of the many necessities on their list. John still had to decide on a course of action. He was no closer to an answer than he had been the night before but he had pushed it aside for now. Let his subconsciousness get a chance to mull it over. It wouldn't hurt.

Helen helped Matilda with her breakfast. Alex was curled up on the couch next to John himself with a bowl of cereal and morning cartoons. Maybe they should eat at the table like a family but neither of them was in any rush to disturb the kids. Alex obviously needed the closeness, and Matilda needed her mother's undivided attention after a week of …

… A week of everything John had tried to plan for and hoped they would never need.

The cartoon was familiar but Alex was distracted, that much was obvious. The restless shifts, the way he played with the increasingly soggy cereal with his spoon. John didn't say anything, though. Just let Alex take whatever time he needed.

The cereal bowl was still mostly full and the contents close to mush by the time Alex spoke.

"Mum said they were looking for you and James. The men."

It had only ever been a matter of time before Alex asked questions. Eventually, something would happen or he would be old enough to wonder. Helen had told him enough to settle the question until things were calmer again. John was not surprised that Alex would ask again.

"They worked for – a group. Of criminals," John said.

- Murderers, terrorists, torturers, assassins, intelligence agents -

"I pretended to work for them to figure out who they were and how to stop them." Which was … the simplest way John could put it. They had discussed it already and decided to give Alex as much of the truth as they could afford but the last thing John wanted was to share the gruesome details. Not now, and hopefully never.

Alex was silent for a few seconds. "Mum said that, too. You were a soldier."

A heartbeat. John didn't answer because Alex clearly wasn't looking for that. Then he continued. "What about Jamie?"

And there it was, the intelligence and sharp nose for deception that John wasn't sure where he had picked up – because until now, Alex had known nothing but the safe, comfortable life as Alex Morrison – but which John didn't doubt would serve him well as he grew up.

Maybe it was the careful contingency plans Alex had grown up with. Maybe it had been an accidental side effect of Helen's pragmatic and somewhat pessimistic view of the world. Maybe it was genetic. It wasn't a conversation he would have expected to have with any other seven-year-old but he wasn't that surprised he had it now with Alex.

They had discussed the issue of Yassen as well. Alex had known nothing but James Morrison, either, and James Morrison was a lie. They were brothers in everything but blood by now despite Yassen's refusal to get attached but eventually Alex would have to learn the truth.

Wasn't it better he heard it now, from people he trusted, and not their enemies instead? John would do whatever he could to keep them safe but that was no guarantee and a lie of that magnitude … he could vividly imagine what Rothman or Three or the rest of the Board could do with a weakness like that.

One day John would need to prepare Alex for that sort of possibility. Alex and Matilda both. He didn't want to share the gruesome details but Hunter, pragmatic and sharp and lethally protective, knew they might not get that choice.

"James was my student when I worked undercover," John eventually said. "I left to be with you and your mum. The people I worked for back then faked my death so we would be safe, but James figured out it was a lie and found us. We realised that if he could figure it out, other people could, too, so we left. We moved from London to Geneva when you were just a baby. I didn't want to leave James to survive on his own so I convinced him to come with us. The group of criminals didn't like it when people tried to leave so he became a target, too."

This time the silence stretched longer. Alex was a smart kid but John's answer was a lot to absorb and carried a lot of unsaid things. John didn't doubt there would be questions; he only wondered where Alex would start. He got his answer long seconds later.

"So James isn't my brother." Alex's voice was soft and quiet and hurt, and John's heart twisted at the sound of it.

He shouldn't have been surprised that this was what Alex latched on to. Alex loved Yassen. And Yassen, whatever he was, however many traumas he carried around, cared enough to play with Alex, to babysit, to help him with homework, and to save a few sentimental things from their old home in what had been an extremely risky move.

"Yassen," John started and felt the way Alex tensed against him at the unfamiliar name; wrapped his arm around Alex and pressed a kiss to his blond locks, "- James is your brother in everything but blood. He loves you. You've always been the younger brother he never got. Alex, there is no one else in the world that Yassen Gregorovich would charter a helicopter for and go camping with in Russia for two weeks. There is no one else he would allow to use him as a jungle gym. There is no one else he would allow to fall asleep against him, much less sit through an hour and a half of cartoons for because he didn't want to wake you up to turn off the TV."

Alex stayed silent and John tried to figure out where his thoughts had headed off to. Alex loved Yassen, and the foundation of Alex's entire world had just been pulled away underneath him. Their home, Geneva, their future safety, and now Yassen as well.

"He was nineteen when he became my student," John continued when Alex still didn't speak. "He wasn't even an adult. I saved his life, I taught him everything I knew that might keep him alive, and I tried to convince him to leave and make a life far away from the criminals he worked for. He wasn't my son but he could easily have been. Making him my son helped all of us hide from those people and it gave James a family. He could have left when he had learned enough to survive on his own but he didn't. He never left you, Alex. Whatever else happened, he's always made time to come back to see you."

Silence. Alex still played with the cereal-mush with his spoon, his entire focus on the bowl. John should probably have stopped it but right now Alex had more than enough to think about.

"Yassen," Alex finally said, "is a stupid name."

He sounded distinctly unimpressed with the name, unimpressed and a little sullen, but the hurt was gone. John smiled though Alex didn't see it. "His real name is Yasha but someone heard it wrong once and thought it was 'Yassen'. He's been Yassen ever since."

First because he had been in no position to argue with his owner and later because he had been in no position to argue with SCORPIA, either. No one had cared if Yassen liked the name and by now it was simply who he was. John's explanation was a lot more suitable for young ears, though.

"It sounds Russian."

John wasn't surprised Alex picked up on that, either, not after two weeks in Russia. Proud but not really surprised.

"It is."

He didn't elaborate and Alex didn't ask. There were undoubtedly other things on his mind than Yassen's name.

On the TV, the cartoon had ended and the endless commercials started instead. John doubted Alex could have told him what show they had just watched, his focus still on the cereal mush.

"Do we have to stay here?"

The safe-house was a cosy little thing that had everything they needed but John would readily admit it was a world removed from their life in Geneva. From suburbia to the German forests, from modern convenience to something closer to an old-fashioned cabin, from plenty of playmates to – mostly solitude and parents who watched over them like a hawk. Alex didn't even have his own room any more.

"For now," John admitted. "It'll be a few months, probably. Then we'll find a new home."

"Not in Geneva," Alex said and it wasn't a question, not with the quiet resignation in his voice.

"Not in Geneva," John agreed.

Alex fell silent again but the tight grip on his spoon spoke volumes. Angry and upset; that horrible sense of injustice and being utterly powerless to do anything about it.

"I don't want to. I want to go home."

"We can't." The words hurt; the childhood that had just been torn from Alex, everything they had tried to protect them from, but John carried on. "It's too dangerous. Those people are still looking for us. If we go back, they'll find us."

This time Alex looked up with a glare. "I don't care."

Which – wasn't unexpected, either, if John was honest. Alex was seven years old. He had managed so much better the past week than they had feared he would and John was so proud of him it hurt, but Alex was still just a kid. Still just seven, violently removed from everything he had grown up with and with more questions than answers about his future.

"I know," John said. "I wish we could have stayed, too. But it's too dangerous. We'll find a great new house, new school, lots of new friends."

He knew he had said something wrong the second Alex's expression shifted, from glare to stormy anger.

"No! I want to go home! This place is stupid and you're stupid and always working and I hate you!"

Split-second reflexes and finely-honed instincts let John grab the bowl of cereal before Alex could throw it. It probably wasn't what MI6 and SCORPIA had expected him to use his priceless training for but he would take what he could get.

"Alex!"

In that moment his voice was more Malagosto-instructor than father and the response was instant. Alex froze mid-motion, halfway off the couch, and the guilt hit like a sledgehammer. Even now, almost eight years later, Hunter and SCORPIA still lurked in his mind. The position at Malagosto had been a privileged chance to get his hands on valuable intel, sure, but John had also enjoyed it. He had liked the job, liked his students, liked teaching.

It had not been an angry tone of voice but it had demanded absolute obedience and Alex had reacted as instantly as any one of John's students had.

"Alex," John repeated; softer, gentler, and quietly apologetic. He put the bowl back on the table, well out of Alex's reach, and willed himself to be John and not Hunter.

Alex hesitated but settled back down, the anger swept away by … not fear, at least John could say that much, but definitely caution. Across the room, halfway out of her chair as well, Helen settled back down to soothe Matilda who had been frightened by the sudden shouting.

"I know you want things to go back to normal," John said softly. "I know you want to go back to Geneva. We do, too; your mum and Matilda and James and me. We can't. It's too dangerous. I wish this whole mess had never happened but I can't change it. All I can do is try to keep you, all three of you, as safe as I can."

Maybe it was a little too blunt for a seven-year-old – seven-and-a-half – but John had never believed in coddling Alex and he wasn't going to start now. Alex needed to know. The fact that they had always made him take those emergency drills seriously, that they had always treated him like he was older than his actual age, that they had always tried to explain things – John knew that was very likely the only reason Helen had had enough time to kill those four attackers and escape. The fact that Alex hadn't panicked and had known to listen and not ask questions until they were safe.

A part of him felt guilty. A much bigger part of him accepted that he could do nothing to change the past and that all that mattered now was that they were safe. All of them.

Alex was silent. In the kitchen, Matilda had calmed down. It was quiet enough that John could hear the old-fashioned clock slowly tick away, second by second.

Finally Alex broke the silence. "… What if they come back?"

And there it was, the fear that John had expected. Alex had spent long minutes in that safe-room with no idea of when or if his mother would be back and with the terrifying knowledge that he would be the sole person responsible for his little sister if everything went wrong.

"Then your mum will stop them again," he said softly. "But James and me will do whatever we can to make sure they never try again."

They had failed once. They had stayed in Geneva for too long, grown too complacent, and that wouldn't happen again. John would find a way to send a message to SCORPIA that somehow had to balance perfectly between 'ineffective' and 'declaration of war', and they would make sure to never get that overconfident again. Helen's message followed by a week straight of nightmares about everything that could have gone wrong was … something John would do everything in his power to keep from happening again.

Alex swallowed. "Promise?"

The guilt burned again, acid and lead in John's chest, but he pushed it aside to hug Alex tightly instead. Alex stilled for a moment, then seemed to just give up and cling to his father with everything he had and every bit of fear he hadn't been able to show for an endless week of uncertainty.

"Promise," John said. "I promise. Whatever it takes."

Between two of the best contract killers in the world, they would find a way. Find a way, or make one.

Yassen returned in the late afternoon. Hunter met him outside, undoubtedly alerted by the sound of the car. In other circumstances, Yassen might have been worried. As it was, Hunter looked serious but not concerned. Yassen expected it was news he wanted to share in private, then, because he could think of no other reason why Hunter would meet him outside. There was something he needed to say and he needed to say it before Yassen did anything else, including enter the house. Something serious but not something that would put them at risk or Hunter's reaction would have been very different.

"Alex knows," Hunter told him and did not bother with a greeting. "He asked questions I couldn't answer without getting into old SCORPIA history."

It – wasn't really a surprise. Alex was an intelligent child and Yassen had expected those questions sooner or later, and certainly after everything that had happened in Geneva.

It still didn't stop the sudden, sharp stab of … something that Yassen wasn't willing to examine too closely. They had known they would have to come clean one day. Yassen had just hoped it wouldn't be quite this soon. He appreciated the warning but it did little to help the unease.

He nodded once and walked past Hunter. The man didn't follow, and when Yassen stepped inside the house he was not surprised to find that Helen and Matilda were not present, either. Only Alex was there, a new book in front of him, and the boy glanced up and froze at the sight of him.

For long seconds, neither of them moved. Yassen had long since been trained out of any visible signs of unease. Alex was usually a bundle of boundless energy but he had just had his entire world destroyed beneath his feet; first in Geneva and now once more. His stillness was unusual but not entirely unexpected, either.

Finally Alex moved. He got up, slower and more cautious than usual and the play of emotions on his face was wariness and hurt and painfully familiar determination.

Alex was a world removed from Yassen's own childhood. Wealth against poverty, self-defence lessons against military training, elite schooling against whatever the State had decided was appropriate to learn. Alex had also learned the brutal realities of the world at seven and now had to adjust to the sort of life they had hoped to spare him.

What had Yassen himself been like at seven? He barely remembered any more. In retrospect, he had been painfully ignorant. Shielded by his parents as much as they could and unaware of the bleak realities around him.

Alex stopped in from of him and Yassen knew that whatever Hunter's son might be, ignorant was unlikely to be on the list for much longer.

"Yassen," Alex said, very deliberate, "is a stupid name."

Of all the possible reactions Yassen had considered, that had not been one of them. He still found himself answering before he even had time to consider it.

"Have you asked your father what other names they considered for you? I believe Cuthbert was on the list. Archibald, too. Your mother vetoed them."

Alex frowned. "You made that up."

"Possibly," Yassen agreed blandly, "Archibald."

"Yassen." Alex presented the name like it was the argument to end all discussion.

"Cuthbert," Yassen repeated quite deliberately and sounded out every syllable in the same careful, precise way he did all things. "Cuthbert Archibald Wilhelmina Morrison."

Alex fell silent again. For long seconds, neither spoke. For a brief few moments, Alex had been able to ignore it all but reality intruded again swiftly enough; familiar joking a painful reminder that Yassen was not, in the end, the brother Alex had believed him to be. Whatever Hunter and Helen said, however little they seemed to care for the lack of blood ties, that did not change the truth.

Then something seemed to decide things for Alex because the boy moved and the instant later he clung to Yassen in a tight grip, every bit as desperate as when Yassen had first arrived in the safe-house.

Something in Yassen eased at the reaction, the tension in his muscles and the unease he still wasn't quite willing to acknowledge, and he picked Alex up and felt the child's grip on him tighten further.

It wouldn't be long before it would be too awkward to do even that. Alex was no longer the small, energetic toddler that Yassen could carry on his shoulders but a rapidly growing child. Still young but … older. And far older mentally now than he had been mere weeks ago.

Alex didn't speak. Yassen didn't force him to. Just held the boy until his grip eased and he allowed Yassen to put him back down again.

"Can we go flying again?" Alex finally asked, and that was apparently it.

However mature Alex might be, he was still just seven years old and fascinated by helicopters. Even now, his attention span was still limited at best. He had the reassurance he needed for now. Perhaps he would want that reassurance again later, proof that Yassen had no intention of leaving, but for now his attention span for such discussions had obviously reached its limit.

"Next summer," Yassen promised and meant it. Another couple of weeks immersed in the Russian language would do him well. Alex had an ear for languages and that was something to encourage.

That was for the future, though. For now, there were other concerns. A new house. New names. New identities. And for Hunter and Yassen himself, to find those responsible for the attack, take revenge, and ensure no one else would be tempted to try the same.

That was not something Alex needed to know, however. For now, the promise of summer and helicopters was enough.

Chapter Text

Alex clung to Yassen in the days that followed the admission that Yassen – that James – wasn't technically his brother. John had mostly expected it and it was leagues better than the alternative. If Alex had reacted badly to it, if he had refused to even listen to the explanations … it wasn't something John particularly wanted to think about. He had too many other things to worry about without adding could-have-beens to the list.

At the very top of that list, as it had been for almost a decade by now, was SCORPIA. Mostly as an ominous, ever-present threat and avoid at all costs, but now joined by … more present concerns.

It was no easy job ahead of them. Hunter's first-hand experiences with SCORPIA were eight years out of date. Yassen's were only marginally less and were also from a much less important position than Hunter's had been. That didn't mean they started from scratch, though. SCORPIA had grown, expanded, become increasingly powerful … but the Board remained the same. A little smaller, a little older, a little more experienced, but the same people that John had made it his business to understand because his survival and success depended on it. SCORPIA had grown but the core remained the same. That in turn meant that John's understanding of the organisation was about as comprehensive as any outsider's could be, and much better than the majority of SCORPIA's own lower-ranking people.

Yassen had learned over the years through exposure and John's lessons but he didn't have the same practical experience that John did. Between the two of them, though, and their combined sources … it was a start. Nowhere near enough for John's purposes but enough to know where to look for better intel.

"It was most likely a local job," John told Yassen. "The Zurich, Berlin, or Paris offices would be my guess, in that order. Venice is a possibility, too, but Rothman runs a tighter ship than that. Most likely Zurich just based on proximity alone."

It was the last days of September, and even in the bright noon sun, the first whisper of colder days lingered in the air. Helen and the kids were in Bonn to handle shopping. It gave John and Yassen a chance to talk shop away from innocent ears and let them get an idea of how Alex might handle being in public again after everything.

John didn't like having them out in the open and exposed but Helen and Alex had both dyed their hair and Helen was a practical woman who knew the risks and had the training to stay unnoticed. Alex had never had formal lessons but circumstances had forced that now. Short trips would be a good way to learn before they had to adapt to entirely new identities.

The fact that John would have to leave them again – and leave again soon – was something he didn't want to linger on.

Yassen nodded but didn't speak. John hadn't expected him to, either. Yassen was not a talkative man and this was not that different from their normal missions. More personal but not all that different.

It would also, John would admit, be slightly more his sort of job than Yassen's. More hands-on. More brutal. More bloody.

"We should be able to get some information from our own contacts but we'll have to be careful," he continued. "Especially since SCORPIA knows we're hunting now. We'll go for surveillance for as much as possible, and then a couple of select targets to interrogate. As close to the attack as possible; that'll cut down on the risk that their disappearances will raise any red flags."

Even now, even after years, even with Yassen's reputation slowly approaching John's own, he couldn't help but slip into his old role as Yassen's teacher. Yassen wasn't the lost teenager any more but John doubted they would ever entirely lose that dynamic. John had age and years of varied experience and training on his side and Yassen soaked up knowledge like a sponge. Whatever advantage John could give, Yassen would accept.

Yassen still didn't speak. Just listened with that sharp, familiar focus.

"When we find the right target," John said and put words to his plan for the first time since he had decided on it during long, restless hours in the darkness of their bedroom, "I want every single one of them dead. No collateral damage. No massive property destruction. Finesse and skill. And while the choice is entirely yours – if you agree to it, I want it to be absolutely clear that we both had an even part in it."

John didn't immediately explain but let Yassen work it out on his own. Yassen didn't want his hand held. He wanted the chance to consider the situation at his own pace.

John hadn't given him much to work with. He wasn't surprised when Yassen worked part of it out, anyway. The kid was frighteningly intelligent. Sometimes John wondered what Yassen could have become if someone had paid attention a little sooner, if someone had seen his potential and nurtured it before Estrov and SCORPIA and everything else. The KGB would have loved him.

"It would be better for your reputation if my involvement was not known, even if it would be strongly suspected that you did not manage it alone. Politics, then," Yassen finally said with the annoyance that always followed that word.

… And maybe the KGB wouldn't have liked him that much after all, John admitted to himself. The intelligence world thrived on politics. Yassen Gregorovich did not.

"Politics," John agreed. "SCORPIA understands three languages – violence, money, and politics. I'm thirty-seven years old, Yassen. Close to forty. You're too young to feel it yourself yet, you're still in your prime, but the human body goes downhill early. You'll feel it by forty. You've got no business in the field at forty-five, not if you want to stay alive. I want to make sure to send a message strong enough that they'll listen and clear enough that it won't leave any doubts. They attacked Helen and the kids. I want to be damn sure it never happens again but that doesn't change the fact that a retired assassin is a target. I've got SCORPIA with a grudge, and a reputation that makes me valuable. One man with a family, older and retired from field work … that's a tempting target. A retired assassin with a protégé still in the field, someone with the skills and enough emotional investment to care … that's a much less attractive target when someone will be around to retaliate."

It was the selfish part of John's reasoning and he knew it. He had never claimed to be a selfless man, and Yassen knew that, too.

That reason alone would have been enough. Even with as skittish as Yassen was at times, he still adored Alex and had taken uncharacteristically large risks just to let Helen and the kids keep a few things from Geneva. If John asked, Yassen would agree.

Yassen didn't speak, though John could see that sharp mind fast at work. So much potential. So much talent. It was never the sort of life that John had wanted for him, but Yassen had learned and adapted and thrived and John could accept that. Yassen would be among the best someday – and probably soon – but that didn't change the fact that for now and for all his experience, Yassen was still learning.

"You already have a reputation of your own, and you'll be one of the best assassins in the world one day, but you're known for your sniper skills above all else," John continued with the same bluntness that always seemed to work best with Yassen. "Precision work. Ruthless precision, sure, but still the sort of speciality that makes some people decide you'll be an easy target outside of the field. They're wrong, and those skills don't make you any less lethal than someone who prefers the personal approach, but it's still something you need to be aware of. I want to make it clear that you have the ability to slip into a secure home and kill every single person there and never raise a single alarm. That your skills with a rifle doesn't make you any less deadly in person and that you are perfectly willing to get your hands bloody."

Which any sensible person in their line of work should know but John had met too many people without even that degree of common sense to count on it. Reputations on their level were larger than life; summed up in a codename or a few words and without any of the nuances.

Hunter was the most talented freelance assassin of his generation, a virtuoso with any weapon he touched, and that reputation didn't care how carefully he selected his weapons and missions to give that impression or how many hours he put into keeping up those skills. There were perhaps half a dozen assassins of his level but they were all gainfully employed in assassin-terms and most of them had specialised in something. Hunter, by necessity, hadn't had any option but to take his already impressive reputation and turn it into a living legend. Not if he wanted to survive with SCORPIA actively hunting him. Not if he wanted to keep his family safe.

Cossack was a rising star if still not considered on the same level as Hunter, but John planned to change that. Yassen had to be every bit as untouchable as Hunter was. Assassins had no preferences, no identity, no habits, and while Yassen's sniper skills would make him a legend one day, that had also slowly become what people remembered him for. Those impossible shots.

Yassen Gregorovich cared little about murder these days but sometimes John still wondered if his career as a sniper hadn't been a last, subconscious attempt to protect himself a little. It was still murder but nowhere near as messy and personal as John's jobs ended up sometimes.

It wasn't that John minded. Yassen was exceptionally skilled with a sniper rifle. If it helped him come to terms with his career as well, then that was just a bonus. It would just … take a few thorough examples to make sure Yassen's reputation would be just as lethal and intimidating as John's was.

"I want to make it clear to anyone who might get tempted by your bounty that if you can do that sort of thing to a SCORPIA station chief, you can easily do the same to anyone else. I'm a selfish man. I want my family safe and that includes you. I want Helen and the kids out of harm's way and I want you to have a reputation that makes you untouchable. Never try to speak to SCORPIA through money, that'll cost you more than you could ever afford, but we can use violence and politics. They'll get the point."

Yassen stayed silent as he considered the explanation. John let him. That was how Yassen worked. Offer the choice. Let him make the decision. Never push but give him whatever time he needed it. Even if they both knew what the decision would be, Yassen wanted the choice. He was still full of spite; stubborn and contrary and proud, and John didn't blame him. That had been the only thing he'd had left to hold on to for a long time. It had been the thing that had brought him back to SCORPIA as well, the vicious sense of betrayal that John still had to carefully navigate around. If that meant doing things on Yassen's terms, John could live with that.

Finally Yassen broke the silence. "SCORPIA will not take kindly to such a loss of employees."

"SCORPIA has already written them off as collateral damage."

John didn't bother to soften the words. The people in question probably didn't know. Most of them, John suspected, would have no idea of what had happened in the first place, and those high-ranking enough that they did would expect SCORPIA's reputation to keep them safe. John had enough experience with the executive board to know better.

"It's one station," he continued, "nothing more, and they've already made a bad impression when their mistakes lost the board the first credible lead they've had on us since London. It's expendable for the chance to see how I'll respond. If we keep it decisive but contained, the board will do the same."

"You have had no dealings with the board for eight years." Yassen's voice gave nothing away but John caught the meaning just fine.

How do you know?

"I haven't," he replied and knew Yassen would understand the underlying I don't as well. "This is my best guess based on the surviving members, my experience with them, and any internal politics that have found their way outside the organisation. Is it a risk? Absolutely. Not just the attack itself but SCORPIA's response if I've read them wrong and they decide it's more than they're willing to ignore. If Rothman or Kurst have gained more influence than I think, enough to control the rest of the board, this could backfire spectacularly. With Kroll around, I don't think so, but it's still a gamble."

The seconds stretched on. Yassen had always been a gifted student. He listened, he considered the information, he asked questions … and these days, with Yassen a trained professional, those questions were much more those of an equal than an inexperienced student. Yassen didn't necessarily doubt his approach, John knew, but he wanted as much information as he could get and the chance to make up his own mind.

"Zurich," Yassen said. "Not Berlin?"

"Berlin focuses more on business opportunities in Eastern Europe and I don't think they have enough connections in Switzerland to have done it. Zurich. That's my best guess."

John could be wrong, of course, but they would deal with that if that happened. It would set them back a week or two but nothing catastrophic. And if he was right … he had connections in Zurich. He hadn't spent all his time as Séamus. Hunter had been busy, too.

A heartbeat. Then a nod as Yassen agreed and something in John, something faint that had never quite vanished, eased at the gesture. He had never doubted what Yassen's decision would be but it was still reassuring to have it confirmed.

Intel, then. Surveillance. Find the best approach. Decide on their targets. Leave nothing alive.

Hunter had stayed out of SCORPIA's way for seven years. It was obviously time to remind the world around them that this was not a sign of weakness.

Helen Rider had learned to listen and read between the lines from a young age. It had come in depressingly handy even as an adult. First around several older doctors who saw their nurses as barely more than trained help in need of clear instructions and certainly no complicated explanations that might confuse their fragile little minds. Then around intelligence officers from MI5 and MI6 who were perhaps less condescending as a whole but even more tight-lipped about explanations than those doctors had ever been.

Helen had learned to read the silence, to focus on the omissions, and to work around the restrictions with gentle, harmless questions until she could slowly puzzle out the information she needed, one sliver of truth at a time.

Even John, as much as she loved him, was a master of saying nothing whatsoever of actual importance. He could talk someone's ear off if he wanted to but when it came to the important details, he could be stubborn as few others she knew. For their own protection, maybe, but that made it no less of an annoyance to her.

Helen had known that John and Yassen had business to discuss. She knew the moment she returned with Alex and Matilda from their trip to Bonn that something had been decided, too. She didn't say anything, though, and neither did John. Not until Alex was outside with Yassen, and Matilda had settled down with one of her new toys; a truck that was already sticky from fruit snacks and inquisitive toddler fingers.

"You're leaving," she said. She had known it would happen. It was sooner than she had expected but she had known. It didn't make the words any easier to speak.

"We are," John confirmed. "On Friday. I have some things I need to handle first but I want to move as fast as possible."

Quiet. Regretful, in the silence between the words. He was no happier about leaving his family behind this soon than Helen was to see him leave. See both of them leave. That, too, she had expected. Alex would be unhappy. Nothing to do about it. Just hope they returned home again soon, alive and safe. The alternative was unthinkable.

Three days, then. Her chest tightened, the nausea and smothering weight of anxiety, and she took a slow breath. Another. Nodded. There had always been that wisp of worry whenever John left, the reminder of the risks that came with his career. That wisp had grown into a thunderstorm since Geneva.

John, as observant as anyone she had known, reached out. Brushed her cheek with calloused fingers and didn't need to speak.

I'm sorry.

Helen took another slow, deliberate breath. Then she reached up to cover John's hand with her own.

I know, she didn't need to say.

It had to be done. There was no alternative. To do nothing was to invite another attack. This was the best course of action. It didn't make it hurt any less, nor did it make the looming thunderstorm any less ominous.

Helen was not helpless. There were four dead bodies somewhere in Switzerland that could testify to that. She had killed and would do it again if that was what it took to protect her family. It did not ease her worry, nor did it in any way make her forget what else those bodies meant.

SCORPIA knew she could defend herself now. SCORPIA, and soon enough anyone else with the connections to get that kind of information. If they were attacked again, she would not have the advantage of ignorant assassins or hired muscle expecting a defenceless housewife.

And still the realistic part of her knew that however dangerous their situation might be, it was still safer than John's time with SCORPIA had been. He wasn't surrounded by enemies, and if something went wrong, he had Yassen with him, too. He wasn't alone. He wasn't at the mercy of some mercurial superior – SCORPIA's executive board or Alan Blunt, it really wasn't much difference to Helen these days – and he had eight years of experience since then.

It was not a welcome situation they were in, and they had the children to worry about now as well, but they had still been through worse, and Helen clung to that thought.

They'd had seven calm and undisturbed years. If this went well, they could have even longer before anything similar happened again.

Again.

It was a thought Helen didn't want to linger on. It might not happen but she was painfully aware that the odds were against it.

John shifted his hand until it rested by her throat, warm and gentle. The kiss was not the desperation of the first night back but the slow, lingering reassurance that he was there, that they both were, and Helen melted into his embrace.

Outside was the whisper of Alex's laugh, muted by thick walls. Under the dining table, Matilda's truck rolled across the wooden floor, trailing children's music in its wake.

Friday would come soon enough. There were a hundred little things to handle before that. But for now, those could wait.

Ian Rider got the news in person, still tired from an absurdly early military flight from Bosnia and with a return flight looming just a couple of hours away.

He was in London for a debriefing, nothing else. Tulip Jones wanted it in person, which Ian understood but didn't particular have to like. He was done with the undercover part of his most recent mission but still tangled up in the inevitable clean-up that followed. It would probably be another month before he could leave the rest of the mess to someone else and get back to London properly.

Ian had prepared everything in advance. It still took the better part of three hours before Tulip was satisfied, and her secretary looked just as quietly relieved as Ian was when Tulip finally closed the folder.

"Thank you, Suzanne."

The secretary nodded and slipped outside, a solid stack of notes in her hand. The door closed behind her. When Ian looked back at Tulip, there was a new folder on her desk.

"You have a niece," she said.

Ian, who had expected that folder to add another few weeks of work to his current assignment, took a moment to process that.

Niece?

The meaning hit the instant later, sharp and clear in a surge of adrenaline.

John.

Someone had found them. If Ian had a niece, then someone had found them. John and Helen and Alex and – his niece.

"Are they all right?"

Ian had a dozen questions but he wanted the most important one out of the way; the cold dread in his body and the awful realisation that his brother could be dead. That all of them could be dead, John and Helen and Alex, and that he was told because there was no one else to take care of the girl. His niece.

"To the best of our knowledge." Tulip had to have realised the impression the words had given him because she looked faintly sympathetic in a Tulip sort of way. "They lived in Geneva for the past seven years. Helen and the children were attacked when John and Yassen were away. Helen killed the intruders and escaped with Alex and Matilda. There are no indications that they were harmed in the attack. Helen made two phone calls, presumably to John and Yassen, but there has been no trace of them since. We expect they've gone to ground."

Ian nodded. Felt the grip of fear ease.

Alex and Matilda.

He had a name for her now, at least. And Alex. The last time Ian had seen him, he had been a newborn. He would be seven and a half by now. He would be in school, have friends, play sports. A world away from the tiny baby Ian had last seen snuggled against Helen.

Tulip took several photos from the folder and slid them across the desk to Ian. The first one was of Helen and the kids and looked like the sort of family photo you sent in Christmas cards or kept on your desk at work.

Helen looked much like herself. A little older, with a different haircut and the first, faint lines that would eventually become wrinkles, but much like herself otherwise. Alex looked … so much like the childhood photos Ian had of John that it physically hurt. His hair was lighter and his features were softer – from youth and Helen's genes both, it looked like – but the rest of him was … very John. From before everything had gone off the rails. When they were still children and the most they had to worry about was getting into trouble. Matilda looked maybe two, Ian had never been good at guessing that sort of thing, and even that young her parentage was obvious. She had the same brown eyes as Alex, the same fair hair, and the same softness from Helen.

Tulip waited patiently until Ian looked up again before she spoke.

"You can keep them. They're all copies. That one was taken sometime this summer. Matilda was born on the third of October, so she's about to turn two. Helen kept her at home, we assume for security reasons. Alex was kept at home until he started preschool, too. He attends – attended – an international school in Geneva, played soccer several times a week, speaks three languages, and is from all reports a social, intelligent child. Since John clearly trained Helen to defend herself and their children, we suspect Alex likely also has self-defence and firearms training but we have no evidence of either."

It sounded more like an intelligence report than an update on his family but Ian didn't mind. It was the best Tulip could offer him, glimpses of the nephew and niece he'd had no chance to see grow up in person. She hadn't needed to tell him anything at all. This was solely Tulip Jones' rare compassion making a brief appearance. Out of fondness for John or Helen or Ian himself, he didn't know, and it didn't matter much either way.

This was the first real update of any sort Ian had been given since John left, beyond the general awareness that his brother was now a world-class contract killer. Which … Ian still wasn't sure what to think about. He had burned the postcard John had sent him but he still remembered the contents and every single line and curve of the hand-written message.

I did the brotherly thing this time. Get that careless again, and next time I'll take the shot.

Careless. John had trained Alex just like he had trained Helen, Ian had no doubts about that. It would be criminal neglect not to with the sort of enemies they had and John's message had been clear on his opinion on that sort of thing. Some might have taken it as a threat. Ian had understood the risk John had taken when he had sent it in the first place and accepted the warning for what it was. Concern – harsh and brutal, but still in some ways the older brother trying to give advice the best way he could.

Ian didn't respond, not to agree or to disagree, though Tulip undoubtedly knew he agreed with MI6's assessment.

The second photo was a small group of friends, the sort of photo taken a lazy summer evening with wine and good company in what was obviously the garden of an expensive home. Money, though based on the general appearance of the group Ian guessed self-made rather than inherited wealth. He spotted the reason for the photo immediately.

John looked – a lot less like himself than Ian had expected. The analytical part of his mind, the MI6 agent, noticed and appreciated what had to be the result of subtle plastic surgery, so skilfully done that only his knowledge of John's natural looks revealed that anything was off. Greying hair – Ian didn't have a strand of grey himself yet, but it had been rampant on their mother's side of the family, and it wasn't like they had seen each other often even before the whole SCORPIA mess. Not after they joined different branches of the armed forces. It was very likely genetics rather than careful hair dye, then.

Body language was hard to read through a single photo but John looked … casual. Relaxed. Well-dressed but not overly so, and with a friendly smile that looked genuine.

He looked harmless. Deceptively so.

"His cover was that of an independent investment banker," Tulip continued. "Successful enough to provide well for his family but not suspiciously so and generally described as a charming if somewhat absent-minded man, a good father, and a devoted husband."

In short, exactly the sort of person absolutely no one would suspect of anything worse than a bit of insider trading. Based on the photo, Ian wasn't surprised. John looked the part, too, and while it wasn't the sort of cover he would have expected from his brother, it was a good choice. A good cover for the money he made from his actual job and as long as he stuck to index funds, he probably hadn't lost money doing it, either.

The last photo, obviously taken during Christmas, was not as recent. Alex looked about five and the man with Alex – mid-twenties, pale, blond – looked … uncomfortably, naggingly familiar in a way that Ian couldn't put his finger on. They looked like family, Ian realised the second later. Maybe their looks didn't match entirely but Alex was obviously happy to have him there and the man in turn looked … patiently amused.

"Yassen Gregorovich," Tulip said. "Ironically, that is probably the most recent decent-quality photo we have of him. On paper he was John's barely legitimate son from a previous relationship and even lived with John and Helen the first few years. He hasn't kept up a social presence the way John has and had a gift for avoiding cameras even when he still lived in Geneva, so we have very few photos to work with. Officially he's a pilot. He gained his licence five years ago."

Yassen Gregorovich.

The name clicked instantly and no wonder he had seemed so naggingly familiar to Ian. They had photos but Gregorovich hadn't been more than twenty when John had left London, and the photos they had acquired since then weren't exactly good. Good enough that Ian saw the similarities. Not enough to make it click before Tulip gave him a name to work with.

Barely legitimate son.

God forbid John Rider did anything the normal way. Ian had known John had kept Gregorovich as a student. This was news.

Yassen Gregorovich. The contract killer that had quickly become a rising star in the criminal underworld, and Alex had grown up with him as his half-brother. And just as obviously adored him. The same man who, at the age of nineteen, had graduated Malagosto and killed four MI6 agents in Mdina.

John. What the hell were you thinking?

"So basically John adopted a half-feral, Russian teenage assassin trained by the biggest freelance terrorist organisation in the world, made him even more lethal, and then let him babysit."

Was that a twitch of Tulip's lips? It might have been. That ghost of reluctant amusement. Good. Ian wanted someone to share the sheer absurdity of the situation with.

"Technically," Tulip corrected, "he was twenty and not a teenager. Though officially, James Morrison was eighteen when they moved to Geneva. John – Séamus – was thirty-five."

Which didn't make Ian feel better in the least but he supposed that made sense. The small shift in age would put John as just old enough that the relationship was plausible. Undoubtedly scandalous in their social circle in Geneva but … plausible. He wouldn't be the first seventeen-year-old with a kid.

"Our theory was always that Yassen warned John about SCORPIA's plans based on his willingness to keep Yassen as his apprentice even as a freelancer. The fact that John took him into his house mostly confirms that theory." Tulip glanced at the photo. "For what it's worth, the reports describe him as intelligent if reserved and somewhat asocial but they all agree that he seems to be a good brother to Alex. The two of them were on vacation together this summer – in Russia, of all places – and Alex seems to think he hung the moon. There are no indications that he has ever been a danger to Alex."

Which … was all the reassurance Ian would get. He would just have to trust that John and Helen knew what they were doing. And pretend that his nephew hadn't been on vacation to Russia with a SCORPIA-trained assassin. Though to be fair, so was John.

Ian's attention lingered on the photo and the child in it one more time before he focused on Tulip.

"Do we know who was behind the attack?"

"Unknown. There are some indications it might have been SCORPIA but just as many that could indicate outsiders, possibly with the purpose of implicating SCORPIA. They're hardly short on enemies, John and SCORPIA both. We expect John will retaliate. His actions may give us a better idea of what happened … assuming, of course, it isn't simply kept as an internal matter and never reaches us."

Not unlikely, either. Ian wasn't exactly an expert in underworld politics but it wouldn't be the first time conflicts like that somehow managed to be kept away from overly curious intelligence agencies. It was still weird to think of John as part of that world but that didn't change the facts. John had just as much incentive as anyone else in his line of work to keep intelligence interference to a minimum.

Tulip closed to the folder and something in her expression shifted as she once more became Alan Blunt's right hand and Ian's superior.

Ian sat a little straighter.

"Officially, you never saw this, Agent Rider," she said. "I wanted to give you what intel we have on your family. Don't make me regret that."

It was not a surprise. It wasn't Ian's responsibility and based on his personal ties to the case, it never would be. Maybe he had the clearance for it, maybe he didn't, but MI6 would make sure it never crossed his desk in any official capacity. Tulip Jones had taken a risk – maybe out of simple sympathy, maybe to avoid that Ian himself heard something and went digging. Either way, Ian appreciated it.

He nodded. "Thank you, ma'am."

Tulip's expression softened fractionally again, though only to those who knew her as well as Ian did. "Dismissed."

Ian slipped the photos into his own folder and left the office, letting his thoughts drift as he walked to the lift. He would have just enough time to drop them off at home. Tulip had given him a lot already, though not anywhere near as much as Ian expected to find in John's file. Most of that was likely to be details about John's new career, though, and less about his family.

Maybe he would try to dig a little on his own, anyway. Try some of his own contacts. That was something for another time, though. For now, he had some photos to hide and a military flight to catch.

Chapter Text

Zurich was different as Hunter.

Séamus Morrison had been there often enough. He didn't work in the city but he had been there at least monthly since they moved to Geneva. Business meetings, networking events, research, dinners with various social circles – it wasn't home but it was a familiar place. Séamus has liked it. It had been a bit of a drive from Geneva, true, but he had frequently made a two-day trip of it and brought gifts home for Caroline and the kids.

The familiarity was the same but without Séamus' affable veneer, it was also – sharper. The contrasts harder, the buildings both suitable vantage points and potential death traps, the people no longer bright, colourful company but a shifting mass of possible threats and potential hiding spots for both himself and any possible enemies.

SCORPIA's main presence in the city was under the cover of a security company. Good enough to have a decent reputation and otherwise average enough not to draw attention. They were known for their somewhat rough business practices and a truly impressive string of unpaid parking tickets, but they were also known to offer a second chance and a job to ex-convicts that no one else wanted to hire, and it all seemed to somehow even out in the end.

In another world, John knew, where that bar fight might not have been a carefully staged MI6 assassination and undercover ploy in one, he might have ended up working for SCORPIA, anyway. It was a perfectly decent security job and with a family to support, he would have asked no questions. Neither, he expected, did anyone else. SCORPIA, whatever name they used, didn't invite questions. Overly curious employees didn't last long and ex-convicts who had finally managed to land a normal job that didn't care about their past would have little incentive to risk that.

The company was located in Zurich's more industrial neighbourhood, a bit of an outlier among science and technology businesses but no more unusual of an addition than the odd bank or coffee place or accounting firm. John had kept a careful eye on them even as Séamus. It saved him a lot of time now that he had the groundwork done already.

Beside him, dressed like any other utility worker, Yassen lowered his coffee cup. It was warm for the first days of October. A number of people had found their way outside for lunch; John and Yassen were only two among them.

"They are tense." Yassen didn't glance at the building as he spoke but picked up his sandwich instead, his attention to all intents and purposes entirely focused on lunch.

John made a slight hum. Tense was the right word. Nothing obvious, nothing paranoid, just … a little more on edge than they should have been. Security looked a little heavier than John had recorded before as well but even that wasn't anything too obvious. Maybe it wasn't entirely enough to confirm his suspicions that the Zurich branch was behind the attack, but it was another heavy piece of evidence to consider.

"Someone warned them. I doubt their boss told them the whole truth so they've probably just been told that there's been a threat to the company. Possibly even that whatever underling actually caused this mess wasn't executed for catastrophic incompetence and disloyalty but that they were a target of whatever enemy their boss claims is threatening the company instead. Make them understand the threat but without admitting to that sort of dirty laundry."

John could be wrong but his gut feeling told him no. SCORPIA didn't exactly encourage anything that might threaten that image of infallibility. The current station chief – Patrick Kraus, a name which was undoubtedly fake – would be caught between admitting that one of his most trusted people had been unreliable and the very real risk that John posed. Hunter didn't have a reputation for patience or mercy. Hunter did, in fact, have several jobs to his name that had called for brutal, bloody vengeance and which he had delivered in full. The fact that it was a now-dead subordinate that had attacked his wife and children would in no way be enough to stay Hunter's hand. Kraus could not afford not to warn his people but that didn't mean the full truth didn't carry risks of its own.

Yassen didn't answer. Just slowly chewed his way through the sandwich with all the enthusiasm of someone in absolutely no rush to get back to work and with the lack of energy that only Monday could bring. No obvious glances. No obvious attention focused on their target. Just careful surveillance as they got their first look at their target in person.

"We won't be able to squeeze one of them for intel without raising any alarms, not when they're already on edge. We'll have to move fast instead and do what we can to create a bit of reasonable doubt," John continued. "It wouldn't be completely unlikely that a couple of people got cold feet and decided to leave with no notice with that sort of threat hanging over their heads. We can probably make that sort of cover hold for a day or two with the right target. Long enough to put their intel to good use to target someone a further up in the hierarchy. It's a little risky to push it too fast but our biggest advantage is the element of surprise. Even if they're on edge, we can still stay ahead of them. We just have to be careful about it."

"One of the security staff, then," Yassen concluded. "Not a high-ranking one or their disappearance would raise too many concerns, but still someone with the necessary knowledge of their security and the inner workings of the branch."

A twenty-seven, Yassen was a professional. John never forgot that but he also never quite forgot just how young Yassen had been once. How young he still was. John had looked at Yassen at nineteen and not seen even the shadow of a killer. Some days he still didn't. Even with seven years of blood and assassinations to his name, it was too easy to see the lost teenager Yassen had been once.

John dismissed the thought and focused on the present instead.

"We'll pick one today," he said. He had some options picked out based on the intel they already had but opportunity and convenience had a lot to say, too. "Follow him when he leaves. Snag him if we get the chance. Otherwise tomorrow."

Put like that, it sounded easy. In some ways it was. The place was tense but it wasn't the security of some of the jobs John had handled on his own. A bit more rushed, and the place was aware of the threat, but … perfect doable, and certainly with Yassen as support. It had nowhere near the security it could have, not even now, and it was pretty obvious to John why the Board was willing to write it off.

Kraus' overly-trusted employees and bad judgement in security had cost SCORPIA their only real lead on John. That wasn't the sort of subordinate the Board wanted or needed. Independence was only valued when it could be trusted, and such a lack of control of his employees … well. Bad investments rarely lasted long once something had brought them to light.

If John didn't handle it, it was only a matter of time before the Board did it instead. It was a rare time he found himself in agreement with them about anything.

High above, the autumn sun crawled across the sky. A couple of pigeons watched intently as Yassen finished his sandwich. Their target building remained as it was, slightly on edge and otherwise completely unremarkable.

John got up. Threw away his coffee cup. "Let's go."

Before they stayed for too long. Before they drew attention. There were other locations they could scout from.

Yassen didn't answer. Just wiped his hands and got up to follow.

Hunter's first choice of target proved – difficult. The man did not go home as expected but left in a company car along with two other employees in the mid-afternoon. It was an annoyance but not unexpected for a security company. It was enough to turn their attention to the other entries on the list instead, of which there were several.

The second option proved far more agreeable. The fact that the man worked for a security company and had undoubtedly been warned about the current danger had mattered little. He was cautious and watched for any tails, but not as closely as he should have, nor did he pay much attention to the somewhat tired-looking van from a plumbing service parked near his home. It would have been enough to spot most dangers, Yassen supposed, but their target should have known better and his overconfidence came at a high cost.

It took less than ninety seconds to have him vanish. A physical strike to subdue him, followed up by fast-working drugs, and by the time they had deposited the target in the back of the van, he was already unconscious.

"His breathing remains stable," Yassen reported as Hunter got behind the wheel. Slow, steady movements. It was a good sign. The drugs were a gamble based on the target's size and lack of medical history. There could be fatal allergies in the target's history. They had no way to know.

"If he dies," Hunter said, "we'll find another target to squeeze. It'll cost us a day, maybe, nothing we can't afford. Things never go entirely to plan. It's good practice for adapting to shifting situations."

It was not a surprise. Hunter had a reputation for callousness. Talented and lethal, adaptable and unnervingly lucky, and ruthlessly practical. Even that sort of situation could be turned into a teaching moment.

Hunter turned the key, the engine came to life, and the old, anonymous van turned a corner and vanished into the normal traffic in Zurich.

Yassen had seen Dr Three at work in person just once. Torture and interrogation had been mostly a theoretical class at Malagosto; books and video but no real practical experience. Yassen had been grateful for that at the time and in retrospect it made sense. The school was young and their class small. Three might have written the textbooks but a member of SCORPIA's executive board had far more valuable things to spend his time on. He only showed interest in the students if one happened to catch his attention, and that in an unwanted way more often than not.

Only once had the doctor taken time out of his busy schedule to visit the school along with their lesson for the day, an undercover agent who had been unfortunate enough to have been caught alive. Three had proceeded to lecture them the entire day as he took the man apart slowly and methodically – except, of course, the forty-five minutes he allowed for the lunch that also got served in the classroom for the occasion.

Yassen had avoided torture and interrogation since. He didn't have any real feelings for it one way or the other but he also hadn't gone out of his way to accept such offers. Even Hunter had avoided those jobs while Yassen remained his student.

A small part of Yassen wondered if that had been a slight concession towards Yassen himself after events in Paris so long ago, but it was not something he allowed himself to linger on.

Watching Hunter prepare now was … very different from Three's careful, precise approach. Logically, Yassen knew Hunter had accepted such jobs over the years. Not many, as his skills were expensive and better spent on other tasks, but he had not refused them, either. It was still different to see his preparations now.

Three, with a doctor's education and an entire terrorist organisation at his back, favoured a surgical setting. The sole practical display at Malagosto along with the videos had all taken place in clinically sterile surroundings that could have come from an operating room anywhere in a reasonably developed nation. It made no difference in the life spans of his subjects but perhaps the psychology behind worked to the doctor's benefit, or perhaps it was simply the man's background that showed. Whatever the reason, Yassen hadn't cared to wonder too much about it.

Hunter, on his own and practical above all else – Hunter had visited a hardware store.

Plastic sheeting and duct tape, along with painting supplies and several large buckets of wall paint for a convenient cover. A hammer and a box of nails joined the pile as well, the sort of supplies that no one would think to question.

The place they had rented for the week was a decently isolated vacation cabin. The autumn holidays were about to start, which meant that the peace and quiet wouldn't last for that much longer, but even that worked to their advantage. Hunter had planned to leave no evidence. Anything that might slip through the cracks … well, it another week, someone else would rent the cabin. Another month or two, and any trace of Hunter or Yassen himself would be long gone in an endless rotation of guests and cleaning.

The target was still floating on the edge of unconsciousness. He was duct taped to a metal lawn chair in the middle of the combined living room and kitchen, the sort of chair that Yassen knew from experience was both too large and too small at the same time, uncomfortable however way you sat in it, and heavy enough that the idea of moving it to a sunny spot was more effort than it was worth. The tape kept the man in place, enough to make any movement impossible, and any real attempt to escape would only result in ending up on the floor, still trapped by the solid chair.

Hunter had experience and the reminder now was stark and vivid. There had been no uncertainty in his actions. No pauses to consider or redo something. Just the same relentless and meticulous approach that had ensured Hunter's survival as a freelance assassin.

A camera rested on the kitchen counter in a perfect position to capture everything. Yassen had a notebook in his hand as well for any necessary drawings along with preliminary important notes.

A hard slap knocked the man's head to the side and tore him into full consciousness.

To his credit, their target grasped the situation almost immediately. There was a flicker of confusion in his eyes as memories flooded back, the realisation that he was in an unfamiliar place, restrained and in the company of two unknown people -

- and his expression hardened as he kept his mouth shut and didn't make any of the demands Yassen might have expected.

Who are you? Where am I? What do you want?

"Excellent," Hunter said. "Someone trained you. Not Three, you're definitely too expendable for that kind of effort, but you're not a completely lost cause. Cossack needs the lesson and I'm a little rusty. It'll be good with a stubborn test subject. Someone expendable to practice on."

The target's expression darkened. There was fear under the surface but mostly there was anger; the arrogance of someone whose situation had not yet registered or who trusted too much in backup that would not arrive.

"SCORPIA will murder you for this." The target didn't bother to answer in English but stuck to his native German. It made no difference to Yassen or Hunter.

"SCORPIA tried," Hunter said and made it sound so condescending that even Yassen would have wanted to punch him for it. "You boss decided to target my family. My wife slaughtered the assault team sent to kidnap her and the kids. I know it would have been inconvenient to capture one alive, but it's left me with no one to make an example of. So I'm going to squeeze you for intel, work my way up, and make a proper example of your boss and anyone else even remotely involved with that kind of idiocy. If I get enough useful intel out of you, maybe I'll find another cockroach to practice on instead."

Perhaps the lower-level employees did not know the full details of it all, perhaps they had been given another story entirely, but Hunter's words didn't seem like a complete surprise. Nor did the situation, which did indicate that Hunter was right in his assumption that their target had a degree of training in resistance to interrogation.

The man didn't rise to that bit of obvious bait, at least. Hunter didn't look like he had expected him to, either. Just brought out the hammer and grabbed a handful of nails from the cardboard box.

"Proper incentive," he said and spread them out on the counter. "For every question you won't answer to my satisfaction, or every answer I don't believe, I'm going to hammer one of these into you. If you're lucky, it'll be a small one. If not, well, I'm sure you can imagine the result."

The box had been an assortment, Yassen knew, the sort of thing intended for small projects at home. The smallest of the nails on the counter was only a few centimetres long, barely larger than a drawing pin. The biggest was five or six time that size and Yassen could vividly imagine the damage that could do.

The target was silent, eyes locked on the counter. Hunter didn't move, hammer still resting loosely in his grip. Finally the man's attention drifted back to Hunter.

"We'll start easy," Hunter said. "Name, former rank, work responsibilities. We'll take it from there. Agreed?"

The silence stretched on. When the target still didn't speak, Hunter's hand drifted to the counter and picked a nail at random. The sound of metal against metal was louder than it should have been in the silence, an ominous scrape against stone, and the target flinched. Slightly, but just enough.

"Agreed," he said in accented English this time, and Yassen settled down to write.

Half an hour later, the notebook was full of a number of pages of handwriting; important points along with meticulous diagrams that Yassen had added as the interrogation progressed. Some would turn out to be useless. A lot of it would not.

Assuming, of course, that their target had been truthful.

Yassen gave the book to Hunter. He made a low, thoughtful sound as he flipped through the pages, slow and considering. The sound mingled with their target's breaths, harsh and unsteady, and filled up the silence like a physical thing. The man had needed – encouragement at times. Not as much as Yassen had expected but … his willingness to cooperate had not been a constant thing.

"You've been very helpful," Hunter finally said. He sounded pleasantly surprised. It wasn't the Hunter that Yassen knew but the memories of Three's textbooks on interrogation. Not merely physical means but the psychological aspect, too. The many ways to unsettle a target.

Was this what it took to survive as a freelance operative at Hunter's level? The man had never brought up the subject with Yassen but now he couldn't help but wonder. This was revenge. But perhaps, with Hunter's usual sense of practicality, it was also a lesson for Yassen. Not the punishment and manipulation of Paris so long ago but simple cold, calculated necessity.

The target didn't answer. Just took a shuddering breath and remained silent.

Hunter patted the notebook and leaned forward a little. "Now, in the interest of making sure we wrote all of this down accurately, tell me the security measures again. In reverse order this time, access codes included."

The target looked up. Something is his eyes was – no longer the pained haze of before, but something sharp. Clear.

Terrified.

The sinking sensation of a lock snapping shut or the click of a landmine, and Hunter smiled.

Kindly.

In that moment, Yassen saw the echo of Three, the deliberate mimicry of the sadist's delight in playing with a particularly entertaining toy. It was a careful act, nothing more, but it still sent a chill down Yassen's spine at the reminder.

The target didn't respond and Hunter continued. The kind smile never once wavered, not even when as he slowly spun a small, sharp nail between his fingers.

"I think that you've been lying to me. If not, you should have no trouble at all repeating what you told me. Let's try this again. Honesty is good for the soul. For every answer that doesn't match what you already told me, another nail goes in, and this time I won't aim for reasonably harmless spots. We'll start, I think, with the underside of your right foot. Doctor Three's most recent work on the human nervous system is quite possibly his best yet. I don't have Malagosto's resources available here but I can still play 'pin the nail in the nerve'. I might miss the first few times but that's why practical experience is so very valuable. Maybe we'll take an extra look at the bigger nerves so I can add my own notes. Unless, of course, you would like to admit you've been lying and would like to try again."

Silence. The target's eyes flickered to Yassen for a moment, wide and panicked, but Yassen kept his expression as emotionless as it had been since the start of this. The target was only the first of several. If Yassen couldn't handle this, did he have anything to do as a freelance operative at all?

Hunter clicked his tongue once, sharp and annoyed, and the target's attention snapped back to him.

"An example it is, then."

There was no warning. Hunter kicked the chair hard and the target fell backwards, head slamming into the plastic-covered rug. It had to have hurt, and the startled half-scream agreed with that, but before Yassen or the target could find their bearings again, Hunter had the hammer back in hand.

Strong fingers gripped the target's right foot and found a spot somewhere in the middle of it with practised ease. The target tried to kick, got nowhere with the amount of duct tape restraining him, and Hunter ignored it. Just tightened his hold, steadied the nail, and -

"NO!"

- he paused, hammer poised to strike.

"… security -," The target took a shuddering breath, eyes closed as he looked like he tried to focus, "- the last bit of security in the office is the code with the fingerprint scanner right before it. I don't know the code and only two people are authorised -"

The target spoke, stumbling and hesitant at first and then growing stronger and steadier.

And Hunter smiled.

"I want this corroborated by at least one more source," Hunter said when the interrogation was done and the notebook a number of full pages richer.

The target was dead, the body wrapped in plastic and ready to be disposed of, and Yassen … wasn't entirely sure what to do with himself.

"I'm pretty sure I got the truth out of him but it doesn't hurt to be sure. Most people will say whatever the interrogator wants to hear by the end of it to make it stop. You can do your best to keep an eye out for any inconsistencies or tendencies to tell you what you want to hear, but it's not the most reliable way to get intel. Sometimes it's the only one you've got available to you but that doesn't necessarily make it an accurate one."

The teacher again. Hunter had never stopped with that role and Yassen doubted he ever really would. He still had ten years of military training and experience on Yassen, including his years with MI6, and while Yassen did not like to admit it, he still had things to learn and Hunter taught them well. He had been welcomed as a teacher at Malagosto for a reason.

His lesson echoed what Yassen remembered from his textbooks at Malagosto; theory to Hunter's practicality but no less harsh.

Yassen didn't respond. Just nodded. Another target, possibly more. However many it took to get the information they needed until the risks outweighed the benefit.

Hunter had every reason in the world to do a thorough job. His reputation, Yassen expected, was about to grow again.

It was easy to mimic a sudden decision to run when it didn't have to stand up to close scrutiny. To an average surveillance camera, all it took to appear legitimate enough to pass for someone else was the target's clothes and a body shape and language that matched well enough. Hunter had the bulk and height for it, the target's account information had been easy – just another few bits of information gained from the interrogation – and a carefully chosen ATM in Zurich late at night did the rest. Close to the target's home but a little shielded from traffic, just the sort of place a careful person might go to withdraw all their funds and vanish. It was bound to draw suspicion no matter what but … perhaps it would be enough to cause some degree of reasonable doubt.

By dawn, the body had been disposed of, any evidence had been burned, and the small stack of cash had vanished into Hunter's bag.

They would rest. Sleep. And then they would find a new source of intel.

They moved faster with the second target. They had more solid information about schedules and personnel this time and increased incentive to act before they lost the element of surprise. The target usually had the weekend shift which meant that when Hunter and Yassen struck on Wednesday evening, the man was just about to have two days off. There was always the risk that the man had switched things up at the last moment or that schedules had been reshuffled with the disappearance of their first target but it was a risk they would have to take. It would be just another question to ask the target.

With two days before the man was expected back at work, they would have time to verify and use the intel they gained. It did not mean that Hunter was any less efficient in his methods.

There was a bathtub in the cabin, small enough that Yassen suspected its only real purpose was to be mentioned in the advert, but still useful for their purposes.

Their second target went from slowly lifting drug-induced haze to the stark shock of icy water. Hunter was not a small man and had little care for the condition of their target. He simply dropped the man – thoroughly bound in duct tape – on the floor, pulled him halfway over the side of the filled tub, and plunged his head underwater.

The reaction to the cold was instant, the instinctive inhalation followed by raw panic as water took over where the body expected air. Hunter's grip tightened, one knee pressed into the man's spine to keep him better controlled. The target thrashed; immediate, blind terror and desperation as primal fear and survival took over but got nowhere as Hunter kept him firmly underwater. Yassen knew the reaction in detail from Malagosto; graphic descriptions and some of the many videos from the class. This was his first experience with it in practice, though it was clearly not the first time Hunter used the method.

Hunter pulled the target back up. Threw him face-down on the plastic-covered tiles and watched with clinical detachment as the man took deep, laboured gasps of air that turned into body-wrenching coughs.

Finally the coughing slowed. Yassen didn't move but Hunter grabbed the hammer before he took a step closer and forced the target onto his back with a hard kick. The man's eyes were red but focused and while his breathing was still laboured and interrupted by coughing, he seemed like he could at least focus on more than the sense of drowning.

"You're coherent again. Excellent. Here are the ground rules: breathing is a privilege. Annoy me and you go back into that tub. I am going to ask you a number of questions. I know the answers to them already. You're just the verification. If you lie, I will crush one of your joints, starting with your left knee. I don't need you alive. If you croak, I'll just go find one of the other cockroaches scurrying around to wring for information."

The man spat something in a language Yassen didn't know and he doubted Hunter did, either. It sounded Eastern European of some sort but the tone of voice made the meaning perfectly clear.

Fuck you.

Hunter moved with no hesitation. The hammer came down, half a kilo of metal and momentum against comparatively fragile bone -

- and the target screamed.

It was a world removed from Three's patient, clinical approach. It was also, Yassen acknowledged, every bit as efficient in the right hands.

The target broke in the end. It was no surprise to Yassen. The man had undoubtedly known he was dead the moment they had the information they wanted but when the alternative was endless hours of pain as Hunter meticulously crushed one joint after the other … Yassen knew what he would have chosen, too. Even anger and spite only lasted for so long in the face of torture.

"Most of the answers match," Hunter said. "Enough that I think we can trust it to be accurate for now. The additions questions … we don't have anything to compare them with but I'd be inclined to say that they were truthful, too."

That, too, was expected. Yassen had kept track in the notebook, and beyond the natural, slight variations in the answers, their two targets had agreed on most of the important security issues.

"Further verification, then?" Yassen asked.

"Yeah. It'll be risky but not as risky as acting solely on what we have right now." Hunter seemed to consider it as he flipped through the notebook again. "We need to move fast but I think someone close to Kraus should be able to get us the intel we're missing and confirm what we already have. We've got enough to target one of his more trusted people."

It was late Wednesday evening. Their second target wasn't expected back at work until Saturday morning. They would need to strike by Friday, then, if they wanted to get to their third target before suspicions began to grow strong enough to become a problem. Preferably Thursday evening if at all possible, though Yassen knew that was pushing it even for them. The time constraint was less than welcome but Yassen had handled worse. It was not an optimal situation but sometimes it was the only way to make it work.

Yassen's attention drifted to the floor. The body had already been wrapped in dark plastic and deposited in the van for disposal but the plastic sheeting had not yet been removed and burned, and the slowly drying blood on it was dark and obvious against the lightness of the rug.

Just how often had Hunter been hired for such work? Yassen didn't ask. The ease with which Hunter had acted implied that perhaps it was somewhat more frequently than Yassen had believed. Perhaps he hadn't been hired often for jobs that were solely about interrogation but that didn't rule out the possibility that those skills were useful for other jobs.

SCORPIA had torture experts. Three was the most well-known example but Yassen was familiar with several field specialists as well. All well-paid to his knowledge. All kept quite busy. And perhaps there were clients who preferred an independent expert rather than one employed by an actual organisation and who would be likely to bring any useful intelligence back with them.

Yassen hadn't thought about Paris and Vosque in years. Now it was hard not to.

Something must have shown because Hunter's attention turned to him.

"Yassen?" Concern, faint but genuine. In any other situation, Yassen might have bristled at the insinuation that he couldn't handle the job. Now, with the memories of Hunter as he had been in Paris, cold and ruthless and manipulative against the genuine concern now … Yassen found that he didn't actually mind.

"It's nothing," he said and wasn't surprised to find that it was the truth.

It was not the sort of work he wanted to do. It was not the sort of business he wished to deal in. But for Alex and Matilda and Helen, he would do it.

It would be educational. For himself and SCORPIA both.

Chapter Text

The Zurich station was not a large one. It handled mainly intelligence and white-collar crimes and lived a mostly-quiet existence in the shadow of Julia Rothman's much larger Venice operation. It was luck alone that meant the information about Helen and the kids had ended up in Zurich and in the process given them the chance to escape. It also meant that while an attack on the place wouldn't be easy, it was also not impossible for two trained people with inside information on security, layout, and procedures.

It was a secure building but still had to work under the same constraints as John and Helen had in Geneva: The desire to be safe but without the risk of the unwanted attention a fortress would bring.

From the outside, it was an unremarkable place; a glass and greenish-grey utilitarian block that could have been designed by a particularly unimaginative architecture student with a love for filing cabinets. Entirely bland and boring, which was just the way SCORPIA wanted it.

Surveillance and John's interrogation notes all agreed that security was at its lowest at night. The building was never empty – and for a security company, that wasn't something that would ever raise any questions – but in the middle of the night it was populated only by a skeleton crew. Security staff and a junior agent, someone to keep up with anything that might happen elsewhere during the night and have a briefing ready for the bosses by morning, but that was it.

Seven people according to their intel. Eight at the most. The Zurich station was small and SCORPIA focused on profits. Intel didn't generally just drop into someone's lap, all ready to use. Kraus had his people in the field because that was what he paid them for. Intel and assorted other jobs, including the actual security part of things that kept up appearances and even turned a decent profit. There were people working with the administrative part of it, too, but the majority was practical work.

John wanted every last person on that night shift dead. He didn't particularly care who they were but more about the message it would send, and the complete massacre of an intelligence station – even a small one – was a statement worth the risk.

There was Kraus, too, of course. Kraus and his immediate subordinates, and anyone else trusted enough to be counted within his inner circle. John wanted those people dead as well. It wouldn't be possible and he knew it, but the thought was nice. Time, opportunity, and the fact that they were only two people meant that John's list was significantly shorter than it had first been, and he could accept that. Even if he would prefer to burn everything to the ground.

Interrogation and their own contacts had given them what they needed. Most of the basic intel was public knowledge. It was one small station with the cover of a legitimate business and there had even been a minor article in a local newspaper about them. All it took to find the relevant addresses was a check in a public database.

There were six potential targets on John's list but he only planned to go after two or three of them. Enough to make it obvious it was about revenge and just as obvious that he had not gone after the intel that Kraus had. It was a careful balance and John hoped he had it right.

It did leave them with one glaring issue. Take out the station first and someone might manage to alert upper management before John and Yassen finished the job. Take out leadership first and it would be very likely that the junior agent or security guards would pick up on the inevitable police activity and put the station on high alert.

Yassen's approach to that was pragmatic and maybe John should have expected it.

"We split up," he said. "Give me the station. I am closest in appearance to our target. If I am spotted on camera, they will be likely to ignore me. If we coordinate things, you will be able to take out several of the other targets before anyone realises what is happening."

There was no false bravado. Just calm, quiet confidence in his own skills. A part of John wanted to argue, because Yassen was young and for all that he would need the sort of reputation that brutal, bloody retribution gave, it did not mean he had to do it alone -

- and then John stopped himself.

Yassen was twenty-seven. John had been in the Paras for years by then, he had been a Falklands War veteran by twenty-five and while Yassen might still in some ways be the student, he was not a child.

Yassen had never to John's knowledge handled that sort of direct assault as part of his job. John was the former soldier, not Yassen. Yassen was in many ways a ghost to the intelligence world and that was what clients paid him so well for. The assassinations that required someone able to move unseen and unnoticed and to escape without a trace. That did not mean that he wasn't capable of whole-scale slaughter and John had even flat-out told him he would need to cultivate that sort of reputation, too. Maybe he wouldn't need to do it alone now … but sometimes soon he might, when John retired and Yassen was on his own, and Yassen just as obviously knew it. Like Yassen's first few independent jobs, John would be there to help with plans and be possible backup if anything happened, but the job itself would be Yassen's to do.

If Yassen felt confident it could be done, John wouldn't argue. Yassen wasn't his apprentice any more and hadn't been for years. The final say was not longer John's.

"I want one more target to squeeze for intel first," he said and conceded the point. He wanted that added insurance. A third source to confirm what they knew. They had time. Not much but … enough.

Yassen didn't hesitate. He glanced at their notes but John knew it was habit and quick confirmation more than anything. Yassen's memory was exceptional. "Zahner? His shift ends Friday morning."

That would have been John's first choice, too, and he nodded. "It'll be a bit of a tight schedule but doable. I want to be sure."

And if Yassen got another lesson in field interrogation, well, that was just an added bonus. Zahner was higher in the ranks than their first two targets. That intel would be all the more valuable with Yassen on his own.

Yassen didn't argue. Just nodded.

Time was almost up. When their second target failed to show up for work, it would raise suspicions that couldn't be redirected by pretending the man had left. Whatever they chose to do, there was a definite deadline now.

They still had a few preparations to handle. Sleep as well. Then their third target and whatever last bits of intel they could squeeze from him.

It was not anxiety in John's mind but the slow, steady sense of determination and inevitability. He had made his move. It was time to see if he had done it well enough.

The first time Yassen had watched Hunter at work with interrogation had been – perhaps not a lesson Yassen had wanted but a useful one nonetheless. The second had been easier to distract from. To focus on what they needed, on the information their mission would depend on, and allow everything else to be a secondary concern.

The third time, Yassen made himself focus. Not on the technique or words but on body language. On the slight tells that Hunter had learned to spot somehow between everything else; the slight signs that perhaps their target was not entirely truthful.

All three of their targets had been different in their reactions. It was likely they had training to some degree but not to the level that SCORPIA expected of her assassins. Theory more likely than not. Perhaps a brief course on practical resistance to interrogation. Nothing that would have prepared them for the reality of it.

Dr Three's lesson, so long ago at Malagosto, had been demonstrated on a trained intelligence agent. Someone who had known the situation he could face undercover if all went wrong and his response had been accordingly. Silence. Stubbornness. The constant search for an escape. Then the lies, the pleading, the skilful attempts to make himself appear broken – to perhaps not escape but to trick the doctor into killing him before any actual information was wrung from his body.

The truth, by the end of it. The truth mixed with desperate lies, anything the doctor might have wanted to hear, anything to make it stop -

Yassen had not slept well that night. It was not something that bothered his rest these days but the memory still stuck with him now as he watched Hunter work.

It took longer than their first two targets, far longer than Yassen would have wished to watch it for, but nowhere near what Three's lesson had become.

Yassen wrote as the target spoke. Fast and precise lines to make sense of the broken, jumbled mix of German and English that Hunter had wrong from the man.

Only when Hunter had fired a single shot and the target was still did Yassen speak.

"How do you know their fears?"

Hunter had seemed confident in everything. He always did. It was an act to some degree, the reputation he could not afford to lose, but a large part of it was simply skill. Yassen had asked no questions of Dr Three. No one had. Merely listened and taken notes as expected. This was not a lesson Yassen particularly cared for but a part of him could also acknowledge the necessity. The potential jobs in the future where such methods might be needed.

"I don't." Blunt and honest, like all of Hunter's explanations. "I've got limited time and resources. It makes it a little harder but not impossible. Talk. Try different approaches. Watch their reactions. If they give anything away, use it. You make it work somehow because sometimes there's no alternative."

Yassen didn't speak but just considered the answer. It was no real surprise. Adaptability, which Hunter always stressed. Observation skills. A methodical, relentless approach.

"You don't have to like it," Hunter said when the silence continued, "frankly, I'd prefer if you didn't, but it's also something you might need one day. And if that's the case, it'll go faster and easier for everyone if you know what you're doing."

Faster and easier. The target would still be dead but something about that mattered.

Dr Three was a sadist. His books on the subject were graphic and thoroughly researched. He enjoyed the torture and the opportunity to see how long he could prolong the suffering and he had skill and experience on his side.

Hunter's only goal was information. Even now, it was not personal. Hunter wanted answers, nothing more.

It was not a task Yassen ever wished to carry out himself but something about that approach made just enough of a difference.

Yassen did not answer. Just nodded slowly and spoke again.

"Tonight, then?"

Hunter undoubtedly knew but allowed him to change the subject.

"Tonight." Hunter hesitated for just a second. Then continued in silent concession to Yassen's own skill. "The station is yours. I'll go for Kraus first and his other assistant second. I'll stay by Kraus' home until we're ready. I want to make sure he's there."

Their two primary targets. Kraus and the station. Yassen nodded again. The forecast showed nothing but rain that evening and through the night; chilly and wet and persistent. Hunter's hours of surveillance would not be pleasant.

It did not matter. They had a job to do.

The industrial part of Zurich was never entirely quiet. Most of the employees were home as they should be, safely asleep and well out of the way, but the world still kept moving. Deliveries, security, the occasional late-night maintenance for those businesses where any disturbance during work hours was unacceptable. Even well into the late hours of Friday night, the world still kept moving.

It was no issue. Yassen easily stayed out of sight. They had considered other approaches – the roof was an option – but those, in the end, carried risks of their own. Their target building was as secure as it could reasonably be but was, in the end, only as secure as the weakest part of the system. The human factor was always the most vulnerable spot and now the human factor was compromised.

Employee access required a personal code that regularly changed and a fingerprint scan. The outside surveillance cameras were always watched by at least one guard as well, and the while the main entrance looked like the average, practical sort of thing, it still required someone to get through two sets of ballistic glass doors if trouble arrived from that direction. It could have gone further – systems set up to only accept access during planned shift hours, additional human confirmation of identity before someone was allowed inside, any number of other security measures – but the Zurich station was a small one. It lived mostly out of sight and even now, even with the threat of Hunter hanging over their heads, additional security measures were bothersome. Shifts changed regularly based on necessity, sometimes with little notice, and while security was on high alert during business hours when the outside saw traffic, the night shift was quiet and monotonous.

Zurich station had no reason to expect an attack in the middle of the night. Not when Hunter's obvious first target would be the station chief, soundly asleep in his own bed at that time of the night.

Their second interrogation victim – the man whose identification, fingerprints, and jacket Yassen now carried – was supposed to return from his two days off at six that morning. Yassen approached the back entrance four hours before that. Someone would presumably watch the cameras but all they would see would be one of the regular staff arriving early and that was not unusual. Sometimes shifts changed. Sometimes there were things that needed to be done. Yassen had the approximately right body shape, and the jacket with body armour and weapons underneath added the bit of extra bulk he needed. His hair was dyed brown and his fingers moved fast and confident when he typed his code and let the scanner do its work.

It was two in the morning. The world was dark and cold and damp from rain, and at a glance the cameras would show nothing out of the ordinary. There was always the risk that whoever was on duty would be suspicious and demand verification but Yassen and Hunter had stacked the deck in their favour.

The door opened without a pause. Yassen stepped inside.

Interrogation had given them a good idea of the layout of the building. The blueprints had been available but unsurprisingly they had been lacking at best and inaccurate at worst. They had a good idea of the number of people present and the rooms to target. It was not a safe approach in any way but Yassen was confident enough to risk it.

The security control room first, to take out any risk that someone would spot the attack on camera. Then the rest of the place.

Yassen unzipped his jacket as he continued down the hallway. Casual. Confident. Like he belonged there.

Cossack reached for his gun.

Patrick Kraus lived alone in a reasonably remote house outside of Zurich. Like John himself had done, he had obviously considered the need for privacy against the need to appear perfectly normal. Kraus was an average businessman, married to his career and business rather than any human partnership, and his home reflected that. New and well-kept, with an expensive car and a yard that was just as obviously cared for by someone other than him.

'New' undoubtedly meant ballistic windows and reinforced doors. 'New' meant constructed to fit Kraus' security needs rather than having it retrofit, which in turn meant fewer potential blind spots and other vulnerabilities. It was an exceptionally secure home and all but impossible to gain access to.

Fortunately for John, he had no intentions of ever actually setting foot on that property, much less try to get inside.

He had told Yassen 'no massive property destruction'. Like most things, that plan had changed in the face of necessity. John had known the moment he had seen Kraus' home that their approach would need to be adapted.

The sort of weapon he would need had cost extra – a lot extra – on such short notice but John didn't particularly care. The Milkor MGL was lightweight, reliable, versatile, thoroughly field-tested and came with the option of high-explosive rounds. It fit in a large duffel bag, no different from any other gym bag, and that was how John carried it.

He didn't need to find the perfect sniper spot. He didn't need to be subtle. It just had to work. Hunter intended to send a message, and a grenade launcher was just the tool for that.

John had watched the house from the early evening. He had stayed unmoving, dressed in warm camouflage clothes as the rain started, steady and relentless, and night crept closer.

It was not a comfortable place. He was sheltered by pine trees with everything that implied – needles and resin and rough tree trunks – and while his clothes were meant to handle the weather, the exposed parts of him were long since soaked.

It was nothing he hadn't survived before.

John caught several glimpses of his target through the windows along with what looked like a perfectly average if somewhat expensive house. The car was safely parked in a locked garage and while the entire place was clearly made to look nothing out of the ordinary, security still showed to someone used to it.

The garden was well-kept but offered no hiding places. There were no angles or blind spots to allow an attacker close; no easy, unseen approach. There was security inside as well – two males that John had spotted through the windows as well that both had the slight tells of SCORPIA's people. He doubted that was a normal arrangement but Kraus knew the added danger. John was not surprised that he had added guards to his home.

It was no matter.

Night fell and Hunter waited. The lights went out well past midnight. The ground floor first, though at least one of the guards was undoubtedly still awake to keep an eye on surveillance. Then on the second floor, the one John had been waiting for. The most probable place for a bedroom.

The house remained where it was, dark and utterly devoid of life, and still Hunter waited.

It was two in the morning when he finally moved. In Zurich, Yassen would enter the station itself. Well outside of the city, Hunter brought out the MGL. Checked that it was properly loaded and ready, slipped in his earplugs, and opened the duffel bag with the rest of the ammunition. Then he got up.

John could feel it in his body; the hours unmoving in wet, chilly weather, but adrenaline brushed it aside, and Hunter raised his weapon.

He had no way to know Kraus' exact location. He didn't need to, either.

The first grenade took out the ballistic glass; the second exploded in the room. A slight shift of his aim turned his attention to the ground floor – still no light, the first two shots had happened to fast – and then he fired again.

The kitchen window, two more grenades that exploded deep within the house, and the sixth and final shot targeted the front door.

Hunter slipped back behind his shelter, fingers already moving in a familiar dance. Rewind, reload, close, lock -

There was light on somewhere on the ground floor now – John suspected the living room – and he targeted that next. Four more grenades, high-explosive, one after the other hammering into the house within seconds of each other. The last two targeted the garage; not enough to destroy the car inside but enough to wreck any attempt to get it out of there easily.

- Rewind, reload, close, lock -

No lights on in what he suspected was the bedroom but that didn't stop him. The third barrage was split evenly between the two floors; three rounds to hopefully ensure that Kraus was dead, then another three for the ground floor as Hunter started on his secondary goal.

There was only so much damage any building could take. Kraus' home was intended to be secure from people who wanted him alive enough to interrogate or send a message. It was not intended to stand up to full-scale demolition.

- Rewind, reload, close, lock -

The lights were gone, power taken out by one of the explosions. There were flames and billowing smoke now, dust and debris and death, and Hunter continued.

Swift, meticulous, and relentless. Six rounds -

- Rewind, reload, close, lock -

- Another six explosions, and the building groaned.

John lowered the MGL. Pulled out the earplugs and watched as the entire east wall of the house crumbled in slow motion and pulled the upper floor down with it – and, like a line of domino pieces, the cascade that followed as the rest of the building simply collapsed.

Fire and embers exploded into the night sky, followed by thick smoke. John could feel it in his lungs, the smell of burning wood and insulation and plastic, and the heat of the flames on his exposed skin even from that distance.

If anyone had survived the assault, the collapse would have finished the job.

Hunter packed away the MGL. Then he left, his mind already on their next step.

Yassen moved through the hallways like he belonged there. He had memorised the layout – corroborated by all three of their sources – and knew exactly where to go.

Down one floor, into the basement, access card and fingerprint scanner – disguised as the entrance to a storage room, away from curious eyes, away from questions – and the solid door slid open.

The wall of screens, the muted light of the room, the single individual in a chair all registered in Yassen's mind in an instant. Surroundings, threats, target -

The guard looked up. Yassen fired his gun before the man had time to realise that his visitor was not the colleague he expected. It was loud even with a suppressor but in the basement level, with a heavy door meant to keep the room safe – it was perhaps still muted enough not to draw attention.

Yassen moved fast. First to the large displays, an intricate puzzle of screens in black and white of the building interior and the world outside. He ignored the dead body in the chair and focused on the screens instead.

One person at work in one of the offices, another in what looked like a printer room. Two guards in what looked like the break room. Another two guards at the main entrance. Six, then. Seven including the dead guard, which was what they had expected based on the intel they had retrieved. None of them seemed alarmed, either. Simply carried on.

The schedule was on the desk and Yassen briefly looked it over. The names meant little to him but the number matched. That was all he needed.

He memorised the numbers above the appropriate screens and watched just long enough to see the worker in the printer room return to an office instead. Then he moved again.

The guards at the main entrance first – on duty and the most likely people to pay attention to anything unusual, but still perhaps not as diligent as they should be. They had access to surveillance as well but counted on the central surveillance room to be the primary warning. Their focus was the main entrance which made Yassen's task significantly easier.

Back up one floor, close the door, switch guns, down the hallway -

According to the cameras, there was no one else on the ground level, but Yassen did not care to linger.

Past empty offices and a dark meeting room behind glass walls; bright hallways but all the silence of a business after hours.

Perhaps internal security could have been better. Perhaps they could have relied on more than access cards and fingerprints. But then, Yassen had used the identity of one of their security personnel. That alone would have bypassed most of it.

The entrance to the reception area was ballistic glass that opened up to a perfectly average sort of place; all glass and wood and black leather chairs in an open room. The reception desk was armoured as well, expensive wood hiding the solid metal underneath. It would have been the perfect shelter in case of an outside attack but did nothing now when the attacker came from within the building itself.

Access card, scan -

The door slid open with just a whisper of sound but the movement still caught the attention of the two guards.

Yassen had risked the sounds of a gunshot in the primary security room. Now, in the middle of the building itself, something that loud was – unwanted. He needed that element of surprise. The gun in his hand now was a PSS, Soviet designed and produced for assassinations, completely useless beyond fifty meters of range, but effectively silent.

It was not a weapon he was particularly familiar with. It was not a weapon he liked. But for this sort of situation, it was necessary.

Like Yassen's first target of the attack, the two guards were unprepared. Warned, perhaps, that the company was under threat but clearly not to the point where they expected an attack of that sort.

Two bullets, so close together that there was no time for the guards to react, and Yassen was already moving again. Break room next, to target the remaining two guards.

He checked the gun automatically, the motions familiar and reassuring. It felt – wrong, the PSS. He had been eight years old the first time he fired a gun and had lost count of the types he had tried but this was the only model he had used that was so quiet it was effectively silent. He had used it a few times before – it was hardly cheap to procure and useless for all but highly specialised work – but that made the lack of sound no less wrong. The part of him that associated guns with noise and was unsettled when faced with one that went against it.

Yassen pushed the thought aside. It didn't matter. There was only his task right now. Two floors up – stairs, not elevator – and Yassen heard the low murmur of voices before he even reached the door. The building was utterly silent. Sound carried in a way it did not in daylight.

Nothing in that murmur sounded alarmed. It was the low background noise of idle talk, not of someone who had realised they were under attack.

Surveillance had shown a room that was mostly tables and two couches, with a kitchenette towards one wall. The two guards had settled in the couch furthest from the door and Yassen did not expect them to have moved. Not with their coffee cups still mostly full and a plate of sandwiches on the small table.

Yassen opened the door. Fast enough to have the element of surprise but not so loud that it would draw attention.

It took a second to confirm that his targets were still where he expected; another second to fire the first bullet. The second guard started to move, surprise on his face; mouth half-open and probably about to raise the alarm -

- And Yassen fired again.

The guard collapsed. The sound of the coffee cups that were swept off the table and shattered was louder than the gun had been; a shock in the silence.

Then there was nothing but stillness and Yassen's own breathing in his ears. He stayed unmoving just inside the room and listened for anything out of the ordinary. Any sound of movement. Of footsteps. Any sign at all that someone had paid attention.

But it hadn't been the sound of a gun or someone shouting at an intruder; it had been the sound of shattered coffee mugs from the break room and – accidents happened.

The seconds dragged on. The silence remained unbroken. Finally Yassen continued.

Two office workers, presumably intelligence agents of some sort. Another time of the day or in another, larger station, it might have been trained operatives or assassins out of the field. But not somewhere as small as SCORPIA's presence in Zurich. Not at this time of night.

One office on the same floor he was one; one below. Yassen went for the closest one. Down the hallway, near the end of it according to the number on the surveillance screen -

- And up ahead, a figure appeared from an office.

Yassen fired before he had even made the conscious decision; instincts and experience responding in an instant. The figure – male, dressed like one of the remaining two targets Yassen had seen – was still within the effective of the PSS and crumbled to the floor a second later.

Six.

Yassen took a slow breath and focused on the sudden rush of adrenaline, of danger and unexpected and threat. Embraced that instinctive surge of fear and let go of it again. Every job was a bit easier. Every unexpected development easier to handle. Experience still did not completely erase those deep, primitive parts of his mind that responded to dangerous situations with a very sensible demand to get out of there.

One target left.

Yassen resisted the urge to switch back to his normal gun. If surveillance and intel had missed anyone, the sound of a gunshot would alert them. The temptation still remained, though. The desire to have a proper weapon in his hand. Something with range.

One floor down, an office near the middle of the building and -

- It was almost disappointingly easy.

His target was still in that same office, still bent over a report, and did not even have time to look up before Yassen fired the sixth and final bullet. Yassen lowered the PSS. Brought out a far more familiar Glock instead; the fit with his hand like it was moulded for it.

The building was silent. Not even the target's computer had been on; the night used to catch up on old paperwork instead. Somewhere, there as a low hum of ventilation systems. Nothing else.

In any other case, Yassen would have taken steps to remove any evidence of his presence from surveillance. Not now. Not when this was intended as a message for SCORPIA and proof of his own competence.

Yassen left through the front door. The door opened obediently. There was no one alive to sound the alarm. No one to stop him.

Seventeen minutes from he arrived, Yassen stepped outside again. He would dispose of the evidence on the way. For now, he headed down the street, rounded a corner, and vanished into Zurich.

John's second stop for the evening would be no less destructive. It was the last entry on their final list. Intel and time constraints had put natural limits on what they could get away with but John still considered it an acceptable message. It was a careful balance between too cautious and dangerously risky and they could not afford to get it wrong.

Like Kraus, the target lived alone in a reasonably remote house well outside of Zurich, its owner too tangled up in SCORPIA business to want the attention an apartment or a house with neighbours might bring. On one hand this made it easier to avoid questions about security and unusual work hours. On the other, it gave John free rein to be less discriminate in his methods, just like it had with the man's boss.

Patrick Kraus had been sensible enough to have the security expected of his position, for all the good that had done him. Some of his more influential underlings were less cautious – or, more likely, had weighed the risks against the cost of that kind of security and compromised. Kraus was the natural target of Hunter's annoyance; the rest of his people less so.

The house John arrived at was secure enough that breaking in unnoticed would have been hard on such short notice. Even the garage was soundly locked and far more secure than one might normally expect. It was just another entry on John's mental check-list. It wouldn't do to make a mistake with their targets. The name and the address would have been enough on its own and the unusual security, the hidden cameras and a garden devoid of anything big enough to leave a hiding spot just confirmed what they already knew. Perhaps the house was empty for the night, but John doubted it. There had been no sign at all that the man planned anything but to return home.

They didn't have any idea of the internal layout of the place. They didn't know the man's routines. With the MGL and enough ammunition, it didn't matter. Kraus had been John's priority; the secondary target was simply unfortunate enough that John had ample ammunition to spare.

Rewind, reload, close, lock.

John didn't bother with a hiding spot. Let the cameras see him, if anything in the rubble survived to identify him.

At Kraus' home, John had aimed for the bedroom first. Now, he didn't bother to try to guess where it might be. He just focused on the ground floor and fired. Front door, the sides of the garage, and then the load-bearing parts of the building.

Six grenades, fired as fast as he could aim and pull the trigger. It was a familiar dance by now. John didn't need to think, just let his fingers move of their own accord

Rewind, reload, close, lock.

Aim. Six more grounds, and by now there were large holes and visible flames from the ground floor of the building. The electricity had been taken out in the second volley and sent the outdoor lights plunging into darkness. The only light now was the few street lights and the fire from the destruction.

Rewind, reload, close, lock.

Six more grenades, just to be sure, and John lowered the MGL. It was just as well. Those six rounds had been the last he had brought with him.

Up ahead, the house remained standing but the entire ground floor was engulfed in flames and the walls bore massive holes. John doubted it would survive the fire. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen, and it would collapse.

Maybe the sole inhabitant of the house had survived. Maybe not. John would almost certainly find out eventually when the full scale of the attack was tallied up.

For now, he had evidence to get rid of and a rendezvous point with his name on it.

The Zurich police would be at the scene of John's first attack before he had even arrived at his second. By the time morning rolled around, the story had been picked up by the major Swiss news outlets, followed shortly after by several German ones.

It was a slow news day. Maybe it wouldn't have drawn any real attention on a normal day. Maybe it would. Two homes destroyed with grenades and the entire night staff of a security company murdered within the same time frame – the Swiss police, at least, would pay close attention to the situation.

By then, any evidence had been disposed of and John and Yassen were long since back in Bonn.

John had sent his message. The only thing he could do now was wait and see if he got it right.

Chapter Text

Images from Zurich were already on the news when Corvo stepped silently into Julia's dining room. The reporter offered nothing Julia did not already know but it was always nice to have visuals to go with the initial report. This soon after the attack, the file that had been waiting next to her breakfast contained little more than the most basic facts, but it still made it abundantly clear that their station in Zurich had failed to live up to any sort of acceptable standards.

"Ma'am." Corvo offered her a folder, somewhat thicker than the one already on the table. "The most recent updates."

Julia opened the file. Skimmed the pages until she found the section she wanted.

- Gained access through the use of the identity of an employee; the use of the correct access code and fake fingerprints implies that -

- failure in security. Surveillance records show no communication between security staff, nor any attempt to question the unscheduled arrival of -

- prior record of security breaches. A formal reprimand was issued -

It was unsurprising. Unwelcome but unsurprising. It was the same station that had somehow allowed almost three million Swiss Franc to simply vanish from their accounts without a trace, then more recently cost SCORPIA valuable resources in the failed attempt to target Hunter's family, and that wasn't mentioning a number of other minor issues. Even aware of the threat that Hunter posed, even with a formal reprimand, they still hadn't learned their lesson. Perhaps she had been too lenient when she allowed an independent station in Zurich. The idea had been practical; a separate office mostly focused on financial issues, but it had clearly failed to live up to expectations.

"Arrange for a dawn raid. Alert Venice that any active Zurich operations fall under their jurisdiction, effective immediately."

Time to fix that mistake. If there were any assets worth retaining, the auditors would find them. As for the rest, sometimes it was simply easier to start over from scratch. Bring Zurich under the Venice office and put some trusted, competent people in charge of it since that clearly hadn't been the case before. The rest of the Board would agree without second thought and Julia would bring it permanently under her command without having to deal with bothersome questions from her colleagues.

Corvo nodded. "Ma'am. The obsolete assets?"

"Offer the esteemed doctor his pick of them, dispose of the rest." Malagosto never refused teaching materials and Three so enjoyed his research. SCORPIA might as well get some use out of such an abject disappointment the Zurich station had turned out to be.

Another nod and Corvo left without the need for a dismissal. Julia turned her focus back to the file again. Muted the TV and let the reporter talk unheard as the image switched to the burned pile of rubble that had once been a decently expensive house.

Swift. Lethal. Unmistakeable in its message. Hunter had earned his reputation, and once more Julia pushed aside the annoyance that such potential could have been hers to use. An intelligent and competent second-in-command, a sufficiently respectable and impressive representative of her business, a lethal operative, a skilled assassin, and a brutal enforcer of her will. Hunter would have been perfect.

The annoyance lingered but at least removing the irritation that Zurich had become would improve the weekend marginally.

It did not take long for the news about an attack in Zurich to spread.

MI6 had been aware of Hunter's likely retaliation and had in turn made their local offices in Europe aware of the same. SCORPIA's presence in Zurich was no secret, nor was the address of the business they used as cover. They were tolerated as they had been for a number of years now; unwanted but ultimately useful for jobs that required absolute deniability.

Once the exact target of the attack was known, the news did not take long to make it to London.

Saturday found Alan and Margaret Blunt at Morden Hall Park, in the middle of an estate dressed in autumn colours and with the threat of rain in the air. Their car and its driver – a junior agent – remained politely out of sight while the wedding guests mingled with the inane chatter of people who only saw each other at unavoidable events. Baptisms. Weddings. Funerals.

Alan hadn't bothered to remember most of the names. Margaret knew them all and skilfully dropped them into conversations as needed. Watching his wife at work was always a pleasure. He had agents who could have benefited from taking notes.

It was not a place Alan particularly wanted to be. It was a waste of a day in his opinion but social conventions were not easily defied. The only saving grace in Alan's opinion was that the couple had decided on a noon wedding. Maybe there was some hope the entire farce would be over before midnight.

The first guests had started to make their way inside when the driver appeared and made his way to Alan. Careful, polite, and almost invisible. Careful to draw no attention.

"SCORPIA's station in Zurich was attacked last night," the agent told him, low and concise, "as were the homes of the station chief and one of his assistants. Agent Crawley has sent a car for your wife's use."

Margaret caught the tail end of the explanation and untangled herself from the inane small talk with a gracious smile as she returned to Alan's side.

"David," she greeted. The driver nodded politely and then retreated a few steps to give the illusion of privacy.

"Alan," Margaret's voice was low, her smile still firmly in place. "It's my niece's wedding."

"It's a waste of time. It'll be a miracle if it lasts until their second anniversary."

Alan kept his voice as low as Margaret's. There was no reason to make things more bothersome for her. She would already need to make apologies for his sudden absence; there was no need to complicate it with his theories about the impending marriage.

"You're needlessly pessimistic. Being married is good for their social standing. Third anniversary. She'll tolerate at least his first affair."

Someone spotted Margaret and waved. Alan had a vague recollection it might have been one of Margaret's extended family. With the dress she wore, the impression was mostly that of an agitated sea anemone. Her companion, Alan noted, wore a matching tie.

Charming.

"I'll make the usual apologies," Margaret said, "and suffer through the speeches alone. Andrew's takes up four pages. He'll get too much to drink, then he'll decide to improvise, and it'll be quite dreadful."

"I'll make it up to you," Alan promised. "Dinner on Friday. Italian?"

"Always."

Assuming nothing else happened, of course, but Margaret was used to that, too. She kissed his cheek lightly. Then she vanished among the crowd of wedding guests and Alan headed to the car, the driver close behind.

Dwale stepped soundlessly into Three's office, a file in his hand. He didn't speak but waited a suitably respectful distance from the desk as Three finished up the paragraph he had been working on. It was not his usual sort of book but he found it more interesting than he had expected; the intellectual challenge of shaping complex descriptions into something more suitable for … younger minds.

- nerves carry messages from your body and to the central nervous system. From the softest touch and to -

- to …

Three paused and considered his next words. Nothing too traumatising, of course. Something gentler. These were children, after all.

- and to the pain of a broken bone.

It didn't sound quite right to him but that was all right. It was merely a first draft. He would perfect it later.

The sound of typing stopped. Three looked up and made a slight gesture. Dwale handed him the file and spoke without further prompting.

"Hunter made his move. He stuck at two in the morning, when security was most vulnerable. Surveillance shows that Cossack was the most likely operative behind the attack on Zurich station itself. We have no evidence tying Hunter to the attack but he is believed to have been behind the attacks on station chief Kraus and his primary assistant. The number of fatalities is currently at eleven but expected to increase. Kraus and two of his security, his primary assistant, and the seven employees on the night shift are all confirmed dead. Preliminary examination of surveillance records show a figure with a body shape matching Cossack's entering the station by use of an access card and false fingerprints; we expect the employee whose identity he used to be dead as well. One low-level employee withdrew his savings and left after his shift on Monday; the original conclusion was that he had left in light of the increased danger but recent events indicate he may be dead as well. Finally, there are three employees we have still not yet been able to reach. Two were away on business; we expect to have found them within the next few hours. The last has not been seen since the end of his shift yesterday; we expect Hunter's involvement."

Eleven confirmed deaths, then, with the final number more likely to be fourteen. Not a bad night's work for two people.

"Mr Grendel has called for a meeting in two hours. Mrs Rothman has already ordered a dawn raid on the station. She inquires if you wish to keep the unprofitable assets for other use."

"Please. It would be a pity to waste them." Perhaps it wouldn't help SCORPIA recuperate the lost profits the stations had cost them but at least some bit of good would come from it.

Dwale nodded and vanished again as silently as he had arrived.

Three tapped his fingers against the file. Depending on the number of assets that failed to live up to acceptable standards, perhaps he would have some sent to Malagosto. How considerate. Julia had always understood the value of a proper education for their operatives. Such things could not be rushed. Their training was an investment.

It was something to consider later, however. For now, he had a thorough file to read and a meeting to prepare for.

Alan Blunt arrived at his office to several folders and a number of photos, all carefully organised. The TV had a still image of what was very obviously a surveillance camera's view of the entrance to a building. His computer was already on, and the cup of coffee on his desk was done to his exact preference and hot enough that it had been poured the moment he stepped out of the car. Crawley's quiet competence was a welcome constant in Alan's otherwise unpredictable job.

Tulip arrived two minutes later, exactly the time needed for Alan to hang up his coat, settle down, and take the first sip of coffee. She stepped into the office even as Alan opened the first file.

"Hunter made his move." She didn't bother with pleasantries. "Eleven confirmed deaths, though that is expected to increase."

Alan had caught up on the basics of the situation by phone on the way to Vauxhall Cross. What he wanted now was details. Alan was well aware of what it took to run an organisation like MI6 and was just as well aware of the reputation he had developed for ruthlessness. The operation came first. No exceptions. Personal opinions held no place in espionage, nor did squeamishness when it came to the more brutal decisions that sometimes had to be made for the safety of Britain and the people that slept soundly in their beds under her protection.

Even then, Alan had favourites, and John Rider had been one of them. The man's first encounter with MI6 had been pure chance. They had needed military support; a competent sniper able to blend in with a crowd and no time to bring in one of their own. The Paras had offered; Alan had reluctantly accepted.

Two years later, John Rider had been a rising star, one of Alan's trump cards that had avoided any official connection with MI6, and the only realistic option when the decision to infiltrate SCORPIA had been made. Later events had been unfortunate, of course – and none more so than Helen Rider's inconveniently timed pregnancy, John's overreaction to it, and the irrefutable evidence it provided that the pair of them had been in contact despite every order to the contrary – but even then, Alan couldn't quite help the flicker of fondness he still held for John Rider.

The man was skilled, enough so that MI6 had bought his services as Hunter as well. Alan had complained, though that had been for financial reasons rather than any objections to the man himself. Hunter had been a consummate professional. Their instructions had been carried out to the letter.

Now, flipping through the file from Zurich, those skills were on blatant display. The skills and the ruthlessness. Cossack had carried out the surgical strike against the station – the lithe, lethal figure in the surveillance photos could be no one else – but Alan had little doubt that John had been behind the plan in the first place.

"The analysis from Zurich?"

"We expect to see consequences," Tulip replied. "John is one of the best in the business but that sort of lapse in security is still unforgivable. Most likely, the surviving leadership will be replaced, along with any other staff members deemed to be substandard. The most likely result will be that the station falls under Rothman in Venice and business will continue as usual. SCORPIA has too much business in Zurich to have any desire to remove their presence there."

Business as usual summed up SCORPIA well. Profit first. The home of the former station chief had been as secure as expected based on his job. It had mattered little in the face of Hunter's retaliation.

"I believe we can consider this confirmation that SCORPIA was behind the attack in Geneva." Hunter obviously believed so, at least, and so Alan was inclined to agree until proven otherwise. It was impressive intelligence work. Less than a month between the attack in Geneva and Hunter's retaliation, and that included tracking down those responsible, gathering intelligence, and planning the attack. What an asset the man would have been. Few survived long as freelance operatives, but it should not have been a surprise that John Rider had thrived in that situation. Ian Rider was good. John Rider was in a league of his own.

"The initial reaction seems to have been a distinct lack of surprise, which supports that theory, but we've heard little of real use so far," Tulip agreed. "But I concur. That is solid confirmation. SCORPIA's response will give us some insight into current politics but they will likely keep most of it quiet."

Which was Alan's expectation as well. SCORPIA knew the value of secrecy.

"Will it influence any ongoing operations?"

They had none in Switzerland for the moment but that didn't rule out the possibility. Tulip would have had the time to do a preliminary check.

"It shouldn't. The closest current operation is in Munich. Whatever SCORPIA's response will be, they'll be more likely to keep it outside of intelligence circles. This isn't exactly an internal matter but it's not something anyone wants to involve outsiders in. SCORPIA forces attacked Helen and the children. Hunter retaliated. We're outsiders in that debate, nothing else."

Not an internal matter was a polite way to put it. John Rider had not been subtle. Even then, there were layers upon layers; the sort of necessity that came with underworld politics on the level that John was at. SCORPIA would understand that language. So did Alan.

Hunter had left a message. The destruction was not as mindless as initial conclusions might claim. It was a reminder that he was not someone to cross but just as much a message that he was not intruding on SCORPIA's territory. His targets were people, not information. Hunter had made his move – violent but deliberate. Whatever response SCORPIA settled for, their decision would be informative.

"I want regularly reports," Alan said. He didn't expect it to interfere with MI6 business but it was still something to keep an eye on. Experience had shown that internal matters of that magnitude could easily escalate. If it did, he wanted advance warning.

Tulip nodded, once and briskly. Alan checked the time. Elsewhere in London, the wedding ceremony would be about to wrap up, assuming no one had a sudden attack of common sense and called off the entire waste of time and money. He could probably return in time for the reception and trust Tulip to keep him updated on any new developments but the thought was easily dismissed. Margaret had it under control and Alan preferred to keep a close eye on any further developments until they knew more about the attack. They had been caught unaware before.

"Now," he continued. "The situation in Montenegro?"

If all they could do now was wait for an update, at least he could make decent use of the time.

There were nine screens in Julia's secondary office. There had been ten not too long ago, but one had been removed after Petrescu's unfortunate demise. Of course, it was awful to lose such an asset to SCORPIA, simply dreadful, but at least the funeral had been lovely. Julia had sent flowers and there had been at least six intelligence agencies present to make sure he was actually dead. Just like old times.

It was not the best image quality that appeared on the screens as ten cameras across the globe came to life exactly on the hour but it was leagues better than meetings by phone – or, God forbid, having to meet on short notice in person. Julia did miss the nuances in their body language but the convenience made up for that. They were all professionals, anyway. They all knew better than to allow such a weakness to show.

For Winston Yu near Melbourne, it would be late evening. At the other extreme, for Samuel Greene's operation in Argentina, it was still morning. To Julia, it was one in the afternoon. A pleasant time to meet.

Chase, as current chairman, was the first to speak. They had all received the most recent updates. If not, someone's second-in-command had failed at their job and would face consequences. As such, there was no reason to waste time repeating what they already knew.

"I think," he stated, "that it's safe to say that independence hasn't dulled Hunter's temper."

Kurst's eyes narrowed. The annoyance was expected and mirrored Julia's own, if for different reasons. Kurst had always held an awful grudge when it came to treason, and Hunter had been both charming and competent. Some tiny part of Kurst's vindictive personality had actually liked him. Julia suspected Kurst had never forgiven himself or Hunter for that weakness.

"We've been tolerant for long enough. This is an embarrassment to us. Double the bounty, send some assassins, and get rid of him."

"We don't know his currently location, and we don't know his future plans," Grendel was the oldest of them all but age had done nothing to dull his intelligence. Julia didn't always agree with him, but he was still a competent man. The occasional cautious counterweight to balance their discussions. "It was pure luck he was found in the first place. He has a family to protect. This time, he'll be all the more cautious. Even if we found him, what if he managed to escape again? Once is an embarrassment. Twice could cause irreparable damage to our reputation."

"To do nothing will make us appear weak. He's a cockroach. We need to eradicate the infestation before it spreads."

"To act and fail would be worse. Would we have succeeded if proper procedures had been followed and the information given to someone competent? Likely. Our competitors and potential clients don't know that. What the world saw was that SCORPIA attacked Hunter's wife, a stay-at-home mother with two young children, and failed. We can't afford another such mistake."

"Perhaps," Dr Three interrupted, "there is an alternative. I would like to remind my esteemed colleagues of the rumours that we have permitted Hunter's survival. Quiet, cautious rumours, of course, but they have persisted."

"Permitted?" Half a world away, Mikato made the word sound like it had personally insulted him. Perhaps it had. Like Kurst, he had not taken Hunter's treason lightly. "We put a one million dollar bounty on his head."

Julia agreed with that point but for now she remained silent and watched the discussion unfold. The doctor was not a man known to speak without careful consideration. If he brought such a thing up, he had a good reason. One worth paying close attention to.

"But we haven't actively hunted him," Chase said. "Because we've had better things to spend our time on, a business to run and profits to earn, but that doesn't change the facts. Of course there'll be rumours like that after seven years of Hunter scurrying around with a SCORPIA bounty on him, happy as can be and still one of the best in the business. He should be dead. He isn't. That alone is going to cause some rumours. Doctor?"

"I suggest we allow these rumours to work for us. We do not confirm anything, such an action would be too obvious, but simply … allow it. Encourage them quietly where we can. What freelance assassin of such calibre could have survived SCORPIA's displeasure for seven years? One secretly working for us. There have always been those unwilling to do business with SCORPIA. We could have allowed such potential profits to slip out of our hands and into those of our competitors instead, or we could have arranged for the public defection of our best operative, expressed our displeasure just enough to be credible, and seen those lost profits diverted into Hunter's business instead – and, more important, away from our competitors. It could hardly be allowed to become common knowledge or the ruse would fail. One of our subsidiaries found information on Hunter's location, unaware of the truth of the arrangement, and attacked without permission. The attack failed. We permitted Hunter to extract his revenge and took the opportunity to clean up an unprofitable business at the same time."

It was – not a bad suggestion. Julia didn't entirely agree with it but she also knew the truth of Grendel's words. One mistake of such a magnitude could be recovered from. A second failure would be unforgivable. It was impossible to imagine it would happen, perhaps, but there were those who would have said the same about a number of Hunter's assassinations, and those people were now dead.

Julia Rothman still wanted revenge but practical concerns had quite a bit to say as well.

"He would hardly be in a position to argue," she agreed and made her decision. "He could deny, of course, but few would believe him. He is a reasonable man. Perhaps he won't enjoy the association but he will know better than to openly argue. A rumoured alliance with SCORPIA is an advantage and additional security. He's thirty-seven. He's facing the prospect of retirement and he's hardly a fool. He will value security over pride. He made sure to make it obvious to us that he had no interest in the information in Zurich, only revenge. That is not the actions of a man given to rash decisions. If the world comes to believe he acted on our orders all along, he will keep his head down and agree when the alternative is that he and his family will be hunted down and killed."

Which was perhaps not the revenge she wanted, but it would do for now. Hunter was infamous. If SCORPIA could claim some of that infamy in compensation, she would hardly refuse that. And he was a proud man, too. Ruthlessly pragmatic, of course, but the pride remained. Even if he allowed no one else to know, the sting would linger. The knowledge that the world believed him to be nothing more than a tool of SCORPIA and that the reputation he had so carefully built and maintained would, in the end, only add to SCORPIA's impressive reputation instead.

No one spoke. No one felt the need to fill the silence as they considered the suggestion.

"… And the prize on his head?" Mikato asked. Grudging approval, in his own way.

"It should remain as it is. Appearances must be kept," Dr Three replied. "And perhaps that sort of reward will encourage someone to come forth with information."

It hadn't before but that was not to say it wouldn't happen in the future. Another chance for SCORPIA to have her revenge. It was a sensible approach. It cost SCORPIA nothing and done right, it would negate the blow their reputation had suffered. It would have to do for now. Julia had other, more important matters to see to.

The silence stretched on again. Kurst was undoubtedly not happy about it but even he didn't argue. Like Julia, he had likely seen that old-fashioned revenge would lose in favour of the practical approach for now. With no further arguments, Chase spoke again.

"It's decided, then. The bounty stands. SCORPIA refrains from retaliation for now. Cossack? Nye was ready to write him off as a student but he's become quite the little mass murderer under Hunter."

There were less personal feelings involved in that matter. Julia cared little about Yassen Gregorovich beyond his skills and importance to Hunter. He had been an excellent student but without the killer instinct they desired. She had given him a place at Malagosto based on his past but even a ghost was useless if he had qualms about murder. He had been given a second chance after his first, failed graduation assignment. Hunter's tutelage had been an attempt to recuperate their investment, because the potential had been there, but there had been no guarantee it would have succeeded. Hunter had taken that raw material and turned it into an exceptional killer. There was no guarantee Malagosto could have copied that success. Julia would not begrudge the hard work and training that had undoubtedly taken. It was not an investment she would have risked.

Kroll was the first to speak. "Hunter's hold on him has never slacked. He ensured Cossack's part in the operation was clear but the order was obviously his. His reputation reflects back on Hunter, and Hunter will be known as ours. He was merely the weapon. Not worth the money or effort to hunt down. The bounty stands."

A sensible enough solution and perhaps an added bit of sting to the ego of a young man trying to carve out his own reputation outside of Hunter's shadow. Julia approved.

The general consensus seemed to be agreement. No one else care enough to argue against it, at least.

"Agreed, then," Chase stated. "The station in Zurich? It's always provided mediocre results but none of us expected that sort of lapse in security."

This time, Julia was the first to speak. "Zurich has been put under Venice until things have settled. A proper auditing will decide if they fit better with our Berlin portfolio. Mr Zhernakov believed strongly in keeping them as a separate entity and focus on the financial side of the business, but they've obviously proven unable to live up to that responsibility."

Slow nods followed those words. Had Zhernakov had an opinion on Zurich? Julia doubted it. But dead men made for convenient scapegoats and this way no one had to lose face when Venice took over the Zurich portfolio. The result of the audit was given but a proper report would make it nice and official. By the end of it, Julia's operation would have expanded a little more. Slow, steady, and in small enough bits that no one paid any attention to it. There was no reason to deal with arguments or competition when she could simply ensure they didn't pay attention to that expansion in the first place.

"The obsolete assets will be sent to Dr Three. Contingent on the result of the audit, I recommend we keep a presence in Zurich but restructure the office from scratch. Years of mediocre results indicate that part of the problem is the work culture itself, and the simplest way to fix that is to start over."

It was an easy suggestion. The agreement that followed was unsurprising.

The rest of the meeting would be simple business and the minor details that somehow always had to be settled but Julia hardly cared. She had what she wanted. Hunter's wings would be clipped and the mess in Zurich was officially under her jurisdiction. In a year or two, she would start to replace the staff there with her own people.

There were those on the Board that were blatant about their political ambitions. Julia preferred something a little more … subtle.

In Nanjing, Dr Three watched the screens go black as the meeting ended. He didn't speak as he left the office, his thoughts still focused on the meeting as he settled down in the living room in front of the vast windows and the sea of lights beyond them.

Dwale slipped soundlessly into the room. Poured a cup of tea to Three's exact specifications and put it on the table with barely a whisper of porcelain against glass. Then he took a few steps back and allowed the silence to settle again.

Three picked up the cup. Took a slow taste of the tea and allowed the flavours to bloom; sweet and rounded like proper Longjing tea should be. It had been a favourite since he had first been introduced to it and it remained an indulgence even now.

Only then did he speak.

"I have a task for you."

Dwale did not respond but Three knew he paid close attention. He had been trained too well for anything else.

"Zeljan is unfortunately fond of his grudges and he has nursed his resentment against Hunter with unfaltering determination. If he finds Hunter and his family, he is likely to act rashly."

Three could hardly fault it and in most cases, he would even have agreed. Now, though, with the promising potential of Hunter's offspring, the situation was different. Three had seen the reports on Alexander Rider. The child was intelligent and hard-working and most likely trained by his parents and Cossack as well. Rare potential in one so young, and Three would not allow that to be wasted on Zeljan Kurst.

Hunter was exceptional but he was not one man evading SCORPIA. He had a family, children that did not understand necessity the way adults did, and that put him at a distinct disadvantage.

"I want them found. Arrange for a search in two or three months, when things have calmed down. Quiet, unofficial. I do not expect instant results. Complete anonymity is worth the additional time in this case."

Three had already considered what he knew of the man and used decades of experiences to analyse a person he had not actually spoken with in eight years.

Hunter would be understandably cautious. He would avoid Switzerland, Italy, anything in any way associated with his experiences with SCORPIA. France as well – it had been the original location MI6 had decided upon and that alone would be likely to keep Hunter away. The UK was an unlikely option as well. Germany … perhaps, though Three's instincts told him it remained too close to events in Geneva and Zurich.

Dwale never spoke. Just waited for his orders.

"Focus on Spain, Portugal … Belgium and the Netherlands, too. Scandinavia and Finland. Avoid the heart of Europe, Hunter would not risk it. The former Soviet Union is a possibility but one I believe he would prefer to avoid. The Rider family has children, the oldest of school age but too young to truly grasp the necessity of an entirely different identity. He will be the weakness in their cover. Look for good, local schools. International schools will be too much of a risk now but the child already speaks multiple languages and should have little difficulty learning another one if necessary and still keep up with schooling at his age. Focus on new students at the proper age that will start over the next year or so. He is still young, so the name is likely to be a derivative of Alexander – either his first or middle name – and at his age, a year more or less will be noticeable. They will have kept his age mostly accurate. He will have one or two siblings, though I expect just his younger sister. It will be too similar to the Morrison identity to use Cossack as his half-brother again."

Dwale nodded once. "Yes, sir. Your orders when we find them?"

"Alert me immediately. Should any of my esteemed colleagues on the Board have decided on the same approach, redirect the attention of their people if possible and eradicate the threat if not. Deal with any other obstacles as you see fit."

Another nod and Dwale left without the need for a dismissal. Three picked up his tea again. He refocused on the world outside though his attention was still on Hunter.

It would be a slow search, not merely for the caution needed to avoid attention but because of the sheer range as well. It could easily take a year and very likely more. There were some on the Board too impatient for that sort of investment of time and money but Three was not among them. And the prize, in the end, would be worth it.

That was a consideration for another time, though. For now, Three had a book to work on and a first draft to complete before his new research subjects arrived.

Chapter Text

The safe-house had never been intended as a permanent solution. It wasn't exactly small but with three adults and two children around, it was still crowded at times. Helen didn't mind. Not with nightmares about Geneva; faceless attackers and blood and her babies gone -

- And it helped to wake up and hear John's slow, steady breathing; to feel Alex asleep next to her and be able to reach out and touch Matilda in her crib, pushed close against the bed.

Three weeks after Geneva, and Alex had still refused to sleep a single night in his own bed. Helen didn't mind. Alex was a restless sleeper but he obviously felt safer with them and Helen felt better with her children nearby. Just in case. She'd had plenty of nightmares about the what-ifs. If they had been slightly less careful about security, if they had been slightly less vigilant in training for an emergency, if her aim had been slightly worse or Alex had panicked or Matilda had started crying or -

- Or a dozen other possibilities she didn't want to think about.

Having her family right there when she woke up, so close she could touch them … it helped. She still dreamt of blood and death and the house they had left; still and empty and dead, but … it helped.

John and Yassen had returned Saturday morning and gone straight to sleep. Neither had spoken of the week they had spent away and by the time the evening news had rolled around, they hadn't needed to, either. Alex and Matilda had both been happy to have them back, Helen was just relieved

that they were both alive and unharmed, and the world carried on.

Sunday was cool but sunny; a welcome change after two days of dreary weather. Alex and Matilda were outside with Yassen, breakfast demolished in favour of playtime. There was no real playground, just a set of swings, but there was forest and grass and an adopted big brother, which was all the better.

Matilda had turned two while John and Yassen were away. It still felt a little surreal that her baby was already so big. They hadn't celebrated her birthday yet, though Helen doubted Alex had even noticed and Matilda was too young to. Now, with everyone home, it would be a welcome distraction.

The Sunday edition of Die Welt rested on the table. A few pages in, the photos from Zurich took on a different quality in ink and paper than they had on TV. A weight that Helen preferred not to linger on; much like the article itself. The standard lack of comments from the police, the expected comments from the few decently close neighbours – a perfectly pleasant man but always worked a lot; never thought there was anything off – and the stark report of events in an office building in Zurich that Helen could have done without.

She could also guess how the task had been split up. Both John and Yassen could have been behind that careful, clinical approach, but only John was the type to demolish two houses utterly to make a point. She knew John killed people for a living. She knew he had ultimately killed those people in Zurich to keep her and Alex and Matilda safe. To prevent another situation like Geneva. There were still eleven dead people – twelve now, with the additional body that had been found elsewhere – and most of them probably hadn't even known why they died. The night shift would have been a small crew, less veteran and more inexperienced. Most of them had likely not even known she or the children existed.

The reality of being married to a contract killer was a lot easier to ignore when the consequences weren't spread over two pages in the newspaper in painful detail.

John's footsteps behind her were almost soundless, the whisper of warm socks on wooden floors, and he stopped behind her. His chin on her shoulder, one arm wrapped around her in the quiet comfort they both needed, and for a while neither spoke as they simply watched the children outside.

Alex, Matilda – even Yassen. He still felt like a child to her. It was ridiculous, of course, and she knew it. At that age, John had already been a Falkland War veteran, but the thought remained. Yassen had been twenty when they had settled in Geneva. Four of the years before that had been spent in slavery; another under SCORPIA's dubious care. John had trained him to kill and that was what he did for a career now and Helen knew that, but in many ways Yassen had grown up alongside Alex and that was what Helen remembered now, too. The skittish boy, barely out of his teens, and ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. Not the man who had killed at least seven people in Zurich in retaliation for Geneva. To protect his family.

And now he was theirs, even if Helen would never speak the words out loud. Yassen still carried too many traumas, and Helen had no desire to intrude on the memory of the parents that had died to give him a chance to survive.

"Chocolate for your thoughts?" John finally murmured.

The warmth of him was reassuring and Helen entwined her fingers with his; calloused against her own, much softer hands. Seven years as a stay-at-home wife in a wealthy part of Geneva showed.

There were a dozen things she could have answered – the future, SCORPIA, contingency plans, Alex's nightmares and Yassen's still-lingering traumas and John's steadily-approaching retirement – but she didn't even know where to begin. In the end, she settled for a simpler version of the truth.

"Just – everything."

John hummed, a deep vibration that was more a physical sensation against her back, pressed against his chest, than any real sound.

"That's a lot of chocolate."

Helen smiled, brief but genuine. Felt the smile fade a moment later, too tired and weary to keep up the focus for it. Right now, the world was quiet. In a minute or an hour or a day, reality would come crashing down again and demand answers she didn't have.

John didn't continue. Silence remained until Helen spoke again and tried to put words to it all.

"What do we do now? Where do we go?"

The cabin was at least safe for now but was never meant as more than a temporary measure. It was anonymous but didn't have the proper security setup, it would be too small on a long-term basis, they needed to find a good school for Alex because she didn't have the background to homeschool him permanently and he was social and -

- And a lot of other things that had kept her awake for more hours than she wanted to admit.

They couldn't stay and Geneva had been home and now, seven years after London, they would have to start over from scratch again. There and then, that thought alone was overwhelming, never mind the rest of it.

John hummed again. This time, the sound turned into a familiar if slightly off-key tune.

"Off the Florida Keys, there's a place called Kokomo -"

Helen laughed in spite of herself, and the sound startled her a little. "Beach Boys? You have awful taste in music. And you'd be bored silly, lounging on a tropical island somewhere."

John pressed a kiss to her hair and she could feel his smile. "Not if I could look at you in a bikini all day."

"Flirt."

"That's how I got your attention in the first place."

"I blame that on your terrible sense of humour."

John's grip on her, warm and familiar, tightened slightly in a half-hug.

"Love you," he murmured, and Helen squeezed his hand briefly.

Silence settled again and for a while they just watched as Alex climbed one of the crooked trees under Yassen's watchful eye, Matilda balanced on one of the lower branches by a strong arm around her waist.

What would Yassen have been like if his teenage years hadn't turned into years of unrelenting trauma? Helen couldn't even begin to imagine. Yassen had grown up in very different circumstances compared to what she knew, and the young man she had met in London had already been a world removed from the child he had once been. Born into poverty in the Soviet Union to parents already branded as unwanted by the State, in a tiny village that served as a cover for biological warfare research … she doubted he would ever have been allowed to become a pilot or go to university, but perhaps he could still have been happy. Still had somewhat of a normal life. Married. Had a family. Had a military career, maybe. He was intelligent and skilled with weapons, though he had little patience for politics.

She could do nothing to change the past but she could try to give Yassen a chance now and do whatever she could to make sure Alex and Matilda would never end up in his situation.

Eventually, John spoke again. "I want to stay close to our contacts in Europe, at least while I'm still working. It'll be an added bit of security in case we need to leave fast. Later, I'm thinking, in a couple of years … some nice, tropical tax haven somewhere wouldn't be bad. Well away from everything. An international school for the kids, lots of tourists and expats with money … no one would look twice at us."

Warm, sunny, lush with life. Endless beaches and blue skies. Helen knew better than to trust the mental image the words conjured up but the thought still lingered. Geneva had been nice. More pleasant than London. Tropical might be a little too much but … not enough to entirely dismiss the thought. Somewhere far away from London and Geneva and all the memories of John's career. Still, that was years down the line.

"On more pressing matters, I've already had a potential client contact me about a security job," John continued, and Helen knew that meant the job had caught his attention. He wouldn't have mentioned it otherwise.

"Security?" It wasn't his usual sort of job but he had done it before, every now and then.

"At a guess, Zurich is going to make some people take a closer look at their own security and wonder if it's as good as they think."

And hiring one of the best contract killers in the world to look over that security and bring it up to standards if necessary perhaps wasn't the worst approach. Dangerous if the client decided that it was too much of a risk to leave a man of John's skill with detailed knowledge of security but she trusted him to take that into account.

The reality of being married to a contract killer was a lot easier to ignore when she wasn't reminded of that kind of job considerations, either.

The anxiety was back, the vice around her chest and the knot in her stomach, and she didn't want him to leave. It still didn't change the fact that it was necessary.

"When?"

"As soon as possible." John was silent for long seconds before he spoke again. "It'll take a month or so, I'm thinking. We'll take another week or two to settle down, then I'll be gone in November, and we can start to make arrangements for new identities in December. Things will have quieted down a little then, too. The immediate hunt for us will have died down."

Helen didn't answer. Just nodded.

Practical. Sensible. It still didn't make the knot of anxiety fade. She couldn't imagine he felt much better about leaving, either, no matter how reasonable he made it sound.

It didn't matter. They would cope. This was their life now, this had been their life since London, and they would simply deal with it. Life had been easy in Geneva and maybe she had forgotten just a little that it could still have been uprooted at any moment, but that didn't change the facts. They had been lucky to get seven years undiscovered.

Not for the first time, Helen remembered Alan Blunt's honeyed promises and Tulip Jones' cheap concern that had meant nothing when it came down to it, and she hated them all over again. Safe and sound in London, with families and normal jobs and MI6 supplied security when necessary, while they had been on the run for seven years because of MI6's miserable failures.

Their home, their friends, their career, their families, everything; all lost because of a single, harebrained idea to send an agent undercover with a terrorist organisation.

Helen took a deep breath. Let it out again and tried to let the anger out with it. There was nothing she could do about it. Her anger would do nothing productive now.

"… Did it work?" she asked instead and put words to one of the questions that no amount of detailed photos or graphic descriptions in the news would give her the answer to. "Your message."

The reason why John and Yassen had gone to Zurich in the first place. Their best chance to keep the risk of another attack to a minimum. The reason she had repeated to herself every night they had been gone, when Alex and Matilda were asleep and the cabin was utterly silent and every shadow was a possible enemy.

"… I think so." Hope so, John didn't say. "We won't know for a while but I think we struck the right balance. Enough to send a clear message but not enough that the Board will take it as a challenge. I got the impression the Zurich station was just a couple more mistakes from an audit, anyway."

Audit. Helen didn't know the details and didn't think she needed them, either. Not with what she already knew about SCORPIA. And if John's target had already drawn unfortunate attention from the Board, it at least made it less likely that SCORPIA would retaliate. It wouldn't be worth the possible escalation.

Cold War politics. She thought they had seen the last of that when the Berlin Wall fell. Another reason to curse Alan Blunt and MI6 for leaving her husband alone to juggle terrorist politics through either maliciousness or sheer incompetence.

Silence settled again, heavier than before. There was nothing Helen could put a finger on, just experience and some instinctive sense that something was bothering John.

She gave him long minutes to speak. When that didn't happen, she took the initiative instead. He carried enough secrets with him that had been allowed to fester for far too long without adding more to the list.

"What happened?"

"Mind-reader." His voice was fond.

Helen didn't answer, familiar with his usual tactics for distraction, and eventually he spoke again. A little quiet. A little thoughtful. John never talked much about his feelings about the job but Helen knew him. Very little about his current career genuinely bothered him, however distasteful it might be at times. It was not the sort of career he would have preferred but at the heart of it, John Rider was a ruthlessly pragmatic man. A wonderful father and husband, but also a cold-blooded killer, and Helen never forgot that. If something bothered him now – after Geneva, after Zurich, after everything – she would listen. Because she loved him, because he did it for them, and because in the most practical sense, any doubts or uncertainties might cause that one, fatal moment of distraction in the field and get him killed.

"… It could have been me," John said. "If things had been different. Zurich. Standard SCORPIA security job. The station had a reputation for taking in ex-convicts, give them a second chance, that whole PR package. If things had been different … it's not like I would have asked questions, either. It's good pay and not too many other options available when you've got a conviction of manslaughter in your past."

It was not as unlikely of a thought as it could have been. John's temper had been explosive when he was younger. He had been in plenty of fights. It was mostly dormant but not less lethal now, and if things had been different, if sheer luck and charm hadn't carried him through … one of those fights could have ended very differently. MI6 had chosen a bar fight as cover because it was credible. And if John had been released from jail and they had been all on their own with only her income and no real prospects, if someone had offered John a job that paid well enough to support his family – his pregnant wife … he would have asked no questions. Neither would Helen herself; not if it had meant stability and security for Alex.

In another world, it could have been John.

Snippets from news reports and articles flickered through her mind; the cold-blooded execution of seven people and the burned-out rubble that had been two expensive homes, and she ruthlessly pushed them aside.

"'Could have been' doesn't count."

Helen had learned that lesson young and had it ruthlessly reinforced as a nurse. There was no point in wondering what could have been if they had been a little more skilled, a little faster, a little better at predicting their patients. They could only do their best and learn from any mistakes and maybe do better next time.

"So pragmatic," John murmured, and that fondness was back.

"That's why I married you."

There had been a lot of reasons why she should have turned him down but they hadn't mattered in the end. John Rider had understood the dangers of his job and respected hers; long, unpredictable hours included. He had never expected her to give up her career for him. Even now, as a stay-at-home mother and the primary person responsible for their children's safety, she still kept up to date on things and John encouraged it. He didn't want a pretty ornament. He wanted an equal.

"You mean it wasn't for the generous SIS benefits?"

"Like Blunt's overly-long nose in our business?"

"It is kind of pointed, isn't it?" John mused. "Bit like a shrew."

Or a rat, though Helen didn't say that out loud.

Outside, the sun had crawled high enough into the sky that it could spill into the living room and light up the dust motes. It wasn't summer any longer but the temperature was still pleasant and a nice break from the slight, persistent drizzle that could turn entire days into an endless curtain of grey.

"… I still have nightmares," she said softly when John didn't speak again. It was the first time she had admitted it out loud. The first time she dared to, with John finally home from Zurich.

"I know." Not agreement, because John was hardly bothered by murder, but understanding that Helen wasn't him. That she didn't have those same traits that had let him thrive with SCORPIA.

Nightmares about what could have happened to Alex and Matilda if something had gone wrong, the endless fears of what could have been if they had been a little less prepared, a little less lucky, and the four dead bodies that had been living, breathing people seconds before. Enemies, but – people. Human beings.

Would the blood stains still be there even now after Yassen had burned down the house? The thought came unbidden and unwanted. She had done what she had to do, Alex and Matilda had depended on her, but the images were burned into her mind.

"You did everything right," John continued. "Everything we prepared for, everything we could do to stack the deck in our favour – you did it perfectly and you got away and that's what matters. The kids are safe, you're safe, you're all here – you did amazing and I'm proud of you."

Helen didn't reply, just focused on her breathing for a while. Inhale. Exhale. Slow and even. There were trained agents who had panicked in situations less serious than that and she knew it, too, but it still didn't erase the fear of next time. She had managed in Geneva. If – when – it happened again, would she be able to do the same? Or would she freeze from the memories; caught up in fear and blood and the smell of gun-smoke, and -

Inhale. Exhale.

This was their life now. She couldn't change that. Even when they did everything they could to keep things separate, when John was John and Hunter only ever appeared on jobs, their two worlds still kept moving inexorably closer and the best they could do was to slow it down a little.

She remembered how a single, sharp "Alex" had been enough to get an upset seven-year-old to settle down – Malagosto, John had admitted later, in a stolen moment of quiet, learn to get the attention of an entire class from tone of voice alone and they'll listen – and -

- This was their life now. Nothing to do but learn to accept it.

Outside, Yassen lifted Matilda down. Alex followed a moment later, moving between branches with the energy and enthusiasm only children could manage.

John pressed one last kiss to her hair before Alex and Matilda ran for the house, followed by Yassen at a more sedate pace.

I love you.

Helen squeezed his hand in response.

I know.

Eventually, they would need to figure out what to do next. Eventually, the world beyond the cabin would intrude again. Eventually, Helen would be alone with Alex and Matilda again, solely responsible for their lives and well-being and with no one else to trust.

For now – for now, the quiet, little safe-house would have to do.

Ian finally returned to London in the middle of October. By that point, he had spent three months in and around the former Yugoslavia. It wasn't the worst place he had been in Her Majesty's service but it certainly wasn't the best, either, and he was glad to finally be able to dump the whole mess on somebody else's desk.

He also hadn't forgotten his talk with Tulip. The thought of family had been pushed to the back of his mind in favour of his job but it had still lingered there late at night when he couldn't sleep or during long hours on surveillance duty; just him and the weather and the grey boredom of their target building.

John was alive. John and Helen and Alex and Matilda. He had a niece. He had a niece he had never met and a nephew he hadn't seen in more than seven years and they both took so much after John and Helen that it hurt.

Ian had kept the photos. Locked in a safe deposit box at home, of course, though they would be moved to a proper deposit box in a bank when he had the time. Probably even one of the deposit boxes MI6 knew about. Tulip had given him the photos, after all. She would expect him to keep them.

Officially, Ian had nothing to do within a mile of the investigation on Hunter. Unofficially, Ian wasn't stupid, whatever else John had claimed sometimes. He had kept an eye on the news, and the murder of fourteen people in Zurich, all associated with a business that a bit of digging confirmed was one of SCORPIA's … well. The list of suspects had John right at the top of it.

Officially, Ian did not have the clearance to see the file. Officially, MI6 made sure to avoid any obvious conflicts of interests, which included the minor issue of Hunter being Ian Rider's older brother. That just meant it cost Ian a couple of old favours owed to get his hands on a copy of the actual file and not just the brief summary that he otherwise had access to.

If Tulip didn't expect that part, too, she really didn't deserve her position. It was an easy way to ensure deniability for MI6, nothing more. Ian wasn't one of MI6's best agents for nothing.

Ian had the complete file a week after he returned to London. It was – significantly more detailed than he had expected, though maybe it shouldn't have been a surprise. His brother was one of the best contract killers in the world and even if Ian still had trouble wrapping his mind around that, it didn't change the fact.

John wasn't John Rider out there, he was Hunter, and Hunter had a daunting reputation.

The file reflected that. John and Ian had been born into a family of wealth; an excellent school followed by a just as excellent military record and brief MI6 career left an impressive paper trail. It had everything from John's school grades to comments by old teachers and superiors to thorough psychological reports. His mental stability, his experiences in the Paras, his suitability for undercover work, his relationship with Ian, his mentorship of Gregorovich, the potential effects of his relationship with Helen and the birth of his child -

- of Alex, of Matilda -

- and Ian hadn't even known a fraction of it.

When had they last talked properly, him and John? It had been before Alex was born. Before SCORPIA. Before the murder and the trial and everything. They had talked since then but it had been … different. Superficial. Like there had been a distance between them since John had been tagged for undercover work and Ian hadn't had the first idea of how to bridge it. In the end it had been easier to just … not try and allow that distance to remain.

- callous and unemotional traits, although psychological evaluations (G.1.1-G1.4) gave few indications that -

- ability to understand and manipulate his targets, a skill which -

- remarkably successful career within SCORPIA, though the precarious nature of the assignment by necessity meant infrequent contact with his handler; a contact always initiated by Rider himself -

Going through the file now, Ian wondered if he had even known his brother at all. Did MI6's highly paid shrinks, analysts, and researchers all have it that wrong or were Ian's opinions just that heavily influenced by childhood memories of the brother he had admired? How much of it was accurate, and how much was an attempt to justify Hunter's defection?

Ian didn't know, and he doubted anyone but John actually did. Who else was left to remember those childhood memories? They had lost both of their parents before Ian turned twenty; the last of their grandparents while they were both still in their twenties.

There was no one else now. No one Ian could talk to. No one that would understand who John had been, beyond the soldier turned intelligence agent turned undercover assassin and traitor. No one else who would look past the charm and manipulation and deadly skills and see the man who had taught Ian to ride a bike when they had been children and the world had been a much simpler place.

There were pictures, too. A few were familiar, family photos or the ones Tulip had given him, but most were not. Random photos found by chance, copies of articles, and victim after victim on a list that seemed to go on forever. Several VHS tapes that covered much of the same – surveillance footage where some camera or another had caught what had in retrospect been Hunter, meticulous records of crime scenes and autopsies and interviews, and – for one victim – the live broadcast that had caught their assassination.

Some of the victims Ian recognised but had never known had been John's targets. Some were utterly unknown to him, though the brief notes beneath the photos provided ample reasons why someone might want them dead enough to pay a fortune to see it handled.

One, Ian noted with no surprise and a twinge of bitterness, had been paid for by MI6. Ian had asked for the complete file and used big enough favours to get just that. Dig deep enough and even MI6's dirty laundry could be found. Heavily classified, of course, but even then there was a record.

Leave John and Helen and the kids – Ian's family – on their own with no backup and no one to trust, brand John a traitor, force them on the run from SCORPIA and MI6 both, and then turn right around and hire him.

Ian hoped John had fleeced them for that little stunt.

He wasn't even sure why he looked through the list at all. Maybe it was an attempt to understand the man his brother had become. Maybe it was a reminder to himself that whatever else John was, he was also Hunter and would target even Ian if he had a good enough reason.

Maybe it was just masochism. The thought that maybe if he'd tried to bridge that distance, to stay part of John's life, to understand … John would have had somewhere to go when everything came tumbling down. Maybe he wouldn't have had to become Hunter again to protect his family.

His family.

Ian pushed the thought aside. Flipped to the back of the file, to the most recent addition, and was not surprised to find Zurich covered in meticulous detail. Not just the initial eleven targets of the attack but the additional three as well, killed before the attack and found over the course of the week that had followed.

John had needed intel to pull off an attack like that. The three dead bodies had been graphic evidence of how he had obtained it. Him or Gregorovich, but Ian's instincts said John and the file obviously agreed.

- methods used for interrogation suggests familiarity with the theory beyond the instructions given as part of SCORPIA's training and a degree of practical experience that can be assumed to confirm Rider's involvement in past -

- reminiscent of The Human Nervous System: A Practical Guide (Dr Three, 1994) in its approach though presumably adjusted for -

- ranging from 12 mm to 63 mm still embedded in the body, as well as evidence of antemortem blunt trauma -

Ian closed the file. Stared at the anonymous cover for long seconds then opened it again, this time closer to the middle. A few more skips forward and he found the place he wanted.

1987, February – April

There were obviously ways to contact John – Hunter. MI6 had clearly managed and he had to stay in touch with his clients some way. Ian could probably even figure out how if he wanted to but right now, he knew better than to try. John would never trust him. Not with things the way they were. Not when they had barely escaped SCORPIA as it was. Not when Ian worked for MI6.

At best, Ian would hear nothing. At worst, John would decide he was a threat to Helen and the kids. It was better to leave things alone.

Ian would go through the whole thing in detail eventually. Burn the parts that he didn't want to keep – a litany of crimes and murders, detail after detail he didn't want to know – and save the ones that mattered, safely locked away where even MI6 wouldn't think to look.

For now, the file was the only real way Ian had to learn what his last remaining family had been up to for the past seven years and he intended to make the most of it.

Chapter Text

John Rider left again in early November for what was planned to be a five-week job. By silent agreement, Yassen remained at the safe-house. Helen had argued it was hardly necessary but Yassen hadn't budged and Helen hadn't tried all that hard.

Alex was over the moon, Matilda was always happy to have both of her brothers around to give her attention, and as for Helen, it would be the longest she and Yassen had spent together without John around.

The company was nice; the knowledge that she was not alone in protecting the children was priceless.

Eventually, they would settle somewhere else under new identities. Eventually, Alex would be back in school – a new one, with new friends – and Yassen would return to work. For now, the days would be spent with the children and the evenings brushing up on lessons. Self-defence of various sorts in Helen's case; medical knowledge in Yassen's.

"This is well beyond what is expected of a nurse."

Yassen opened Helen's most recent bit of reading material – Principles and Practice of Infectious Diseases; the fourth edition so new that the ink was barely dry – and flipped slowly through the pages. Helen remembered his stories, of Estrov and his family and anthrax, and wondered what he saw on the pages.

It was evening, both of the children already asleep, and it was the first night without John. She wondered if Yassen felt that as acutely as she did.

"I had to find some way to keep myself busy," she said when Yassen didn't speak again. "I had Alex and Matilda but the evenings could be lonely and I wanted to be more than just Alexander's mother. It was something practical to fill the time. Something that might become useful one day."

By now, both John and Yassen had a sound foundation of the sort of medical skills they might need on their own in the field. Helen did what she could to continue supplementing that; sorting through books and articles and new research to find anything that might help them. Just as important, it was interesting. She enjoyed it.

"I wanted to become a doctor," Helen admitted. It had been a child's dream, encouraged by her teachers. A respected profession and a secure, well-paid job, though she had known better than to say that even then.

I want to help people, she had told her English teacher as earnestly as she could manage when he had asked.

I want to be more than my parents was something she knew not to say. I want to be strong and skilled and independent enough that I won't ever have to rely on anyone else.

"It wasn't a realistic option," she continued. "It cost time that I didn't have. It's a lovely idea, to choose your career with your heart, but hardly practical to most. I could pick whatever job would hire someone without any qualifications, find an alcoholic husband, and settle for the same sort of life as my mother, or I could make my own way out. It didn't take nearly as long to become a nurse, it had the same sort of job security, I appreciated the practical approach, and I could always continue my education later."

Financial independence had mattered more than anything, a way to escape, and that was what she had prioritised. Her childhood had been nowhere near as bad as Yassen's but she knew he understood, anyway.

John had been born into money. He'd had the world at his feet. Helen and Yassen had both learned the limitations of the world at a very young age.

Helen had moved out. Found a place to live, found room-mates as determined as she herself was, and she had worked when time allowed and saved up what she could and had a small nest egg by the end of it. She had pushed through her studies as fast as she could and done well enough that her first job had been at a private hospital.

She had not been home since. She had been twenty-four when her father died and she hadn't gone to the funeral.

Yassen didn't speak. Only the sound of shifting paper broke the silence; a few pages at a time as he flipped through the book. The spine groaned slightly; the book so new that Helen herself had only really had the chance to skim the first fifty or so pages so far. It had been a gift from John, who knew her taste in literature better than anyone. Now it would help make the evenings pass a little faster.

Another flip and Yassen stilled. Helen caught a glimpse of the page across the table, the letters sharp and damning.

- Bacillus anthracis (Anthrax) -

Yassen closed the book.

"I wanted to be a helicopter pilot," he said abruptly and echoed words Helen had first heard spoken years ago. It had been a cautious confession back then; the skittish, abused stray testing her reaction. He had come a long way. "In retrospect, I think I always knew it would remain a childish dream. No one left Estrov. I did not know why at the time, but I still noticed. A few people arrived. No one ever left. Perhaps a military career would have allowed me to fly. More likely, I would never have been stationed further away than the nearest base to Estrov. It was – unwise to have potential loose ends elsewhere."

In another world where Yassen had not been made an orphan at fourteen, where Estrov still existed, and he had never heard the names 'SCORPIA' or 'Cossack' or 'Hunter', but neither of them said it out loud.

There was nothing Helen could say to make it better and she didn't try. Yassen had opened up slowly over the years on his own terms and schedule. Small comments in-between everything else, snippets of a history pieced together over time, and if that was all he ever wanted to share – ever felt comfortable sharing – then Helen wouldn't push.

It helps to talk about it worked for a lot of people. Even for John; quiet conversations late at night when no one else would hear. Helen doubted she would have been able to handle seven and a half years of life on the run if she hadn't been able to share everything with him as well.

It worked for a lot of people. Yassen Gregorovich was not one of them. The last thing he needed was for someone to try to force their way past old injuries with all the care of a bull in a china store. Just to help.

"Alex and Matilda will never have a normal life," Helen said instead. "They will always be Hunter's children. I can't change that, but we can give them the tools necessary to survive in the world and give them the best chance possible and hope they will never need it."

Hope, like all decent parents did, that their children would do better than they had done themselves. And maybe all they would eventually want would be to settle down in a small town in the middle of nowhere and live a quiet life under a new identity and never have to use those lessons, but Helen knew better than to hope for that. There was too much of John in them. Too many of the Rider genes. Too much from a family history of career military men and risk takers and troublemakers.

All Helen had ever wanted for her children was for them to be safe and happy. If that meant unusual lessons and a unique upbringing, then so be it.

She already gave John and Yassen medical lessons. Matilda was a little young still but maybe it was time to tailor some lessons to Alex as well. Toned down a little, of course. First aid to begin with. He was curious and intelligent and – it would be useful to know. A toy anatomy set for Matilda, perhaps. Something to start out with that could offer a foundation for later lessons.

They had been lax and overconfident, and Geneva had been lovely. Had been home. The illusion of safety had been easy to accept.

Would they have been safer in London or France, under Alan Blunt's dubious protection? Helen doubted it but she would never know for sure.

Yassen didn't speak. Not to agree, nor to refute her words, but his silence said enough. He was not a talkative man and there was little reason to agree when they both knew the truth.

"Principles and Practice of Infectious Diseases isn't going to be of much use to you," Helen said and switched the topic with practice ease, her mind already shifting through the options, "but I have another one you might like. Ditch Medicine came out last year. It's reasonably advanced and assumes a pre-existing foundation of medical knowledge, but you've learned enough already that it should work for you. I left a copy in each of our safe-houses."

Some of the material would be familiar from Helen's lessons but a lot would be new as well, and she liked the way it was presented. As practical and pragmatic as necessary in the situations it would be needed in.

This time Yassen nodded and Helen got up from the couch to grab the book from its place on a shelf, crammed between The Andromeda Strain and a brand new copy of The Bourne Identity that had mysteriously appeared right around the same time Principles and Practice had.

Yassen accepted the book, then glanced at the bookcase and back at her, a flicker of what might have been an amused sort of exasperation in his expression.

"Ludlum?"

"John has a dreadful sense of humour. When Ian joined MI6, John gave him a copy of On Her Majesty's Secret Service and a Walther PPK."

Ian hadn't found it nearly as amusing as John had, though the gift had carried its own warning. Don't be reckless. You're not James Bond. If Ian had heeded that warning, Helen certainly hadn't been able to tell.

John genuinely enjoyed the books, though. He travelled a lot, in circumstances where more useful reading materials might draw unwanted attention, and he enjoyed the books as much when they got something right as when they got it horribly wrong. With a paperback and a carry-on bag, John was effectively invisible. Just another business traveller in an already busy airport. Helen could see the appeal.

Yassen was not the type for it but that was no matter. Books helped pass the time; long, lonely evenings spent waiting, and while Yassen might prefer practical books, Helen still had options.

It would take Yassen maybe a week to read through Ditch Medicine properly. There were several parts he would want to reread and Helen didn't doubt he would have questions as well. Once he was done with that one, she would have several other books already waiting.

If Yassen was stuck in the safe-house with them until John returned, the least Helen could do was ensure he had the opportunity to spend his free time in as practical of a pursuit as he wanted. He wouldn't be Yassen otherwise.

No one had been happy to see Hunter leave – Hunter, Yassen suspected, least of all. It was not that it was a risky assignment. Close proximity to clients carried risks of its own, but unlike most in their line of work, Hunter was not alone. Yassen was half a world away but he had the information on Hunter's client and that sort of insurance mattered. Should something happen to Hunter, Cossack would demand answers.

SCORPIA would not have bothered. The client would have been charged for the loss of a valuable operative but they would hardly have cared beyond that.

The silent threat of Hunter had seen Yassen through … uneasy situations before. It had stung the first time, that reliance on someone else, but time and pragmatism had made it easier to accept. If Hunter had no issue with relying on Yassen's reputation for his own security, Yassen would be a fool to deny himself that same advantage out of pride.

Hunter would have preferred to stay. With his family a target, Yassen doubted he would have wished to leave their side at all until they had settled permanently elsewhere, and even that would be from necessity more than anything. Practical concerns dictated otherwise.

Helen's unease was well-hidden but clear to Yassen who had come to know what to look for. Carefully controlled but a constant presence as days became a week and all they had were the rare, brief check-ins to confirm Hunter's continued good health.

Matilda was too young to grasp how long her father would be gone and how much their world had changed. Alex was a different matter, and Yassen had woken up more than once to hear Helen's voice as she comforted Alex after a nightmare.

Alex did his best to hide it but he was still only seven years old. Helen could balance the stress and worry. Alex did his best but the pressure was obvious to those who knew him. Yassen understood but had little idea of what to do about it. At least Helen seemed to have a better grasp of the situation.

"He needs someone to talk with," she told him with familiar bluntness ten days into Hunter's mission, with the children asleep and the world beyond the cabin dark and silent, "and he doesn't want to worry me. They were alone in the safe-room during the attack. He was responsible for Matilda and he didn't know when – or if – I would be back. He won't talk about it but it still wakes him up at night."

It was – not surprising to Yassen. It was not a thought he had considered but it made sense to hear Helen speak the words. She could not have handled the attackers with the children along. With escape impossible, the safest place would have been that heavily protected pseudo-bunker; intended to hold against worse than what those four attackers could have done and well-protected in case of fire.

Helen had done the best thing she could. She had kept the children safe and stopped the attack. Alex had still been entirely alone in the silence of that room, with only his young sister and the unreliable view on the screens to keep him company. Helen could easily have been killed and Alex understood that on some level, too. Perhaps he had not yet admitted that fear to himself but the knowledge lingered nonetheless.

Alex needed someone to talk with. With Helen herself out of the question and Hunter away, the point of her comment was obvious.

Alex was attached. Yassen had always made an effort to visit regularly and sometime over the months and years, the small infant that Alex had been had grown into a toddler and a young child, and Yassen had come to matter. Even now with the truth revealed, Alex still treated him like an older brother.

Alex needed someone to talk to and Yassen supposed he understood better than most.

Yassen himself had been fourteen, not seven, when his world had burned to ashes around him, but he had also been far more shielded than Alex had been. The endless poverty of Estrov had not been an optimal place for a child but he had known nothing else. Danger had come in the form of the ominous but abstract idea of war and not the very real threat of an attack. Alex had been raised in comfort but he had been introduced to the realities of the world at a young age. Yassen had learned to shoot at eight as part of military training. Alex had learned at six; the same methods that Hunter had taught at Malagosto.

Their upbringings had been very different but the uncertainty afterwards was the same. The sense that the ground had somehow fallen away beneath them; trapped in free-fall and scrambling to find some amount of stability again.

Yassen had mourned his family. Alex hadn't needed to but the fear was still there. The very real thought of what could have been.

How to handle such fears in a child, Yassen wasn't sure, but he didn't voice the thought. Just nodded. If Helen was not already aware of his lack of such experience, he would be surprised. She knew the children best. If she felt this was better for Alex, Yassen wasn't going to argue.

Helen smiled, brief and tired but genuine. A silent reminder of the pressure she was still under; the constant edge of exhaustion that gnawed relentlessly at all of them. It only confirmed what Yassen had already agreed to. If this could ease some of that exhausted worry, he would do that.

Yassen found an opportunity in the early afternoon the following day. Matilda was young enough to need a nap; Alex, restless and energetic, was not.

There was a thin layer of snow outside, enough to crunch under their boots and turn the wooden terrace into a slippery, insidious experience, but not enough for any games. Some snowballs at the most. No snowmen and no real snowball fight. Yassen had offered to take Alex outside to run off some energy and Helen had accepted with a tired nod.

Alex had not slept through the night. Helen, with two children relying on her, needed her sleep more than ever and Yassen expected she was already napping next to Matilda. If his talk with Alex would allow her an hour or two of sleep, Yassen merely considered that a bonus.

In the garden, Alex tried to scrape enough snow together for snowballs but ended up with more grass and dirt and pine needles than anything useful.

His winter clothes were brand new like almost everything else they owned now. It was another reminder of Geneva and the life they had been forced to leave behind, and Yassen didn't doubt he was acutely aware of it.

Hunter's children. Alex had a softness to his features from both Helen and his young age, but Hunter's parentage was obvious to those familiar with the man. It would likely become all the more obvious as he grew into his adult appearance. It was echoed in Matilda already as well; her height and features far more Rider than Beckett.

They could have a normal life. With Hunter retired, under new identities, safely away from those who knew exactly who their father was – they could have a normal life. Could. Yassen knew better than to expect that to be the case.

They were Hunter's children. Yassen understood the reality of that just as well as Helen and Hunter themselves did.

Yassen didn't break the silence. Merely watched and considered his approach until Alex finally stood back up, snowballs dismissed as a lost cause.

Alex didn't speak. He had been quieter after Geneva. More serious. He was still only seven, still played and watched cartoons and had the endless energy of all children, but he felt older now. The full weight of their situation had settled in a way it hadn't before.

He needs someone to talk with.

Long, restless nights and relentless nightmares told Yassen that Helen was right. Alex needed something, at least.

What would Yassen himself have wanted at fourteen, terrified and traumatised and with nowhere to go? He certainly wouldn't have wanted to talk about it and he didn't doubt that Alex would stay stubbornly silent if he tried.

What would he have wanted? The skills and knowledge to survive. To not have been entirely on his own in Moscow with no experience with the world beyond Estrov and no idea of how to provide for himself. To not be at the mercy of luck and taken advantage of by others.

The snow was a whisper beneath his boots, the temperature barely below freezing. The memories of Moscow were still clearer than they had been in years.

"… I learned to pickpocket when I was fourteen," Yassen began, careful and measured, and felt more than saw the way Alex's attention immediately shifted to him, snow forgotten. "It is a useful skill, best learned at a younger age. I will teach you the methods and allow you to practice on me. When you can do so to my satisfaction, we will improve those skills through practical experience."

There were a lot of things Alex could have said to that. A normal child might have asked why. Might have pointed out it wasn't allowed. Might have had a dozen other objections to the idea.

Alex Rider – Hunter's son – merely paused and seemed to consider it for long seconds before he spoke.

"Can dad pickpocket, too?"

Not a question Yassen had expected but perhaps not surprising, either. Alex was a curious child and Hunter had always been a larger than life figure in their world. Alex didn't know that part yet but it didn't change the fact that Hunter at home was still a polyglot with an eclectic collection of skills, encyclopedic knowledge about a number of subjects, and an effortless competence with any weapon he touched.

"He can. I am better."

There was no false pride in the words, just certainty. Necessity had seen to that. Hunter had learned as a convenient supplement to his other skills; a useful ability that occasionally made his job easier. Yassen had learned through desperation.

Succeed or lose the little protection he had left. Starve in the cold, however long he might have survived. Desperation always lent a degree of motivation that nothing else could match.

Alex didn't respond but seemed to consider the situation. The seconds stretched on. Eventually he nodded, familiar determination in his eyes, and Yassen continued.

"There are other lessons once you have mastered this but this is a suitable place to start. It will allow you to survive on your own if necessary. You may not have the time or opportunity to prepare if you need to escape. You may need to remain completely invisible to those hunting for you. You may have others relying on you. I will teach you about suitable targets and the risks of such an approach."

Yassen didn't mention Matilda and didn't have to. Alex clearly remembered long minutes in a safe-room, with his mother gone – maybe permanently – and no one else to protect his little sister. Perhaps Yassen's lessons would have made no difference in that situation but it would leave him better prepared in case of another attack. An escape on their own would remain a last, unwanted resort but it would actually be an option then. Some way to survive until Hunter or Helen or Yassen himself could track them down.

This time the nod came faster. Yassen had hoped and expected as much. It was not an immediate solution to Alex's nightmares but it was an offer of some degree of assurance. The sort of knowledge that might let him sleep better at night, knowing he would not be defenceless again.

There were a number other useful skills and important lessons Yassen planned to teach him, though that was for later. Undercover work. Navigating a hostage situation. Surviving in hostile situations – not merely an attack but painful lessons Yassen had learned himself in Moscow. How to find shelter. How to stay warm. How to read people and avoid whatever dangers possible. Lessons in additional weapons as he grew older. Perhaps hunting as well, to make him familiar with firearms outside of a range. It was something to consider. Alex was young but children were fast learners. He would appreciate those lessons all the more when he was older and did not have to start from scratch.

The world around them was silent, any sounds swallowed by distance and the thin layer of snow. Alex glanced over again, something cautious but curious in his expression and Yassen waited for him to speak.

"… Where did you learn?"

Yassen had never spoken of his past before, not even the credible cover of James Morrison that he had grown used to. Alex had been too young to care and the topic had never come up. Now, with Alex aware of the truth … Yassen's past would have become a subject of interest eventually. It had only been a matter of time.

He could lie. He could refuse to answer. He could settle for a brief but truthful response. Alex would be disappointed but had been raised well enough to accept it.

Yassen is a stupid name.

Alex Morrison had loved his brother, and that brother had been a lie. Yassen had expected the question. He expected to hear a lot more of them in the weeks and months to come as Alex started to merge the memories of James Morrison with the person that had taken his place.

Yassen had lied enough. Alex deserve whatever truth he was old enough to handle.

"… In Moscow," he finally said. "I grew up in a small village in what was the Soviet Union at the time and I knew very little of the world beyond."

The words were careful and measured but came easier than he had expected. Alex never interrupted and never fidgeted, his attention solely on Yassen as he told the story property for the first time.

Not in bits and pieces, not as a debriefing or thinly veiled interrogation, but an honest attempt to explain the past to a young child he had come to see as family.

John returned the second week of December in a flurry of snow and with gifts for Alex and Matilda. With him returned the quiet comfort that the family was complete again. John himself never allowed personal feelings to distract him while he worked, not when a single mistake could get him killed, but even then the weight of long weeks away had been – unusually heavy.

He wasn't alone in that feeling. Alex's hug was a little too tight and a little too clingy for the child he had been in Geneva, and the quiet relief in Helen's eyes was obvious. Even Yassen, as skittish and proud and suspicious as a stray tomcat, seemed to relax a little when John closed the door behind him.

For a little while, they were together again. Yassen would need to leave for a week or so to handle reconnaissance for his new job, but it was with the promise that he would be back again for the Christmas days. A small thing that would matter the world to the kids and offer a bit of familiarity in a life that had been uprooted once already and about to be uprooted once more.

John also brought home a road map of Europe and a large, black marker. It became the basis for their decision of a new home.

The UK was out. John had written it off the day they left London and hadn't been back since, not even for work. He didn't plan to set foot there again for the rest of his life. Switzerland, too, for the obvious reasons. Italy – northern Italy had too much SCORPIA activity, too close to Venice, and the southern parts came with other criminal complications John had no desire to get his family or himself tangled up in.

Austria, like northern Italy, was too close to both Geneva and Venice to risk. The former Yugoslavia and surrounding neighbours was definitely not anywhere John wanted to risk anytime soon, not when a number of criminal organisations were eyeing a potential expansion of business there. France … logically, John knew it was a large enough country that there was no reason to write off all of it. Instincts and some uneasy gut feeling he couldn't explain said no. France was still the place MI6 had chosen for their relocation and John had the nagging suspicion that Duval still lived there, hidden in plain sight. France was definitely out. Ireland was an option but the thought of being backed into a corner somehow, isolated and with the UK as its sole neighbour … it felt claustrophobic and was enough to make John remove it from the list as well.

With each country covered in black marker, the map grew increasingly small.

Benelux was an option. The Nordic countries. No unwanted associations, easy escape routes. Just the way he preferred it.

Spain and Portugal. Greece. Nice weather, warmer, but with the added complication of languages. Alex had grown up with a mix of English, German, and French, and Matilda's ever-growing vocabulary already included English and French. Helen had learned French in school and German by necessity. John spoke more languages than that but he wasn't the one who would spend his time at home. They would do fine in Benelux, and English was commonly understood in the Nordic countries. Spain, Portugal, and Greece would be more of a challenge.

Helen took the decision – and the marker – out of his hands and extended the large, black spot that took up a good part of Europe to cover the remaining parts of Southern Europe as well.

"I don't have your ear for languages," she said and echoed John's own thoughts.

It wasn't like they could afford to stay in one place for more than a few years, anyway. Not after Geneva. A few years and … somewhere else, then. Look into somewhere permanent to retire to. Until then, it was better with somewhere that let Helen and the kids rely on one of their familiar languages. For convenience if nothing more. They would be alone more often than not.

Eastern Europe … was probably out as well, then. John took the marker back and filled in the bits of colour left on the eastern side of the map. The Baltic states, too. Russia had barely pulled the last of her troops out and John would prefer not to deal with that.

That left … Benelux, northern Germany, and the Nordic countries, then. Politically stable, no real issues with languages, suitable for the stay-at-home mother of two children with a frequently travelling husband.

John's attention drifted to Finland and stayed there. Farther from the rest of Europe than the other options but … that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Less likely to draw attention, less likely to be the first place someone would search for them. The country was still recovering from an economic depression but John's line of work hardly care about that sort of thing and that should leave housing prices at a very reasonable level. Sure, it would have been convenient to be within the Schengen Area – John certainly expected it to make jobs in Europe easier in the future – but it wasn't enough to tip the scales.

Helsinki, maybe. He had been there a few times. It was a nice enough place and he suspected Helen and the kids would like it, too.

Finally he looked up and met Helen's eyes above the map.

"So how do you feel about snow?"

Chapter Text

The Greaves family settled in Helsinki in late January. An American-Canadian expat family used to moving about, Thomas Greaves travelled a lot while his wife Sarah handled the home and their two children.

Their new house in Helsinki was a world removed from their home in Geneva. Their base for the next few years was a decently private house well to the north of Helsinki; a fully-furnished home they had rented from a family that lived permanently abroad. It was upper middle class and entirely unremarkable where Geneva had been distinctly upper class in surroundings to match such a thing.

Geneva had also been intended as a permanent home. Helsinki would be two years, maybe three – a few years of safety in anonymity until John retired and they moved permanently away from Europe.

It did not have the security of their home in Geneva. It did not have the safe-room or the extensive surveillance setup yet, though it would be as secure as they could make it by the time John left again.

What it did have was hopefully the reassurance that no one would think to look for them there and a quiet place for Alex and Matilda to find their equilibrium again. Fields to one side, forest to the other, and neighbours down the road – not close enough to be a potential problem, not far enough away that they were completely isolated. One house even had children around Alex's age. It would help him learn the language. He had John's gift for that.

Matilda was young enough she wouldn't care much so long as her family was there. Alex was young enough that he would adapt easier than most adults would. For Helen, the reality of it all had finally settled in a way it hadn't in the safe house.

She had known they would never return to Geneva. She had known their home was gone, burned to the ground. She had known that the Morrison family would never be seen again, any identifying papers long since disposed of. It still wasn't until now, in an unfamiliar house in an unfamiliar country, that she could finally feel the stress and worry ease enough to allow the raw sense of loss to settle instead.

Finland was beautiful. Late at night, covered in a light layer of snow and with the stars bright in the cold, clear air, the world beyond the windows was a perfect winter wonderland.

It still wasn't home.

It still wasn't home and – it didn't have to be. Not to her. It just had to be home to Alex and Matilda. It just had to be safe.

"What do you think?" John asked quietly in the darkness of the bedroom their first night there, with the children asleep and the house an organised mess of new clothes and toys and the bare bones of a security setup. The smells were unfamiliar, like staying at someone else's home – and it was, and the thought lingered – and the bed was brand new, and she still wasn't entirely sure she had picked the right pillow. A little too soft. A little too warm, somehow. Not hers.

Helen took a slow breath. What did she think?

She glanced outside again, at the white landscape and the pale reflection from the snow beyond the large bedroom window, and considered the question. Not with the hopeless sentimentality she couldn't afford, not with the mindset of Caroline, shielded by the easy comforts of wealth, but simply as Helen, as Hunter's wife, who had always known that their life in Geneva had been borrowed time.

It was not a bad house they had found. It was smaller and had less of the understated wealth of Geneva, but Geneva had been extravagant to suit John's cover. This was not a cheap place but still more low-key. More personal. The garden was well-suited for children, and the forest, mostly spruce and birch, was dark and still in the winter night but would be vivid green come summer.

It would never be home but … she imagined she could grow to like it.

"… I like the sauna," Helen eventually said. It was a lovely wooden structure, beautiful and traditional, and clearly meant to be used. "And the snow."

It hadn't snowed much in Geneva. Alex and Matilda had enjoyed the chance to play, which immediately made Helen much more inclined to like it. Maybe she would grow tired of it long before spring but for now, the pale glow beyond the window was a welcome change.

Then there were the little things. The furniture was simple and very Nordic, Helen supposed; different from what she was used to but not unwelcome. There were no massive garden walls like their home in Geneva. Here, the garden simply … faded into the field with only a raised bit of dirt and a low row of small bushes to mark the divide.

A new country. A new culture. A new language. Helen very abruptly felt very alone and very overwhelmed again; the constant knowledge that John would leave again within a few weeks and she would be entirely alone with the responsibility.

They would need to find a tutor. Primarily for Finnish; anything else would be a bonus. If they kept Alex home until after the summer holidays, it should hopefully give him the foundation needed to start in a local school. There was an international school in Helsinki but they couldn't risk it. It would be too obvious of a choice, even if they had deliberately picked a country few would expect them to settle in. The school in Geneva had been expensive and with ambitions to match the tuition. If Alex wasn't far enough ahead to still match his peers by August, Helen would be able to help with the missing parts.

Alex had John's gift for languages. Helen didn't, not to that degree, but the lessons would be a good foundation for her as well. They could learn together, the three of them. It would help them integrate themselves into the local community and by the time late summer and school rolled around, Helen would hopefully no longer be a stranger but a fellow parent. Someone who made an effort to learn the language, who took an interest in their new home, and supported her children as they adjusted to another country.

It would be enough time to hopefully ensure that anyone who might be looking too closely for them after Geneva would have given up again.

It would also give Alex enough time to get used to a new identity. To find new friends. To have a chance to recover from everything. Something in Helen hurt at the thought that Matilda would never remember Geneva, but at least she was young enough that she likely wouldn't remember the traumas of having their lives violently uprooted, either. Helen would take her blessings where she could.

John shifted to wrap his arm around her waist.

"Always so careful with your words," he murmured. His voice was a breath of warmth against her skin, low and affectionate. "What's on your mind?"

Always so careful with her words because she had learned to be, from her childhood and school and career and everything, and John respected that. She knew there were things he couldn't talk about, just like she could answer nothing now and he would never push. He would try to guess in the privacy of his own mind, because he was still John, but he would never push for what she couldn't – or wouldn't – give.

"… home," she said. "Geneva. Alex and Matilda."

"They'll adapt. That's what kids do."

Practical and certain; the same sort of analysis John ran on everything else around him. Helen had relied on John's brutal pragmatism for their survival for years but sometimes, sometimes she hated it.

"Geneva was home."

Maybe a bit of her annoyance crept into her words in a way it normally didn't, because John made a soft sound and brushed his thumb against her hip in a silent apology.

"I know." And he did, Helen was sure, but he was also John Rider and sentimental thoughts were brushed aside in a way that she couldn't.

A heartbeat, then another, and John spoke again. "Matilda won't remember and Alex is a social kid. He'll find new friends. It'll take some getting used to but Finland is good for kids and different enough from Geneva that he won't be reminded all the time. It won't be easy but he'll be all right. He won't be alone. He's got us and Yassen and Matilda."

And they were alive and safe, and that was what mattered, but that still didn't quite ease that knot in Helen's chest. Those were the same thoughts that had circled her own mind but sounded … harsher spoken out loud.

Alex would get new friends and a new school … and then, in another couple of years, John would retire and they would leave again and start over somewhere else. Another new country, another new identity, and Alex wouldn't even be able to stay in touch with his friends. Like Geneva, it would have to be a clean cut. One day, the Greaves family would simply cease to exist.

Matilda would still be young but she would remember Finland as her childhood home and be old enough at four or five years to understand they would leave for good. Alex would remember Geneva and understand what leaving really meant. Helen doubted anything good was going to come of either of those conversations.

I wish we didn't have to do this, Helen wanted to say but didn't. It would change nothing. This was their life now.

John was calm. Practical. Always planning, always two steps ahead, because that was what he had to be to survive. To keep them safe.

She took a deep breath. Pushed aside the sting of memories – she'd had friends in Geneva; friends she had to lie to but friends nonetheless – and focused on the present. She could grieve when things were calmer. When they were properly settled. Until then, their children needed their mother and John needed a partner he could rely on.

"When do you need to leave again?" she asked instead and changed the topic.

"Late February or early March as it looks now. We're working out the details."

Helen had expected sometime after Alex's birthday. Two, maybe three weeks. A full month was a pleasant surprise.

"I should be back again sometime in early May. Bit longer than I was looking for but it's a client I've worked with before who needs an instructor for a while."

"Back to teaching, professor Rider?" It was a gentle tease, the memories of John's time undercover muted enough that the sting was mostly gone.

"Professor," John repeated. "I like that. Think I should invest in a tweed jacket?"

The mental image was enough to give Helen momentary flashbacks to some of her own teachers, years and years ago, and she really could have done without that association. "I'll burn it as potentially incriminating evidence if you try."

John laughed, low and genuine, but didn't respond. Just pressed a light kiss against her hair.

Silence settled. The brief moment of respite faded as thoughts of their situation took over again. How many times would they have to start over? Would they be seventy and forced to move yet again; another new home in an endless line of them?

If we're lucky, John's voice whispered in the back of her mind, and she knew that whisper was right.

If they had to move again at seventy, that meant they were still alive.

Helen didn't speak, just pressed a little closer to John and the comfort of his presence. John didn't ask, just held her a little tighter.

Tomorrow. She could deal with that tomorrow.

Outside, the world was darkness and stars and snow. Inside, in the silence of their new home, Helen fell asleep to the steady sound of her husband's heartbeat.

Yassen returned two days before Alex's birthday. It had mattered to Alex, and Yassen had given his word, and that was enough that John suspected he would have put heaven and earth into motion to get there as planned.

Yassen's assignment had gone well; John hadn't needed to ask. It had hit the news three days prior and nothing in the news coverage or the whispers in Hunter's circles gave any indication that the authorities had a single lead.

John would have been surprised otherwise. It was not the career John would have chosen for him, but Cossack had always been an exceptional student and was well on his way to eclipsing Hunter. It was reassuring in its own way; the knowledge that Yassen was able to manage alone. It also reminded John of the kid he had first seen; nineteen and stubborn and way out of his depth, and wished he could have stopped him.

It was an idle thought, though, almost nine years too late and nothing he could change. Instead he slipped into old habits – one of the few he dared keep – and poured Yassen a glass of good whiskey in the small room he had claimed as his office.

It was well past midnight. The kids had already been asleep when Yassen arrived and Helen had gone to bed soon after. Early enough to be well-rested when Matilda inevitably woke up well before dawn and silent permission for John to stay up however long he needed. Something about Yassen's body language told them he wanted to talk and they both knew him well enough to spot it.

Yassen accepted the glass. Settled down in one of the soft chairs. Renting a fully-furnished house was always a bit of a gamble but the owners had good taste. John had no complaints and it cut down on the headache that was starting over from scratch in a place they would stay at for three years at the most.

John didn't speak. Just let comfortable silence settle and waited for Yassen to take things at his own pace. John doubted it was the assignment that had caused the subtle shift in body language but he didn't know what else it could be. SCORPIA, maybe. They had approached Yassen before. They might have tried again, though John doubted it. Maybe in a year or two. Not now. Not this soon after Zurich.

"I plan to give Alex another trip to Russia for his birthday," Yassen finally said. "It is too early in the year now, of course, but later in the spring. April or early May."

Something about the careful way Yassen said it made John pay close attention. This was not just asking permission to leave with Alex for a week or two, and the timing of it rang a bell somewhere in the back of his mind, low and nagging. Not in summer, where Yassen had already promised Alex another helicopter trip, but …

"… Hunting season," John concluded.

Yassen just nodded slightly. Took a small drink from the glass before he continued. It had been a long time since Yassen had seemed that much like a student with his mentor to John but he supposed it made sense. Yassen was talking about taking John's eight-year-old son hunting in the middle of nowhere, Russia.

"My family kept chicken," Yassen said. "They were far more valuable for their eggs than meat, but eventually they would grow too old. Some people hunted to supplement what they had. I came along sometimes. I was nimble, silent, and an extra pair of hands if needed. Alex enjoys the outdoors and it will be valuable experience. Birds, rabbits. Small game."

Valuable experience, John knew, in killing another living creature. The blunt way to put it, of course, but in the end, that was the goal. Slowly getting Alex used to weapons as more than just something to use on the range. The experience would help him feel safer and would be useful later on. A shotgun at first to hunt his own food; ducks and quail and pheasant, all of which he was already familiar with. Larger game later on when he was ready for it. Deer, wild boar. The practical sort of thing.

None of them ever wanted Alex to have to kill another person but they all knew the risk was there. For Alex and Matilda both. With the sort of thing John was tangled up in, the sort of enemies he had, it was better to plan for the worst case scenario. If hunting got Alex used enough to killing things that his first time killing a human might be less traumatising, then that was what they would do.

Would it work? John didn't know. It obviously hadn't with Yassen, though there were a number of other issues at play there and Yassen … hadn't actually specifically mentioned that he had ever killed anything, chicken or small game or otherwise.

John himself had never been on a hunt but he also hadn't ever been bothered by killing. He had been twenty the first time he had shot someone; as a soldier in Her Majesty's service but that made his target no less dead. He hadn't been bothered then, and eighteen years and a hundred or more bodies later, he still wasn't.

Alex hadn't inherited that trait to the best of John's knowledge. He took after Helen, practical and determined and stubborn, but without the edge John recognised from himself. Maybe it would come in time. Alex was still young. Part of John hoped so; a small thing to make their kind of life easier to manage. Part of him hoped it never would; that Alex took more after Helen and kept those emotional connections. Their kind of life would be harder, then, but Alex would have support. Human bonds and connections that John knew himself well enough to admit he had always struggled to form.

John didn't mention any of those considerations, though. There was no point. It was something for Helen and himself to keep an eye out for and help Alex – or Matilda – adapt to if necessary. Yassen had broken himself violently in the process of becoming Cossack and that was something John wanted to avoid for his kids. Helen had that human streak that John himself lacked sometimes and he trusted her to teach the kids right if they took a little too much after him.

Adaptability would be the key to survival. If hunting and killing his own food would in any way help Alex adapt to their world in the future, John would be just fine with that.

"He'll enjoy it," John finally said and pretended he didn't see the way the deliberate ease in Yassen's posture became something slightly more genuine. He paused for a few seconds and considered his words before he continued.

"Alex loves you. Blood or not, you're his brother. He'd do anything for your attention." Another heartbeat, then John sighed. "Will it help? I don't know but it's worth a try and I trust you. Killing didn't bother me at twenty, I doubt it would have bothered me at fifteen, and it certainly doesn't bother me now. I'm pretty sure Alex takes after Helen in that regard and that's probably for the better. If you think this might make it easier for him in the long run, I trust your judgement."

For a long second, Yassen was utterly still. Then he nodded.

A second, no more, and the shift had been all but invisible, but John still spotted it and paused.

Had anyone ever actually spoken those words to Yassen before? Had John? He trusted Yassen to stay alive. He trusted him to show common sense and not get cocky, and he had told him that often enough. He trusted him to protect Helen and the kids, trusted him to help them if anything happened to John himself, and he had told Yassen that, too.

I trust your judgement.

But this wasn't a job, or a vacation that could serve as an introduction to Russian, or some hypothetical world where John was dead. This was Hunter yielding to Yassen's experiences and entrusting one of his children to him. Trusting that in this matter, Yassen knew better than Hunter did.

John had taught Alex to shoot, but his first experience with killing another living creature would be at Yassen's side.

To John, it was accepting that there were lessons Yassen was better suited to teach that he was.

To Hunter, it was entrusting his firstborn – his heir – to his protégé and that mattered.

That information would find its way into the world sooner or later, and Yassen knew that, too. Hunter was a legend, but this was Hunter stepping back to allow his student to teach his only son to kill because Cossack was better.

Maybe that hadn't been what John had intended to say but that was what Yassen had rightfully picked up on and – John still meant it. Unintentional or not, it was true.

Yassen still had things to learn but it had been a long time since he had been Hunter's student, and now he was about to surpass his teacher.

Part of John had expected it to sting; wounded pride and stubbornness and defiance. Mostly, he was resigned.

It wasn't what he had wanted for Yassen but this was the life the kid had chosen and they had found a way to make it work. It would mean additional security in retirement, a much better chance that Yassen would survive to retire as well and … that was all John could ask for.

John raised his glass in silent acknowledgement. Yassen echoed the gesture, and John knew he understood.

The future was for the next generation. For people like Yassen, young and skilled and lethal. John had done what he could. Now he would have to trust it was good enough.

Two weeks after Alex's birthday, his dad left again. Alex had known he would. He had been home for two and a half month, which was the longest that Alex could remember.

His dad had to work. He always had to work, and he'd be gone for weeks or months, and his mum would have no one to help. Jamie helped – Jamie, no matter what stupid name anyone else called him – but Jamie had work as well and Jamie was his brother. His parents were the adults, they were the ones that took care of things, and now his dad was going to leave.

Again.

Alex didn't say anything, he didn't want to upset Matilda, but his glares probably said it all. At least his dad sat him down in his room after dinner while Matilda got her teeth brushed and got ready for the night, so Alex figured he had been obvious enough.

Matilda. Madison was a stupid name, too. Alex knew he was supposed to use it even at home, just to be sure, but he didn't have to like it.

Would Matilda even remember her real name? She was only two. Alex didn't want her to grow up thinking her name was Madison.

"What's wrong?"

Alex bit back the nothing he almost said to make his dad actually work for an answer, but it was late and he was tired and he didn't want to.

"You're leaving."

His dad made a soft sound, so low Alex almost didn't hear it. "I have to. I need to -"

"- work," Alex bit out before his dad could finish. "You always have to work."

"… I do. For a few more years, at least."

His dad fell silent. Alex stubbornly didn't speak – people talk to fill the silence, Jamie had told him, remember that and make sure you don't do the same – but in the end, he still caved.

"Why?"

It took a moment before his dad answered and Alex had started to recognise that pause. It was the same silence all adults had when they tried to decide how much to tell him and Alex's temper flared again before he could stop it.

"I'm not a kid!"

"You're eight, and we're your parents. There are some things you don't need to worry about because that's our job. Like taxes or paperwork or budgets."

Alex bristled. He could recognise an attempt to avoid something when he heard it, too. "I'm not stupid, either."

"You're not," his dad agreed and sounded a little proud to Alex. "You're as sharp as your mum."

Alex stayed stubbornly silent again and this time, his dad spoke first.

"If I stop working now, people will think we're scared. That will make them think we're an easy target and they'll start looking for us. If I keep working, the message it sends to those people is that I trust your mum to keep you and Maddie and herself safe while I'm gone. She already did that once in Geneva and people will remember that. They'll expect we increased our security, too. If I show I trust your mum and our security enough to leave for work, those people will decide it's too much of a risk to try to find us."

People will think we're scared.

There was a knot in Alex's stomach that still hadn't gone away, the awful realisation that there would be two months where there would be no one but his mum and Matilda and him, and sometimes he still looked outside in the darkness at night and thought he could see shadows moving.

How long had those people watched them in Geneva? Had they watched him and Matilda play outside? Watched him do homework and have dinner and go to bed? He hadn't asked. He knew his mum would have no way to know, either.

People will think we're scared made it sound like Alex wasn't and – he didn't feel all that brave right now.

They didn't even have a safe-room any more. Alex still had nightmares about waiting, and his mum was gone, and suddenly Matilda was, too, and he never, ever wanted to be inside a room like that again, but now they didn't even have that, and -

- What were they going to do if it happened again?

The safe-room had been small and awful and claustrophobic but it had been safe. That was the point.

"A safe-room is only safe in some circumstances," his dad said, low and serious, and sometimes Alex swore he could read minds. "It worked in Geneva but if anyone tries to attack again, they'll know we had one. They'll expect us to have something similar here and to use it in case of an attack. Geneva had neighbours and fences and walls and a lot of other things that would have slowed you down if you tried to escape. Here, we have escape routes. No close neighbours, a forest you'll be familiar with in no time, and some open land that'll make escape by car easier. We needed a safe-room in Geneva because there was a very real risk that escape might be impossible. Here, we'd be able to spot them long before that and we have escape routes. Never get predictable. That gets people killed."

His dad could talk a lot if he got started. He reminded Alex a bit of his old teachers like that. Sometimes it annoyed him a little, especially if he had already heard it before. Now it was comforting.

Alex supposed that answered the question he hadn't asked, and another question he hadn't quite worked up the courage to ask.

What if they come back?

Then your mother will stop them, his dad had said the first time Alex had asked. He had promised that he and Jamie would make sure it didn't happen again and Alex wanted to believe that, but it helped a little on the knot in his stomach that his parents and Jamie had already planned what to do if things went bad.

His mum had stopped them before. Alex felt better knowing that maybe she wouldn't have to again. That they could just escape instead and Alex would never have to wait and wait and wonder if he'd ever see his mum again and if he was suddenly responsible for Matilda all on his own.

Alex didn't say any of that out loud, though, and his dad smiled a little and ran a hand through Alex's hair. A different hairstyle, too. Shorter than it used to be. Alex still thought it looked weird.

"How do you like your new name?"

Ryan Alexander Greaves. That was what his passport said now and what his parents had drilled him in over and over.

- name is Ryan Alexander Greaves, my birthday is the third of May and I was born in -

"I hate it." He hated the name Ryan, he hated the name Greaves, he hated that he had to learn a whole new life somehow, and he hated that he knew it meant they were never going back.

His dad gave a wry smile. "All the more reason to go by Alex, then."

He had been allowed to keep that much, at least. His name was Ryan but call me Alex and that was good enough. His papers would always call him Ryan and that was what mattered, his mum and dad and Jamie had all agreed.

He had probably been quiet for too long because his dad sighed.

"I have to leave, at least for now, but I plan to retire in a couple of years. Two, maybe three. We'll have to move again but you and Maddie will be old enough to have a say in where, and I'll be home. Permanently. No more moving."

"Unless something happens," Alex said.

"Unless something happens," his dad agreed and Alex appreciated that at least he was honest about it. "Go do your homework. It's bedtime soon."

Homework. Alex rolled his eyes but it was a half-hearted thing and his dad laughed. It wasn't like it was real homework, anyway. The homework for his Finnish lessons took at least a few hours every day, but his other homework project was a series of books on strategy through the ages that his dad had brought home. It was more interesting than languages and Alex genuinely looked forward to finishing it.

His dad reached out and ruffled his hair. As much as he could, anyway.

"Have fun in Russia. Keep Jason on his toes, it's good for him."

Jason.

Alex didn't like that name, either, but nobody had asked his opinion. He took a deep breath. Nodded but didn't say anything.

He would see Jamie for two weeks but his mum and Matilda would be alone. If he had to be honest, he knew there was nothing he could really do to help if anything happened, anyway, but it still added to the knot in his stomach.

"Your mum will be fine," his dad said and obviously spotted that, too. "Maddie will be fine. Go, have fun with Jason, enjoy yourself. I love you, Alex. Leave the worrying to us."

That was easier said than done, but Alex nodded again. It wasn't like he could do much, anyway. Get better, be dangerous and smart like Jamie and – then he might actually make a difference. Even if it stung.

His dad gave him another smile and left, and Alex grabbed the strategy book from his table.

At least it wasn't in Finnish.

Chapter Text

Alex arrived in Saint Petersburg with Jamie on the last day of April. By train, not by plane, which had been all the more interesting to Alex. It was only his second time in Russia, and his first visit to that part of the country, and he had spent most of the trip watching the countryside and brushing up on the rusty bits of Russian he remembered from his summer vacation.

They spent the rest of the day in Saint Petersburg, watched a play that Alex didn't understand but which Jamie quietly explained as it happened on stage, and stayed at a hotel that looked so expensive that Alex felt a little out of place.

"The city used to be called Leningrad," Jamie said that evening, "when I grew up."

Alex was dressed in his pyjamas but too excited to sleep, and the compromise ended up being the large, old windows that overlooked the world outside. Watching people go about their lives in a whole new place never stopped being interesting.

Alex glanced over. "What happened?"

"Politics." Jamie was silent for a moment before he continued. "The fall of the Soviet Union. It used to be Sankt-Peterburg. Then World War I broke out and it became Petrograd. When Lenin died, it became Leningrad. Four years ago, with the Soviet Union buried and the city given the choice, they chose Sankt-Peterburg again. The politics of little men with too much power."

Alex wasn't sure what to say to that. Instead he stayed silent and looked out the window again, though he couldn't really focus on it. He tried to imagine living in a place and being told that his city suddenly had a new name because someone important had died and couldn't entirely wrap his head around it.

You live in Leningrad now. Just like that.

We're moving to Helsinki, his brain added, unwanted, and Alex shoved the thought away again. He missed Geneva but he didn't think he would ever have felt safe there again. He still wasn't sure he felt safe in Helsinki, either, but some nights he slept okay now.

Finally Jamie broke the silence again. "There were jokes about that. 'I was born in Sankt-Peterburg, I was raised in Petrograd, I live in Leningrad, and I wish to die in Sankt-Peterburg.' Russian humour."

Alex turned the words over in his mind. Jamie didn't interrupt but just let him. Different names for the same thing. The only difference was -

- Politics.

"… Because if you die in Sankt-Peterburg, then things have gone back to normal again," Alex said.

"The only way it would ever have been permitted to become anything less than Leningrad," Jamie agreed, "was if – when – the Soviet Union collapsed and Lenin's influence collapsed with it."

And Jamie had grown up like that. In a small village, he had said that himself, where the best future he could have hoped for was to maybe escape one day. Maybe even learn to fly a helicopter.

Jamie could fly now, and he had escaped, but all Alex could think of was the raw terror of Geneva and every moment he had been afraid someone would shoot them and -

- that wasn't the way Jamie had wanted to get his wish. Alex knew they could never return to Geneva but at least his friends were still there. His school and his classmates and teachers and soccer team. Alex would never see them again but they were alive. Alive, and he still had his parents.

Did Jamie ever miss his parents? He had been fourteen. To Alex, fourteen was almost an adult but Jamie wouldn't even have been out of school. Alex couldn't imagine surviving on his own at fourteen. Did you ever stop missing your parents if you lost them? Alex couldn't imagine that, either.

Alex didn't speak. Neither did Jamie.

Outside, the world kept moving.

They drove to the hunting cabin the next day. They didn't arrive until the early evening and like with the train ride, Alex spent most of that time just watching the world outside. Saint Petersburg at first, then the city slowly giving way to forest and fields and rivers and lakes. It reminded him a little of what he had seen of Finland so far.

The cabin itself was near a lake, with scattered trees and forest nearby and was a lot bigger than what Alex had expected. He wasn't even sure why he thought it would have been tiny. Maybe because 'hunting cabin' made him think of something small and hidden, but the place they arrived at was huge.

"Some prefer their comforts when they hunt," Jamie said. "In some cases, preferably with heavy security and a steady supply of fine caviar and Georgian wine and enough vodka to make business flow. You would build connections, enjoy the best food your personal chef could supply, kill a few things to feel suitably powerful. To prove you were a man of decisive action. The larger the prey, the better, of course. Send others to track down an animal until all you had to do was to put down your glass for long enough to pull a trigger. Little men with too much money. This is a modest place."

It didn't look very modest to Alex but he didn't comment. Just followed Jamie inside.

The smell was familiar but Alex wasn't really surprised. Wood and stale air, like no one had visited in a while. Their cabin in Germany had had the same sort of smell when they first arrived. It was a little cold, too. It would take a while to warm up something like that.

The similarities ended there, though. There were a lot of dead animals, that was the first thing Alex noticed. The cabin was mostly wood, with a massive fireplace, and had a stuffed animal heads watching them from every direction. Bears and deer with dead eyes, and a large chair made out of antlers, and when Alex looked up, he was greeted by a trio of ducks caught in endless flight under the ceiling.

Little men with too much money.

Alex didn't shudder but he hoped whatever room he got didn't have anything dead around to watch him all night. He could imagine waking up in the middle of the night to a dead deer staring at him in the moonlight, and the thought was enough to make him want to find a tent and sleep outside.

He didn't say it out loud, though. He was sure Jamie could tell his opinion just fine as it was.

"… It's big," he said instead, a little dubious.

"It – appealed."

Jamie didn't explain more than that and Alex left it alone. It didn't seem like Jamie's usual sort of place and Alex really doubted he just wanted it for the dead animals. Maybe he would ask again later. He wasn't stupid. He knew there was more going on but that didn't mean Jamie would actually explain.

They moved through the cabin – across the main room, up the stairs to a hallway of four open doors, and Alex caught a glimpse of a massive bed inside one of the rooms. A bed, huge chairs, and what was probably the door to a bathroom. The animal heads followed them all the while, a long line of dead, dark eyes that watched them upstairs and through the entire hallway.

Alex couldn't name half of them beyond a general 'deer' or 'duck' or 'bear', but some of them were so lifelike, he almost expected them to move. He wasn't sure what was creepier: the ones that were very obviously trophies or the ones where someone had tried to make it look like they were still alive and frozen halfway through turning their head or something.

Who wanted to live like that?

Jamie stepped inside one of the rooms. Alex followed. It looked even bigger up close. Nothing at all like the cabin they'd stayed at in Germany and definitely nothing like the cabin he remembered from a school trip. They had been four to a room then. This room alone could probably have fit enough beds for half of his classmates.

"These rooms are intended for guests. The bedrooms downstairs are smaller and meant for the staff. There is no one but us so you are free to choose whichever you prefer."

Alex's reply was immediate. "One that doesn't have dead animals."

"Perhaps not the easiest request," Jamie admitted, "in a place such as this."

Alex didn't answer immediately, his attention caught by a pair of sparrows perched on a branch above the window. Jamie followed his glance. For long seconds, it was silent. Somewhere, the heavy sound of an old clock broke the stillness. Then Jamie spoke again.

"They're dead, Alex. They've been dead for years. Decades, for some of them. They can't harm you."

Alex knew that, he wasn't a baby, but -

"- They're still creepy."

They were creepy and more than that, Alex wondered about the people who wanted a place like that. Who wanted to sit at the fireplace and drink vodka or whatever they did and look around to admire stuff they'd killed. Who had picked some deer that looked particular pretty or just happened to be unlucky and be the first thing they had spotted and shot it because … they wanted to kill something and have a dead animal on their wall? What was worse – if the deer had known it was hunted and tried to escape and never had a chance, or if it hadn't known at all until someone shot it?

The memories of Geneva were back, of the safe-room and his mum leaving because there was no one else to protect them, and the horrible feeling of being hunted, and Alex looked away.

"… I want to sleep in your room," Alex finally admitted and felt like a baby for doing it. But it was creepy enough now in sunlight. He couldn't imagine how much worse it would be in the middle of the night to wake up and have animal heads staring at him and everything would be pitch black in the way where things looked like they moved and -

- Maybe Alex felt like a baby for it but he didn't care if it meant he would actually sleep.

"The bed is certainly large enough for both of us," Jamie said and Alex did his best not to show the sudden flood of relief he felt.

Maybe Jamie had expected it. He didn't sound surprised, anyway, but he never did.

"Unpack," he said instead. "Come downstairs when you're ready. I'll make some food for us."

With that, he left again, his bag left on one side of the bed. Alex claimed the other and proceeded to do his best to ignore the rest of the room as he dug out a warm sweater. It was late, he was hungry, and the rest would just have to wait.

Morning was cold and cloudy. It had taken a long time for Alex to fall asleep and it was past nine when he woke up. Jamie's side of the bed was empty and the covers neatly folded. Alex wasn't surprised. Jamie was always up early.

Alex grabbed the blanket he'd halfway kicked off the bed, wrapped it around his shoulders, and slipped out of the room, down the hallway and downstairs. Outside looked grey and the grass heavy with dew. Jamie had lit the fireplace at some point. The sounds were soothing and familiar, and the smell of burning wood and warm stone mingled with breakfast.

Alex ignored the awful chair with the antlers and curled up on the couch instead. The dead animals looked a little less creepy in the morning light and Jamie had kept the nightmares away. It was enough that Alex actually looked up and met the dark glass eyes of the sheep, goat, whatever it was that someone had mounted above the fireplace.

The horns were long and curved, and it looked like it had been caught in the moment of turning its head, but the longer he stared, the less unnerving it looked. When he looked past the dead eyes, there was a thin layer of dust on its wool, and what looked like a fine cobweb between the horns. It didn't looked like it got cleaned very often.

"Snow sheep." Jamie had appeared from somewhere without a sound, but Alex was used enough to it that he didn't startle. Probably from the kitchen, since he had a plate of breakfast along that he handed to Alex. "Native to Siberia. It was not killed here."

Not even someone's trophy or awful souvenir that had been left behind, then, but someone who had decided that what the cabin needed was more dead animals.

Not for the first time, Alex wondered why Jamie had ever picked a place like that. It was too big, too creepy, and too silent. Was it something you learned to like as a grown-up, like dinner parties or coffee? He wasn't sure. He wasn't even sure Jamie actually liked the cabin, either.

Alex pushed the thought aside and focused on more important things. Breakfast was great, at least, and a little familiar from last time he had been to Russia. It was solid and there was a lot of it, and last time that had meant a day spent hiking. Alex already looked forward to a chance to explore the area.

Breakfast passed in silence with just the two of them on the couch. Jamie didn't speak and there was no TV, something Alex hadn't even realised until then. The only sounds came from the fireplace. Even the outside was muted by solid walls and thick windows. It was different from home, where something was always going on – Matilda playing or the TV or his mum doing something or another – and Alex wasn't sure he liked it.

How were they even doing? It was the second night Alex had spent away from his mum and Matilda since Geneva. He hadn't thought about it in Saint Petersburg because he had been too tired and distracted but … now he wasn't, and he'd had too long to think about it before he fell asleep.

They were okay and Alex knew that because Jamie would have checked, but the worry still nagged.

It wasn't until Alex was done with breakfast and he'd had time to make his thoughts make sense that he looked back at Jamie.

"You're not saying something again. Like dad does."

The sharp sting that they were keeping something from him and Alex could tell, but no one wanted to say what it was. Because he was a kid. Like it was better that he knew nothing and could stare at the ceiling at night and wonder how bad it was when he wasn't allowed to know.

"You have your parents' intuition."

That wasn't an answer, that was just waving the truth in front of him, and Jamie knew that, too. Alex's eyes narrowed and Jamie met them with that same calmness he always had. Normally it was reassuring. Now, it just made Alex angrier.

"Why are we even here?" he demanded. "Dad's never said he hunts. You never have, either. I don't think you even like this place. It's ugly and creepy and if you're trying to teach me a lesson or something, then that's stupid way to do it."

Jamie's expression didn't change. Calm and patient and utterly unmoving. "It will be a useful skill for you to learn."

What, shooting innocent animals for fun? Was he going to come home with a deer or a duck or something for his own room as well? There was nothing useful about that. Alex's expression hardened.

"I already know how to shoot." And Jamie knew that, since he'd been there for those lessons plenty of times.

Something shifted in Jamie's expression but before Alex could figure out what it meant, Jamie answered.

"Targets, yes," he agreed. "Not living, breathing creatures."

Animals, like the ones on the wall, with glass eyes and cobwebs in their fur, and Alex stilled. The memories were sharp and vicious and unwanted -

- The terrace in Geneva, black and white and silent on the monitor in the safe-room; four men working on one of the windows and -

- then they weren't; dead on the ground and dark stains on the hard tiles and Alex knew his mum had fired those shots -

- and he he knew at that moment what Jamie wasn't going to say.

"… People," Alex said. "Like the men in Geneva."

He swallowed. His mouth felt dry all of a sudden. He knew the answer but now he wished he didn't and he wondered how long before Jamie or someone would have told him if he hadn't already guessed. In a year? Two? Jamie definitely hadn't planned to do it now, Alex knew that much.

Jamie would have said ducks or rabbits or – something. Not people.

Jamie didn't speak, didn't move, didn't seem to do anything but watch him, and Alex counted the seconds in the silence. Would he lie? Deflect the truth? Alex didn't know. Did he want Jamie to lie, even if neither of them would believe it? He didn't know that, either.

Finally Jamie moved, just slightly. He reached out and brushed Alex's cheek with his thumb like he had done before when Alex had been upset, and Alex felt sudden tears sting his eyes.

"Alex." Jamie made his name sound almost like a sigh, like he was sorry, and Alex swallowed against the lump in his throat.

"I saw mum kill those men. When they attacked us. On the monitors in the safe-room."

He had never told anyone. His mum had been all alone with them and barely slept between Alex's own nightmares and the need to keep them safe. Jamie had arrived but Jamie had been focused on security, too, and then his dad had been home but only briefly, and Jamie had gone with him to – make sure it wouldn't happen again, and -

- Alex hadn't wanted to upset anyone. He wasn't a kid. Those people had deserved it, Alex knew that. They were the ones who'd attacked them and if it hadn't been because his mum and dad had always been so strict about security … Alex didn't want to think about what might have happened.

They had deserved it and everything had moved so fast and Alex hadn't even realised the memories still hurt that much until Jamie had managed to dig them up for him.

Jamie touched his cheek again. Then he lowered his hand.

"Your mother is a skilled shooter," he murmured. "She knew she could not afford to miss."

Skilled shooter. Alex knew she was, they had trained together before, he'd just … never realised what she had been training for. What his dad and Jamie had -

- probably been doing for years.

James and me will do whatever we can to make sure they never try again.

Alex took a sharp breath, the realisation sudden and awful and unwanted, but he couldn't make it go away again. He had caught glimpses of articles and news reports back at that cabin that he knew his mum and dad didn't want him to see. He remembered bits of overheard conversations through doors or the silence of the night; things he had wondered about but never asked. It just – somehow hadn't fit together until now. Like the pieces of a puzzle he knew he didn't want to complete.

They worked for a group of criminals. I pretended to work for them.

Why had they never gone to the police? If there were criminals hunting them, if they had to get new names and move and leave everything behind … why had they never gone to the police? Alex had never thought about it, no one had ever even mentioned the possibility, but they had always had weapons in the house and been ready to leave with no warning and there had always been a bag ready and the safe-room and -

- who did that?

Alex had never really thought about it before. It had just been the way things were. What people did. Something they didn't talk about. Now he couldn't help but wonder.

How did his dad make money? His mum stayed at home. His dad did something with numbers and stocks but – they had moved now and he was still travelling and what sort of stocks meant he was gone that much?

And Jamie – Jamie was a pilot, he flew helicopters, but he had never talked about the people he flew around. Alex had always just assumed they were tourists but now he realised that he didn't actually know. Jamie talked about the places he had been if Alex asked and was always willing to spend hours discussion helicopters, but – how much did Alex actually know about what he did?

Sébastien's dad had worked with stocks, too. He had usually been home late but he hadn't travelled like Alex's dad did. He hadn't taught Sébastien self-defence when he was home, either. He had been short and friendly and a little out of shape and liked weird, fancy food. He hadn't gone for a run every morning like Alex's dad and Jamie did. He hadn't taught Sébastien to shoot. Alex had always known never to tell anyone and he had never questioned that, either, but Sébastien couldn't keep a secret for anything and if he had learned that sort of thing, Alex would have known.

If I stop working now, people will think we're scared.

Something nagged at the edge of Alex's awareness but his mind shied away from it and he forced his attention elsewhere. He had learned to listen to that knot in his stomach sometimes. The one that told him to leave something alone, even if he usually didn't manage.

James was my student.

Alex took a deep breath and tried to make sense of it all; too many memories he suddenly had to look at in a whole different way and he didn't even know where to start, and -

All I can do is try to keep you as safe as I can.

"… Why did we never go to the police?" Alex didn't want to ask. He did, anyway. "If someone wants to hurt us because dad used to be undercover, why didn't the police ever help?"

Your father was a soldier when I met him. His last job before you were born was to go undercover in a large group of criminals and find out how to stop them. They found out and wanted revenge. They've never stopped looking for him.

Alex hadn't questioned his mum's explanation and now he wondered why. But they had just escaped and he hadn't even known if his dad or Jamie were okay and … he had been too scared back then to wonder. All he had wanted was his family, safe and home.

What kind of soldier went undercover with criminals? The more Alex considered it, the more holes he found in the story he had been told, and the list of questions kept growing. He didn't think anyone had lied to him but – that didn't mean he wasn't missing the most important details.

"I think," Jamie said quietly, "that you have already guessed why."

Because soldiers didn't go undercover. Because if his dad had worked for the police, it would have been a much easier answer to give him. Because Alex was getting increasingly sure that his dad hadn't been a soldier at all by then but a secret agent or a spy and that he wasn't any more. Because there had been no one to help them, no one to go to, just the five of them and new names and new identities in a whole new country, and -

- Just how many people were they hiding from?

"… because dad was a spy or an agent of some kind." Alex finally said. "And he left. If dad had still been working for – whoever it was, then they should have helped when we were attacked. They should have done something. Mum had to do it alone. Matilda's just a baby and I couldn't help. No one knew we were there. Mum said those people have never stopped hunting dad. It's been eight years. If dad was still working for whoever made him go undercover, they should have done something."

There was a flicker of something in Jamie's expression. Alex recognised it as pride and despite everything, the thought unfurled in his chest, warm and welcome. Jamie's approval mattered.

"I never believed that your father had been killed," Jamie said, careful with his words the way he always was. "I knew he was an undercover agent. I expected his death had been faked for the sake of extracting him from the operation. I wanted an explanation, though, so I arrived at his doorstep in London. You were four weeks old. In an other world, you would have been raised in France. There were already plans in place for the three of you to move to France under new identities."

James figured out it was a lie and found us.

More and more of his mum and dad's explanations started to fall into place, bits and pieces matching up with what Jamie now said.

"Dad told me." Alex took a slow breath. Let it back out. Jamie didn't look surprised so Alex figured his dad had probably told Jamie he had shared it, too.

They were supposed to have moved to France. His mum and dad and him. But they hadn't. They had moved to Geneva, and Jamie had gone with them and become Alex's brother. And they had done it without any help from the people his dad had worked for.

If he could figure it out, other people could, too.

"Dad wasn't just worried about the people he went undercover with. He didn't trust the people he worked for, either."

It was not a question. Alex was absolutely sure about his conclusion. Jamie's nod just confirmed it.

"There was no security, not even a single guard. They relied entirely on your father's supposed death being convincing enough to dissuade any interest. My presence proved they had miscalculated, and the group your father went undercover with had – has – a long history of gaining access to classified information. They have managed to infiltrate a number of places that should have had far better safeguards in place. His concern was … not unwarranted, I expect."

"So we left." Away from London, to Geneva and new names and … why had they never gone to the police?

Because it had all been a lie. Because his dad had probably worked for the government and they could have made sure all their French papers were real, but his dad couldn't have done the same when they were on their own.

Alex had accepted that Ryan Alexander Greaves was not a real person. That it was just a piece of paper meant to keep them safe. The awful realisation that Alexander Morrison had never been real, either, hit him like a sledgehammer.

Was his name even Alex? Did he even want to know?

"… What's my name?" Alex asked before he could change his mind. "My real name. I know it's not Alex Morrison."

"Alex. Alexander John Rider," Jamie replied. He had answered immediately and that warmth was back; the thought that he hadn't been more than a few months old when he had become Alex Morrison but Jamie still remembered his real name. "You were born on the thirteenth of February. John is your father's legal given name; your mother's is Helen. You have an uncle in London – your father's brother – who saw you as an infant but who still works for your father's old employers. They worked for the same agency for a while. Your grandparents on both sides died before you were born. You have a godfather, another of your father's old colleagues, who retired some years back on account of severe health issues. You have an aunt and uncle on your mother's side as well as more distant relatives on both sides, none of which your parents have stayed in touch with in their adult years."

Alex Rider.

He had a name now. A birthday. A family he had never met and most of them were dead or people his parents hadn't wanted to see but – it was more than he had now. He had always known his grandparents were dead, but he had never known he had other family. His mum and dad had never mentioned anyone and Alex … hadn't ever wondered. Lots of people didn't have siblings.

Rider. The name felt weird and alien, the same way Greaves did. Alex wasn't sure if it was supposed to feel special to him. Mostly it was another reminder that his entire life had apparently been a lie.

Jamie didn't say anything, just watched, and Alex felt the bitterness return.

"Are you even allowed to tell me? No one tells me anything."

No one had lied, not that Alex could actually remember, but his mum and dad had sure twisted the truth as much as they could. And now he was suddenly, magically old enough to be told the truth? Alex didn't believe that for a second.

"It was only a matter of time before you asked the right – or perhaps wrong – questions. We all agreed that when it happened, you would be told the truth. This is sooner than we wished, perhaps, but not unexpected. You have your parents' intuition and intelligence. Once you discover a puzzle in front of you, you do not relent until you have solved it. You are old enough to understand both the importance of secrecy and the danger that remains. It may make your new identity easier to adapt to as well."

"Because Alex Morrison didn't exist, anyway, so what's one more fake name, right?"

The tears stung again but Alex ignored them. This was – too much; stupid and overwhelming and he never wanted that kind of life, and then Jamie's arms were around him and he was sobbing into his chest as months and months of stress and fear caught up with him.

"It's not fair." He still had nightmares and his mum still checked the locks and security three times before she went to bed, and Alex knew she had been up to check so many times when a fox or a cat or something triggered the system, and there was no one else to help. His dad travelled and so did Jamie and -

"… I want to go home," he pleaded. He didn't say to Geneva and he didn't need to. "I just – want to be normal. I don't want this and Matilda is going to think this is how it's supposed to be and it's not fair."

Jamie ran a hand through his hair, slow and soothing, and Alex felt a little bit of the tension ease up. He took a deep breath, tried to push it all away again – the fear and anger and stress – but it turned into a half-sob instead.

He was so tired and everything was overwhelming and he just … wanted their home back. His room and his toys and the tree he had learned to climb in but he would never see it again. The burned-out ruins of what had been home had been in the middle of one of those articles he wasn't supposed to have seen. The picture had caught his eye and he had known instantly what it had been. The bone-deep sense of loss in his chest had told him before he recognised it himself.

Jamie had lost everyone when he was fourteen. His home and his parents and … he had been careful to keep it age-appropriate but Alex had enough pieces to fill in more of the puzzle now.

Age-appropriate. Alex hated that word because it just meant someone was hiding things again, but at least Jamie didn't pretend it was all fine. And – maybe it made sense, then, the hunting and the awful animals and everything. Jamie had taught him how to pickpocket so he had a way to survive without money, the same thing Jamie had wished someone had taught him before he had to survive on his own. And now he was supposed to learn to shoot people because there were people hunting them, and maybe one day his mum wouldn't be able to protect him, and Jamie wanted him safe.

Jamie had been alone at fourteen. He'd had no money and no idea of how to survive or protect himself and he wanted to make sure Alex would never be in the same position. That Matilda, when she was old enough, would learn the same.

Alex took another deep breath. This time it was uneven but didn't turn into a sob and he wiped his eyes with his sleeve. With the tears gone, he mostly felt tired. Wrung out.

Who had taught Jamie? Alex didn't know but he was sure it hasn't been nice. Jamie had been eight when he had first learned how to shoot, he had told him that. Military training for kids no older than Alex himself was. Had they been taught about shooting people then, too? Or had it all just – been a game somehow? Like learning to shoot had been to Alex at first. Something cool and interesting and time spent with his dad.

Had Jamie hunted, too, when he was eight? He had lived in a tiny village. His parents had been poor. They would have needed the food, then. Not – dead animals on a wall and a cabin that was larger than their home in Geneva had been.

"How did you learn?" Alex stopped, then forced himself to continue. "… Hunting. You were my age when you learned to shoot."

How to shoot people, he couldn't make himself say but Jamie understood, anyway.

"Military training in school was to prepare for our later military service. We learned to shoot and maintain a gun, certainly, but the majority of the activities were … simpler things. To take orders, to fit into a military hierarchy, to encourage our interest through rewards. Military games against other schools to encourage competition – how to navigate with a compass and map, how to make our way through a forest fast and unseen."

Not that different from what Alex already knew, then. From the things Jamie and his parents had already taught him over the years.

Jamie paused. He looked like he was considering what to say but before Alex could open his mouth, he continued.

"I was nineteen when I became part of the same group of criminals your father was sent undercover with. They had a training centre for their new recruits – a school, they called it. It taught everything necessary for such a line of work. Your father was an instructor there for a while."

"And he taught you." Another piece of the puzzle. Another little part of a past that he had to figure out in bits and pieces.

"Eventually." Jamie paused for another second. "Your father is skilled with weapons but more importantly, he is a gifted teacher. He taught your mother many of the same lessons his students had been expected to know."

- Geneva, and four dead people on the monitor, and Alex had left behind his home and his friends and his name and everything he knew in fifteen minutes -

"- And me," he said when he realised something else. His mum handled a gun the same way Alex had been taught to. She shot the same way, and did the same things, and his dad had taught both of them. His mum was good. Not as good as his dad or Jamie, because Alex didn't think that anyone was, but good. Alex knew enough to say that he wasn't bad, either.

He had learned to shoot when he was six. Had his dad already planned it back then? Alex didn't want to think about it but couldn't shake the thought, either, low and nagging and persistent. Maybe this was sooner than he was supposed to have found out but … had this always been his dad's plan? His mum had never gone hunting. His mum was also an adult. Maybe she hadn't needed it. Maybe she had learned the same way and Alex had never known.

"Alex." Jamie's voice was soft but insistent the same way Alex's teachers' had been, and Alex instinctively looked back at him. "We never want you to need these skills. You or Matilda. If you go through your whole life and never need to raise a weapon against another person, that will be a good thing. There is nothing we want more for the two of you than safe, normal lives, with people you love and careers that never force you to choose between duty and family. If you can tell your grandchildren as an old man about how you grew up with more names and languages than you remember and have it be nothing more than an amusing anecdote, we will have done our jobs right. If you have forgotten in seventy years that we ever had this conversation, if you have not needed to touch a gun in fifty years, if you have been able to only ever choose your home based on what you want and need as a family and not a hundred security concerns … that is a good thing. Do better than we have. That is all we want for you."

The words made something in Alex's chest twist sharply, and he clenched his fists in response to keep the sting in his eyes from turning into tears again.

"I just want to be normal."

Have friends and grow up in one place under one name and not have to suddenly remember that Jason was his uncle and not his brother and that his parents and Matilda had different names and -

"There is nothing we would rather want for you," Jamie agreed quietly. "But right now, that is not an option. In five or ten years, perhaps. We have options. They merely take time."

Time. Five or ten years felt like forever. He would be a teenager, almost an adult, and Matilda would be old enough to have had the same talk from Jamie.

Jamie fell silent. The only sounds came from the fireplace and the old clock. Above them, the snow sheep watched with unseeing eyes. Hunting had been a lot more exciting in theory.

Alex didn't want to. He didn't want to but at the same time there was an awful knot in his stomach that told him that he didn't have a choice. That he had to. They escaped in Geneva but he hadn't been able to do anything to help and if something had happened to his mum, he would have been alone with Matilda. There would have been no one else to help them.

"… I don't want to," Alex said.

I don't want to, but he had to, and Jamie had to have seen that, too, because he ran his hand through Alex's hair again, gentle and soothing.

"I know." A heartbeat. Another. Alex counted the seconds until Jamie spoke again. "I think, perhaps, that this week, I will do the hunting. In summer, when we visit Russia again, you can try fishing. There is an abundance of birds in this area. I will hunt and we will prepare them together. Would that be acceptable?"

Logically, Alex knew it wasn't any different from the dead chickens he had sometimes helped his mum with. Those came in plastic wrap, these came with feathers. They had both still been alive once.

Above them, the trio of ducks was still caught in endless flight. Glass eyes watched them from every wall in the cabin.

Alex didn't want to hunt anything himself. Jamie had promised that he would do it himself and that Alex wouldn't have to … and that would be good enough for now.

He had to learn. One day, he might have to shoot someone, because his mum had, and if Jamie thought hunting would make it easier … Alex would do it.

Not now. In summer, maybe, but for now he would simply watch and learn and hope that maybe that would make it easier.

Like their first night in Russia, their last night was spent in Saint Petersburg as well. The hotel was different but still old and fancy and so expensive that the chairs in their room looked like they came from a museum somewhere. It looked like the sort of place that was meant for things to live in, not for people, but at least the hotel didn't have dead animals everywhere. It was the first time in a week and a half that Alex hadn't looked up to find some animal or another watch him with creepy glass eyes.

Jamie had let him have fast food for dinner as well; McDonald's that tasted just the same in Saint Petersburg as it had in Geneva. It was the first time in a week and a half he hadn't helped Jamie with dinner, too. Alex never wanted to help pluck another bird again. The first one had been sort of interesting. The rest had just been boring and seemed to take longer and longer with every single one.

Alex was curled up by the large window, on the wide ledge lined with a soft cushion and old-looking pillows -

"Brocade," Jamie had told him -

- and watched the world outside pass by like he had done the first night of their trip, what felt like forever ago. It was past his bedtime but Jamie hadn't made a big deal about it. Just told him to brush his teeth and put his pyjamas on but otherwise let him stay up.

Sankt-Peterburg, Petrograd, Leningrad.

And now it was Sankt-Peterburg again.

Morrison, Greaves … Rider.

Alex would never be Morrison again, he knew that. He hated the name Greaves and everything that came with it. And Rider … Jamie had been clear that he was never allowed to use that name. It was dangerous, something that might help people find them, and Alex knew that unlike Sankt-Petersburg, he would probably never get his name back. Morrison or Rider.

Would he still be Greaves next year, or the year after? His dad had said he wanted to retire. Would they have to move again, then? Learn another name and another language? Alex wouldn't be surprised. Not when there were still people hunting them. Not when there was no one to help them.

Come summer, they would be back in Russia, just Jamie and him. They would start with fishing and if Alex felt ready, move on to hunting from there. A week and a half ago, he would have said no. Now, after watching Jamie … maybe it would be okay. The first day had been awful. By the last day, the wait had been boring more than anything. Jamie was patient. Alex had wanted to get up and do something.

It will be a useful skill for you to learn, Jamie had said.

Alex hadn't touched a weapon the entire time they had been there. He still had the nagging feeling that Jamie had gotten things his way somehow. Alex had gotten used to it. From watching Jamie, but … it was still progress. Or whatever Jamie and his dad would call it, because he didn't think his mum would have liked it any more than he did.

"Alex?" Jamie's voice was low in the silence of the room, and Alex glanced over and saw the unspoken question.

"Just thinking," he said.

Jamie didn't prod him for more of an explanation. Just nodded. He seemed to understand when Alex didn't want to talk, and Alex was grateful for that. "You should get to bed."

He probably should. His eyes had been drifting shut for a while. Alex nodded. Slipped down from the window.

Tomorrow, they would be home again. Alex had wanted answers and now he had them. Some of them, at least.

A part of him still wished he had never asked.

Chapter Text

Alex and Yassen returned from Russia in mid-May. Alex was quieter and more serious than before, and Helen wasn't surprised. It hurt her heart, those moments when she could see maturity take over – when the child she was used to faded and he seemed years older than he was – but it wasn't surprising.

They had always known Alex and Matilda would need to learn the truth one day. They had just hoped that Alex would have been a little older. He had John's tenacity, though, and would never have left the puzzle alone, and … it had been better to at least have some measure of control over what he learned and when. It didn't make it easier when she saw her eight-year-old son worry about things no adult should have to deal with, much less a child, but … it was at least a reason.

Matilda was happy to have her brother back, and the house was alive in a different way with two kids home instead of just one, and Helen slept easier again.

Life settled. Carried on, in the same relentless way it had since they had left London what felt like a lifetime ago.

With Alex at least a little familiar with the truth, his lessons expanded as well. It was another thing Helen wished they could have done when he was older but – things changed. They wanted him to be safe, him and Matilda both, and the knowledge that he wasn't helpless did more to ease his nightmares and restless nights than any reassurances could.

John, the teacher at heart, took the practical approach to things. He adapted lessons they had planned for later to suit an eight-year-old and then expanded further. Alex already knew how to shoot and he had learned close combat since he was old enough to grasp the idea. More lessons, Helen knew, would not only keep him busy but help him sleep much better as well. If they couldn't prevent those nightmares, they could at least address them in the best way they could.

The attackers in Geneva had most likely planned a kidnapping, and Alex knew it, too – John, in turn, taught him how to handle a hostage situation. Alex had been forced to learn how to adapt to a whole new identity with no warning – John expanded those lessons in disguises now; close to a decade worth of advice and experience from a man whose survival depended on not being recognised. Next time they had to move, Alex would be much better prepared.

Yassen and Helen supplemented those lessons in their own ways.

Alex had already learned how to pickpocket from Yassen, but that wasn't the only lesson Yassen had learned on the streets. Escape, evade, hide, survive. How to use his age to his advantage like Yassen himself had done when he was no more than a young teenager.

Helen dug deep for childhood memories of her own and taught Alex what she herself had learned the hard way. How to hide money and other valuables, how to move quiet and unseen, how to tell someone's exact location in the house by sound alone. Alex already knew first aid but those lessons would slowly get expanded, too. Anything to help keep their children safe.

Life settled down again. The world kept moving. Alex's nightmares slowly eased. That was all Helen could ask for.

"He adapts well."

It was quiet. It was also well into the evening but this far north and in early June, the sun had yet to set. The last bit of sunlight still illuminated the living room and Helen had yet to turn on a reading light for her book.

Hunter was away. Yassen would be soon as well; one last job to handle before he spent three weeks in Russia with Alex again.

There was no need to specify who 'he' was. Helen knew it just as well as Yassen did.

"Necessity." Helen was silent for a second. "He inherited it from both of us. Fortunately, he did not inherit John's emotional detachment to go with it."

It would have been harsh words from most others regarding a spouse. From Hunter's wife, it was simple realism. She loved him but she wasn't blind to his nature. Charming, handsome, utterly ruthless. A born survivor. Yassen wondered what he had been like as a child.

"Perhaps it would have been easier if he had."

Matilda was still too young to be able to tell if she had inherited that trait from Hunter. As for Alex, Yassen trusted Helen's instincts.

"And have him grow up like John?" Clinical. Pragmatic. A little weary, beneath it all. "I want them to have at least the chance for some semblance of a normal life one day. I love John dearly, but his family had more skeletons in their closets than most, and not all of them were figurative. John has built a career on emotional detachment. We both want something else for Alex and Matilda."

Something better, she didn't say and didn't need to.

Silence. Outside, the sun continued its slow descent. The shadows grew longer and stretched into grotesque shapes.

Yassen did not mention what Alex's likely reaction to actually killing a living creature would be. He didn't need to, and Helen's thoughts had undoubtedly drifted to the same.

Yassen's intention was to start Alex on fishing as a gentler introduction to things, but Alex knew why he had to learn to hunt just as well as the rest of them did. Yassen had no plans to force those lessons. He would encourage and otherwise take things at Alex's pace, but that didn't change the fact that Alex did not take well to waiting. Eventually the dread would be outweighed by the need to get it over with so it would stop taking up his every waking moment.

It was not a lesson Yassen would have wanted at eight years old. It was not a kind thing to do to a child. Based on Hunter's words, it would have been a much easier lesson for someone with his – more muted capacity for emotion.

Alex would grow up with far stronger emotional bonds. The trauma of necessary lessons would also be much harsher on the psyche of a normal child than it would ever have been on Hunter at the same age.

Yassen had research to finish. Old articles to read through. Maps to examine and intel to organize before his next job. Between growing shadows and memories of his own childhood and the ever-present ghost of necessity, he couldn't find the focus.

Based on the stillness of Helen's book, neither could she.

Their tutor in Finnish was Marjatta, a retired school teacher who came by four hours every day Monday through Friday and left several additional hours of homework behind every time. They treated it much like school for Alex and he worked for all four hours. Helen, who also had Matilda to look after, joined in as much as she could.

Alex's homework was frequently supplemented by documentaries for children in Finnish that Marjatta brought along. Helen settled for whatever homework she had time for when the house was silent and Alex and Matilda were asleep.

Marjatta was a patient teacher who understood Helen's limitations and knew to encourage Alex. Alex in turn thrived and while he plainly didn't consider Finnish fun to learn, he worked hard nonetheless. Helen suspected he missed school. Not the homework but the other children. There were other families nearby, but any other children Alex's age would be in school during the day. He had Matilda and Helen herself, but Matilda was young and parents weren't playmates the way children his own age would be.

"He is a diligent student," Marjatta said one afternoon in late June as they packed up for the day. John was home for a little while and Matilda and Alex were both with him, fleeting moments before he had to leave again. They still kept up their lessons, and John spent the hours training his own skills elsewhere, but for a little while they were a family again.

"He has a gift for languages as well, but he's a hard worker and focused on his task," Marjatta continued. "If he continues with this sort of progress, he will be able to manage in a regular class by the start of the school year."

Helen herself hadn't made anywhere near as much progress and she was all right with that. She didn't need to be fluent. She just needed to be good enough to manage as needed and to seem like someone who had lived in the country for longer than they actually had. The Greaves couldn't possibly be new arrivals, after all. Not when both Ryan and his mother spoke the language so well.

"Thomas is the same," Helen admitted. "Give him the right incentive, and he'll pick up a language in no time. I've always envied that skill."

"Two children and a husband who travels leaves little time for studies." Marjatta was also a pragmatic woman, and Helen appreciated that. "The international school in Helsinki has a perfectly good reputation."

"I want Ryan to have at least a little stability," Helen replied to the unspoken question, "and Finland's schools have an exceptional reputation. His previous school was an international one. Friends came and went as their families arrived or moved, and some children had the firm belief that they could get away with anything because their parents were important people. Perhaps we will only be here for a few years, but the stability will be good for him and … I'm hoping we can return eventually. Further north, maybe. Ryan and Madison love the snow."

They hadn't needed to learn Finnish. They could all have managed perfectly fine with English for a few years. Alex would likely have done fine in the international school, too.

Another layer of security. Another bit of cover. Another way to make the Greaves completely different from the Morrisons.

Helen wasn't even lying. Finland wasn't home but it wasn't a bad place, either. She wasn't even sure she really preferred to retire on a tropical island in the first place for all that they joked about it

People were both less social and less nosy than their neighbours had been in Geneva. In a lot of ways Helen appreciated that. In others, it was one more acute loss she still felt; the memory of the home she had come to love. It was a relief to not have the same curiosity, the same constant focus, the same fine-tuned gossip machine that might work against them at any moment. On the other hand was the potential loneliness; the harder work it took to get close to people, to find potential friends or acquaintances or even just the slightest bit of social interaction beyond her own family.

Their life in Geneva had been a lie but she had still had friends, even if she had always had to be careful with her words. Now she was slowly building up a social circle again. Fellow parents, neighbours, a few other stay-at-home mothers in the area.

"I will bring the curriculum Ryan will be expected to know," Marjatta said. "I suspect he'll do just fine but let's make sure. We can contact the school afterwards and arrange for things"

The school would probably like to know, too, just as much as Helen did. Alex was young. There was still time to catch up with anything important he had missed during his time away.

Marjatta was not a woman given to small-talk in her retirement, but Helen had grown used to it. It was different and people were harder to get close to but it was not unwelcome. Different but – just something to adapt to. Geneva had been different from London. Helsinki was different from Geneva.

Helen Rider accepted it as the way life would have to be.

Alex went to Kamchatka for three weeks with Jamie in July.

He knew it was supposed to be about fishing and hunting, Jamie had already told him that, but Alex still looked forward to it. Vacation with Jamie was fun, and most of the travel would be by helicopter.

There were no dead animals in their hunting cabin this time. It was a much smaller, cosier place and reminded Alex a little of the cabin they had stayed in in Germany. It also clearly wasn't used often, and everything they would need, they had to bring themselves.

Jamie brought rations and other things that wouldn't go bad, but lunch and dinner would be either fish or bird of some sort that they had killed themselves.

Fishing was interesting for about half an hour that first day. That was how long it took Alex to get bored of just waiting for some stupid fish to bite so they could go do something else. Jamie didn't seem to mind, but Alex was also pretty sure that Jamie was physically incapable of being bored, so that didn't count.

An hour after that, when Jamie finally caught a decent-sized trout, Alex had resorted to wood carving while Jamie told him about fishing. Sometimes it had been more hacking than carving, and the stick looked mostly like firewood leftovers by the end of it, but if that was how fishing was going to go every single time, Alex figured he would get lots of practice.

Why did anyone do that sort of thing? For a hobby? Was it an adult thing like coffee and boring TV shows where all anyone did was talk? Was it some other way to get dead animals to decorate a house with? Did people get dead fish stuffed and mounted on the walls, too? Who wanted a dead trout to stare at them while they slept?

At least the fish was easy to clean and left the rest of the day to go exploring. The tall grass and the forest and the area around the cabin … and several dead trees that Jamie marked for target practice.

Alex didn't particularly like the hunting rifles or shotguns Jamie had brought along, mostly because he knew why there were two of them. They were different than the guns Alex was used to but he learned fast and Jamie's approval made it made it easy to forget why they were there and pretend it was just normal.

He had to learn. Not just shooting but – killing things. Because one day someone might attack them again and his mum might not be there and Matilda would have no one else to protect her. Because all the awful things didn't go away just because he pretended that they didn't exist and Jamie – Jamie just wanted them to be safe.

He had to learn and they both knew it, but Jamie never said it out loud and that made it a little easier. Alex knew. He didn't want the reminder, too.

The second day they went duck hunting, and Alex was brought right back to that awful boredom of waiting. Carefully hidden in a bird hide made with camouflage netting so the ducks wouldn't see them, with nothing to do and clouds that looked like they would turn into rain at any moment, and Alex was bored.

Jamie was patient. All Alex could focus on was the slow crawl of clouds across the sky. Jamie was a good hunter so it wasn't a long wait but it was long enough, and Alex also knew exactly how long it would take to pluck those two, small ducks.

That afternoon, with the ducks handled, Jamie brought out a heavy box of what looked like clay saucers for plants. Or maybe really small, ugly plates.

"Clay pigeons," Jamie said before Alex could ask.

"They don't look like pigeons."

"They're used as targets for certain types of shooting sports. The targets used to be live pigeons."

Alex wished he could say he was surprised but not after Jamie took him hunting. Not after all the nights they had slept in a cabin surrounded by dead animals. The thought still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"So what, they would put them in a box, drag them somewhere, and let them out to be shot?"

"I assume so."

Trapped, terrified, probably locked away in total darkness with just enough air to breathe, and when someone finally released them, they would have been frantic and confused and shot before they had a chance to escape. It was enough to make Alex feel sick.

"That's awful."

Jamie didn't seem bothered. Jamie had also picked the cabin last time, so that really didn't say much. "Times were different. Humanity has done far worse in the name of fleeting entertainment."

Alex knew it was true. It didn't make the clay pigeons any easier to look at when he knew why Jamie had brought them along.

Jamie handed him one and Alex reluctantly took it. It was heavy but he wasn't surprised. Not when it was made of clay and had made it all the way to their cabin in that box without breaking. It had to be solid enough to throw, too. Launch? Alex had a vague recollection that clay pigeons were launched from something.

"These are useful for training with a shotgun on a moving target," Jamie said. "It will not move like a bird would but it will allow you to gain a sense of your weapon and aim. I will throw the targets. All I want you to do is focus on hitting them."

Alex looked down at the clay disk in his hand.

He had been six when he learned how to shoot. He almost didn't remember a time when he couldn't shoot, but he vividly remembered the first time he had held a gun and felt the recoil and listened to his dad talk about safety and parts of the gun and how to handle it right.

The range in Geneva had always used paper targets. They were larger than the clay pigeons but … they weren't really that different. This was just a clay plate. A moving one, and heavy and ugly but just – clay.

The shotgun was different. Different size, different ammunition, but it was still just a gun. Alex could handle that. And a part of him, a very small part, wanted to see if he could even learn to hit them. He knew his mum and dad and Jamie were probably good enough to manage. It sounded impossible to him.

Alex handed back the clay pigeon. Took a slow breath and remembered Geneva and – he had to learn.

"… Okay."

Jamie ruffled his hair. He didn't say he was proud but Alex knew it, anyway.

In one world, Alex Rider spent July of ninety-five on the French Riviera. Ian taught him to scuba dive and spoke only in French, and Alex returned to London with a French accent to match Jack's American one.

In another, Alex Rider learned to use a shotgun under the skies of Kamchatka and the watchful eye of Yassen Gregorovich. He wasn't held to Cossack's own standards, he was eight years old and had never held a shotgun before, but the potential and necessity was there. It was enough to build a solid foundation.

Yassen knew it would take time to convince Alex to actually participate in their hunts. They had time, though, and Yassen was a patient man. It was no surprise. Alex understood the need for it but he was also a stubborn child and hated the thought of hunting.

In another world, it should not have been necessary, but there was little point in lingering on what could have been. Yassen doubted that he himself would have taken much better to the idea of killing an animal at that age but Alex had little choice. He knew that just as well as Yassen did.

Carefully planned days would help to wear down his resistance. Training with the rifles and shotguns would become normal. They would spend most of the days outside, hiking and exploring as Yassen told Alex about Russia and resumed his language lessons. Alex had his father's gift for languages and learned fast. It would be a valuable skill as he grew older.

Alex at eight was always moving, always active, always restless – except when they hunted. The times when Alex had to be quiet and simply wait, and Yassen knew the toll it demanded on Alex's limited ability to sit still.

Alex understood necessity better than most children his age but in the face of boredom, Yassen knew that his reluctance would weaken further. They had brought no entertainment along for their hunts. No comics, no games, no books. Yassen did not mind the wait – he appreciated it, even, for the silence and tranquillity. Alex did not agree.

"How aren't you bored, too?" he demanded the third day.

Yassen had expected the question and lowered his binoculars. Their bird hide was small and offered little chance to move. Alex could be active while they fished. In the stillness of the bird hide, waiting for suitable prey, he was far more restricted.

"It's different when you have something to focus on. I did bring binoculars for you as well."

Good quality, durable and good for hunting – Alex had refused them so far and Yassen understood. Like with the weapons, accepting them would make it far more real than he was prepared for, but Alex was also bored and they still had another two and a half weeks left. The lure was considerable.

"It's simply binoculars," Yassen continued. "Nothing else. I will tell you what to look for. Hunting is but a small part of it. There are many things out there that you would never get close enough to see otherwise."

Alex hesitated but took them.

They weren't a permanent solution, of course. He would still grow bored but it did offer some additional entertainment and based the amount of time Alex spent watching the world through them, it was a welcome distraction.

They fished on the fourth day. Alex's wood carvings were still little better than his first attempts but his skills with the knife had improved. Practice and dexterity that would do him good.

On the fifth day, watching from their bird hide, Yassen kept up a quiet commentary on the world around them as Alex watched. It was a good distraction from the wait. It was also good experience in communicating with a spotter, even if they all hoped he would never need those skills.

"Four o'clock." Yassen murmured, "about two hundred metres off. The top of the alder tree."

Alex got the binoculars into position just in time to see a golden eagle settle on one of the sturdier branches. Yassen had seen its approach. It had been large at a distance. Closer and magnified, it was easy to imagine one could simply reach out and touch it. Perhaps it had been lured in by the decoy ducks in the small pond, but considering that it had settled down in the tree, most likely not.

"A golden eagle. They have been used in falconry for centuries," he continued. Memories of a jungle and spiders and dozens of memorised bird names as part of a long-discarded cover gnawed at the edge of his awareness. He pushed them away again.

Alex lowered the binoculars.

"It's huge."

"Eagles generally are." Yassen paused and couldn't quite keep the amusement out of his voice. "Of course, its arrival also scared any potential prey."

Alex didn't have the experience to pay attention to such a thing but Yassen did. Observation skills came with training and experience, and Alex was still just eight.

Another child might have complained at the knowledge that their wait had just been prolonged. Alex was bored but he didn't voice his annoyance. Just stayed silent as Yassen watched him consider the situation.

"… It got quiet," Alex finally said. "The birds and everything. And there were a couple of squirrels I'd been watching that ran up a tree right before you told me to look."

A heartbeat. Two. Alex still watched the eagle and looked lost in thought, and Yassen didn't interrupt.

"… They did the same thing in Germany. The cabin we stayed in. Sometimes, it would get completely silent, I guess because we scared the animals a lot. It was … kind of creepy when it happened when we were inside."

"Numerous predators are nocturnal," Yassen said, but he understood the sentiment. On edge from Geneva, unsure of who had targeted them, in a foreign place, and knowing that something was outside. Most likely a fox but the thought would have lingered. The knowledge of what else it could have been.

Up ahead, the eagle stretched its wings and took off from the alder tree. It was gone again within seconds, out of sight behind the dense wall of leaves.

The forest was silent. Then, cautiously, a blue robin broke the stillness and life slowly returned.

Their wait resumed.

It took a week for Alex to say the words. A week with the awful knowledge of why they were there and why he had to learn and why it was necessary. Sometimes he almost forgot. When they had fun and were exploring the place or Jamie told him stories while they fished or taught him Russian or wilderness survival, it was easy to forget what else he was supposed to learn. And then they would go hunting or Alex would be reminded and it would all come back.

He had to learn. He had to learn how to hunt and kill things because if everything went bad again, their mum might not be there to protect them next time.

Matilda wasn't even three yet. If something happened, she only had Alex to protect her, and that thought never went away.

It took him a week. He almost said something several times but something stopped him every time or the words would get stuck and – he'd waited a little longer, pretended that maybe it would be okay then, until finally the words had stumbled out on their own.

"… I want to try. Hunting," he clarified, though it wasn't like it could be much else. "I want to try."

Alex had been anxious before he told Jamie, like sitting on a roller coaster and you knew it was too late to get off again. He had hoped it would go away when he told Jamie but the anxiety just shifted and adrenaline made everything feel sharper and Alex could feel his heartbeat in his chest.

It was too late to take it back now. He didn't want to but he had to and he was going to do this and – he had said the words now. That made it real.

Alex wasn't sure what he had expected but Jamie just nodded.

"We'll do it together and I'll walk you through it, one step at a time."

He didn't look satisfied or like he was about to grab a shotgun and make Alex go hunting immediately but maybe that wasn't a surprise. Jamie never pushed. He encouraged and praised Alex when he did something right and tried to make Alex comfortable but he never pushed.

The first time Alex had managed to hit a clay pigeon, he had watched the heavy plate blow to pieces and imagined the same sort of thing happen to a real bird and felt sick. Five days and a lot of clay pigeons later, it had become more of a competition. Not that Alex ever won against Jamie but he could hit them consistently now and the shotgun had grown familiar in the same way normal guns had, and Jamie had never once told Alex to do better or learn faster or not be a baby about it.

Alex could handle the shotgun and the rifle, he knew the practical parts from Jamie's patient explanations and … now he was out of excuses.

He had to learn, and the wait was almost worse than he imagined actually shooting something would be. The knowledge never went away and the thoughts never stopped when he tried to fall asleep, and the guilt got heavier and heavier and -

- He was tired. He just … wanted it over with.

"You're proficient with a shotgun," Jamie said and it was probably meant to be reassuring. "You will manage just fine."

Alex didn't feel particularly reassured. Not by the comment and not by the shotgun that somehow felt heavier and not by the weather; a solid, uniform wall of grey clouds. It didn't rain but the air felt wet, anyway, and Alex thought it fit his mood. Dark and depressing.

Hunting felt familiar but different. Alex had followed while Jamie hunted before. He had worn the waders so much, they had stopped feeling weird. The bird hide was familiar. So were the binoculars and the decoy ducks and the wait. It still felt – very, very different now that Alex knew he would be the one to pull the trigger.

He had used those binoculars to watch the animals and the landscape and everything else. Now they felt heavy in a way they never had before and the shotgun was large and awkward and seemed to take up all the room in their bird hide and -

"Calm," Jamie murmured.

"I'm trying." Alex tried not to snap. He didn't completely manage.

Jamie didn't answer, just ruffled his hair a little and the touch helped steady Alex's nerves.

Time slowed down. The grey clouds didn't seen to move but just went on forever. The tall grass and pink flowers shifted in the breeze and Alex could see the wind move across them like waves on a sea. Out in the pond, a handful of decoy ducks bobbed up and down with the small waves.

Alex got barely any warning. He spotted the duck the instant before Jamie's words broke the silence -

"Eleven o'clock, one target -"

- And Alex didn't even think. Instincts acted before he could make the decision himself; sudden fear that he would miss his chance somehow, and the intent focus that came with weeks and weeks of worry and the daily practice with the clay pigeons -

- and a single, sharp shot broke the silence.

The duck seemed to just … drop from the sky. It landed in the water and didn't move and Alex felt his hands tremble as adrenaline took over. Anxiety and awful, overwhelming relief that he had done it, and all he wanted to do was throw up.

Jamie's hand was warm and steady on his shoulder as he helped him up, and at least Alex didn't stumble.

The pond was shallow. The water didn't even reach Alex's hips and Jamie easily brought the duck back to dry land.

It was very obviously dead and looked like … well. A dead duck, Alex supposed, though he wasn't sure what else he had expected. It looked like any other of the ducks that Jamie had killed. It made it easier to forget he'd been the one to shoot it.

Jamie looked it over. Alex wasn't sure what he was looking for, and the duck hung limp and dead from his hand and didn't offer any answers.

"You have good aim," Jamie finally said. "It looks like it died almost instantly."

It sounded like approval. Alex didn't feel very proud.

Died. Killed, his mind added, and he shoved the thought aside. At least he hadn't messed up the shot and made it suffer.

He knew the duck was dead because of him. The way it looked now, with glassy, unseeing eyes, it reminded him of the other cabin they had stayed at and the dead animals and he took a deep breath and tried to make the image go away.

This … this was hunting, too. But he wasn't doing it to keep a dead duck in his room. This was for food. Food and – learning how to kill things. Because he had to learn. Because there were people after them, and Geneva had been supposed to be safe, too, and -

"Alex." Jamie's fingers ran through his hair, gentle and soothing, and Alex hugged him, tight and fierce and desperate and never wanted to let go.

Eventually he still did. The waders were awkward and Jamie had the dead duck in his hand and Alex still felt like he wanted to cry, but he could handle it. He wasn't a kid.

Jamie brushed his thumb against Alex's cheek and if it came away a little wet, he didn't say anything about it. Just raised Alex's head to look him in the eyes.

"I'm proud of you. You managed very well. You remembered your lessons and did everything right."

That was more praise at one time than Alex could remember from Jamie ever before and something about it made the importance settle that much heavier. It had mattered. It wasn't just Alex being stupid and emotional about it.

He didn't say thank you. He didn't want to and Jamie didn't look like he expected it, either.

Alex was sure he would have nightmares but he could deal with those, too. And hunting would get easier. Like shooting had. Paper targets and the rifle and clay pigeons. He just … had to get used to it. For his mum and Matilda.

He wouldn't be helpless again.

Chapter Text

When Alex returned in May, it had been more quiet and serious than he had left. When he came back from Russia in the last days of July, it was all the more pronounced.

Helen had expected it. She had still desperately hoped she would be wrong. He was more quiet, more serious, and far older. It made her heart hurt and her chest tighten – because it was necessary, because her child had been forced to learn to kill – but she pushed it aside and focused on making sure that Alex knew he was home and loved and protected no matter what.

Between her and Matilda, Alex mostly returned to his own self again over the course of a few weeks. Some of it still lingered, though, and Helen knew it would never entirely vanish. Lost innocence. Another thing to blame on MI6 and Blunt and SCORPIA.

School began in the middle of August. Helen was part grateful, part anxious. It would be good for Alex to see other children his own age on a daily basis. He would enjoy the challenge and the chance to be social, and Helen was not qualified to homeschool him on a permanent basis. Anxiety still settled like lead in her stomach at the thought of Alex away for so many hours of the day after his weeks in Russia.

She never let it show. Just bought the supplies he needed and prepared like any other parent would and did her best to soothe Alex's own quiet worries about a new school and new classmates.

On the first day of school, the house quite abruptly felt much larger and much more empty.

Helen and Matilda adapted. Alex settled in.

Once more, their world found a new equilibrium.

By autumn, the rumours were persistent enough that Yassen could not longer stay silent. The whispers that Hunter had always been SCORPIA's weapon were hardly new, but they had grown stronger since Zurich. Still not strong but … persistent. Quiet, but with more weight than they had carried before.

Yassen had pointedly ignored it during the time he had spent with Alex in Russia. It was vacation and training and a chance for Alex to spend time with the man he had always seen as his brother, and Yassen would not bring work into that. It gave him some time to consider his approach as well.

Yassen confronted Hunter a week after Alex returned to school. It was obnoxiously bright and sunny for Helsinki in late August, and Hunter seemed determined to take full advantage of that.

"I assume you are aware of the current state of your reputation."

It was not a question. Hunter was the one who had taught him the value of rumours in the first place, and Yassen could not fathom a situation in which he would not keep track of such things.

Hunter leaned back in his lawn chair, a cold glass of something bright pink resting on the table next to him in a small puddle of condensation. The concoction had a straw and fruit chunks and a cocktail umbrella, and Yassen would have mistaken it for Alex's but for the fact that there were four of the glasses around. It would have been five, but Yassen had turned down Hunter's offer and ignored the predictable amusement that came with it.

Sometimes, even Yassen had a hard time joining the reputation of Hunter with the image of John Rider.

"That I'm actually working for SCORPIA?" Hunter replied and didn't bother to wait for a response. "Those rumours started to pick up not that long after Zurich when SCORPIA didn't increase the bounty on me, but they didn't really start to gain strength until back in January. Maybe someone helped that along, maybe they didn't. The seed was always there."

He took it calmer than Yassen would have in his situation, but he had also had time to adjust to the thought. Not merely that he worked for the very people who had targeted his family, but that everything he had done since he left – every job, every impossible assassination – had been in SCORPIA's service. That his reputation, hard earned and carefully guarded, might now boost SCORPIA's instead.

Yassen didn't mention that, though. Hunter was well aware of just what those rumours meant.

"A careful balance, to feed such rumours without drawing unwanted attention to the source," he said instead.

"More careful than quite a few of the Board are capable of," Hunter agreed. "Most of them would have upped the bounty instead. My best guess is Three. He's got a terrifying grasp of psychology. Grendel, maybe. He's sharp, even sharper than most realise, and he's got the patience for that sort of thing. It's got Three's fingerprints all over, though. Subtle, insidious, and sharp enough to hurt."

Calm. Casual. Like it didn't matter that SCORPIA might possibly claim years of hard work for themselves with little more than rumours.

"You plan to let them?" Yassen's words were harsher than he had planned, the bitterness that he had told himself had long since vanished, and the thought that Hunter would just permit it was – unacceptable.

"What do you propose I do, then?"

There was an edge to Hunter's voice; a sharpness Yassen rarely heard, and he stilled before he could voice the rest of his objections. The seconds stretched on, the uneasy tension, and then Hunter sighed and the moment passed.

"This is SCORPIA's way to save face and make some kind of profit from this whole disaster. My existence has always been a thorn in their side. Arguing will do nothing at best. Anyone who believes those rumours wouldn't believe my objections, anyway. At worst, SCORPIA will decide I've become too much of a problem and target Helen and the kids to make an example of me. As long as the rumours do their job, SCORPIA can't outright target my family without raising unwanted questions, and my reputation is valuable enough that pointed revenge like that along with the boost to SCORPIA's standing is worth marginally more than the time and money it would take to hunt us down and target us directly."

"Unless they find you through other means." Like Hunter's wife and the children in Zurich; sheer bad luck, nothing more and nothing less. SCORPIA would not turn down another opportunity like that.

Hunter shrugged. "Of course. They're not going to call off the bounty or stop following up on leads. It just keeps the incentive to start an all-out manhunt in check. Any other situation, they would probably have gone for a larger bounty to hunt me down but they can't afford another fuck-up like Zurich. Once can be explained away – the attack was carried out by overly-ambitious subordinates who didn't know about my SCORPIA affiliation, and the Board let me get even rather than handle the clean-up themselves – but another mistake like that could damage their reputation. This is as close as it gets to a truce with the Board. A Cold War sort of truce, sure, but they won't escalate things if I don't."

And for that, Yassen realised, Hunter would keep his head down and not speak against those rumours. Because whatever it cost his reputation and personal pride, it was worth the bit of additional protection for his family.

Politics.

The thought settled heavily in Yassen's mind, bitter and unwanted. He doubted Hunter felt much better about it.

Politics. It always came down to politics.

At the other end of the garden, Helen entertained Alex and Matilda in the sandbox, surrounded by colourful plastic toys and sandcastles and a wide moat. It was a chance to reconnect after a full week of school for Alex. Outside of his trips with Yassen, it had been almost a year since Alex had been away from home.

Helen had survived one attack already and kept her children safe through it. She had also had the element of surprise on her side against an ill-prepared team of whatever a lower-level administrator had been able to scrape together with very little notice.

They would not be that lucky a second time.

Hunter's wife was not a match for a trained assassin and SCORPIA would not underestimate her again. Their survival and continued security was always a matter of being one step ahead of SCORPIA. Quiet. Anonymous. Not quite worth the money or resources it would cost to actually hunt them down and not merely rely on the bounty on Hunter.

Politics. And within a few years, Yassen would need to deal with such games himself. He was already a target but he was well aware that Hunter still served as a shield for the worst political machinations. He still advised, still understood the language on an instinctive level that Yassen struggled to grasp.

With Hunter retired, Yassen could still seek him out for advice, but in the end, the responsibility would be his own. The pull Hunter still had as Cossack's mentor, the ability to redirect the worst of such games to himself … it would fade in retirement.

Would this sort of decision be what Yassen might one day himself have to make? Swallow his pride, lower his head, and allow SCORPIA their victory?

The thought did not appeal. Even less did the realisation that just like Hunter, he would be unlikely to have a choice. He would be one man against a behemoth. If SCORPIA genuinely wanted something … what chance did one person stand?

"You'll be all right," Hunter said. There was a small, wry smile on his lips when Yassen glanced over; the acknowledgement that he had already guessed Yassen's thoughts, and perhaps it was not entirely unexpected. Hunter knew him well. "It's not personal with you, not in the same way. A good part of this is revenge. I screwed them over, this is the price. It'll be easier when I retire."

"It is always personal with the Board." In theory, SCORPIA preached business first. There was no language more important than money. In Yassen's experience, that philosophy only applied to subordinates, because the Board certainly had any number of more or less petty grudges they clung to like a particularly disgruntled horde of toddlers.

"There's a difference between grudges and obsessions," Hunter said and unknowingly echoed Yassen's thoughts. "I was always a legitimate target to the Board. I was an undercover agent and screwed them over resoundingly in the process, and then I had the audacity to survive. You, on the other hand … you were twenty when you left SCORPIA, I was your teacher, and for all you knew, SCORPIA could very well decide to execute you for my treason if you returned. You could easily have gone with me because you had nowhere else to go. You're a target because of your skills and potential, but making it personal will cross that line to obsession. It can't be justified, and that sort of thing makes people a liability."

And SCORPIA did not tolerate liabilities. Not even on the Board. Yassen did not doubt they would turn on their own at the first sign of weakness.

What do you propose I do, then?

It was not a choice Yassen approved of but there was no realistic alternative, either. The bitterness still lingered but somehow the knowledge that Hunter disliked the situation just as much made it ease just slightly. The knowledge that Yassen was not the only person who saw the smug manipulations, the politics, and loathed every bit of it. Hunter played those games exceptionally well. That did not mean he enjoyed them.

Across the garden, Alex looked up. He caught Yassen's eyes and lit up in a smile, bright and genuine, then returned to his moat.

Something in Yassen's chest twisted in response. The awful knowledge that Hunter was right.

He did not have to like it but for Alex and Matilda and Helen – for his family – he would allow SCORPIA their victory. Dark, bitter, and hollow, but worth it for a bit of safety.

A good assassin had no habits.

That was one of the first lessons John had taught Yassen, but he would also be the first to admit it was a bit of a flexible truth. It was impossible to avoid habits. The trick was to be aware of them and minimise the risk they posed.

John had frequently missed birthday because of work – mostly his own and Helen's – but he had always been home for Christmas since Alex was old enough to notice that sort of thing. Sometimes he returned just a day or two before. Sometimes he would have been home for weeks. It was a conscious decision, both to be home and have those days with his family as a normal father, but also to do everything he could to ensure there was no predictable pattern to his travels even if someone did try to use it to track him down.

John returned home three days before Christmas. Complications meant that the job had taken longer than expected, but he had erred on the side of caution in his time estimate. The extra week had been annoying but he was still back in Finland with days to spare.

It was well into evening by the time he returned from the airport. As he turned down the last stretch of road, the houses were mostly dark but for the Christmas decorations. It was late enough that most sensible people would getting ready for the night. Their own house was the same though John caught a glimpse of Helen in the kitchen as he turned into the driveway.

She met him in the hallway as he stepped inside, and then his suitcase was forgotten on the floor as his world narrowed down to the scent of her perfume and the taste of her lips and soft arms wrapped around him.

"Missed you," she whispered, and John pressed a kiss to her hair.

"Missed you, too."

Helen took a step back. Put John's jacket away as he got his shoes off and dragged the suitcase into the living room. "How've the kids been?"

"Good. They've missed you. Maddie had learned to draw circles; she'll want to tell you everything about them. Alex is settling in well at school. Antti and Johannes have been by a lot."

John recognised the names as kids from Alex's class. He was making friends, then. That was a good sign. Ian and John himself had both been sent off to public school and had thrived there – intelligent, from somewhat old money, charming when they wanted to be, and adaptable by necessity – but it was not the sort of school John wanted for his own kids. Connections had been useful for the Rider family. For Hunter and his family, it was entirely different kinds of connections that mattered.

It had been a month since he had last been home and the house looked different. Christmas decorations had appeared everywhere. Thick blankets were folded up on the couch. There were two steaming cups on the wooden table and the smell of coffee in the air and something about it felt like home the way nothing else did.

He smiled, emotion taking over where Hunter had been, and Helen smiled back.

The house was silent, the kids asleep, the world beyond the windows still and dark. It was quiet. Calm. Home.

John felt a twinge of regret that he would have to ruin it.

There were a couple of plastic bags in his suitcase. One with gifts that he put aside for the moment; the other taken up by a large hardcover book, brightly coloured and so new it still had the smell of fresh ink and paper.

He gave it to Helen. Watched silently as she ran a hand over the cover and got a better look at the title. Bright, soft, colourful. Meant for children, not adults.

"Anatomy: A Primer for the Youngest Students," she read and glanced over at him. She had talked about finding a book on anatomy for Alex, something that could be a foundation for medicine and first aid and other useful things along those lines, but she hadn't found one she liked liked yet. Alex was curious by nature and she wanted to encourage that curiosity, not crush it under dry, droning textbooks.

John knew she had glanced at the author, too, but he would have been surprised if she recognised the name. He didn't say anything, though, and Helen returned to the book. Opened it at random somewhere in the middle and skimmed some pages before she picked another spot. John didn't have her medical background but he knew enough to know that it was well-written and thorough, and he would have been surprised if anything else had been the case for that, too.

Almost five hundred pages, all of them in colour, with child-friendly explanations of the more difficult words, about a dozen large, folded posters to supplement the book, and a separate workbook with age-appropriate experiments, colouring pages, and a number of other activities. The only thing in it that might in any way hint towards the author was the chapter on the dissection of small animals, with plenty of instructions and drawings and explanations, but even that wasn't unusual in school books. To all intents and purposes, the book was absurdly expensive but otherwise normal.

Dr Three had been a busy man.

Finally Helen closed the book and looked back at him.

"It's very good," she said. "Intuitive explanations, detailed and accurate, and enough interesting facts to make a child fascinated enough to keep reading. Alex will love it, probably even the colouring pages. Some of them are exceptionally detailed. Maddie is a little too young but it would be something to start to read together when she's older. Four or five, maybe. Where did you find it?"

John's smile was grim, the echo of the knot of fear he had carried around for two weeks, and Helen tensed in response. "The usual channels, believe it or not. Dr Henry Roberts is one of Dr Three's several known pseudonyms. There's nothing illegal about this one, nothing alarming, nothing to make anyone who doesn't know him suspect a thing, which means that his primer there can actually be found in regular bookshops. Specialised bookshops; it's hideously expensive and not exactly bestseller material, but normal, legal bookshops."

Helen stilled for a moment, familiar with SCORPIA's executive board from John's meticulous files, and John continued.

"Check the dedication."

She didn't want to; the second of hesitation proved she already knew it was bad news, but she opened the book and found the page. John didn't need to read it again. The words were already burned into his mind, black on blindingly white paper.

For Alexander and Matilda, and the next generation of curious minds.

A second. Another. Helen closed the book. Closed her eyes a second later. Took several deep breaths -

- Fear, wild and desperate; a surge of adrenaline and cold sweat and the frantic staccato of his heart -

- before she opened them again to look at him.

"How bad is it?"

She didn't ask if there were anyone else Three could possible be referring to with those names. She knew as well as he did that the odds were so small, they were practically non-existent. Like John himself, her first thought was her family and the second, right at the heels of that, was their contingency plans.

How bad is it?

It was a distinct message. Bad enough, certainly. But that wasn't what Helen asked.

What do we do, was the unvoiced question beneath the words.

Would they have to leave? Was this the last warning before an attack? It was barely more than a year since Geneva and while Helen didn't show it, John knew the memories were back, as stark and vivid as they had ever been.

John had bought the book two weeks ago. He'd had a lot more time to consider the situation but still didn't have much of an answer.

"Bad enough and – I don't know." The truth, like she wanted, and John continued. "Three enjoys his games. He enjoys testing his own skills. If his prey gets spooked and flees, he'll just consider that part of the challenge. That book is a message. He wants us to know he's hunting us, and if we panic and make a mistake big enough that he can find us, so much the better. Does he know where we are? Not yet, or we would already have been attacked. Does he have a general idea? I don't know."

They hadn't even been in Helsinki for a year and they had been careful. John didn't think even SCORPIA could hunt them down in that short amount of time but … the thought lingered. The sinking realisation that they would need to move again sooner than he had hoped. That Alex wouldn't get two or three years of stability but a year and a half at the most. Matilda had adjusted well but Alex was only just starting to get used to things. It would be less of a traumatic move than Geneva had been but they would still have to start over from scratch. A new school and new friends for Alex, and Matilda was getting old enough to want proper friends, too. New names, new background, new lives. And again a year later, two at the most, when John retired.

There were really only two options. Run, and they might slip up enough to leave a trail. Stay, plan a more careful relocation, and run the risk that Three might track them down before they could move. They had to take the threat seriously. It was too much of a risk not to.

Alex and Matilda obviously had Three's attention and that was never a good thing. Moving would be rough. The alternative was worse. It would be too much of a risk to stay until he was ready to retire.

Politics.

John had learned to thrive in that sort of environment but sometimes, he really understood Yassen's visceral hatred of those games.

The rumours of his involvement with SCORPIA only made it more complicated.

To outsiders, Three's book could be anything from a thinly veiled threat to flat-out confirmation of Hunter's continued loyalty to SCORPIA. If he retired now, the immediate conclusion would be that he had gone to ground in response to Three's blatant interest in his children. It would all but confirm that Hunter was not, in fact, working for SCORPIA and would remove the slight veneer of protection those rumours had offered, too.

How fast could they relocate safely? They would need long enough that it seemed planned. That no one would question why they cut their lease short. People would wonder if they moved overnight. A family emergency serious enough to move on short notice was the sort of thing people remembered. A job offer was a safer explanation.

"John?"

John, not Thomas, because Helen was as shaken as John was and they would have to move again and -

- Sometimes, John was tired.

Sometimes, he just wanted to retire. Settle down somewhere for good, watch the kids grow up under new names but able to make friends again like they had in Geneva – have classmates and hobbies and maybe one day forget that they had ever been anyone else; trauma and loss and stress dulled by time and distance.

"John." Softer this time, more a sigh than anything, and then Helen was in his arms, hands in his shirt and soft hair against his skin.

His arms were around her before he was even aware of it, and he sank into her presence, warm and familiar and home.

For a long time they didn't move. Outside, the world was silent. Inside, only the steady sound of the clock on the wall broke the silence, heartbeat after heartbeat.

"… I never wanted this," John finally admitted. "Three years. Two. That was all I wanted. A bit of stability for all of you. Not this."

Helen's grip tightened slightly and there was a tremor in her body; tense muscles under John's hands. Then she took a deep breath and the tension eased.

"We're moving again, then."

"We're moving again," John agreed. Where they would move to, he didn't know. They would still need to figure that out, especially with Three's unwanted interest. The doctor was unnervingly good at predicting people.

Maybe they would need to be unpredictable, then. A list of possible countries, including those he had originally written off. Let random chance decide which one they would settle in. It would only be a year, two at the most before they had to move again. They could afford somewhere less than perfect.

"It might be a bluff," John continued, "it might just be a way to unnerve us to see if he can get us to make a mistake but we can't risk it. Three might enjoy the games for now but he won't call off the dogs just because we're hard to find. If we move … if we're lucky, we'll knock that search back to start. If we're really lucky, we'll end up somewhere he doesn't expect us to hide and we'll be out of there again before he can even think of expanding the search."

Because even Dr Three didn't have the resources to go over all of Europe – or the rest of the world – in the search for them. He was good but even he had limits. He wasn't a mind-reader. He didn't have endless resources. They just had to stay ahead for long enough. Once John retired, he would lose importance fast. Maybe the bounty wouldn't ever go away but it would decrease over time. He would no longer be a risk. No longer be worth the money or resources to find him. Once he retired and didn't have to travel and take risks and be Hunter, they could hide in a way they hadn't before.

A year. Two. Enough time to retire on his own terms. To make it clear that it was his choice and not the threat from SCORPIA and Dr Three.

Politics.

Hunter was a legend. He had enemies that would attack at the first sign of weakness. Two years. He would be forty, then. They had to stay ahead of the hounds for two years. Then they could vanish. Hunter would become a ghost, Cossack would claim his position, and they would start over elsewhere. As a family. Nothing more and nothing less.

The clock ticked on, slow and steady. Helen took a slow breath. Only John knew her well enough to spot the slight unevenness.

"All right." A heartbeat. "A job offer, then? Something too good to refuse."

Because Helen understood the game as well and that made John's life much easier now. A partner and an equal. Everything he needed.

"It's the easiest and most believable excuse. Security consultant somewhere – the former Yugoslavia, maybe. Things have quieted down enough in some parts that it's not too unlikely we'd move there if I got offered a good enough job. A home in Slovenia would make travel easier. Well-paid enough to make it worth moving again. No one's going to remember that in a year."

"Three months, then?"

"Less. I want us out of here by the end of February. That's long enough to make it look credible. We'll cancel the lease for the end of March just in case but … February. No later than early March. I got a good job offer while I was away, and we'd been talking about a more stable job, but I wanted to talk to you about it first. That'll work as a cover."

It would give them enough time to handle new identities and a new home and do it right. They couldn't afford mistakes. It would be expensive but not as bad as it could have been. Zurich had opened up for several new, well-paid business opportunities that John had taken advantage of, and they wouldn't have to leave everything behind.

Helen didn't argue. She knew the necessity of it just as well as he did. She just let go and moved back to the couch to pick up the book.

John didn't doubt it seemed much more ominous now. The patient, friendly tone of the book took on an entirely different feeling when you knew the man and the research behind it. Even with assistants and editors to handle the bulk of it, Three had spent weeks on that book. Weeks, from a man on SCORPIA's executive board. Someone whose time might not be priceless but which was measured in millions of dollars. And it had been written with John's children in mind.

Helen opened the book and this time she read a good dozen pages before she spoke again. John didn't interrupt. Just waited for whatever had caught her attention.

"Who wrote it? A ghostwriter?"

It wasn't a question John had expected but he answered it the best he could.

"Based on the writing style and the contents … Three probably wrote it himself. I could be wrong, it could just be a very good ghostwriter with clear instructions, but I suspect Three with the help of a skilled artist for the illustrations. His normal books are gruesome but he's genuinely a very good teacher when he wants to be. The problems start when his students don't show the interest and dedication to the subject that he expects. He's a sadist through and through but he also has a strong interest in research and scientific experiments, and most of the people around him just want to know the fastest way to break someone in interrogation. It's not a good combination."

A number of SCORPIA's own people had learned that the hard way. Three was always in need of more subjects for his research, and now his attention had turned to John's family.

Helen nodded. She had been tired when he had arrived; the pleasant sleepiness of late evening. Now that softness was gone, replaced by the harsher lines of stress and exhaustion and the quiet resignation of the way things would have to be.

"I'm going to read it. If there's nothing objectionable, I'm going to give it to Alex. From what I've seen so far, it's an exceptional work and exactly what I've been looking for as a basis for medical lessons." She paused. "I want you to explain this to him, Dr Three and everything. Keep it appropriate, but he knows at least some of what happened and he will notice that dedication. He'll have questions."

It … wasn't surprising. She was a practical woman and the book was good, even John could tell as much. He still hummed, a low, non-committal sound.

"We would throw it away. Burn it, forget we ever saw it. There are other books out there."

"I won't risk it." There was no yield in her voice. "He wrote that book with Alex and Matilda in mind. He dedicated it to them and he did it knowing that you would see it. Yes, we plan to move, change identities, vanish somewhere else and hopefully never be found, but that is not a guarantee. He wrote that book for them, he spent months of valuable time on this, and even if this is just part of his game, that is not an investment he made lightly. He could have focused on his own research instead, or some SCORPIA business or another. He wrote this, with our children in mind, and then published it at production cost or barely above, because this was by no means a cheap book to print. He wants our attention. He will be delighted to see his work spread, I'm sure, but that book was meant for us. I won't have random chance put our children in his path, to be asked if they have read the book the kindly old doctor wrote just for them, and be forced to say no. I won't risk that."

It was the same conclusion John himself had reached on the way home, and not for the first time he was fiercely grateful for the woman he had married. A partner and an equal. Someone who understood.

"And secrets have a habit of escaping when they're the most inconvenient," John agreed. "I'll have a talk with him. It's an excellent book. It won't go away. Give it ten years, and some editor will suggest updating it for a new generation, and that dedication will still be there. I want them to know. Get the story from us, and not twenty or thirty years down the line when they find out by accident and we might not be around to answer those questions."

It wasn't a nice thought that their kids would be on their own one day in the future. John hoped he and Helen would live well into old age themselves and that Alex and Matilda would be adults and settled when time and inevitability came calling. He was enough of a realist to consider the risk that they might very well not be.

Based on Helen's nod, so was she.

For a moment it was silent. Neither of them spoke. Then Helen kissed his cheek.

"Go put your suitcase away. I'll put on another pot of coffee. I love you dearly but not enough to put up with lukewarm coffee."

Necessity had taught John to tolerate anything with caffeine. That didn't mean he didn't have distinct preferences and the thought of freshly-brewed, good quality coffee had haunted him through two and a half cup of the airplane variety.

"We'll figure this out," he promised, as much for her sake as for his own.

"We will," Helen agreed. "Together."

She headed off to the kitchen. John grabbed the suitcase and dragged it off to the bedroom.

The book remained on the table. Wherever he was, John was sure that Three would have been delighted if he knew just how thoroughly he had managed to uproot their lives again.

Chapter Text

The study of anatomy has always fascinated humans. One of the oldest surviving texts on anatomy and surgery is a papyrus scroll nearly five metres long. It was written three and a half thousand years ago by a scribe in ancient Egypt and is believed to be a copy of an even older text.

The book you hold in your hands now was built on a foundation tens of thousands of years old. Modern medical science is full of cutting edge technology but every advancement came from something older. All over the world, for thousands of years, humans have used willow leaves to treat pain and fevers. Scientists took those leaves and explored what made them work. The medication they created was aspirin, which is now is one of the most widely used painkillers in the world.

John Rider was not a stranger to difficult conversations. Broaching the subject of a year-long undercover operation with a terrorist organisation with Helen was probably the hardest he had done so far but the list was long.

Explaining SCORPIA and Dr Three and all the politics that came with that to his eight-year-old son made all of that pale in comparison.

Where did he even start? He still wasn't sure. The only silver lining was that if he didn't fuck it up completely, at least he had an idea of how to have the talk with Matilda in another few years.

What would he have wanted at eight? Answers, mostly. Solutions. An explanation of the situation, what it would mean for him, and what to do about it.

Alex took after Helen, not him, but the practicality was the same and … it wasn't like the story got any prettier for his reluctance. He would keep it age-appropriate to the best of his ability but it was still brutal, bloody history and Alex was incredibly sharp sometimes. The father in John was proud. Hunter, ever practical, knew how much trouble curiosity and a healthy ability to question things could bring with it.

Alex had changed after his trips to Russia with Yassen. Not much but there were fundamental changes as clear as day to the adults closest to him. He was more quiet. More thoughtful. More reserved. A little more wary, and he seemed to consider everything a little more than he had before. It wasn't surprising. Yassen had done his best to be gentle but Alex was only eight and hunting was hunting. It wasn't what John had wanted for his son but necessity dictated otherwise, and those changes might make the conversation a little easier now as well.

They had waited until after Christmas to have the talk with Alex. Let him have one more bit of normal life before they had to uproot everything again. Now the new year loomed and time was short.

Helen and Matilda were gone for the morning, off on a play date with the young daughter of one of Helen's friends. The timing was deliberate. It wasn't going to be an easy conversation and they wanted to avoid interruptions.

Maybe Alex had sensed something was wrong. He didn't look surprised when John slipped into his room and carefully found a place to sit on the floor among the pieces of a half-built LEGO space shuttle and a broken remote controlled car that Alex had insisted he wanted to take apart.

Three's book found a place next to John, still out of reach.

Alex's attention lingered on it. Then his focus shifted back to John and his expression sharpened a little. He had definitely realised something was up and John was well aware that he had never shown that kind of awareness and paranoia when they still lived in Geneva.

Times changed. All you could was to change with it if you wanted to survive. It still didn't help on the guilt that his decision to accept the SCORPIA mission all those years ago had led to this. Alex should have grown up sheltered and protected and loved. Not painfully aware of the realities of the world. Not this young.

John waited. Alex stayed silent. A year ago, he wouldn't have been able to. Another reminder of how fast he had been forced to grow up. Another mark for the long tally of regrets John carried with him.

John spoke first and let Alex have the small victory. It gave him a chance to try to direct the conversation at least somewhat, too. Alex was no longer the young, easily distracted child.

"After Geneva, you asked why those men attacked us."

Alex hesitated, probably wondering why John brought it up again. It took long moments for John to realise the hesitation might very well be because of the memories of what had happened, too. Helen still had nightmares sometimes. Alex did, too. Not for the first time, John was reminded that conversations with an emotional connection was much more Helen's strength than his own, but … this talk was his responsibility. His explanation to give.

"You went undercover with a group of criminals," Alex said. "They wanted revenge and found us."

A concise summary, especially for something that was a year in the past, and John nodded.

"That was the basics of it, but the criminals were more organised than most. They're more like a company. The group's name is SCORPIA. Someone has called them the Microsoft of crime and that covers it pretty well. They have business in dozens of countries and make their money on pretty much every kind of crime in the world."

Alex didn't speak, just waited for John to continue. Sharp. Attentive. Alex had grown since Geneva, much more than he should have, and John pushed aside the sting of guilt to focus on the conversation.

"Like a lot of big companies, it's led by an executive board. They're the people who founded the company about fifteen years ago. Ten of them are still alive and they decide what the company does. One of them is a man who goes by Dr Three. Whatever his real name is, he buried his past well enough that I don't think anyone knows it any more."

John himself hadn't tried to dig. It was a waste of resources and he knew it. MI6 and a number of other interested parties have put far more time and effort into the search than he would ever be able to and had found nothing. Just alias upon alias and a man who could have sprung into being from nothing in his early twenties.

Someone, somewhere had erased his past; presumably the agency he had once worked for. Three, in turn, had taken advantage of that foundation later.

Names mattered. Pasts did, too. Sometimes, John wondered if Three's name and past weren't so long forgotten that they had lost all meaning by now. But if other people were willing to put time and resources into that, it was time and resources not spent hunting down John's family.

This time Alex frowned. "What, like the number? That's –"

- a stupid name -

"- A weird name," he finished, and the sting of guilt in John's chest returned.

Alex sounded older by the month. He was supposed to; he was almost nine and growing fast but … sometimes, it felt like it was too fast. He had been seven when he had been introduced to the realities of their world. It felt like a lifetime ago. Sometimes it sounded like it, too, listening to the new maturity in Alex's voice.

John could say nothing about it, though. Alex handled things in his own ways and Helen made sure he had someone to talk to. Children grew up. Grew older, out of their parents' shadow, into a brighter future. If the parents did a decent job, at least. Alex would never have a normal childhood but he might still get a better life. All they could do was adapt to the new circumstances, just like Alex did.

"He is actually a medical doctor and surgeon, so it's not as weird as it might sound. It's one of about half a dozen names he uses," John said instead and took the opening he had been given. "Another one is Dr Henry Roberts. Earlier this month, he published a book – Anatomy: A Primer for the Youngest Students. It's an introduction to human anatomy and general medical science."

Three's book felt heavier now that John picked it up again than it had when he had first sat down; the full weight of everything that would follow settling as well. Alex reached for it, already curious from his first glimpse of the cover. John held on to it for a moment longer.

There was no easy way to say it, was there?

"Alex …" The words caught in his throat for a moment; the brief, mad idea that he could burn the book, never mention it, pretend it had never existed, and then cold, harsh reality took over. "He dedicated the book to you and Matilda. He wrote it for the two of you."

John didn't doubt the dedication. Three had a lot of publications to his name, widely available or otherwise, but they had always been aimed at an adult audience. Some had been more approachable than others but he was a good teacher when he wanted to be and his writing reflected that.

But he had never published anything written for a level younger than Malagosto's students. This was not a children's book he had already written that he had simply added Alex and Matilda's names to after the fact. It had been written for them, every word of it with them in mind.

John knew what Three's time was worth. He could imagine what that book had cost in time and attention.

For Alexander and Matilda, and the next generation of curious minds.

Alex stilled, his hand on the book but not picking it up, and then he let go again, sharp and wary like he had been burned.

Dr Henry Roberts was prominent on the cover; almost as prominent as the title. Alex knew exactly what he was looking at.

"Why? Matilda's three, she can't even read yet."

Another reminder that for all of his maturity, Alex wasn't even nine yet. He didn't understand the politics behind because he was a child and it wasn't his job to understand. It was John's job to keep them safe and sheltered, both of them, and he had failed that the moment he had accepted the SCORPIA mission. He had been playing catchup since Alex was born and he suspected he would be doing that for the rest of his life.

He had trusted MI6 to keep his family safe, he had trusted Blunt's reassurances, he had trusted the promise of a clean cut and an expertly faked death.

Nine years later, the book in his hand spoke a clear message about how badly that trust had been misplaced.

"Because he wants me to know SCORPIA is still hunting us," John said quietly. "Because he hopes we'll be rattled enough to make a mistake. Because he is not a good person but he's still a teacher at heart and he would be delighted to see more kids take an interest in medical science and grow up to push the frontiers of research."

A new generation of young doctors to continue Three's research and dedicate their publications to the man who had encouraged them. A new generation to push the limits of the human body. And Alex and Matilda were young, easily influenced, and raised in the nebulous space beyond conventional society.

Three would give a fortune for the chance to teach someone like them before ideas like ethics and morals got too firmly embedded.

"I don't want it." Alex frowned. He didn't reach for the book again and his expression held a familiar stubbornness.

John shouldn't have been surprised. Somehow, he still was. What would he have done in Alex's situation and at that age? Taken the book, probably. A book was a book and it didn't matter who wrote it; the knowledge wasn't going to go away because he didn't read it … but Alex wasn't him. Alex had grown up in a different time and different country, with different parents and the ability to make strong emotional connections and … he saw the world differently. Someone who wanted to hurt his family had written that book. John would have taken everything he could from it. Alex wanted nothing to do with it.

John wished he could agree. Wait another five or ten years, maybe never bring it up again at all, and just … ignore it. Watch Alex and Matilda grow up, never mention it, and hope they never found out. And they might not – in a world full of books, what were the odds that they would ever stumble over Three's? Expensive and aimed towards a young audience as it was?

Knowing the Rider luck, that was not something he wanted to gamble on.

They had to know. Now, while they were young enough that Helen and Yassen and John himself could answer questions. Could give them the background if they asked. And not whoever might control that narrative twenty or thirty or forty years down the line.

What would John have wanted at almost nine? Answers, mostly. Not to be treated like a kid. He hoped the same was true for Alex now.

"I don't blame you," he said and meant it. "He's not a good person and he didn't write that book with good intentions. That doesn't mean it's a bad book, and he's an excellent teacher. It's the best foundation we've found for your future first aid classes, because we, both of us and Jamie, want you and Matilda able to handle anything that might come your way even if you never have to use it."

Alex didn't respond. His hand hadn't moved, but his attention was still on the book and John hoped that meant he was at least listening.

"The book is out there. Nothing we do will make it go away. If we ignore it, you might never find out it even exists, but we don't want to risk it. If you have questions, we want to be here to answer them. We don't want you to find out when you're a grown-up with children of your own and we might be half a world away, when someone might lie to you about it because it suits them better if you don't know the truth."

Like SCORPIA or any number of intelligence agencies that would twist the truth in a heartbeat. John didn't even know if he would be alive in a year, much less in a decade or two, and … that was one of the truths of his life that he'd had to accept. Always be cautious, always listen to that gut feeling, always have half a dozen contingency plans -

- And for someone like John, with a family relying on him, always make sure they would manage if his luck ran out. He didn't delude himself about what his death might do to Helen or the trauma to Alex and Matilda, but … from a financial and security point of view, they would be okay. John had made sure of it, and Yassen would be there for them as well. The emotional impact would take years to fade but they would at least be safe.

He couldn't count on being around to always set the record straight. Not in their kind of world.

"Look at the first chapter or two. If you still don't want to read it, that's okay, you don't have to and we'll find another book for you. But it is a very good one. Give it a chance and take whatever you can from it. It won't go away, not now that it's out there, but you can get some good out of it."

Silence. John wished he knew what Alex was thinking but he didn't push. Just waited.

Finally Alex nodded. A little unsteady but something in John's chest eased. Helen would talk with him later, when Alex had had a chance to figure out his own emotions, but … it was a start. Maybe he hadn't explained it as well as he could, maybe it had been a little too much for a kid of Alex's age, but he didn't think so. Not with Alex's maturity and intelligence. John would have wanted to be talked to like someone who actually understood if he had been in Alex's place, and that was what he had done.

Hopefully it had been the right approach.

Alex took the book without being prompted and John pressed a kiss to his hair; wild and blond and so like Helen's.

"We love you, Alex," he said quietly. "All we ever want for you and Matilda is for you to be safe and happy. Don't ever forget that."

Another nod, a bit more steady, and when Alex answered, his voice was a little quiet and a little subdued, but level.

"Yeah."

The best John could hope for right now. Alex needed time to adjust, time to consider things and … Helen had always had a much better grip on that than John did. He wanted to help. He just didn't know where to start, and more often than not, his words came out wrong. He and Alex were both too different and too similar not to clash sometimes and John didn't look forward to his teenage years.

That was a worry for another time, though. Far down the line. For now, they had much more pressing concerns.

The human body is a marvel of natural engineering. We take it for granted, but something as simple as picking up a pencil sets into motion an intricate system of muscles and bones and nerves. The human body is a machine more precise and adaptable than anything we could build -

Alex still hadn't opened the book when his mum knocked lightly on the open door to his room. He had put it on his bed when his dad had left and stared at it for long enough that he could probably trace the cover with his eyes closed, but he hadn't opened it.

"May I come in?"

Alex almost said no because everything was too much and he didn't want to deal with it and maybe if he just ignored the stupid book it would go away, but his mum looked worried so he nodded.

"… sure."

She didn't say anything. Just crossed the room and pressed a kiss to his hair like his dad had done and before Alex even realised what he was doing, he clung to her like she had been gone for weeks or months and felt her hug back just as tightly.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "About all of this."

She was sorry but it wasn't her fault, she wasn't the one with the stupid job who'd made enemies and decided to pretend to be a criminal and Alex hated that she was the one apologising. Never his dad. Just his mum, trying to make things better, because she was the one at home who had to handle everything whenever his dad was gone again.

"I hate this. I don't want this or the stupid book. I wish we could have stayed in Geneva. I wish this had never happened and dad had a normal job."

"We all wish that sometimes," his mum agreed. "Even your dad."

"He still did it." The words slipped out before Alex could stop them and he knew he was being unfair. It still didn't stop the bitterness in his voice.

"He did," his mum agreed again. "It was his job at the time. They needed someone to do it, and he was the best person for it and … he was still young. We had only just married. It sounded exciting, and grown-ups make mistakes, too."

Mistakes. Alex wondered if his dad had been gone all the time then, too. There had been months sometimes where he hadn't been home and their mum had been alone with the two of them and it had all been 'he's travelling' and 'he's looking into investments' and all the other apologies their mum had repeated because everyone liked to talk, and if his dad had been normal and stayed home, she wouldn't have had to listen to it.

Everything had settled like a knot in Alex's stomach; anger and worry and exhaustion, and it wasn't even just that. The longer he had looked at the book, the more sure he became that they were going to move again. His dad hadn't said anything but the fear gnawed even if Alex couldn't explain how he knew.

"We're moving again, aren't we?"

It wasn't really a question. He already knew the answer.

"We are," his mum said and Alex wondered if she hated it as much as he did. She had learned Finnish, too. She had friends, just like he and Matilda did. Their dad wasn't the one who had tried to make a home and then had to lose it all again. Their dad travelled and wasn't home enough. The Finnish classes had been him and their mum and sometimes Matilda. Alex wasn't sure his dad spoken even one word of it. He spoke a lot of other languages and it seemed like no matter where they went on vacation, he spoke that, too … but he didn't speak Finnish. Somehow, that had been something just for them.

Alex had expected the answer. It didn't make the sting any less to hear his mum say it.

He knew they wouldn't have stayed in Helsinki forever but … it would have been nice to stay longer. To be normal for a little while. He liked his school. He was starting to have friends again. And now he would have to start over.

"Where?"

He knew it wouldn't be Geneva. He hoped it would be somewhere where he knew the language, at least. He didn't want to have to learn a new one. He didn't even want to go back to school again now. What was the point? He would need to start over again in a new place, anyway.

His mum was silent for a second. "… I don't know," she admitted. "We're figuring it out."

Part of Alex was disappointed. It would have been easier with an answer he could start to get used to. Another part of him just felt … a little better that his mum didn't know all the answers, either. That he wasn't the only one trying to make it all make sense.

There were a lot of other questions he should ask. A lot more answers he wanted. But for now, all he wanted was his mum and the chance to pretend for a little while that the rest of the world didn't matter.

- nerves carry messages from your body and to the central nervous system. Your fingertips are some of the most sensitive places on the human body – so sensitive, in fact, that they can feel a pattern just one molecule deep.

It was a universal fact among SCORPIA's upper echelons that a busy boss was a boss less likely to get in the way of their subordinates' work.

The two times Dwale had served as Dr Three's second when the man had been chairman of the Board had been a blur of work and time zones with a substantial bonus by the end of it. It had also been a wonderful six months of predictability. With the doctor focused solely on SCORPIA's interests for the duration of his chairmanship, Dwale kept an eye on operations and handled potential issues with subsidiaries and other profitable business without any of the usual interruptions. No sudden emails with the draft for a new publication, no political games to balance, no urgent summons halfway across the world because someone had caught a potential source of intel so valuable that it could be trusted only to the doctor's hand-picked representative.

Dr Three was not a man who handled boredom well, and Dwale had come to appreciate most things that kept the doctor busy or otherwise distracted … even if said distractions meant additional work on his desk.

This time, said additional work was represented by a massive children's book. It was not a surprise to Dwale. He had been part of the editing process and had already taken steps to adjust his skills to suit the most recent development in his superior's hobbies.

Like a particularly sadistic feline, Dr Three enjoyed toying with his prey. Dwale expected that Hunter, being a fairly sensible person, would move his family again as soon as realistically possible, and that left a sharp deadline for his own hunt. The alternative was not acceptable.

At best, Dwale's search would start over, including the countries he had already ruled out. At worst, Hunter would move somewhere entirely unexpected and they might very well never find him again.

The order had been to keep the search quiet and unofficial. Complete anonymity. Dwale had acted accordingly. Now, with the sudden sense of urgency, Dwale had shifted more resources into the search. It was still within the limit of quiet and unofficial, but a year ago, right after Hunter's retaliation, it would have been too risky. Now, attention had diverted enough that it would be less obvious that Dwale was hunting.

Spain, Portugal, Belgium, the Netherlands, Scandinavia, and Finland. It was not a short list he had been given but the moment Hunter moved again, it would grow magnitudes longer.

Dwale's search had been focused on the first half of the doctor's list. With additional resources, the search completed in Belgium, and Portugal about to be wrapped up, too, he diverted attention to the rest of the list.

The doctor might have written the book with a feline's delight in toying with a particularly unfortunate field mouse, but that didn't mean he had given up the hunt. He still wanted them found, even with Hunter now on high alert, and Dwale was paid well to ensure that. Even – or especially – when the doctor's own games complicated the issue.

The weak spot had always been Hunter's son. The daughter was young enough that she was likely kept at home, but the son was both old enough to be in need of social interaction with his peers and young enough that his presence severely restricted Hunter's options. A child of eight was not going to be able to adopt a new identity the way an adult could. Of course, that still didn't make it easy.

There were well past four million primary school students in Spain alone. Dwale had competent people responsible for the search, but while they could narrow down the hunt somewhat and rule out schools too small, too religious, or with below-acceptable results, it still left a … substantial hunting ground. Alexander, in its many incarnations, was a popular name as well. Hunter would not have been able to remove all risks but he had at least chosen a name that would work in his favour.

The second consideration was their approach if – when – they found the boy.

Hunter was not a man to back into a corner without contingency plans. Dwale's usual toolbox for such assignments was extensive, but the doctor wanted them brought in alive and relatively unharmed. That, in turn, restricted Dwale's own options somewhat more than usual.

The thought remained as an idle consideration in the back of Dwale's mind but little more. They had to find Alex Rider first. Everything else depended on that.

All Dwale hoped now was that the doctor would find a different distraction next time, because he doubted the operation could handle another surprise like that.

- small intestines are thin and long. A drawing will show them packed up neatly like a coiled rope but that isn't accurate at all. Your intestines move. Like your heart or your lungs, they contract and breathe and move to their own rhythm -

Alan Blunt did not make a habit of reading Dr Three's publications. He was a busy man and already had too few hours in the day. His time was better spent on other issues. Three's publications gave an insight into the mind of the man and had allowed them to close a number of case files over the years but were still, fundamentally, a waste of Alan's time. If there was anything of importance, he trusted Tulip or John Crawley to find it.

He had made an exception for the book that had arrived on his desk in mid-December.

It was a children's book; unusual in both its relevance to Alan's job but also for the author behind it. More importantly, it was a rare glimpse into the politics at play between SCORPIA and John Rider. MI6 picked up on what they could – rumours, insinuations, anything that might add to the annoyingly uncertain analysis they had on the situation – but anything substantial was rare. Hunter was a cautious man and SCORPIA had no desire to air their dirty laundry. No one had any interest in allowing MI6 or anyone else a solid insight into the situation.

MI6 was not blind to the rumours that Hunter had always been loyal to SCORPIA. Nor were they blind to the fact that those rumours had grown increasingly strong since Zurich. Once, they had been absurd little theories, easily dismissed. Now, through what Alan could only assume was SCORPIA's machinations, that theory had become increasingly credible. The deliberate way the bounty on Hunter had remained the same had helped fuel those rumours. The book would only add to that.

For Alexander and Matilda, and the next generation of curious minds.

If SCORPIA couldn't find Hunter, they could at least send a message they knew he would receive. Like most sensible people in his line of work, he kept up to date on Three's publications. Alan doubted it had taken more than a week for John to have a copy in his hand.

To less-knowledgeable outsiders, the dedication would be heavy-handed confirmation of Hunter's SCORPIA loyalties. Some would perhaps see it for the veiled threat that it was but backed by increasingly strong rumours, most would believe the easier truth. To Alan, who knew without any doubt that John Rider had always been loyal to MI6 first, it was proof that SCORPIA's approach to Hunter had changed.

John Rider's successful undercover mission had been an embarrassment to SCORPIA. They had prided themselves on their ability to root out any disloyalty in their ranks, and the Board had seen Hunter's treason as a personal insult. That the commonly accepted theory was that John Rider had played SCORPIA and MI6 out against each other and betrayed both did little to help on their displeasure.

For eight years, their goal had obviously been to hunt him down and claim their revenge. They had almost succeeded in Geneva, too. Now, that approach had shifted. SCORPIA could not afford another failure like Geneva, and Hunter was approaching retirement. If they wanted to salvage some degree of reputation, it would have been obvious even to the most single-minded personalities on the Board that something else had to be done.

If they couldn't kill him or intimidate him into retirement or to rejoin SCORPIA, they could claim his reputation for their own. It was not the approach Alan would have expected from every member of the Board, but enough had obviously agreed to carry the motion. SCORPIA was nothing if not opportunistic.

"We had two experts go over the book," Tulip said. She had an open folder in front of her but summarised the findings without a second look. Alan would have been surprised otherwise. She had a sharp mind for details. "The consensus is that it's a well-written children's book, unusually in-depth and detailed and unlikely to find a large market given the sheer cost of it, but accurate and harmless. All in all, an excellent introduction to human anatomy."

Hardly a surprise, either. Three was proud of his professional reputation. If he put that sort of effort into a message to Hunter, he would have ensured the vessel for the message was up to his standards in every way. Should it encourage some other young readers to develop an interest in medical science as a result, so much the better.

"Three's touch shows," Tulip continued. "I expect he wrote the book himself. The chapter on the nervous system contains more child-appropriate summaries of several points in Modern Interrogation Techniques, and the chapter on animal dissection isn't too far removed from an overview of dissection as it could be applied to a human subject. Whatever else the man might be, he was always an excellent teacher."

It was the sort of knowledge that would build a foundation for Three's own classes later on. A decade after John Rider attended Malagosto, Modern Interrogation Techniques remained on the curriculum to the best of their knowledge – though the third edition by this point – and a sound knowledge of human anatomy was repeatedly emphasised.

The message it sent to the outside world was one thing. The message it sent to John and his family was an entirely different creature.

I am hunting.

It was a credible threat. No sane person wished to draw SCORPIA's attention, much less the direct attention of a member of the Board, and Three had made his interest clear. Not necessarily in John himself, too old and settled in his ways, but his children – young, malleable, and likely trained from the moment they could walk.

Three, like Alan himself, understood potential. He would never kill assets so valuable, not when their loyalties could be twisted to Three's favour instead. Not when their presence with SCORPIA would be a priceless bargaining chip and the only leverage strong enough to bring Hunter to heel.

John had deliberately done nothing to refute the rumours of his association with SCORPIA. He would have done the same analysis Alan himself had, balanced the value of his reputation against the full weight of SCORPIA's attention, and allowed the rumours if it kept his family safer.

What would his reaction be to the book? Alan didn't doubt the Rider family would move again. If Three knew their location, he wouldn't have bothered with a warning, but the threat remained. Starting over again elsewhere carried risks of its own but done right, it would also remove their trail and force any pursuers to start over from scratch.

Alan didn't doubt they would manage well enough. Losing a valuable asset like John Rider had been a disappointment, but he would still admit that while John had been a magnificent agent, his work as an independent contractor was in a league of its own. He had left his mark. His next step would be retirement. He simply had to avoid SCORPIA until then.

Alan nodded. Tulip closed the folder and brought out a new one to continue with the daily briefing. The full analysis of the book was significantly longer but between the concise summary and the time Alan had spent reading the book himself, he had what he needed from it.

They knew the politics behind the book and they knew Three's intentions; the man made no secret of it. They would keep an eye on things, because the situation had the potential to escalate with little warning, but for now, they had more important things to handle.

Your skin is the largest organ you have. It is easy to dismiss it, because we only really pay attention to it when something is wrong, but your skin is one of the most important defences your body has. It protects against viruses and bacteria, it helps keep you warm in winter and cool in summer, and along with -

There was an unspoken understanding among SCORPIA's executive board. Like territorial predators, they kept out of each other's hunting grounds. The members of the Board travelled, certainly, if a large enough operation demanded it, but their homes had always been a … suitably respectful distance apart.

Northern Italy and Venice in particular was Julia Rothman's. It suited her tastes and left her comfortably within easy reach of the rest of Europe. That SCORPIA's training and assessment centre had found a home on Malagosto had just cemented her decision to stay. Proximity to the school gave her unparalleled access to their most talented future operatives.

Of course, she was not the only one who had discovered the advantage of keeping a presence at Malagosto, though Three's interest was somewhat more hands-on than her own.

It paid to ensure their operatives were trained to the highest standards in resistance to interrogation. An operative who understood that failure was worse than death was a motivated operative. That Three could use the research for his own interests was just a bonus.

Of course, the doctor's most recent work was … somewhat out of the norm for him.

"A children's book?" she asked.

The restaurant was lovely. Expensive, with impeccable culinary skills, and a quiet, intimate atmosphere, it was full even on an average Wednesday in late January. By the time the Carnival started and Venice began to stir again for the tourist season, it would be impossible for most to get a table.

Julia herself had never had a problem. Neither did her companion for the evening, though he preferred to remain on Malagosto island, close to the RTI training he was overseeing for the coming month. If a student broke, he wanted to see the moment in person.

Three smiled. With the thin veneer of humanity removed from his features, it was a sharp gesture. Less the kind, retired schoolteacher and more the patient, old crocodile. Julia appreciated the lack of effort for what it was. It was so dreary sometimes, keeping up appearances among people who wouldn't believe it, anyway.

"They come from a wonderful bloodline. Hunter has little empathy or understanding of the concept of morals or ethics. I assume some parental influence taught him to function in normal society and directed him towards a socially acceptable way to thrive with his unique mindset. His wife doesn't share those useful traits but she's proven to have a sensible level of adaptability and a firm understanding of necessity. It would be interesting to see what could be done with such potential without the bothersome need to conform to social standards to interfere with their education."

Julia would admit to some degree of curiosity herself but hardly enough to put in such effort. Three, on the other hand, so enjoyed his research, and Julia imagined that the chance to see what one could create without the inconvenience of prior schooling to contend with would appeal.

… Assuming, of course, Three could get his hands on them.

"Ambitious," she said, "given Hunter's ability to evade all enemies."

Three inclined his head slightly in silent concession but revealed nothing Julia did not already know.

Three's own hunt had been subtle enough to remain utterly unnoticed but Julia hardly needed proof when she knew the man. He was certainly not the only one who had unleashed the hounds, either. Kurst had been much less subtle about it. Julia herself hadn't bothered. She'd had plenty to see to already and the opportunity to expand her own business further while her esteemed colleagues were distracted was not something she was going to ignore.

Hunter had been found in Geneva through sheer chance alone. No one who had managed to avoid SCORPIA for eight years would be easy prey. If her colleagues on the Board still wished to waste their personal resources on such a thing, be it far from Julia to stop them.

Zurich was firmly under her control a year or more ahead of schedule. Without the distraction Hunter had created, she would have had to be far more cautious about it. As it was, the last few potentially bothersome employees had been replaced by her own people by the end of December. Given that this was Three's first visit to Malagosto since then, they were probably even still alive and awaiting a suitable teaching opportunity in some of the cells on the island.

A well-trained operative was a valuable operative, and field interrogation was such a useful skill to learn.

"You may find some relevant research soon," Julia continued. "Malagosto has recently accepted its second teenage student. Nile. Eighteen years old. Younger than even Cossack was but Oliver argued well for him."

Only younger by a few months but still – young for their usual students, and their experiences with Cossack still lingered. Of course, Oliver was still new as principal of the school and eager to prove himself. Julie doubted Sefton would have risked a student quite that young but then, Sefton was dead.

"Another talented child," Three agreed; proof that he had already taken enough of an interest in the boy to have looked at his file. Three received a short report on new students, just like Julia did. His interests was simply more aimed towards the later parts of their schooling, and Nile wouldn't arrive for another few days. "Younger minds are far more flexible. He will be a good asset with the right training."

If not, the boy would simply be useful in other ways. He was not a perfect candidate; youth and a fear of heights would likely mean he would never be top of his class, but Julia had some hopes for that potential.

Corvo was a competent second but known enough to the intelligence world that he had become a target in his own right. It didn't hurt to plan for a successor should anything unfortunate happen to him.

The waiter arrived with the third of their seven courses; seafood, like the rest of the menu. Julia and Three both preferred a lighter meal and she had yet to be disappointed by the ever-shifting menu.

For a while they were both silent as they enjoyed the food and wine. Neither was in a rush. There was a calm to Venice outside of tourist season that Julia appreciated and a warmth and tastefulness to the small restaurant that the Board meetings had always lacked.

Plate empty, she broke the silence again.

"You expect they will be given the book, then."

"I expect that Hunter would not dare otherwise."

Julia was inclined to agree. Hunter would understand the investment it represented and his wife was a pragmatic person. The book would not vanish for lack of acknowledgement and its presence would be lifelong proof that Hunter's children had the attention of Dr Three. Better to introduce the children to the realities of the world themselves, in controlled circumstances.

"There are others who would be less charitable should they find Hunter's offspring first."

Kurst was at the top of that list, though Yu could certainly cling to old grudges with single-minded determination as well. Julia supposed she couldn't expect anything else from a man with his background. Harrow School, followed by Sandhurst, and a tedious obsession with Britain that Julia only put up with because it hasn't been convenient to have him removed yet. Awful taste all around. It was no surprise his obsessive tendencies extended to grudges as well.

"Zeljan nurses his perceived slights like a firstborn child," Three agreed and sounded almost fond.

Julia wouldn't go quite so far as to think of Kurst fondly but she could appreciate the man for the valuable ally he occasionally was. One could appreciate the destruction a fighting bull was capable of and not have any fond feelings for it.

Perceived slights. The reminder stung, the annoyance that still lingered, of what Hunter had been – could have been – and Julia picked up her glass of wine with precise, controlled motions. She didn't doubt Three would spot the annoyance or that the words had been deliberately chosen to draw a reaction. She didn't care, either. It was hardly a secret and she certainly wasn't the only one among the Board who still entertained the occasional idle, murderous thoughts at Hunter's name. Three's little games were expected. They came with the company, much like Grendel's overbearing demeanour or Yu's dreadful taste in obsessions.

"An undercover agent who played us all for fools? Hardly a perceived slight, I think."

"Simply an agent following orders. Hunter did what was necessary, no more or less. We were little different, fifteen years ago. He found a way to survive when circumstances conspired against him. The twelve of us founded SCORPIA. Hunter was somewhat less ambitious in his goals but no less of a feral survivor. I would quite enjoy meeting him again."

Following orders. Logically, Julia knew he was right. Hunter had done exactly as he had been ordered. His careful campaign of lethal charm and competence was at its most basic no different than the methods used by SCORPIA operatives trained in seduction. Emotional manipulation with a specific goal in mind.

It didn't make the sting or the bitterness or the fury any less when the truth became known. That Hunter – that MI6 – had had the sheer audacity to target SCORPIA in such a manner.

Some days, Julia wanted to murder Alan Blunt for the insult, no matter how valuable the information in his arrogant little mind might be. To indulge in a daydream every once in a while. A bleak little cell somewhere, a glass of champagne to celebrate, and Alan Blunt at her mercy. Bruises and a few broken bones to remind him of his place, and his mouth taped shut so she could enjoy the situation at her leisure without the unwelcome sound of his voice. A pathetic little man away from the aegis of MI6. She would finish the champagne in her own time, savour the sight -

- and smash the glass and grab the stem and gouge his eyes out and ensure that the very last sight he saw was her victory. Feel the heat and blood on her hands as she cut through skin and flesh and arteries, to saw through his throat with nothing but the shards in her hands as he thrashed in his restraints and -

- It had been an awfully long time since she last got her hands dirty like that. Since she last had the opportunity to take her annoyance out through more substantial means than politics. She was a little surprised to realise she missed it.

"You are, of course, always welcome at Malagosto."

Three's voice chased away the last of the daydream, idle and pleasant but ultimately unproductive as it had been. Julia put her glass down and carefully let go, one reluctant finger after the other. Self-indulgent fantasies would get her nowhere, for all that the thought of being able to murder Alan Blunt by her own two hands appealed an awful lot.

He was useful for the information he had access to but Julia had always been of the opinion that he wouldn't be the type to break under torture, and the thought of murdering him was much more satisfying.

She wasn't surprised Three had guessed where her thoughts had drifted. The man enjoyed Kurst's presence. He had undoubtedly heard any number of opinions about how, exactly, Zeljan Kurst planned to take his pound of flesh from Blunt and Hunter both. Crude plans, certainly, but efficient.

"It wouldn't be the same."

Julia's voice was more wistful than petulant, a small note in her voice she allowed only because Three already knew and understood the distinction between weakness and idle indulgence. Torturing and murdering someone by your own hand was different when it was personal. A failed student or nameless undercover agent some agency had tried and failed to manoeuvre into place just didn't carry the same emotion.

"Nothing quite matches that personal touch," Three agreed.

The waiter reappeared. Their plates were removed and the fourth course arrived, and Julia look a moment to simply enjoy the visual presentation as she picked up her glass.

Companionable silence settled again. The small restaurant was a low murmur of background noise. Outside, life in Venice moved on, unaware of the scorpion nesting in its midst.

Human curiosity brought us to where we are today. New discoveries are driven by a desire to learn and to understand the world we live in and the bodies that allow us to master it. Those discoveries push humanity forward. Without them, we wouldn't have discovered bacteria or antibiotics. We would never have learned how the human body works or challenged the frontiers of science -

The book had arrived from one of Ian's contacts. He was kept out of anything SCORPIA-related due to potential conflicts of interests, which only meant he actually had to put a bit of work into keeping up with things.

John wasn't with SCORPIA but there was past history that Ian knew he would be a fool to ignore. Especially with the emerging rumours that Hunter had been SCORPIA's all along.

The first time, Ian had been furious. That fury turned to a dawning sense of dread with every repetition of that rumour, every whisper he caught, and suddenly it seemed to be everywhere.

Ian knew the truth. He had John's file. Even if he hadn't believed John, the evidence was right there. John had always been MI6. He had fit in exceptionally well with SCORPIA, which was the reason he had been so successful in the first place, but John had always been MI6.

Fury had turned to dread. Dread had slowly and inevitably become an awful sense of claustrophobia as Ian, even as an outsider, could feel the net close in on John.

If everyone believed he had always worked for SCORPIA, did the truth even matter? Not in their world. And John had done nothing to refute it in any way, which meant that he had done the risk assessment and deemed it better to just … go along with it.

Because John and Helen were on their own. Because they had no chance against SCORPIA. Because if the rumours that Hunter was SCORPIA's meant that the Board put even slightly less effort into finding them … it was worth it.

How long would it be before only Ian and a few others even remembered the truth? Jones knew. Blunt. Crawley. How many others did? How many others only knew the reputation that John had – the undercover agent who played MI6 and SCORPIA out against each other and got away with it – and would take the new rumours as truth?

And now Three had written a children's book and dedicated it to Alex and Matilda – to Ian's nephew and niece – and made his interest know, and Ian could do nothing to help.

He didn't know where John and Helen were hiding. He didn't know their plans. He didn't know what game Three was playing or what John's response would be. Was it an idle threat? A final warning?

Even if he had a way to get in touch with John, what could he even do? John had no reason to trust him and hadn't survived almost a decade on his own by being reckless or sentimental. Even if he still cared about family connections, Ian would still be considered MI6 first and a brother second, especially now with SCORPIA and Three hunting them.

… and Ian couldn't even blame him. His direct superior was Alan Blunt, a man not known to harbour any sort of sentimental feelings, and certainly not on the job. Ian was frankly amazed Blunt and Jones hadn't tried to make use of his relation to John yet, but the clean break probably had a lot to do with that. Ian knew he had been under close scrutiny for a long time after but … there had been nothing to find. No one had known that John and Helen planned to leave. They hadn't been in contact since. Not with Ian, not with Ash, not with anyone. Ian's only proof that John hadn't completely written him off was the memory of a long-gone postcard and the single warning it carried.

Ian would worry. He would listen for any whisper of a rumour and pull on whatever contacts he needed for intel, and he would worry, because they were his family, the only one he had left that mattered, and -

- Ian was MI6. He wasn't safe for them and John knew it. Ian would worry because right now, on opposite sites of a vast divide that sometimes wasn't as vast as the intelligence world liked to pretend … that was all he could do.

Watch, and worry, and wait, and hope they stayed ahead of the hounds.

About the author: Dr Henry Roberts has worked in the medical field since 1959. A graduate of Shanghai Medical University, he has spent his career on research, education, and medical outreach programs in -

Alex had always loved his birthday. Birthday had meant presents and cake and going somewhere fun with his friends. When he turned seven, it had been an amusement park, and he had asked his mum for something to do with soccer for his eighth birthday, before -

- Before everything.

Last year had been weird. Jamie had been home for his birthday in February except it wasn't his birthday any more. Ryan Alexander was born in May. Alex turned eight except he didn't, and his old birthday in February had been quiet and spent at home because they had just moved and he didn't know anyone and … it wasn't his birthday any more. They had celebrated it but it had been nothing like Alex's normal birthdays.

When Ryan turned eight, Alex still hadn't really known anyone and everything had reminded him of Geneva and he had been happy to mostly pretend it was any other day.

Now he was nine. In Geneva, they would have gone somewhere fun. Now it was just another day and a reminder that he only had two more weeks of school left before they moved again. He had gone to school for half a year and he had friends again and it had almost started to feel like somewhere they could stay and … now they had to move again.

Alex wasn't even sure he could really remember his friends from Geneva. He remembered them but the details were gone. How long would he remember Helsinki? When would his next birthday be? He didn't know that, either. It wouldn't be this one. It wouldn't be Ryan's in May, either. If his next name was born in January, did that mean he wouldn't get a birthday at all? And what about Matilda? She was getting old enough to notice that kind of thing, too.

At least this time he would get to say goodbye but he wasn't even sure that was any better. He would have to lie to everyone. They were moving to Slovenia for his dad's work, except that was just the story they told everyone and Alex didn't know where they were actually moving. He assumed his mum and dad knew. His mum hadn't known the first time he had asked, and he hadn't asked again. The closer it got, the less he actually wanted to know. If it sounded like an awful place, he would just feel even worse about leaving. If it sounded like somewhere fun, he thought he might feel guilty about not being upset enough about leaving everything behind again.

Mostly he wanted to ignore it. It had worked in January. Now it was getting increasingly hard to. There were already huge boxes at home they had started to pack things away in and Alex still couldn't look at them and not be reminded of Geneva and the photos in the newspaper and remember everything he would never see again.

What was he even supposed to pack? He had things but most of it was new and nothing he really cared a lot about. He had an awful suspicion that some of it would never arrive, either. If they had to start over completely somewhere else, with new names and everything … some of it was too obvious to keep. He was sure his school books would be burned, they had his name and were in Finnish. His winter jacket had his name written in black marker in the lining. Alex was sure that one wouldn't be packed, either.

None of it even felt like his, not really. It was Ryan's, not his. Alex only had a few things. Some clothes he had outgrown and a couple of toys that he was too old for. He refused to get rid of them and his mum had never argued. The clothes were from their emergency bag in Geneva and the toys had been brought by Jamie; the only things Alex had left of his old life.

It was Thursday, with maths as his first subject of the day, and Alex couldn't focus. He hadn't been able to focus most of the week. Did it really matter what their homework was? It wasn't like he would be around in two weeks, anyway. His new teachers wouldn't know if he hadn't done his homework. Two more Thursdays and they would move again. He could count the maths lessons he had left at the school – and had, more than once.

It wasn't even their normal teacher but a completely unfamiliar substitute, which meant a whole lesson spent doing worksheets. At least that meant he didn't have to concentrate to get the Finnish right. Alex's focus was bad enough already and his attention kept drifting to the window and the miserable weather outside. Earlier in the week had been nice; cold and clear and perfect winter. Now the temperature had crept just above freezing and what had been snow that Monday was now steady, relentless rain.

Alex was still trying to focus on the worksheet in front of him when a knock on the door broke the silence. No one spoke but there was an immediate shift as a classroom's worth of restless curiosity focused on the woman who stepped inside. Alex vaguely recognised her. She worked for the principal, he knew, but he didn't remember her name. He had only seen her a few times. It wasn't like he had anything to do near the principal's office.

A brief murmur of voices, too low to make out, and then Alex saw his teacher's attention shift from the woman and to him and felt nauseous. Worried and anxious and he wanted to throw up because he had learned that surprises were never anything good. Not since Geneva.

"Ryan? Your father is waiting for you."

Alex felt his stomach curl into a knot, fear and the flush of embarrassment as he packed his things away under the stares of his classmates.

He didn't want attention. He didn't want to be singled out. He didn't want to be stared at. He just wanted to be normal again.

And why was his dad even there? Alex had no idea. Had something happened? Were they going to leave now? It wasn't supposed to be for another two weeks. He would get the chance to say goodbye to his friends, his parents had promised that, but the alternative was that something was wrong and the knot in Alex's stomach was bad enough without thinking about that.

Alex grabbed his jacket and backpack and followed the woman – the secretary? He thought she might be – out the door.

It was quiet outside. Everyone had classes and there was no one in the hallway but the two of them. Their footsteps sounded too loud and like they didn't belong there, and old class photos watched them from the walls.

Maybe his worry showed, because the secretary gave him what was probably supposed to be a reassuring smile.

"It's nothing serious," she said. "Your little sister managed to climb the dryer and fell when she tried to climb back down. She hurt her arm and your mother has taken her to the hospital to make sure nothing is broken. They thought you wanted to come with them."

Matilda.

Part of the knot eased. Another part, the worry that had something real to focus on now, tensed up further. A broken arm didn't sound like 'nothing serious' but he didn't say that.

The main doors were big and heavy, probably to handle winter, but the secretary opened them easily and stepped outside. It was cold and wet and miserable. The rain had slowed down but hadn't stopped, and the sky was still heavy and grey. The secretary didn't seem to care but Alex huddled into his jacket. He missed Geneva.

His dad's car was already in the parking lot, idling in the rain. His dad had been smart enough to stay inside of it.

Alex avoided the worst of the puddles as they crossed the schoolyard. At least his dad had parked as close to the entrance to the school as he could get. Was Matilda okay? It was just her arm but Alex was suddenly glad that he had been pulled from class, anyway. Their mum was with her but she still didn't like strangers much.

Alex looked up ahead and spotted his dad's figure in the car again. This time, something about it settled uneasily in him. He couldn't explain it, he just knew that the knot in his stomach had tightened again and something felt -

- Wrong.

Alex stopped. Momentum pushed him on and he managed to stumble half a step more before he froze in his tracks, and then the secretary's hand was on his shoulder. It should have felt steadying but her grip was much stronger than it should have been and Alex was starting to have an awful suspicion that she wasn't a secretary at all.

"Calm," she said in clear English, and her voice changed. It was less soft, more demanding, and the grip on his shoulder didn't ease. "No rash decisions, Alex. We have two snipers trained on you. We would not insult your father by implying he did not train his children well."

Alex. Snipers. Dad.

The world slowed and narrowed down to the woman and the car and the surge of panic, and even if Alex had wanted to do something, he couldn't focus on anything past the thunder of his own heartbeat in his ears.

"- My name is Ryan," he said, instincts kicking in because his brain still didn't work right, and he almost stumbled over the words. "Ryan Alexander Greaves."

"Your name is Alexander John Rider," the woman said, and her grip tightened slightly. "Keep walking. We have no wish to hurt you, our instructions are to bring you in alive and unharmed if possible, but if you struggle, we will shoot you – hopefully somewhere not fatal – and then kill any witnesses."

She sounded so calm about it that Alex didn't doubt her for a moment.

Kill any witnesses.

Panic joined with nausea again, panic and nausea and this was his school, they couldn't do this, he was supposed to be safe.

Alex took a breath, deep and unsteady, and tried to focus. His dad had taught him what to do in a hostage situation because it had helped on the nightmares. Now, those lessons seemed very far away.

The best chance to escape is right at the start of it, before they get you into a vehicle. Draw as much attention as you can without putting yourself in danger.

He took a step forward, one step closer to the car that had to belong to – to whoever the woman worked for. If he wanted to escape, he only had a few meters to do something, and -

"The building across the road," the woman said. "On the roof."

- Alex glanced up and saw the distinct silhouette of a man with a large rifle. He stood up for just long enough that Alex got a good look at him. Then he vanished out of view again and only the fact that Alex knew it was there let him spot the small bit of the rifle that was visible.

"I trust that will be proof enough that attempting to escape or draw attention any way will be an unfortunate idea. I'm sure you understand why you don't need to know the location of our second sniper."

Because if Alex didn't know where they were, he also didn't know where to hide from them.

If escape isn't possible, cooperate. Don't put yourself in danger, Alex. If someone targets you, they most likely want you for a hostage, and that means they want you safe and unharmed. Observe. Pay attention to anything you can and remember it. It might be useful.

Alex nodded once, a little shaken, and the grip on his arm eased a little as they kept going. At least four people, then. The two snipers, the woman, and the man in the car. Were there more? The sniper clearly knew when to stand up, but that might have been some kind of radio hidden on the woman. The substitute teacher? Shouldn't they have known something was up? That the secretary looked a little weird or didn't have the right voice? But they had been new and unfamiliar, too. Maybe they just didn't know her well enough to tell. Alex himself hadn't noticed until it was too late, and it was only now that he really stared at her that he noticed the tiny lines that proved she probably wore a mask and a lot of make-up.

The car had seemed far away when he had first stepped outside in the rain. Now it was too close and it didn't take long to reach it. Up close, it was obvious it wasn't right. The driver looked younger than his dad but had the same build and the same hairstyle. From a distance, he had looked right enough but … something in Alex had still known something was wrong.

He reminded Alex of Jamie and his dad both. Like he stayed in shape and never stopped watching and probably carried a lot of weapons.

There was another man in the back seat, hidden by the angle of the car. A little older, maybe even older than Alex's dad, and the woman opened the door and let Alex inside. The back seat, not the front where it would be easier to get out. It was his last chance to escape and the woman obviously knew it, too, because her grip only eased when Alex's seat belt clicked into place and trapped him next to the unknown man.

"Thank you," the man said, and the woman nodded once and closed the door.

The locks clicked. The car set into motion. Alex felt a new wave of fear and it felt like he was drowning and he wasn't actually in his body, just watching from the outside. Where were they going? Who was taking him? He still didn't know. No one even knew he was gone. He had left with one of the school secretaries because his dad had called and … no one would know until he didn't come home. What about Matilda and his parents? Were they okay? Had they been kidnapped, too?

Alex wanted to throw up.

"Your arm. Roll up your sleeve, too."

The man hadn't stopped watching him but his voice still made Alex jerk in his seat. Outside, the school vanished from view as they left the parking lot. They passed by a few people but none of them even looked at the car. Should he try to do something? Draw attention? They had to stop at a red light at some point, right?

Cooperate.

Alex swallowed but held out his arm, the sleeve of his blouse and jacket bunched up in a mountain of fabric by his elbow.

"Your father instructed you well," the man said. It sounded like a compliment but all it did was make the knot of anxiety tighten. "My name is Dwale. You're quite safe, Alex. The doctor merely wants to talk with you, nothing more. No harm will come to you."

Dwale. It was a weird name. And if they didn't plan to hurt him … should he have tried to escape, then? But there had been snipers on the roof, Alex had seen one of them.

"… that woman said they'd shoot me if I tried anything," Alex said before he could stop himself.

"Thera is a little too enthusiastic sometimes," Dwale agreed. "She only wanted to ensure you understood the seriousness of the situation."

It hadn't sounded like that to Alex but he didn't push it. Just stared as Dwale brought out a pen-like thing, took the cap off, and revealed the small, sharp tip of a needle.

Panic blanked out his mind. Alex pressed back into the seat to get away; tried to pull his arm back but Dwale already had it in an iron grip, and -

"No!"

- A sharp pain and Dwale removed the needle and Alex pulled his arm back. It was obviously too late, the pain and the small drop of blood told him that, but he couldn't stop staring and he felt light-headed and like his ears were ringing.

How long would it take to work? Alex knew it was supposed to knock him out, he couldn't imagine what else they would give him, but was it supposed to work that fast? Like in the movies sometimes, when someone put a cloth over someone's nose and they just fainted, and -

"A minute or two," Dwale said, like he knew what Alex was thinking. "Safer than the faster-acting drugs. We want you unharmed, Alex."

Alex swallowed again. His heart was racing and his mouth felt dry. Was it supposed to? What if something was wrong?

"… what about Matilda?"

They had used her name to distract him and he couldn't do anything but he had to know. He wanted to cry but couldn't find the focus or the energy, and all he wanted was his mum.

"Quite safe with your parents, I assume," Dwale replied. "We have no intention of harming you, Alex. You or your sister. You have remarkable potential and no one wants to see such a thing wasted."

You or your sister. He hadn't said anything about their mum or dad. Alex kept staring at his arm. He felt hot and his nose had started to itch and everything was spinning.

The world was sideways and the seatbelt dug into his chest even through the jacket. Alex couldn't remember losing his balance but Dwale pulled him upright and back against the seat again. Alex tried to push him away but his arms wouldn't respond and when he blinked, he couldn't focus again.

Then the spinning picked up and nothing made sense and the world fell away beneath him.

Chapter Text

Alex woke up to the deep hum of plane engines. The sound was familiar from their vacations and his trips with Jamie, but now it sent him from groggy and confused and straight into almost-panic in a flood of adrenaline.

He tried to sit upright but the seat didn't follow and he couldn't get up and -

"Calm."

- A sharp voice cut through the panic enough to make him take an unsteady breath.

One breath, then another as he tried to get his thoughts in order. He had been kidnapped. He was on a plane. The man in the car, Dwale, was still there – he was the one who had spoken. Panic contained, Alex moved the seat upright properly and wasn't really surprised that the seatbelt that kept him from getting up was the normal kind, too. No locks and nothing he couldn't open himself. It wasn't like he had anywhere to run to, anyway, and he didn't stand a chance against Dwale. Dwale, or the two other men that sat on each side of the aisle closest to the front … and the only exit, if Alex's quick glance around for other exit signs was correct. It was a small plane, too. A private one based on the size. Alex had only ever been inside one of those, back in Geneva, and that had been smaller, but it definitely wasn't a normal plane.

Immediate panic gone, the rest of his body made itself known. His back was sore, his arm hurt where Dwale had stuck a needle in him, but the overwhelming feeling was nausea. Cotton in his ears and too much saliva in his mouth and cold sweat creeping down his back and -

- He was going to throw up. Was there a bag anywhere? It was a plane; planes had bags for that, didn't they?

Dwale opened a small box and brought out another needle, but before Alex's panic could set in again – adrenaline and the world spinning out of control and his arm hurt at the memory – Dwale spoke again.

"Anti-nausea medication. Not sedatives. Nausea is not an unusual side effect of the drug you were given. This will take care of it."

Alex wasn't sure he trusted it, but every time he took a breath, he felt like throwing up, and Dwale probably didn't want that to happen any more than Alex did. And if it were sedatives or something instead, at least he wouldn't have to deal with the nausea, anyway.

Alex nodded.

It was an unspoken truce. Dwale avoided the sore spot and finger-shaped bruises on his arm, and Alex held still. Silence settled and for a while Alex just sat there and breathed slowly through the nausea until the feeling faded. The cold sweat eased. The cotton in his ears vanished. Eventually, Alex felt well enough to focus on more than not throwing up.

There were clouds outside. He had no idea of the time but it was daylight. Where they were or how long they had been in the air, he didn't know. Eventually he decided to ask. The worst Dwale could do was refuse to answer and his dad's lessons had slowly resurfaced as the haze faded.

Stay calm, connect with your captors to build up an emotional connection, and capitalize on any opportunity you get. Three Cs. Calm, connect, capitalize.

"… Where are we?"

"Somewhere over Latvia. We departed from Helsinki half an hour ago."

Which … told him absolutely nothing. Latvia was to the south but a lot of things were to the south of Finland.

"Where are we going?" Dwale hadn't seemed upset by the first question so Alex risked a second.

"Venice. Malagosto, to be precise. It's a small island to the south of Venice itself."

The name meant nothing to Alex. He knew about Venice but had never been there. Malagosto meant nothing to him. He wasn't sure if it was supposed to, either. He didn't know why he had been kidnapped, he didn't know who Dwale even was, but he knew it had to do with his dad. He couldn't think of anything else it could be and that woman had mentioned him. 'We would not insult your father', she had said, and … his mum didn't have enemies. Not like his dad did. And the doctor, whoever that was – Dwale had mentioned him. Her?

The silence stretched on. The first two questions had gone all right. Alex risked another.

"Who's the doctor?" he asked then continued when all he got in response was an inquiring look. "You said the doctor wanted to talk with me. In the car."

"I'm surprised you remember. Your parents trained you well."

Dwale avoid the question the same way Alex's dad liked to do, too. When Alex was younger, he would either have lost his patience or not noticed at all. Now he just waited to see if that was the only response he got.

"Dr Three is a former colleague of your father's," the man finally continued.

That name, Alex remembered.

What, like the number? That's a weird name.

Alex swallowed as the surge of nausea that came back.

For Alexander and Matilda, and the next generation of curious minds.

"He wrote the book," Alex said, his mouth working faster than his brain as he scrambled to make sense of it. "The anatomy one."

The book was brilliant. Alex felt awful for thinking that, and he hadn't wanted to even open it in the first place, but he had promised to give it a chance and … he had wanted to hate it. The man was awful and the book was going to be awful, too, except … it hadn't been. It had been exciting and interesting and full of experiments and colourful illustrations, and it had been everything his biology textbook wasn't. It had been easy to forget the sort of person who had written it once he started reading.

"He wanted to ensure you both had the opportunity to learn," Dwale explained. "A standard school curriculum is limited by a number of factors, and a solid foundation in human anatomy can be a basis for everything from medical science to art as you grow older. You learn better while you're young and it would be a crime to restrict your ability to learn because of something as easily rectified as a lack of proper textbooks."

It was a lot of time and attention to devote to a book just for them, and Alex knew it. Especially with everything his dad had told him about the man.

The doctor, whatever his real name was – he was one of the people in charge of a terrorist group, but he had still spent a lot of time writing a book specifically for Matilda and Alex himself, and now he was behind Alex's kidnapping, too, and -

- Alex had the sinking suspicion that he had it all wrong. That it wasn't just about his dad but about him, too. The doctor had wanted his dad to know he was still hunting them but … he hadn't needed to kidnap Alex for that.

Suddenly the plane felt cramped and claustrophobic, like the walls were closing in on him, and Alex forced himself to breathe slow and steady like Jamie had taught him.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

He wanted to get away, get out, get home, but he couldn't. Focus on the things he could do, then. The awful feeling of cotton in his mouth and the nausea and -

"May I use the restroom?" Alex asked, slipping back to the manners he had been used to in Geneva.

"Of course." Dwale made no move to get up but didn't stop Alex from undoing his own seatbelt. Alex supposed he could afford to be generous. It wasn't like there was anywhere to go.

Alex felt a little unsteady once he actually stood up but the short walk up the aisle helped. The two men at the front didn't move but it still felt unnerving to pass by them. They were an intimidating reminder of exactly the sort of situation he was in.

The lavatory itself was everything he remembered from the last time he had been on a plane. Small and cramped and awkward but somehow not claustrophobic, unlike the rest of the plane. Maybe because he was finally alone. Maybe because the sound of the engines seemed that much stronger and drove out some of his thoughts.

Alex locked the door. He wondered how long he could stay inside before Dwale pulled him back out by force but decided he didn't want to know.

Calm. Cooperate. Don't get on the bad side of your captors.

There were a few bottles of plain water by the sink of a brand Alex didn't know, but they were cold and the condensation on the plastic felt like heaven when he pressed it against his neck. For a little while he just soaked up the coolness of the bottle. Then he opened it and forced himself to drink slowly to avoid making the nausea worse.

The awful taste in his mouth eased. The sick feeling in his stomach felt a little better. Alex's hands weren't quite steady as he washed them but he felt better afterwards for that, too.

He returned to his seat before he took long enough that someone might decide to drag him out of there. The two guards hadn't moved and didn't react to Alex this time, either, though he could feel their eyes follow him all the way down the aisle.

Dwale didn't speak, his attention focused on some file or another in a language Alex didn't know. Chinese, maybe. It looked like it could be Chinese.

Alex knew he should try to talk. Build up a connection or – something, even if he couldn't imagine it would help on anything, but … he didn't. He didn't want to, and he was tired, and all he could think about was his mum and Matilda who were in danger, too.

Instead, Alex curled up on the seat and watched the clouds in silence as Europe slowly passed by beneath them.

Two weeks before their move, Helen still wasn't sure how to feel about it. On one hand, it would be the first time she had the chance to actually bring something with her. Their move from London had been planned for weeks but required total secrecy, and they had only been able to bring a few important or sentimental items. Their escape from Geneva had reduced their belongings to two emergency bags and the things important enough to be kept safely locked away in several bank vaults. This time, she had the opportunity to actually pack. None of the furniture was their own but … this time, she could bring her clothes. Alex's and Matilda's, too. Toys, familiar kitchen equipment, jewellery – even the large, printed photos on the walls. They still had to be careful not to bring something that might give away their time in Finland but … she would have the chance to spend their first night in a new place sleeping in her own bedding. That alone was a luxury.

On the other hand, it meant she had to go through everything and make a decision – is this safe to keep? It was a simple decision for most things. Some, like clothes, came with the consideration of the brand on the tag and how common that was and if it was available at all in their new home.

That, too, was an issue. Their new home would be Ireland and that thought didn't sit well, either. When John had brought up the idea not long after New Year, it had been … perhaps not the top of her list, too close to Alan Blunt and MI6 for her peace of mind, but also somewhere she wouldn't have to try to learn a new language just for a year or two. Over the course of January, she had almost started to look forward to it.

Then the Docklands bombing had happened and Helen found herself facing the very real prospect of moving to Ireland with two young children and a mostly-absent husband just when the Troubles had reignited. They would be nowhere near Northern Ireland and Belfast but the worry still lingered.

Sometimes she wondered what their life would have been like if they had stayed in London. If they hadn't been forced to live a lie to stay safe and anonymous. If they had never even heard the name 'Alan Blunt' or 'SCORPIA'.

Outside of John and Yassen, when was the last time she had been able to talk to someone – really talk, with no careful omissions or fictional past to remember? It had been sometime before John went undercover. Probably even before she had accepted a position that would put her in regular contact with injured intelligence agents, because that had cost her the ability to talk freely about her job with her friends and sometimes even her colleagues.

It was a fact of life that Helen Rider had come to accept but that didn't stop the occasional idle thought of what could have been … or the lingering resentment, when she was tired and lonely and the children were long since asleep. The dreams of the normal life she would never have.

It was just before noon when the doorbell rang. Helen was closer and went to get the door.

It was probably a neighbour. Another thing she would miss. She had finally built up a social circle again. People she genuinely enjoyed the company of. Now she would have to start over.

The woman on the other side was unfamiliar but the way she held herself wasn't, and neither was the concealed weapon that Helen only spotted due to training and experience. Helen recognised the body language from John and Yassen both, the bearing of a predator that didn't put in quite enough effort to hide its nature, and she stilled for just a moment.

Closing the door would do nothing. At worst, it would confirm her identity if the woman was not actually sure about it. Helen was almost certain it wasn't just a case of mistaken identity but she had to try.

"Can I help you?" she asked in careful Finnish.

"Mrs Rider," the woman greeted her in English. Her voice was friendly. The same superficial friendliness Helen recognised from John and any number of other people with a penchant for politics and intelligence work that she had come to know over the years. "I would like to speak with your husband."

That removed any shred of doubt she might have had. Helen carefully didn't tense, tried not to give any sign at all that her heart was suddenly racing while she considered her options. Refuse? She didn't like her chances against that. Call for John? What did the woman want with him in the first place? Business, obviously, and knowing the Rider luck, it was nothing good. The very fact that the woman knew their identities made that clear. And what about Matilda? With the element of surprise on her side … could she actually take down their unwelcome guest? She had always been underestimated; if she -

"I have been instructed to give you this," the woman continued and brought out a backpack that had been mostly hidden from view. Helen hadn't even noticed it until then.

It was the same bag Helen had packed that very morning, and fear gripped her chest. Alex. Alex. He was supposed to be in school, was supposed to be in class; no one had called which meant that they had made it look like a legitimate absence and – he could be anywhere. How long of a head start did they have? Where had they even taken him?

"Alex -"

The name slipped out before she could stop it – and what did it matter when this woman obviously knew their names? - but their unwanted guest did not look surprised.

"Your son is quite safe. He has wonderful potential, just like your daughter, and Dr Three would never allow any harm to come to them," the woman said and sounded unnervingly sincerely about it.

Helen fought the blind panic that threatened to take over; the frantic instinct to somehow force the woman to give her Alex back -

- her son, her baby; and she never wanted any of this for him, never wanted Dr Three of all people to take an interest in him, and she didn't even know where he was now -

- And almost managed to keep her voice steady when she spoke again.

"What do you want?"

They had to want something or SCORPIA wouldn't have bothered. They obviously knew their identities and could have killed all of them before they ever realised the danger. John was valuable but … as a reluctant assassin nearing retirement, kept in check only by SCORPIA's hold on his family? She couldn't imagine that would be worth the trouble.

Fear gripped her heart again; fear and anger and the claustrophobia of walls closing in. They had been so close. Another two weeks, and they would have been gone.

"I would like to speak with your husband," the woman repeated, no less patient the second time. "An invitation to Venice has been extended to all of you."

An invitation. Of course. It also didn't miss Helen's notice that the sentence carefully left out the identity of the person – or people – behind said invitation. If it had been SCORPIA as an organisation, the woman would have said so, but she had only mentioned Dr Three. It reeked of politics.

For a moment, Helen hesitated. Matilda was with John. Safe for the moment but not for long. She herself stood no chance against the woman, not as obviously trained as she was, but if she could get the woman to underestimate her and somehow get within reach of a weapon -

"We have snipers watching the house," the woman said so calmly that Helen could only believe her, "and the windows have no protection. My primary instruction is to bring Hunter and his family to Venice. My secondary one, should you and your husband prove difficult, is to bring your daughter to Venice, alive and unharmed. They would be well cared for, her and Alexander both. Should anything happen to you, the doctor would raise them like his own beloved grandchildren."

The last part was probably meant to sound reassuring. It was anything but. Helen saw a flash of a future like that; with Matilda too young to remember them and Alex young enough to still be vulnerable, with Dr Three as the primary influence on their lives and no real comprehension of morality or the concept of right and wrong, and she tasted bile in her mouth.

Fight, get killed, leave Matilda and Alex alone and vulnerable with SCORPIA. Go along and – what, then? She didn't know but she supposed they would find out. The fact that she was still alive when the woman could obviously have killed her already was … hopefully not a bad sign.

SCORPIA, then. She had no real choice, not when the alternative was unthinkable.

Would John agree? Right there and then, Helen didn't care. Her children would not be alone. This was John's world, John's decisions that had landed them in this whole situation, and what John wanted came second to her children's well-being. That had always been their understanding. To Helen Rider, her children would always come first. She loved John, but John could handle himself better than anyone she knew, save perhaps Yassen. Alex and Matilda couldn't.

Helen nodded. Once. It was obviously the right answer because the woman smiled. Maybe that was supposed to have put her at ease, too. Instead it reminded Helen a bit of a particularly friendly shark.

Behind her, down the road, Helen spotted deliberate movement among the dark pine trees. A human figure and the silhouette of a rifle. Confirmation that the threat had been real. Helen knew the only reason she had spotted that figure was because it had allowed her to. The rain had stopped but the clouds were still dark and heavy and the figure, dressed in dark camouflage, had been effectively invisible.

Helen took a slow breath. Tried to calm her frantic heartbeat. To focus on what she had to do. She could fall apart later. For now, her priority was her children.

Only then, when she was sure she had a solid grip on herself again, did she step aside to allow the woman into their home.

The house was in that odd stage of an impending move; half mess and half organised, with some things already packed away and others stuck in the limbo of 'keep or discard'. The furniture was part of the rental, but as their own things were slowly but steadily packed into boxes, the rest was a stark reminder that furniture alone did not a home make.

The woman ignored all of it, focused on the sounds from Matilda's room. For a fleeting second, Helen was tempted once more to do something. Then she ruthlessly suppressed the thought. It would only get her killed, and undoubtedly John with her when he reacted to the threat.

Stay calm. Don't act rashly. Wait for your chance. For now, the woman seemed content to play nice. To treat her as less of a threat because she was Hunter's stay-at-home wife and not a trained killer. Helen didn't want that to change. She needed anything that might possibly tip the scales in her favour in the future.

Alex and Matilda came first. They always would.

The sound of voices and footsteps – John was quiet; Matilda never was – and then both of them appeared from the room, undoubtedly drawn by the sound of the doorbell, too.

Even at home, even where they were supposed to be safe, John's instincts were as sharp as ever and the situation clicked immediately.

The sudden stillness, the sharp eyes, the coiled muscles that had tensed in the presence of a threat. Did he know her? Helen doubted it. John's reaction was the recognition of a threat, nothing else, and SCORPIA would know the advantages of sending someone unknown. The lack of familiarity left them at a distinct disadvantage. No known weaknesses to exploit, no old connections to draw on. John's file with SCORPIA was undoubtedly thorough. Maybe not completely accurate, but the broad strokes would be there, and the woman would be sensible enough not to underestimate him. On the other side of things, Helen still didn't even know the woman's name.

John spotted the backpack a second later though he controlled his reaction better than Helen had. His presence seemed to cool several degrees and something about his body language and the way he shifted left the silent-but-clear promise of immediate, brutal violence if given any chance at all.

"Where is Alex?" Calm. Even. Deathly so.

"Quite safe," the woman replied and echoed the assurances she had already given Helen. "En route to Venice by private jet. Dr Three sends his regards. An invitation to Venice has been extended to all of you along with assurances of Alexander's safety. He remained remarkably calm under pressure. You trained him well."

It was probably meant as a compliment, but all Helen heard was the taunt behind it. Based on the ice in John's expression, it was the same for him.

For long seconds, no one moved.

John had instinctively used one hand to keep Matilda behind him. The sight of a stranger was enough to make her pause but not for long. She pulled insistently on John's hand and when that didn't work, turned her attention to Helen instead.

"Mama. I want to go play."

Demanding and impatient, like all young children, and Helen made her decision. She reached out and John moved his hand in silent acquiescence. A moment later, she picked up Matilda. She was getting big but Helen was fit and … there were reasons for that, too. The consistent training had always had a purpose. The risk had always been real. This time, there was simply nothing she could do.

What was Dr Three's plan? She didn't know. She didn't trust him, either, but Alex was already caught up in his web and while she didn't want Matilda tangled up in it, too, she also didn't doubt that the woman would kill both of them and bring Matilda by force if necessary.

Alex and Matilda came first. Everything else was secondary. Yassen was away – hopefully safe and out of reach. And John … that was his decision, not hers.

"All right," Helen said and made the only choice she could, Matilda pressed tightly to her side. Small arms reached up to wrap around her neck. Helen desperately hoped she could prove worthy of the blind faith Matilda had in her. "Will we be allowed to pack?"

If the woman was surprised, it didn't show. Helen hasn't expected her to be, either. She didn't doubt they had a thorough psychological profile on her, just as they had on John, and it had never been a secret how much Alex and Matilda mattered to her. Geneva would only have confirmed that impression.

"A small bag for your daughter," the woman responded. Her attention never left John. "The rest will be moved for you."

Better than Helen had expected. She made a conscious effort not to try to analyse the meaning behind the second part of the answer. She had other priorities to focus on first.

Had she just made a mistake? She wasn't sure. What she did know was that she had no real alternative. Nothing that wouldn't see Matilda sent to Venice and Dr Three, anyway, except with no one there for her. No one but Alex, who was entirely alone as well.

Helen wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to leave, to run, anything to get away, to get to Alex, and to hide both of her babies away where John's enemies would never, ever find them again but it was too late and she knew that.

John and the woman still hadn't moved and neither had looked away, and Helen also knew with a sinking sense of helplessness that she was waiting for John's decision. Helen had made hers and agreed to whatever game Dr Three had decided to play but – John's decision was never given. Even Helen couldn't predict every decision he made and his way of thinking had always been half a step out of pace compared to most regular people Helen had known.

The stillness dragged on, second by endless second. If John took his chances; if he had even a single impulsive moment -

- their children were Three's priority, that had been made clear. Not John and certainly not Helen herself.

Then John nodded once, curtly, and the stalemate ended. The woman's stance eased slightly and her smile was nothing but friendly again. "The doctor looks forward to seeing you."

Knowing just who 'the doctor' was, the words sent a chill down Helen's spine. If it affected John at all, he didn't allow it to show. Just reached out to Helen.

"You pack, I'll watch Matilda," he said quietly.

It made sense. Helen was the one alone with the children for weeks on end and she knew what they would need, and John was better able to protect Matilda if something should go wrong, but the woman spoke again before Helen could even shift.

"I'm afraid I can't allow that. The doctor's instruction was that you were not to be left alone with your children."

John stilled. Helen tightened her grip on Matilda. There were layers and layers to that one order and none of them were good.

"She's my daughter." John's voice was low and cold and lethal in a way Helen had rarely heard.

The woman didn't even blink. Then again, backed by snipers and with the threat against John's family on her side, Helen supposed she had little to fear.

"She is," the woman agreed, "and it is the doctor's concern that you may be driven to make unfortunate decisions in a misguided attempt to keep her safe. She will remain with your wife."

And there were the layers. Maybe back in London, Helen would just have assumed it was a petty power play and a way to remind John of his position. Nine years as Hunter's wife had taught her otherwise. It was still a petty power play but the sentiment beneath was real. The very real possibility that someone in John's position would prefer to see his children dead rather than in enemy hands. And, beneath that, the vindictive reminder that while John was a potential threat, Helen was not. That she would never be able to harm her children and that if it came down to it, she would always choose her children over John.

Would John? She didn't know. Her instincts said no, that he would die before he allowed any harm to come to them, but … she had seen first-hand as a nurse what happened if an agent ended up in enemy hands, and that was assuming they survived to escape or be rescued in the first place. There was a possibility, deep and dark and unthinkable, that he would – take steps to ensure Alex and Matilda would never be exposed to that. It was something she had never allowed herself to consider when they had fooled themselves into thinking they could have a family and somehow keep them safe. That they could have children and not have them targeted for their bloodline. That their successful escape from London and years of peace in Geneva meant they would always have that.

Matilda squirmed in her arms, restless and impatient, and broke the tense silence.

"Mama! I want to go play!"

More insistent this time, the demand to be put down and allowed to go play both, and Helen's chest tightened.

"Not now, sweetheart," she whispered, low and urgent and pleading. "We have to leave. I forgot we're meeting Alex. We can play later, when Alex is home. We'll bring your toys, I promise."

Not now. Please. Not now.

Not with an unknown SCORPIA operative in their home, and snipers outside, and John a tightly-wound coil of lethal energy one wrong move from snapping and -

Not now. Please. Please.

- Matilda slowly settled against her chest again. She was heavy but Helen was not about to put her down. It was a small, symbolic bit of protection but she would take what she could get.

A heartbeat. Two. Then John nodded sharply again and went back into Matilda's room to pack a few, basic necessities.

Helen wondered briefly if they would ever see the rest of their belongings again. It would be moved for them, the woman had said. That didn't say whether it would follow with them or be destroyed elsewhere as a potential loose end. Even then … it didn't matter. Not if Alex and Matilda were safe. Things would be replaced. They had copies of their albums in multiple places. Everything else was secondary.

For now, Alex and Matilda were alive and well. Helen's sole priority now would be to keep them that way.

They landed in Venice. That was what Dwale had said and the signs in the airport agreed with him. Alex had never been there before, and airports in his experience were mostly planes and runways and shops in large buildings. It could have been anywhere in Europe and he wouldn't have been able to tell.

It was early afternoon, just after one according to the many clocks they passed, which meant that back home, school would end soon. Alex wondered if anyone even knew he was missing. He was in an entirely different country now and … his mum and dad might not even know. For all they knew, he was still at school.

Alex expected another car to be waiting for them, but instead Dwale led them through the airport and to a pier lined with small boats. Dwale continued past them, all the way to the end of the pier and the much more expensive-looking boat there, then helped Alex down the last few steps.

Alex didn't argue. Dwale looked tense, probably because of the many people around them, and Alex was scared what would happen if he caused a scene. They'd had snipers at his school. He didn't want to think about what might happen to the people at the pier if he did anything.

The two guards followed them onto the boat and settled at the very back of it. Maybe it was to stay out of the way and be less obvious, but Alex thought it was a lot more likely that it was to give them a clear view of anything he did.

The engine came to life. Dwale navigated the boat away from the pier, then turned away from the airport. The boat picked up speed and the sinking feeling in Alex's stomach grew stronger as his last chance of escape vanished in the distance. He knew it was a hopeless idea and that if he had tried anything, it would have ended badly for him, but – there had been people there. Police and security and other people who might have been able to help him if he'd had a little longer to figure something out.

Alex curled up on his seat. All he wanted was a hug and for his mum to tell him everything would be okay somehow.

The sky was clear. It wasn't as cold as it had been in Helsinki and he felt a little warm in his winter jacket, but the wind against his face balanced it out. It was warmer but it wasn't warm.

Alex missed the rain.

The water was calm, at least. There were waves but mostly from the other boats and ferries. Alex had the fleeting thought that he should do something but pushed it aside before he could do anything more about it. What was he going to do, jump overboard? Not without Dwale stopping him. And getting the attention of someone in one of the other boats would be just as impossible without one of the guards stopping it.

Up ahead, what looked like a low, endless wall of yellow and orange and reddish tones appeared and became distinct buildings as they came closer.

"Venice," Dwale said, unnecessarily. Alex didn't expect there was anything else it could be.

They avoided the city itself, not that Alex was surprised. Dwale had mentioned a small island to the south. They would have no reason to risk getting close to people.

Instead, Alex got to watch civilization and his best chance of rescue pass slowly by him as they followed some water-way or another; old buildings and spires and towers and so many people and none of them even looked twice at their boat. Expensive or not, it was just one more among so many others and part of Alex knew they wouldn't have used it if that hadn't been the case.

Venice was left in their wake and grew smaller again. Alex counted a number of tiny islands as they continued on, most of them inhabited as well.

The island they finally approached looked abandoned, that was Alex's first impression. The season didn't help. A lot of the trees were bare, and the green parts that were still around were the deep, dark winter green that always looked a little depressing to Alex. A glimpse of a building revealed broken windows and what looked like a hole in the roof, and the red brick bell tower looked … like it was leaning slightly, unnervingly to one side.

The knot of fear in Alex's stomach tightened. Was this where he was going to be left for … he didn't even know how long? Somewhere cold and dark, with buildings that were falling to pieces and no company at all?

The boat moved closer. The bell tower loomed ominously above them. Alex almost imagined he could see the mortar between the bricks slowly crumble.

"… is that going to fall over?" he asked before he could stop himself.

Dwale glanced briefly at it. "It's purely cosmetic. It's structurally sound. Quite a lot of effort went into making the island as unwelcoming as possible. We don't want unwanted visitors and for the most part it works."

For the most part. Alex looked at the ruined buildings and the looming tower and wouldn't be surprised if some people got tempted, anyway. He would have been curious, too. The drive to find out what was hiding in a place like that, even if it was just leaky roofs and broken windows and nothing else.

"We have the occasional would-be visitor but security ensures they aren't a problem and our students know to keep a low profile. We have leased this island for a decade now. Most have learned to consider it private property."

Students. It was some sort of school, then. It was a lot of information Dwale offered him and some of it might be useful to someone, too. He had complimented Alex on how well his dad had trained him. He had to know the risk of telling Alex something like that and Alex didn't like what it implied.

Dwale talked like he didn't consider it a risk that Alex might get the chance to talk with someone and pass that information on, and that added another knot to the awful jumble in his stomach that suspected that he wasn't just there to target his dad.

The boat followed the curve of the island, so close Alex almost imagined he could reach out and touch the grey stone – and then it suddenly fell away to reveal a natural crack in the stone large enough to fit the boat.

At the very end of the crack, at its narrowest, someone had built a pier. It would be impossible to see from the outside. From the sides, the opening was almost invisible and from the front, a smaller, separate island blocked the view.

The boat came to a stop. Dwale got out and helped Alex onto the pier, too. With the engine off, the island was silent. Somewhere in the distance, there were the muted sounds of life. On the island itself, there was nothing.

It wasn't even that far from the closest other bit of populated land. Alex could see the buildings and what looked like a harbour in the distance. How far away was it? It looked like a lot less than a kilometre. A long way to swim but … it was possible. There would be people there, Someone who could help him. He could do it.

… if he got the chance, at least.

Two other guards waited by the pier, dressed in dark clothes and as silent as everything else. They ignored their arrival except for a brief nod at Dwale in greeting. Neither had any visible weapons but Alex could tell they carried at least two. His dad and Jamie had taught him what to look for and Alex appreciated that now. It was one more thing between him and freedom to find a way around.

Dwale broke the silence.

"With me."

Alex followed. There wasn't really anything else he could do. The path was narrow and twisted among the trees and for a little while, even the buildings were almost hidden. In summer, when everything had leaves, Alex imagined it would be easy to pretend you were in the middle of a forest.

Up above, the bell tower grew all the more imposing with every step. Dwale had said it was safe. Every instinct in Alex still told him to avoid the place.

The first real sign that the island wasn't as much of a ruin as it looked came as they reached a large building with a heavy-looking, wooden door. There was a keypad and a camera, but Alex didn't get the chance to memorise the code before the door unlocked.

Inside was a courtyard with walls and curved arches on all sides. Outside, the paint had peeled and some of the windows were broken and boarded up. Inside, the paint was brand new and the plants carefully taken care of. The bell tower was part of the wall directly ahead of them, but to Alex's relief they turned and headed towards the right wall instead. Behind them, the door closed again. Alex had already known it would be almost impossible to escape. The sound of the heavy door still made his heart sink.

There was no way out now, and he still didn't know what they wanted with him.

The courtyard was silent. If it was a school, Alex wondered where the students were. In class, maybe? How many people were even around? He hadn't seen much that reminded him of a school but … the courtyard looked familiar. The middle was cleared and looked a little like the outdoor gyms Alex had seen sometimes. Dwale had said they had tried to make the place look unwelcoming. Alex hoped the buildings looked better on the inside.

There was a door behind one of the arches, so old and worn it might have been one of the originals from when the building was new. Alex followed Dwale inside and found himself in a completely different world. The floor was mosaic, so bright and multicoloured that Alex almost felt bad stepping on it. There were pillars and decorated windows and wooden angels everywhere, some of them so detailed they looked like they were alive. The ceiling was domed and while the images on it were almost gone, Alex could still make out the shadow of what had once been large paintings.

It reminded him of a church. The sort of place where you automatically lowered your voice and everything echoed. Even their footsteps carried through the room as Dwale led him to another door and gave a single, sharp knock.

Alex didn't hear a reply but there must have been something, because Dwale opened the door and gestured at Alex to go first before he followed and closed the door behind them again.

The room looked expensive, that was Alex's first impression. Old and expensive. Heavy wooden bookcases lined the walls, and a lot of the books were as big as his mum's medical books at home. Posters with detailed diagrams of human anatomy covered a lot of the walls where the bookcases didn't. One of the windows was stained glass, and the antique desk was decorated with carefully carved patterns and figures. The door was made of wood, too, but Alex knew that was just for show. A wide strip of metal had been visible on the side of the door, which meant it was probably a metal door with wood to make it pretty. Alex was reminded of their safe-room in Geneva. That door had been solid metal, too. That safe-room had been hidden in the basement, though. Did it mean anything that this one wasn't? With as close to the water as they were, was it even possible to have a basement that didn't flood?

Alex didn't know and he forced his mind back on track. He had to pay attention. That was his best chance of escape.

All in all, the room looked … loud, somehow. It almost made the man in the large chair behind the desk disappear. It took Alex much longer than it should have to notice him. Jamie would have been disappointed.

The man was small, maybe the same height as Alex's mum, but it was difficult to judge when he was sitting down. He looked … Chinese, maybe? Japanese? Alex had no way to know. He looked like a school teacher, though. Harmless, and more likely to give Alex homework than kidnap him. Alex didn't need to remember his dad or Jamie's lessons to know how dangerous that made him.

The man got up and Alex got his estimate confirmed. About his mum's height. Something about him still seemed to make him feel much larger to be around. He had a presence, his mum had described it as once. When someone felt much larger than they were.

"Alexander." Even his voice sounded like a school teacher, all calm and pleasant. It made Alex's skin crawl. "It's a delight to finally meet you. Have you recovered from the sedative? The dosage was tailored to you but of course, that is hardly a guarantee."

Alex's first impulse was to tell the man exactly what he thought about the whole situation, but he knew better than to make someone like that angry with no one to protect him and nowhere to go. His second impulse was to stay quiet and ignore him and hope that somehow, the world would go back to normal if he just tried hard enough to wake up from the nightmare. But his dad's lessons lingered and when Alex did reply, he had carefully considered every word.

Calm, connect, capitalize.

"I don't feel sick any more," he said and couldn't stop the wariness in his voice. "The medicine helped."

The nausea still lingered but that was fear, not the sedative, and some part of Alex's mind recognised that. It had taken him most of the flight to be able to tell the difference, and he still wasn't completely sure, but … his mouth didn't taste like sand and his ears didn't feel like they were stuffed with cotton, and that made him lean towards fear and not the sedative.

A year ago, it would all have felt the same to him. Hunting with Jamie had taught him what that knot of fear and anxiety and apprehension felt like. It hadn't been as bad as now but he recognised the nausea for what it was.

"An unfortunate side effect," the man agreed, "but easily rectified. Do you know who I am, Alexander?"

Alex had no way to know for sure, there had been no photo of Dr Henry Roberts in the book, but … he knew enough to make a decent guess.

"Dr Three," he answered and wasn't really surprised when the man's smile turned a little warmer and a lot more unnerving. "You wrote the anatomy book dad gave us."

The one that had been dedicated to them, to him and Matilda both, and Alex had no idea of what he was supposed to do. The full-colour photos and drawings and diagrams had been exciting the first time he had read the book. Now, with a full-size poster of a human with no skin staring at him from the wall, and a skeleton displayed in the corner that looked nothing at all like the plastic model his school had, the memory sent a chill down his spine and -

- This was the man who had written it.

The nausea and anxiety surged again, a feeling like curdled milk in the pit of his stomach. Alex wanted to throw up again.

"Very good," the doctor complimented him. He sounded sincere. Something about him still made the hairs on the back of Alex's neck stand up. "I'm not surprised Hunter ensured you were given the book, he has always been a wonderfully pragmatic man, but it is nice to have it confirmed. I would love to hear your thoughts on it at some point. I do apologise for the crude means of invitation, but I'm afraid there were no alternatives if I wanted to meet you in person."

Hunter. Was that what they had called his dad? It couldn't be anyone else.

There wasn't really anything Alex could say to that. Instead he just nodded. It must have been good enough, because the man continued. "Your first time in Venice, too, I believe. What are your observations so far?"

Alex hesitated for a second. What was he supposed to do? Tell the truth or play dumb and pretend it was actually Venice the doctor wanted his opinion on? What would keep him safer? Everyone had talked about his potential and his dad. Not living up to that might be dangerous, and it would probably be safer if he could pretend to be what the doctor wanted. Even if it meant giving up the little scraps of information he hoped might help him escape.

Calm, connect, capitalize.

Decision made, Alex tried to ignore the nausea and focus on the analytical part of his brain instead. The part that sounded like Jamie sometimes and made him pay attention to a lot of things he wouldn't have noticed a year and a half ago.

"… You let me see where we are," Alex said. "You didn't have to, you could have sedated me again or tied something over my eyes, but you let me see where we are and a lot of this place. That means you either don't think I'll have a chance to tell someone about it, or that it won't matter if I do. You could have brought me somewhere else, too, which means you feel safe here. There are guards and cameras, and the door looks like wood but there was metal inside. We're close to land, though. It's winter and it would probably be cold, but the water looked calm enough that I could probably swim to the next island and get help, so there has to be security I haven't seen."

The doctor smiled and Alex wondered if he hadn't made the wrong choice after all.

"Remain calm, connect with your captors, capitalize on any opportunity you get," Three said and Alex froze. "Observant, too. Hunter trained you to handle hostage situations. So few children are taught such valuable lessons these days. What a delightful child you are, Alexander."

Calm, connect, capitalize.

Would it still work when the man obviously knew what Alex was trying to do? Was he supposed to do something different instead now? Alex didn't know. The only reason his dad had taught him in the first place was to help make the nightmares better, and Alex knew that, and -

- he was never supposed to actually need those lessons, and he didn't know what to do now. Keep trying even when the doctor knew what he was doing? Even if he did, it was a good idea to stay on his good side. Wasn't it? That was what his mum had taught him. That sometimes, people were awful because they wanted to feel important, and sometimes the best thing he could do was to not make himself a target until he could get away from the situation.

Alex had probably been quiet for too long, because the doctor spoke again. "I expect you're wondering what to do now. Allow me to make the decision easier for you. Your family is on their way to Venice. They're quite unharmed. I merely wish to speak with your father. If all goes well, you will be able to see him again in a few days. I can restrict you to a guest room with a TV and books for entertainment until then, which would undoubtedly be safe but rather dull for an active child like you, or – with the promise of good behaviour – you may join in on the classes here. It is a school, after all, and your own schooling has been horribly unstable over the past few years. Your father taught here himself, some years ago."

Your father taught here. The same school that had taught Jamie, then. Alex still remembered that talk.

"… what sort of classes?" he asked to buy himself some time. Jamie hadn't mentioned anything, but Alex could imagine a lot of bad things based on what he had been taught by Jamie and his dad already. It was a school for criminals. That had to mean nothing good.

Three smiled the same way some of Alex's teachers did, all patient and nice and harmless. Every instinct in Alex's body still told him he didn't want to be anywhere near the man. Had he been one of Jamie's teachers, too? Suddenly, all Alex wanted was to hug his brother.

He couldn't even begin to make sense of his own thoughts. He wanted his parents back. He wanted Matilda there. He wanted Jamie. But he didn't want them near these people, and these were the people who had been hunting them for years and who had kidnapped him and -

- he didn't want to be alone, but he wanted his family kidnapped even less, and it was too late for that if they were already on their way, too.

What was he even supposed to do? Even if he could get free somehow, even if he could swim to the other island nearby … he didn't speak the language, and the sort of people his dad had talked about probably already knew people with the police, which meant that the moment someone tried to help by calling them, he would be right back with Three again.

It was awful and overwhelming and all Alex wanted to do was go home. To Helsinki or the cabin or Geneva, he didn't even care. Just – home. Safe. And hug his mum and Matilda and never let go.

"The useful ones," Three said and interrupted his increasingly panicked thoughts. "The students here are all adults but I imagine that with your upbringing, you will be less behind than you think. Languages, biology, electrical engineering, political skills, physical training – I expect you will find it quite stimulating. An inspiration, perhaps, for your future career."

Career as a criminal?

Alex didn't say it out loud but he had to bite his tongue to keep it back.

"I'm nine," he said instead. "I don't think they'll be happy to have me."

Alex could imagine if he'd had to share his regular classes with someone even just a few years younger. He wouldn't have handled it well. And these were adults and he was nine and he was supposed to be able to just – keep up with their classes? The thought alone was enough to make him want to cry.

"Hunter's reputation is remarkable and you will be here under my patronage. I assure you, Alexander, you will be quite safe with them. I expect you would be able to keep up just fine for a few days."

Would he? Alex's nausea said no, but he also didn't think that disappointing the doctor sounded good, either, and … it didn't sound like he would be too happy if Alex hid away in a room for days. If Three wanted to pretend to be a nice host instead of responsible for Alex's kidnapping, Alex would do what he could to play along and not find out what happened if he stopped playing nice.

His school in Geneva had been big on manners. Alex had never appreciated that until now.

He swallowed. Found his voice again. "… Okay."

It wasn't the most enthusiastic agreement but the doctor's expression seemed to warm a little more. It had been good enough, then.

"A sensible decision. Hardly a surprise, of course; Hunter never turned down the opportunity to expand his skills, but it will be a delight to have you. Malagosto always welcomes motivated students and the potential that can be shaped into something remarkable. I assume you have questions. Never worry about asking them. That really is the only way to learn."

The doctor was baiting him, Alex knew that. Hunter. Hunter's reputation. Hunter never turned down the opportunity to expand his skills. He could almost see the worm on the hook.

Did he bite? He didn't want to. He knew nothing good was going to come from it if he did. But – he was supposed to stay on the man's good side, too, if he could, and the doctor probably knew all of that, too, both Alex's reluctance and his strategy and -

- Alex felt like he was in the middle of the ocean and couldn't swim and all he could do was try to keep his head above water the best he could.

Three's eyes sharpened slightly when Alex stayed quiet. Maybe he was annoyed. Maybe he was impatient. Alex was still trying to make sense of his own mess of thoughts when the man spoke again.

"I expect that your father and brother never told you what they do." It was a statement more than a question. Alex didn't answer. "You're still young. Too young, perhaps, for the full truth. Hunter is a wonderfully pragmatic man but tempered, I expect, by your mother and family life."

Alex got the impression that was meant as an insult. He took it as a compliment instead. If someone like the doctor didn't like his mum because she tempered his dad, that could only be a good thing.

This time Alex responded. He didn't want to push his luck. He wasn't sure how much to say, either. Too much might be dangerous. Too little might be, too.

"… My dad was a spy. He was undercover. He quit and we moved when I was a baby," he replied and realised too late how little that actually answered the question. He waited a heartbeat, not sure if he should continue, then pushed on. "… He's a criminal now."

It was the first time he had said it out loud. He had known and put the pieces of the puzzle together and Jamie had confirmed it but – he had never actually said the word until now.

His dad was a criminal. That was the reason why they had been attacked in Geneva. That was the reason why he had never had a real name. That was the reason why he had been kidnapped. His dad was a criminal.

It felt awful to say. It felt even worse to realise that he still didn't actually know what his dad or Jamie did, but that he was about to be told, and he knew he didn't want to hear it. He had complained about never being told stuff before. For the first time, he wished he could take it back.

The doctor smiled like Alex had just answered something not quite right but had still made a good effort. Alex hated that smile.

"To call your father a criminal would be like referring to the Sistine Chapel ceiling as merely a painting. Factually correct, certainly, but hardly enough to encompass the reality of it. Alexander, your father is a Renaissance Man in the world we inhabit. A talented killer, an exceptional shot with a variety of weapons, a polyglot, a skilled social manipulator, an inspiring teacher, and a highly efficient interrogator. SCORPIA was terribly disappointed to see his departure."

A talented killer.

Alex heard the rest of the words but those were the ones that stuck as the doctor went on.

A killer.

A part of him wasn't surprised. Not after Jamie's hunting lessons. Not after how well Jamie and his dad could shoot and – maybe he had even realised it already, deep, deep down where he refused to admit it to himself. It wasn't just his dad, either. It was Jamie, too. His dad had taught Jamie. When Alex had first been told, he had realised how little he actually knew about Jamie's job but he had … still just assumed that Jamie flew helicopters, just not for tourists after all. Now he realised how useful it probably was if you wanted to get somewhere without anyone following you.

His dad and Jamie killed people. For money. Everything Alex and Matilda and their mum owned – it had been paid for by that money. And … his mum had to know, too. His dad couldn't have kept a secret like that from her and – she had killed those people in Geneva. If his dad was a killer and not just – just someone who laundered money or something, the people who had attacked them would have been even more dangerous and his mum would have known that. All the security, all the lessons, all of it suddenly made a lot more sense and Alex didn't want it to.

"Are you all right, Alexander?"

The doctor's voice sounded so sincerely concerned, Alex wanted to hit him. No, he wasn't, and Three knew that and had told him anyway and -

- Alex took a slow breath. Tried to push aside everything he couldn't deal with right now. He could cry when he was alone. He refused to do it in front of the man who was the reason for it in the first place.

He grasped for anything else to focus on, anything at all, and stumbled into another realisation he didn't want. His dad had taught at the school. Jamie had trained there. Which meant …

"… the students here are like dad and Jamie."

Jamie had been nineteen, that was what his dad had said. To Alex, that sounded old and grown-up but … he hadn't been, and Alex knew that, too. Antti's brother was eighteen and he was still in school and played video games and lived at home. Jamie hadn't been that much older.

"Perhaps one day," Three corrected. "With training and experience. A few of them do have the same potential. For now, they are still students finding their way in the world."

It didn't change Alex's conclusion. He would be having classes with killers, taught by the people his dad had been undercover with. The same people who had attacked them in Geneva and hunted them since before he was born. Was it too late to say no? He could spend a few days locked in a room with books for company instead just fine. They might even be in English and not Finnish. He had agreed because it seemed like the best way to stay on Three's good side but now …

"You'll be quite safe," the doctor repeated, and Alex wasn't even surprised the man knew what he had been thinking. "This is a school, not a prison. A place of learning. You may even enjoy the classes enough to wish to stay for longer."

The doctor smiled. Kind and sincere and so unnerving that Alex had to stop the instinct to wrap his arms protectively around himself and press back into the chair, as far away as he could get.

Not a prison. Alex didn't ask if that meant he was free to leave. He knew the answer to that just fine.

"Dwale will ensure you have the proper materials for class. Off you go, Alexander. You have some busy days ahead of you."

Alex had completely forgotten about Dwale's presence until the doctor mentioned him. He had spent the whole conversation waiting near the door, as silent and still as a statue, and somehow Alex had just … not noticed him. Now he was suddenly at Alex's side again, and Alex hadn't even heard him move.

Alex had a lot of things he wanted to say, a lot of words to call the doctor, but he didn't. Instead he bit his tongue and nodded and got up to follow Dwale. The awful apprehension and nausea was still there, tangled up in the gnawing sense of hunger and exhaustion. He doubted food or sleep would help at all, and he knew that medicine from the plane wouldn't.

Calm, connect, capitalize. He … hadn't ended up on the man's bad side. That was something, wasn't it? And he would be a little more free to move around. Maybe even find a way to escape. Maybe his dad could do the same for his mum and Matilda, and – Jamie was still out there. Safe. He would realise what had happened, too.

He just had to keep moving, get through those classes, and stay safe.

He could do that.

He didn't have a choice.

Chapter Text

It was late afternoon when they arrived in Venice. The plane was a private jet, opulent and manned by a crew that had barely spoken as well as four armed guards that made no secret of the fact that their focus was on John. He had politely but firmly been instructed to take a seat across the row from Helen – close enough that Matilda could get to him easily but far enough away that he would be an isolated target if necessary.

He wasn't surprised and hadn't expected otherwise. Helen was well-trained for a civilian but not by SCORPIA's standards, and she had Matilda with her as well.

Maybe nobody wanted to fire actual bullets inside a small plane, but that didn't rule out tranquillizer darts. Risky in the case of friendly fire, but John was aware of his own reputation and Three's focus was clearly on Alex and Matilda. If John and Helen were brought back alive, that was obviously preferred. If not, Three still had his main objectives. Their primary concern would be to keep Matilda safe and unharmed, and John was physically speaking a much larger target than she was.

Helen had been quiet. Most of her focus had been on Matilda and the Sisyphean task that was trying to calm a three-year-old who understood that something was different and wrong.

Helen never looked frazzled. She never had, not even in the hospital ward where John had first met her, but the stress was visible now in the fine lines by her eyes and the tension in her body. John had too much time to consider exactly what Three wanted with them. Helen's attention – a little mercifully – was taken up by other things.

They were treated with some care, at least. There were drinks and water, and someone had ensured a meal for Matilda that was well beyond standard airline fare. Pre-cut fruit, flower-shaped sandwich bites, several miniature pizzas, a number of snacks in colourful wrapping, and enough that it could have fed Alex and Matilda both. John didn't touch any of it, but Helen faithfully tasted the pieces that Matilda gave her and the flight was a little calmer for it.

John was guided out of the plane first. A quick glance behind him revealed Helen and Matilda a bit further back, a guard close by and two more behind them and to the side to give the best possible view if John tried anything.

Helen carried Matilda through the airport. There were people around them, potential assistance and obstacles both, but John knew better than to try anything. The guard at his back was armed and would be able to shoot him at his first wrong move, and even if he could handle that one, that left another three, including the one at Helen's side.

A few hours earlier, Alex had likely walked down the same hallways, alone and terrified. It was a thought John tried not to linger on.

It looked mostly like John remembered it. The interior was a little different and modernised sometime during the past decade, but the layout was familiar and he knew their destination before they reached it. The piers and water taxis, when they finally came into view, looked much the same as the last time he had seen them, too.

John instinctively looked for the equally familiar type of boat he knew would be there and felt a chill down his spine when he spotted not one but two of them guarded by what could only be SCORPIA personnel.

His suspicion was confirmed when he was firmly guided onto one boat, and Helen and Matilda were helped into the other by the guard that followed them. Politely and patiently, which was at least one good sign, but clearly not bound for the same place as John.

He caught Helen's eyes for a moment as she put Matilda's life jacket on, an endless second between them. Then the guard spoke, the moment was broken, and Helen sat down with Matilda, hidden from view.

The engine came to life. The boat pulled away, a careful manoeuvre by someone used to navigating in Venice. Then it was gone.

The tightness in John's chest constricted, fear and nausea and sudden, raw loss because -

- that could have been the last time he saw them, and he knew it.

The other three guards had remained with John. It was part precaution and part message. He was in no position to do anything, not with his family in enemy hands, but no one was going to let down their guard around Hunter.

For long minutes nothing happened. Only when the first boat was well beyond reach did they finally leave as well. Far enough apart that even if John somehow got control of the second boat, there would be nothing he could do.

The airport grew smaller behind them. It didn't feel like ten years had passed. It didn't look like it, either. The boat was a newer model with what sounded like a stronger engine but the lines and curves were the same, and so was the understated luxury. No older, worn seats like a tourist boat might have, nor cheap plastic or chipped paint.

He didn't know where Helen and Matilda's boat was bound for, and the options were too many to make any educated guess, but he was almost certain he knew the route his would take. With this much care put into the operation and Three's name so prominently involved, there was only one logical location. Both for intimidation but also for the pragmatic security aspect.

This was not a kidnapping done in a moment of opportunity. A lot of thought had been put into it, and that meant a lot of politics, too.

The only consolation was that Yassen was half a world away. John knew enough details about his current job that it could have been a risk, but Yassen would cut any losses and vanish the moment it became clear something had gone wrong. Very likely he already had.

With only one operative in their home and the snipers somewhere outside with limited visibility away from the windows, John had spotted his chance. He had opened Matilda's closet and hesitated in the manner of the workaholic father who was away more often than not and who had entirely left the responsibility of his children's everyday needs to their mother.

The pause, a blind angle, and his deliberate fumble for a backpack gave him the ten seconds he needed.

John had an emergency number on speed dial. It would go straight to voicemail, but it was never intended to be answered. Dial and hang up, three times right after each other. Yassen knew the pre-arranged signal.

Danger. Do not return.

John had no chance to add any details but the warning and lack of anything else would say enough. Three's people had been overconfident, sure of their control of their situation with Alex already a hostage. They had been mostly right. John didn't know if Yassen had been an intended target, too, but he had done what he could to stop the possibility.

The phone was … somewhere now. Three's operative had confiscated it before they left the house, along with John's watch and pocket knife. They would get nothing useful from it and he doubted they expected to, either. He changed phones too often for that.

If Three asked, John would give him what he knew about Yassen's current job and trust that the kid had listened to his warning. That, too, was an agreement that had been in place for years.

Yassen would be on his own, but he was used to working alone and he wasn't in SCORPIA's grasp, and that was all John could ask for now.

Twenty minutes later, they reached Venice. The moment the boat started to turn left rather than approach the city itself, John's suspicions were confirmed, even if it would take another twenty minutes to actually reach their destination.

Malagosto looked much like it had the last time John had left, some ten years before. The vegetation was a little denser in some places and removed in others, the weathered warning signs had been replaced by new ones, but the buildings were still caught in the perpetual state of deliberate, artful decay from the outside and didn't seem to have aged a day.

Dwale met them by the small pier. John had never met the man in person but he was well-known to the circles they moved in and John's life depended on that kind of knowledge.

"Hunter. The doctor is expecting you."

Calm and efficient. Just the sort of person Three would favour. John nodded and didn't bother with small-talk.

"Dwale."

John followed him towards the main buildings. That direction was familiar, too. Not d'Arc's office but the opposite side of the building, to Three's permanent office on the island. Nye had been the principal when John had last been around, but he doubted the location of the office had changed.

As he stepped into the courtyard, there was a flicker of nostalgia that John couldn't quite crush. A second, no more, but … he had enjoyed his time on the island. For a moment, it had felt like returning to an old alma mater until reality intruded once more.

The interior of the building looked the same as well, the holiness long since faded and replaced by the profane, and the sound of their footsteps echoed in the silence.

The students and teachers were nowhere to be seen. It could have been coincidence but John didn't believe in those. Three would have left nothing to chance.

Even the door to Three's office looked the same, but a glance at the edge of it as they stepped inside revealed that the metal core was significantly thicker than John remembered. Increased security, then. Also not a surprise. Malagosto was no longer the secret it had been in its early years and SCORPIA had responded accordingly. An unofficial truce with the Italian government was by no means a guarantee of anything.

The real difference was the inside of the office. Settled and lived-in, in a way it hadn't been during John's own time at the school. An abundance of books and medical posters, the skeleton John knew had once been one of Three's enemies – and, in the middle of the all, like the spider in its web, was the good doctor himself.

Dwale stepped to the side and left John on his own to take the last few steps toward the desk.

Dr Three seemed even smaller than he remembered. The black hair was the same but ten years had seen the man grow into the image of the kindly old schoolteacher to an unnerving degree.

Sharp eyes met John's. Cold. Calculating. Distant, almost. Like someone had cut the humanity out of him with the precision of a surgeon.

"Hunter."

John considered his options in an instant and dismissed the obvious ones. Sir implied a subservience that was against everything Hunter was and which Three would not respect, Three implied a familiarity and belief that they were somehow equals that Three would tolerate even less.

"Doctor," he settled for, a respectful acknowledgement of the man's skills and credentials.

Three smiled. It hadn't been much of a test and John knew it, but it still meant something to have passed it. The first bit of proof that a decade of independence hadn't left John unable to handle politics.

"Do sit. Old age comes to all of us, I'm afraid, and it's terribly uncomfortable to have to crane my neck to see you."

John sat. Careful and measured, hands kept in plain sight the entire time. Maybe Dwale had instructions not to shoot to kill but it wasn't a risk John planned to take. Not when Alex was very likely somewhere on the island, not when Helen and Matilda were elsewhere and he had no idea of where, not when his every move was closely watched and the deceptively short distance to Three was taken up by an expensive desk that John didn't doubt would slow him down a lot more than appearances suggested.

It was a taunt and bait both, and John wasn't about to play that game.

"How is Alex?" he asked instead as calmly as he could manage.

Alex, who had just been kidnapped, who was barely nine years old, who should have been safe at home with his family and not within Three's reach, on an island of assassin students and lethal instructors. John was most likely less than a few hundred meters away from his son but it might as well have been a continent.

"Quite well, quite well."

Three sounded genuinely pleased. John knew the man well enough to know this meant nothing. He could sound as pleased about a particularly long-lived research subject as he could about a particularly talented student.

"He's a delightful child," the man continued and something in John's chest eased slightly. "Intelligent and exceptionally well-trained for his age. He managed the situation very well. I expect the training he was given in the proper way to handle hostage situations was your doing? So few children these days receive such sensible instructions."

Training he was never supposed to need. Training that was meant to help him sleep better, nothing else. An added bit of additional protection. But that wasn't the right thing to say.

"It seemed prudent," he said instead.

"Indeed." Three smiled, mild and pleasant and deceptively harmless. "He's doing wonderfully, truly. Of course, children his age hardly do well locked up in a room with no entertainment but a few books and games, and he was sensible enough to know so as well. When I offered him the chance to sit in on the classes here, he immediately agreed. Children have such a thirst for knowledge before conventional schooling destroys any sense of individuality and interest."

Alex. In Malagosto's classes.

John didn't react, didn't let the sudden cold knot in his stomach show in any way, but he was sure Three knew, anyway. He was just as sure that Three had arranged for it for just that reason in the first place.

"The child-friendlier classes, of course," Three continued, though they both knew there was nothing 'of course' about that. "I would hardly put a child through resistance to interrogation."

Yes, you would, John didn't say but focused on the meaning behind the words. For now, Alex was safe. Three wouldn't have bothered otherwise. For now, Alex was caught up in political games and tests and whatever else Three had in mind, but Three had written the book for Alex and Matilda and gone out of his way to bring Alex to Malagosto, and he wouldn't have done that on a whim.

Alex and Matilda were an investment. It wasn't a thought John wanted to linger on but for now, when Helen's and his own life hung in the balance – the knowledge that Three was invested in their children was more security than John could offer.

"Malagosto always had exceptional instructors," John said and didn't have to lie about that part, at least. He didn't want Alex within a hundred miles of the island but Malagosto had invested in some of the best instructors money and influence could buy. Even John would admit that.

Another victory for Three. The inhuman lack of emotions eased a little further with it.

"My compliments on your work in Zurich. It was a wonderful statement and display of creativity under constrained circumstances."

He sounded sincere about it, and John didn't doubt it for once. Not the attack itself, of course. Three's interest was focused elsewhere and the autopsies would have revealed John's methods of information retrieval in graphic detail. Just the sort of thing Three delighted in. For all that the man revelled in his research, he had always had a soft spot for the practical application of his teachings in the field.

"Your work was an inspiration."

Credit where credit was due, The Human Nervous System was a detailed, well-written, and practical exploration of human anatomy, and John had taken everything he could from it. To lie about it would have been dangerous flattery. Three knew him well enough to see the truth for what it was. John was a pragmatic man and Three's work was world-class. He needed every advantage he could get as a freelance operative.

Three's smile sharpened.

"You were always a wonderfully pragmatic student."

Three valued that in people. Not enough that it would be useful to John but at least enough that he was starting at marginally less of a disadvantage than he could have as one of SCORPIA's most wanted targets.

"Your wife and daughter are currently guests of Julia," Three continued and just like that, the chill was back.

Julia Rothman, who was every bit as much of a cold-blooded psychopath as the rest of the Board; who could hold a grudge like Kurst and had every reason to hate him and want revenge, and his wife and daughter were at her non-existent mercy.

"They are quite safe as well," Three assured him, like he wasn't perfectly aware of what those words had just done to John. "Julia's security is outstanding and your wife is a practical woman. I expect she will agree to any conditions that will allow her to remain with her children."

She would, and John wouldn't blame her. If Alex and Matilda managed to reach adulthood with even one of their parents alive and involved in their lives, John would consider it a success at this point. Helen's odds were significantly better than his.

As for the rest of it …

Julia's security. It wasn't an idle boast, the Widow's Palace was no easy target, but the words didn't feel like a veiled taunt the way they could have been – even if you escape, you will have no chance of saving them – but … something else.

Layers and layers and layers, like all of Three's games and -

- The security referred to someone else entirely, and John's mind snapped into political mode, drawing on every bit of rumour and intel he had picked up over the years combined with his own outdated experience with the Board.

It was either an unsanctioned operation or individual initiative from Three and Rothman. Most likely the latter; unsanctioned would have been too risky. If there had been no binding agreement in regards to how he should be handled, however … that would have left Three and Rothman room to work.

It still left the rest of the Board to consider and most of them still wanted revenge a decade later. Julia's security was suddenly less threat and more genuine protection. At least in comparison to people like Zeljan Kurst.

"I expect the Board has yet to officially be made aware of our visit," John said.

"There are those among my esteemed colleagues who are terribly likely to respond rashly," Three agreed. "Better for everyone to present the Board with a fait accompli and sway their opinion with sufficiently convincing arguments."

A bold approach, bordering on audacious, even for SCORPIA's executive board.

"… Very convincing arguments," he said, "knowing Zeljan Kurst."

"Indeed. Fortunately, I have every faith that you will be helpful in the process." Faith had nothing to do with it, not around Three, but John didn't rise to the bait.

Three's eyes rested on John for long moments; cool and calculating and without a drop of humanity in them. Then he smiled. It was a kind smile. It would have looked genuine to someone who hadn't just seen that veneer of humanity creep back from whatever dark corner of Three's mind it usually lived in.

"It was never an easy balance, was it? Having two masters. MI6 never had doubts about your loyalty – well, no doubts beyond the reasonable, at least – but I believe you fit in a little better than you were supposed to. John Rider was the loyal agent but Hunter was too comfortable with such sudden freedom, unconstrained by the demands of more conventional intelligence work. You thrived with us. Your marvellous freelance career merely proved it."

John didn't react to the sudden change in topic. He knew Three's usual methods. If one approach didn't work, he would try another. Enough abrupt changes would rattle most people not used to it. Put enough stress on someone and fractures would appear, and Three had decades of experience in spotting those.

"I did what I had to do to keep my family safe. MI6 clearly wasn't up to the task."

Three made a small, inquiring sound. "With a career as a freelance contact killer? You had identities able to stand up to close scrutiny. You could have settled into a quiet life and ordinary career somewhere. It would have been a waste of your talents, certainly, but you would have been unlikely to ever draw attention. But the lure was too great, I imagine. The thrill of it. The chance to remain Hunter and carve your legacy into this world."

There was a core of truth in the words that Helen probably suspected but John would never admit out loud, and certainly not to Three, of all people. He had been good at his job for a reason. He would probably never have been content to settle down into a normal life afterwards, and he knew that, too. He would still have done it for Helen and Alex if that had been the only option.

He didn't particularly care to confirm or deny Three's monologue, though, however accurate it was. Instead he leaned back a little.

"SCORPIA isn't known for a willingness to forgive or forget. I would always be hunted. The added risk was worth it to keep my skills sharp."

Three nodded slightly and conceded the point.

"A decisive approach to enemy agents always kept attempts at interference to a minimum … but it was always a little more complex with you, wasn't it? A complicated situation for a complicated man. It was hard to remember you belonged to MI6, I imagine. Sporadic contact, orders that had little basis in the world you navigated in, an unwanted amount of oversight. I expect you were far more ours than MI6 would have liked to think. Were you a deep cover agent? Certainly. Were you also a double agent and a traitor by the end of it? That is a far more difficult question to answer. Did you embrace your cover so enthusiastically that your loyalty came to rest with us? Perhaps, perhaps not, but the line became terribly blurry. You were Alan Blunt's weapon when you arrived but you trained your students far better than MI6 would ever have cared for, and that legacy has lingered at Malagosto. There are a number of our better operatives that would not have been nearly as successful without the days and weeks you spent improving the training here. How many additional lives have your months as an instructor cost? How many of those were MI6 agents you once worked with?"

John had wondered the same once or twice but in the end, it hadn't mattered. He had done his job. If he had enjoyed his time as an instructor far more than he should have, no one had ever needed to know.

"MI6 always understood I would have to make unideal decisions. They knew it when they approved the operation, and I knew what I signed up for."

"Yes," Three agreed. "Operation Orcus. The punisher of broken oaths. Curious choice for a name. The intelligence world has never forgiven our unwillingness to wait meekly to be dismissed, unwanted and unnecessary in the bright new world beyond the Cold War. I'm certain the mission briefing was full of concern about the risk we might pose. Less so about the petty vengeance that a number of higher-ranking intelligence officers still long for. Former superiors in some cases who saw their disposable tools grow far more skilled and successful than they ever became."

Three liked to hear himself talk sometimes, liked to weave his way into someone's mind through his voice alone, and John knew it. It didn't make it any less effective when it echoed thoughts he'd had himself often enough over the years.

For Queen and country had been a lot easier to accept when he hadn't felt like a chess piece in a grudge match on a geopolitical scale.

"On the topic of disposable tools … we approached your old friend, Anthony. He was practically your student for a while, was he not?" Three continued. His tone was all friendly conversation; idle talk rather than a master wielding his words like a weapon. "Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he approached us. We had already learned about the deception and voted for your execution by then, but his approach gave us a wonderful opportunity. A test and a bit of poetic justice to have him carry it out. It coincided with your escape from London. We kept him under surveillance and knew that it was merely a coincidence but he still scurried to MI6 and confessed. He didn't quite have the stomach for this world after all, I suppose."

The slight stress on 'stomach', so minute even John almost missed the reference, told him the choice of word was deliberate. Ash had been grievously injured in Malta. John didn't doubt Three would delight in having Ash cut open on an operating table to see the state of those injuries a decade later.

The rest was not unexpected but still confirmation of that bone-deep anxiety in London; the relentless knowledge that they had to leave and that every day they lingered brought them closer to death.

Ash, angry and injured and bitter, had approached SCORPIA and of course they would have wanted to test an agent like that after John's betrayal. Of course they would have picked John's murder as his test. John could imagine the rest just fine. The plans had already been put into motion, but then they had left and told no one, and Ash would have realised that he would have been the first suspect and done his best to negotiate a decent deal with MI6 instead. Probably lied through his teeth about it, given a new identity, and then vanished somewhere to live an anonymous life. John had never tried to check up on the people he had once known. A clean break had been the safest option. Now he wondered what else he had missed.

"How is Ash these days?"

Three had brought him up for a reason and John could only imagine there was a lesson in there somewhere. SCORPIA didn't forgive or forget, and Ash had betrayed them, too.

Three's smile was positively warm. "Quite dreadful, I'm afraid. MI6 hid him away in Scotland. We found him within the year. There were those calling for his brutal, bloody demise but he was already in such a miserable state that other options became more appealing. He got the anonymous new life he wished for but I'm afraid his medical care isn't quite up to the standards that MI6 and he himself believe it to be. Unfortunate mistakes with test results, ineffective medication for his injuries, painkillers of a lesser strength than needed … an awful situation all around. Hardly a life worth living but he's a resilient creature. I expect he'll provide interesting reading material for another few years, at least."

And there was the lesson. John had settled back into the life of Hunter and put everything he could into staying one step ahead of SCORPIA, and he had still been found. If he had relied on MI6, the result would have been no different, Three's little lesson made that clear. If MI6 couldn't hide a single former agent from SCORPIA for a year, John knew they would have been lucky to get even that much before they had been tracked down.

SCORPIA's reach was long and it had expanded exponentially since John had left. Another two years and he would have retired. They would have been able to focus on the kids and a new life together, and not just Helen doing the job for both of them. Now he wondered if they would even have been able to stay ahead of the hunting dogs for that long.

Three leaned back slightly. If his body language was still the same, what little the man did permit to show, that meant he was finally getting to the point. He had spent a while stressing the futility in working against SCORPIA. That made John suspect that Three's point was more likely to be an offer of some kind, however bad, than it was likely to be an order to lock him up in a cell as future research material.

He hoped, anyway. Alive, he had something to work with, even if it wasn't good. Imprisoned under Three's dubious care, he wouldn't stand a chance.

"Here is what will happen," Three explained, as patient as any teacher. "You will be taken to a room and be given two days to go over the curriculum of the school and carve a niche for yourself as an instructor. Do well, and you will be able to see Alexander. If you succeed and find a suitably convincing reason to allow you to live, Hunter will return to us and confirm to the world that he was always SCORPIA's. The alternative is that you refuse or fail the task. In this case, you will be killed in an unfortunate attack by a convenient enemy. Your wife and children will be taken in and protected by SCORPIA, proving that you never stopped working for us. An unfortunate waste of potential but such is life. Your wife is a sensible woman, and her priority will be the children. Your family is now SCORPIA's. The only thing that remains to be seen now is whether you are more valuable to us alive than dead."

Part offer, part order. It was better than it could have been. Generous, even, given the circumstances. It still wasn't a good situation in any way, but John hadn't survived by being less than brutally realistic.

Information about his presence – about Alex's – was already spreading as they spoke, John had no doubts about it. That would only help fuel those careful rumours about his SCORPIA allegiance that Three had undoubtedly planted and nurtured himself.

For now, escape was impossible and he had a lot more enemies on the executive board than he could afford. He trusted Helen to protect the kids as much as possible but he didn't want her to have to do it alone. If he could make himself valuable enough, that would protect all of them.

"I'll need the student statistics, too. The curriculum means nothing if I can't see how it performs in the field."

In the end, the choice was easy. Three knew it, too; the small smile – cold and sharp and self-satisfied – made that abundantly clear.

John felt the walls closing in and the weight of years of politics on his shoulders. Not just Three's task but the impossible juggling act that would be dealing with the Board as well, petty and powerful and vindictive.

Some days, John wished he had never joined MI6.

It was Helen's first time in Venice. It was a visit she could have done without.

Her watch said it was five o'clock back in Helsinki by the time they slowed down to approach the edge of the Grand Canal. Local time was an hour earlier than Helsinki, but young children had little understanding of time zones and Helen was painfully aware that while Matilda's bedtime wasn't until seven normally, it had also been a trying day. Keeping her reasonably calm and well-mannered would be a fight. She could only hope that their kidnappers at least had the decency to have a bed for Matilda, if nothing else.

The boat finally reached a partially-submerged, broad staircase that led to a palatial house right on the edge of the water and came to a stop at the bottom of the staircase. Worn metal rings bore witness to decades or centuries of use by small boats used to ferry their owners around in a city built on water. The guard got out of the boat and turned back to watch Helen.

"Ma'am."

Helen obeyed the upspoken order and got up, Matilda in her arms.

The guard didn't try to offer to hold Matilda. Mostly likely, he remembered the flight and was sensible enough to know it would not go over well with the child in question. Instead he silently held out a hand to Helen, and she gratefully accepted the support as she got out of the boat.

Once on the actual stairs, Matilda squirmed her way down to walk on her own again. Helen let her. Ornate guard rails blocked the sides and Helen would be there to catch her if she slipped on the marble. Matilda's life jacket was removed and left on the boat.

The house looked like the set of an old Hollywood film. Weathered stones and brickwork in white and warm yellow and pale orange, the uneven staccato of the waves and water, and small, expensive-looking boats secured to the sides of the other houses around them. Small balconies overflowed with green, and an old bridge connected the two sides of a smaller canal a bit further down. The double doors to the house were made of wood, old but clearly well-maintained, and intricate arches surrounded the windows.

Helen didn't doubt the entire building belonged to one owner, for privacy purposes if nothing else. She also didn't doubt that with a location like that for a palace in the middle of Venice, they could have emptied their bank accounts and still only have afforded a fraction of the price.

The doors opened and they were met by another man. A domestic worker, dressed in neutral, professional clothes and meant to fade into the background. Helen did not miss the way he moved or the lean body that spoke of more than just fitness to stay in shape.

Outside, the house had spoken of wealth. Inside, the opulence was almost overwhelming.

Beyond a pair of tall glass doors, Helen saw a large courtyard with a fountain at the centre and meticulously kept flowers and shrubs surrounding it. Inside the house, a massive staircase rose to the full height of the building, opening up to each floor. Everything from the architecture to the smallest decorations kept a careful balance between historical and modern. Helen and John had been well-to-do in Geneva. This was a league of its own.

A woman appeared on the staircase, the sound of her heels a sharp note in the silence of the house as she made her way down to Helen. Long, black hair fell in perfect waves and emphasised long lashes and brilliant dark eyes. A tailored pencil skirt and high-quality silk blouse echoed the wealth it had taken to buy the house. Helen couldn't tell the designer by style alone but she knew enough to spot expensive fashion when she saw it.

Helen recognised her immediately. The woman was older than in the photos in John's SCORPIA files, but it didn't show. Julia Rothman was still strikingly beautiful and undoubtedly all the more lethal with another decade of SCORPIA's politics under her belt.

Sensual red lips curved into a smile that could have been taken from the glossy pages of a fashion magazine. Julia Rothman wielded her beauty like a lethal weapon and had left a string of bodies in her wake. For a moment, Helen felt self-conscious in her jeans and sweater; worn, comfortable clothes perfect for packing boxes and cleaning up.

She wouldn't have cared a decade ago, back in London when she had still been a nurse, and she knew it. Life in Geneva had left her aware of a lot of things she had never cared about before.

It was politics and an intimidation tactic, nothing more, and Helen embraced that knowledge and stood a little straighter. If Julia Rothman had a dress code in mind, she should have considered that before she had them kidnapped.

The smile widened, all soft lips and flawless lipstick.

"Helen," she greeted. "It's a pleasure to finally meet the woman who tamed Hunter."

Hunter. The elephant in the room. Helen didn't believe the theories that Rothman had loved John in any way, and neither did John. Coveted the weapon he had been, certainly. Seen the possibilities in having Hunter bent to her will, ready to obey her every word. But not loved. Julia Rothman was not a woman to allow such silly little impulses to get in the way of ambition. How she would treat Helen for being part of the reason that plan had failed … that was the question that had settled like lead the moment Helen had recognised her.

"Mrs Rothman." Formal. The careful approach. Helen had Matilda to protect; she would not risk anything that might aggravate their kidnapper.

Rothman reached out and took her hand briefly, a quick squeeze like they were old friends and Helen was just being absurd and stubborn about something. Her skin was as flawless as the rest of her but Helen felt the touch of callous. Those were not hands used to idle leisure. Helen would be surprised if Rothman couldn't match most of SCORPIA's operatives with a gun.

"Call me Julia, please. Mrs Rothman is so formal, and I expect we will come to know each other quite well. And this must be Matilda."

Matilda's grip on Helen's hand tightened as she watched Julia Rothman with a frown. It had been a long day; tense and unpredictable and full of strangers, and nothing Helen did could change that. Matilda had outgrown naps for the most part but Helen knew she still needed one now.

Please, Helen prayed to a God she didn't believe in, hoping beyond hope that a tired, overstimulated three-year-old wouldn't have a meltdown, and that Rothman wouldn't take badly to it. Please.

"No. I want Alex!"

The smile turned a little more indulgent.

"A young lady with opinions. Do encourage that. Society wants us to be ornamental. Seen and not heard. We are allowed to be skilled but never as good as men, of course. We should be pretty for our husbands and help them succeed, focus on our families, and have little ambition beyond that. That defiance will serve her well."

The words echoed something in Helen herself, ugly and sharp and bitter, but she pushed it aside. She had other priorities right now. It was early for bedtime but it was that or a meltdown and Helen knew it. Rothman had to expect some sort of fallout for dealing with a kidnapped child as well.

"She's three years old and it's been a long day," she said and kept her voice calm and even. A little tired and a little worried, but otherwise harmless. Nothing to make Rothman or Matilda react badly. "She needs to sleep soon. I can sleep on the floor but if there is a bed or a couch for her -"

"We're hardly barbarians," Rothman replied, but there was a slight, wry smile on her lips. Well aware of the absurdity of the words given the situation. "There is a room set aside for you. I was sure you would want to stay close to Matilda."

Matilda. Not Alex. The vice around Helen's chest tightened further.

"And Alex?" she asked before she could stop herself. "He's nine. He's a child, he's not a threat to anyone. Whatever John did -"

"Helen." Rothman's voice stopped her short. It was the voice of someone used to be being obeyed but it wasn't hostile and it wasn't a warning, and Rothman's expression looked a little regretful and – absurdly – a little fond. "I can't make any promises for your husband. His decisions are his own. But you and your children, both of them, will be safe. You are guests for now but I hope that one day you will come to consider Venice home, too. It's a wonderful city. Alex is quite safe, I assure you. He will be elsewhere for a few days for security reasons, but he will be protected and cared for. Three days, and he will be back with you again."

Security reasons. To make sure that even if John somehow slipped their grasp, he wouldn't be able to get to both Alex as well as Helen and Matilda. One location might be feasible with the element of surprise on his side but not two.

Alex, who had already been kidnapped, who had already been transported across half of Europe terrified and alone, who probably wanted nothing more than a hug and reassurances that everything would be okay, and it would be another three days before she could see him again.

Better, another part of her understood, than it could have been. He was alive, he was unharmed, he was safe. She would see him again soon. It could have been so much worse and she knew it. It didn't make the tightness in her chest or the knot in her stomach any less awful.

Rothman's expression turned thoughtful. "I think … yes."

A slight gesture summoned the servant that still waited a few steps away, so quiet and unobtrusive that Helen had almost forgotten about him.

"The white cardigan."

The man nodded once. Vanished through the door to somewhere else. Helen didn't believe the casualness for a moment. It felt too deliberate to be spontaneous but she wasn't about to risk losing what little goodwill she had with Julia Rothman.

Long seconds later, the man returned. He had something white and soft-looking over one arm – the cardigan, Helen assumed – but instead of bringing it to Rothman, he held it out to Helen. She hesitated for fractions of a second before she accepted it.

It was soft – very soft. That was her first impression. Warm. Feminine. Cashmere and undoubtedly pricey.

She let Matilda run a hand over the soft material and glanced over at Rothman in a silent question.

"We will have a few familiar items sent to Alex tomorrow when your belongings arrive, but until then it might be nice for him to have something to remind him of you. I'll have one of my people bring your cardigan to him. You can borrow one of mine instead."

Rothman's voice was warm and sincere, red lips curved into a sensual smile. Helen wasn't sure what was worse, Alex entirely on his own or with something there that reminded him of a home and family he wasn't allowed to see every time he looked at it, but she didn't argue. Just let Matilda hold the white cardigan while she slipped off her own and handed it to the silent servant.

The cashmere one was a perfect fit, like it was tailored to her body, and that only cemented her suspicion that there had been absolutely nothing spontaneous about it. It could have been from Rothman's own wardrobe but not with that fit. Their bodies were just different enough that it wouldn't have flattered her, and Helen understood that for the cardinal sin that would be to a woman like Julia Rothman.

It seemed to have offered a slight distraction for Matilda, too, because she held up her arms in a familiar demand to be picked up and Helen obeyed without hesitation. Matilda was no longer the tiny baby she had once been, but the weight was reassuring now and Helen didn't want to let her go.

Small fingers dug into the soft cardigan and Matilda settled into her arms.

"Dinner won't be for another few hours but I can have the kitchen arrange for something for Matilda," Rothman offered.

Helen considered it for a moment, balanced a child on the verge of a meltdown against the possibility that she was hungry again, and focused on Matilda.

"Do you want something to eat?"

Matilda shook her head against Helen's shoulder, and Helen wasn't that surprised. She had eaten a lot on the plane. It would have to do for dinner. The alternative was an overtired and potentially hysterical three-year-old.

Helen glanced back at Rothman.

"Just her bed, please."

Matilda needed it. Helen could feel the raw exhaustion of stress and worry gnaw on the edge of her awareness, too, but that would have to wait. She doubted she would be able to get away with simply falling asleep next to Matilda and waking up in the morning to find it all just a particularly vivid nightmare.

"Of course." Rothman managed to sound so sympathetic and understanding, too. Helen had known how well the upper levels of SCORPIA could play those games and had seen John's skilful manipulations at play often enough, but it was still an entirely different level of unnerving now.

Rothman led them up the staircase. Helen followed, the servant-slash-bodyguard some respectful steps behind. Enough to make it clear that while Helen was not a threat, he was paid to protect Rothman's interests and that included from stay-at-home mothers.

They continued all the way to the top floor. The decorations this far up were less opulent and more understated wealth, focused on comfortable luxury rather than impressions as their primary function. Helen assumed Rothman appreciated the added privacy and protection, and the view from the closed balcony doors was spectacular.

"The view," Rothman murmured, "was quite the selling point."

Helen didn't doubt it. The city spread out beyond the glass, a sprawling palette of reddish-brown roofs and colourful houses in yellow, white, blue, red; the canals and the sunlight reflecting in the water and the arches and curves of the distinctly Venetian architectural style. How many people had died to pay for that stunning view? Helen doubted Rothman knew or cared.

The room they stepped into looked expensive, that was Helen's first impression. Handcrafted furniture full of careful details, colourful blankets, art on the walls. It was connected to a second bedroom, already made as well. Hers, Helen assumed, though she had no intention of sleeping in it. Matilda's bed was sized for an adult and large enough for both of them, and she refused to leave her daughter to wake up alone in an unfamiliar place.

Matilda's bag was already on the bed and John had thankfully done a decent job with it. Mostly practical clothes. Her favourite soft toy, a blue seal that had stopped more than one meltdown in its tracks. Crayons and a sketchbook. No pyjamas, but she usually refused to keep those on, anyway. Basic toiletries. Someone had clearly been dispatched with instructions to see to any necessities, though, because there was a folded set of pyjamas and an unopened toothbrush and toothpaste of their usual brand waiting on the pillow, along with a selection of books. Helen recognised Goodnight Moon on top without any need to even read the title.

It also meant that someone had gone through their things already and known what to buy for Matilda. Helen had known it would happen. She had known that strangers would go through their home and remove every bit of evidence they had ever lived there. It still felt like a violation.

Matilda spotted the pyjamas almost immediately.

"No! I don't want it!"

"You don't have to," Helen assured her and meant it. The palatial house was clearly old but seemed to be kept warmer than their place in Finland, and the covers on the bed were soft and thick. She would be just fine without.

That Helen was well aware they were on the verge of a meltdown and that pushing would have tipped her over the edge … well. She would take what help she could get.

The bathroom was small but as expensive as everything else Helen had seen so far; newly renovated but with a style that matched the rest of the house. She bribed Matilda with the promise of as many bedtime stories as she wanted and got a reasonably easy round of toothbrushing in return. There was a flicker of worry that Rothman might get impatient but she had been accommodating so far and the selection of books had to mean she had at least some idea of how bedtime with young children could be.

The bed was large and soft, and the novelty of it was enough to make Matilda snuggle into the covers with little prompting, her blue seal held close.

At least she didn't understand quite how awful the situation was, that was Helen's only light in the darkness, however small it might be. She understood that something was wrong and Helen was sure things would not be any easier once she was rested, but it was a small mercy she would take.

She got through four rounds of Goodnight Moon and halfway through the second round of The Very Hungry Caterpillar before Matilda was finally asleep.

Helen tugged the blanket into place and brushed Matilda's locks away from her face before she slipped out of the room, door kept halfway open. Sometime during their bedtime routine, a table for two had been set up in the adjacent room, complete with white tablecloth and expensive-looking silverware.

Rothman was seated in one of the chairs, a glass of wine in her hand.

"I expected you wouldn't want to leave her so I had dinner brought here. A little early, perhaps, but it has been a long day."

To potentially have Matilda wake up crying, alone in a strange room and her parents nowhere near? The thought alone was enough to make Helen's heart ache.

"Thank you."

It was barely past five in Italy but six according to her internal clock, and Helen was exhausted. She doubted Rothman would normally bother with dinner this early but didn't comment when one of Rothman's silent shadows appeared with a tray. She was just grateful for the small reprieve.

The food could have come straight from a restaurant. The table set-up had made her expect something classic French but the reality was distinctly Italian. Seafood, pasta, white truffle. Italian wine, and tiramisu for dessert.

It was decadent and entirely over the top for just the two of them, but it still made her heart sting from homesickness and the memories of Geneva. They had lived a lie, but they had done it for seven years, and Helen's group of friends had been a diverse collection of people who all belonged to the self-made social circles that John had somehow manoeuvred his way into. Several of those families had been Italian, and Helen, whose main exposure to Italian food until then had been canned spaghetti, had fallen in love with their home-made tiramisu.

Caroline Morrison had long since vanished like the mirage she had been, but the memories lingered and the pain was still there. Finland was different enough that the reminders weren't as numerous as they could have been. Venice and the wealth that Rothman surrounded herself with was too close not to be painful.

Dinner passed in silence. The shadows grew longer and the elegant lamps took over as the sun set and the city settled into the warm glow of homes and street lights. Matilda slept a little restlessly but didn't wake up. Helen dreaded just how early she would wake up come morning but there was nothing for it. That was simply how it would have to be.

The dinner should have been stilted and awkward. Somehow, despite the awful circumstances, Rothman still managed to turn the silence into something comfortable.

It wasn't until the plates had been removed and two tumblers of amaro had materialised in their place that Rothman broke the silence.

"It's easy to become used to it, isn't it? The comforts of wealth," she murmured, low and intimate like a confession between the closest of friends. "To never have to wonder where food or money might come from next. My parents were militant Welsh nationalists; more devoted to the cause than their only child. They went to prison when I was six. I grew up with little and came into adulthood with even less."

How much did Rothman know about Helen's own childhood? More than Helen was comfortable with, based on that comment. She bought herself a few moments to consider her reply by focusing on the amaro instead.

The tumbler was heavy and beautifully decorated, and while the flavour of the amaro was unfamiliar, Helen didn't doubt it was as expensive as everything else around her.

"… My father had priorities," she finally said. "I was never one of them. I never want my children to experience the same. No child should."

Her father had been vocal about his opinions about anyone in a better situation than him and in Helen's experience, that had been most people. It had obviously been easier for him to be angry than to stop drinking, and no one had been willing to argue with him.

If her father would have hated everything about Alex and Matilda's upbringing, Helen considered it a job well done.

"Your father must have hated John," Rothman remarked and confirmed just how thorough her file on Helen was.

"He would have. He died without ever hearing his name. I was twenty-four when his liver gave out, and I didn't meet John until later that year."

A thorough file, but not perfect one. Maybe Helen could use that to her advantage eventually. Maybe not. It was something to keep in mind, at least.

"I had no contact with my parents after I moved away from home," Helen continued, more to keep up conversation than any need to correct SCORPIA's information. Rothman was in an agreeable mood for now. Helen needed to keep it that way. "My father might very well have had a heart attack if he had ever met John. One of the last sons of an old, wealthy family that had lost most of their money through carelessness and wastefulness, career military, and a rising star with the ability to charm just about everyone? He would have represented everything my father loathed."

"And to men such as that, anger is best taken out on those unable to defend themselves and too trapped to even think of looking for an escape."

Rothman's voice was soft. Sympathetic. Understanding. How many people had underestimated Julia Rothman? How many targets had died for their inability to look past whatever well-crafted cover she had relied on? Helen didn't know but she didn't doubt that Rothman had used her beauty and charm to devastating effect in the past.

Silence settled. Helen's mouth felt dry from the amaro and her own anxiety. Every whisper of sound from Matilda's room had her on edge, every shift in Rothman's expression, every sign at all that something was wrong. More wrong than it already was, at least.

Rothman seemed comfortable in the silence and maybe even indulged in it, because it took a while before she spoke again and the wait had nothing of the deliberate tension of someone trying to get a target to fill the silence with mindless talk.

Eventually, Rothman spoke again.

"Matilda and Alexander," she remarked, and anxiety clenched in Helen's chest. "Regal, ambitious names, suitable in a number of countries, but not unusual enough to stand out. They were your decision, I assume. The Rider side of the family hardly has a good record of naming children. John and Ian are dreadfully unimaginative names and the rest of the family … well."

Intimate and pleasant, like confidants rather than a case of hostage and captor. John had always stressed the sometimes complex politics that came with the upper echelons of SCORPIA. Helen believed him now. If anything, he might have understated the tendency.

"… I wanted something traditional but not too unusual. There are some awful names in their family tree."

Rothman laughed. Even her laughter was pleasant. Like this, Helen could understand how even a paranoid man like the late Mr Rothman had not just fallen for her but been enough under her spell to leave her everything with no provision in place in the event of his untimely demise.

"They were once a family of title and wealth," Rothman agreed. "More inbreeding than common sense in those. Cuthbert and Archibald were the most recent offenders in the naming department, weren't they? Twins. Uncles on John's side."

Just how closely had SCORPIA – or Rothman – studied John's history? It was not a thought Helen wanted to dwell on. Not with how closely they had apparently studied hers, and she was honestly just a side-note to Hunter.

"Another two generations further back, you'll find the original Cuthbert Archibald," she said instead and didn't rise to the bait. She doubted Rothman expected her to, either. It was a lazy cat with a toy, nothing more. "They were named to honour their grandfather, who incidentally had also come into money in his later years. An attempt to skip ahead in the inheritance line, as I heard the story."

"Not the most ambitious approach." Rothman's lips, somehow still with that flawless lipstick, curled into a small smile. Helen suspected she already knew the story.

"Not a very successful one, either."

Helen had never met them or anyone else from John's stories. By the time she first met John, the Rider family had been reduced to just him and Ian, and Helen suspected she was better off for it. John had always had plenty of entertaining stories from his family tree but he had never spoken much about his parents and neither had Ian. He also hadn't blinked at the necessity of an entirely new identity. From someone from a family with so much history, that spoke volumes.

Rothman's expression turned thoughtful as she watched Helen. Considering. It was not a comfortable place to be.

"Forgive me for my bluntness, but did you always want to be a nurse?"

It was not a question Helen had expected and it left her startled enough to scramble for a response.

"Pardon me?"

"Did you always want to be a nurse?" Rothman repeated and at least didn't seem offended by her confusion. "You had medical books in Helsinki, far more advanced that a nursing degree would require. Far more advanced than anything that could be needed to patch John or your children back up, too. Did you want to be a nurse or did you simply take what was available that would offer some degree of independence?"

Medical books. The feeling of being violated was back; the knowledge that even now, someone was probably going through their possessions and making note of anything of interest. There had been nothing secret in the house, nothing they couldn't afford to have exposed, but that didn't make the nausea lessen.

John had always emphasised the danger the people on SCORPIA's Board posed. Not just the ruthlessness and the resources they had available, but also the sharp intelligence that had seen them survive in the first place. Like this, the sole focus of Julia Rothman's attention, Helen had no problem believing that SCORPIA's founding members had been some of the best in the intelligence world before they found another career path.

"There is no shame in survival," Rothman continued when Helen didn't speak. "I married for money. For the sort of security that only wealth could offer. We both found a way out. How many of your friends did not? How many found other means of escape? Social nights at the pub. Meeting with friends. Weekends at first. Then Thursdays. Wednesdays. Until the week passes in a haze of low-paid work no man would care for, hours spent slaving away over housework and cooking, and evenings passed in the dull embrace of alcohol to ease the sting of lost opportunities and the dreams of more."

The lingering taste of the amaro turned bitter in Helen's mouth, sour and alcoholic and awful like spilled beer and cigarette ash, and she regretted ever touching it. It tasted like her nightmares of a world where she had never left and a future like her mother's.

How much did SCORPIA know about her life? How much had Rothman deduced based on that file? Too much, obviously, but that didn't answer the question.

This time Rothman seemed to expect Helen's silence because she continued, undeterred.

"At this point, the only realistic way for SCORPIA to spin this little mess to our advantage is to give the impression that Hunter always worked for us, and to make it convincing enough to be believed. Would it be easier with John alive and cooperative? Certainly, but it's hardly necessary. Hunter's children, raised in the lap of luxury in Venice and under the aegis of SCORPIA, will serve that purpose just fine."

Calm. Factual. Pure business. Then her voice changed again and her expression softened once more and the empathy and understanding was back.

"Aren't you tired, Helen? Of always being at the whim of John's job, of being the one to hold the house and home together, of being responsible for the children on your own, of never knowing if you need to run again? You would be able to return to your studies. To choose with your heart, not what practical concerns and survival dictate. SCORPIA always get what we want in the end. In this case, you simply have the chance to carve a brighter future for your children at the same time."

A brighter future. Compared to no future at all, should she prove particularly difficult. Helen understood that just fine. Alex and Matilda would be alive and protected but they would be entirely at SCORPIA's mercy, and the thought of a future like that for them was unbearable.

"John -"

"- has decisions of his own to make," Rothman continued smoothly and Helen didn't doubt that she would get no chance to see her husband until those decisions had been settled. "It will be a few days if all goes well. Consider it a job interview for him."

Divide and conquer. Except, in the end, John's decision would make no difference to Helen's. Alex and Matilda would always come first. She would do whatever it took to ensure that they wouldn't face a childhood as orphans.

"Helen?"

Helen closed her eyes briefly. SCORPIA held all the cards. For the situation, it was an exceptionally generous offer. Out of political concerns, hardly the goodness of anyone's heart, but – better than she could ever have hoped for. She would just have to make sure it remained that way, for Alex and Matilda and the future they would have.

"Yes." Then, stronger - "I accept."

Rothman smiled, warm and genuine and vibrant in the soft light. Helen had always imagined a black widow to be someone cold and distant and emotionless. Julia Rothman could have put a Baroque painting to shame.

"The sensible decision but I hardly expected anything else. I think we'll get along just wonderfully."

Outside, evening had fallen. Somewhere beyond the buildings and Grand Canal, Alex was entirely alone. Inside, in the warmth of a Venetian palace, Helen glanced at the empty tumbler of amaro on the table and wished for something stronger.

Chapter Text

The courtyard was still empty when Alex followed Dwale quietly outside. It should have been nice in the sunlight, but all Alex could think about was the other people on the island, and he was glad he didn't have to meet them yet.

"The student accommodations are in a separate building," Dwale said when Alex didn't speak. "All students have their own room during their stay. I trust you to be sensible enough to manage as well."

I'm nine, Alex didn't say. Just nodded. What else could he do?

Calm, connect, capitalize. Doctor Three had immediately known what he was doing but Alex had nothing else to draw on and wasn't sure what else he could do. Just try to stay on the good side of Dwale and the doctor and the rest of the killers on the island and hope for the best.

The doctor had said that his family was on their way, too. Did that include Jamie? Alex didn't know. If it didn't, maybe Jamie would know what to do. Maybe he could do something. Maybe his dad could. Alex didn't know what that something might be but – this was their sort of world. These were people they knew. If anyone could do something, it was them.

Up above, the bell tower loomed. Dwale had said it was all cosmetic damage. Alex still imagined he could see the mortar crumble between the bricks, and he looked away and suppressed a shudder.

The building Dwale led him to was large and rectangular and ugly and looked like it was about to fall apart, too. It looked more stable than the bell tower, but Matilda had made block towers that looked better than the bell tower so that was a low standard. The paint was peeling and there was a hole in the roof and several of the windows on the top floor were broken. The door didn't look any better but it opened without a sound and was made of solid wood with a metal core as well. If someone locked it, Alex suspected, it would be hard to get it open again without the key.

"We have seven students at the moment," Dwale continued. "You will meet them later, along with the teachers."

The knot of anxiety in Alex's stomach tightened at the thought but he didn't say anything. Just nodded again and followed Dwale up the stairs.

The room he was finally let into was on the second floor. Alex had expected something like the rooms the boarding school students in Geneva had lived in, but this was more like a very expensive hotel room. It was huge. The bedroom was right next to the door but overlooked a large, open living room one floor down with sofas, a desk, and a TV. Out the window, out in the distance, he could see the outline of Venice. There was even a fridge and what looked like a very fancy coffee machine with a basket of wrapped snacks next to it. The whole place was maybe half the size of their home in Helsinki, and all of it was just for him.

It looked very, very lonely.

Alex hugged himself and followed Dwale down the stairs to the living room. There was a stack of books and notebooks on the desk and clothes in neat piles on a sofa. The books looked like some of his mum's, large and heavy, and the clothes looked brand new. He didn't know what he was supposed to need for murder classes but he didn't like the ideas he got.

Maybe Dwale noticed, because he glanced at the books, then back at Alex.

"You're not expected to read all of them," Dwale assured him. "The lesson plan will let you know what will be covered in class during your time here as well as the code for your door."

Alex stared at the books. Electrical Engineering: A Practical Approach stared back at him from the top of the pile.

"That one is taught by Gordon Ross," Dwale said. The name meant nothing to Alex. "His classes cover a number of subjects. Lessons here tend to be practical while the reading material covers the more theoretical knowledge and background required."

Alex picked up the book and opened it at random somewhere near the middle. A detailed drawing full of lines and numbers and short notes took up one side. The other was all text.

- will not always be available and adjustments will be needed. Example 34.2 (opposite) illustrates one such adaptation used for an IBM Model M5-2 keyboard. It compensates for the unusual shape and restricted space by -

None of it made sense. Alex closed the book and grabbed the next one. That one was simply titled Poisons.

A quick check of the index revealed that it was exactly what it said on the cover.

Introduction: Every Flower is a Funeral.  Lesser-Known Poisons of History  -

Then, further down –

Practical Applications of Cross-Reactivity. Opioids. Molecular  Marvels : Designs for a New Millennium  -

Alex closed the book again. That one made even less sense than the first one did. He didn't know how he was even supposed to read all of it, much less understand it.

"Eijit Binnag's class," Dwale said. "She wrote the textbook as well. She is also responsible for the greenhouses here."

With that sort of book, Alex wasn't sure he wanted to get anywhere near those greenhouses. He doubted there was anything good in there.

The pile of books was still intimidatingly tall. The Art of Disguises, Psychological Manipulation, Interrogation Techniques, and it kept going. At the very bottom, two huge dictionaries completed the collection.

Alex looked away. He regretted ever agreeing to those classes, even if it had helped keep the doctor in a nice mood. He didn't understand half of what he had read so far and the half he did understand just made it worse. What kind of students did a school like that have?

… students like Jamie, Alex remembered. Students like his dad.

He wanted to go home. He wanted his mum. He wanted their life back in Geneva, when he had never known anything was wrong and the worst he had to deal with was having friends move away if their parents got new jobs somewhere else.

"Dinner is at seven," Dwale continued, like it was just a boarding school and Alex was just visiting for a weekend. "Dining in a group setting allows the students to put their lessons in manners to practical use and to practice small-talk and similar skills in a safer setting. Class starts at eight in the morning. The morning run is at six, with breakfast at seven."

Dwale stopped. Alex took his cue.

"… Okay."

He couldn't think of anything else to say. Everything felt overwhelming. So many things to remember and all he could think about was that he had never had to get up on his own before. His mum had always been there to make sure he was up on time. Was there an alarm clock or something? There had to be, right?

The silence stretched on. Dwale seemed to be waiting for something and didn't seem bothered, but Alex had to fight to not fidget where he stood.

The reason for the wait became clear long minutes later. A sharp knock on the door broke the awkward silence. Whoever it was clearly knew they were expected, because the door opened before Dwale could answer and footsteps followed as a man appeared and descended the stairs. He looked about as happy to be there as Alex felt.

"This is Professor Yermalov," Dwale introduced the man when he reached them. "He teaches close combat and physical education."

Professor Yermalov, scowling and dressed in black clothes that looked like a uniform, didn't look like any of the professors Alex had known. He looked mean, but Alex knew how to deal with that. Politely and carefully, like his mum had taught him. To be on his best behaviour so the professor wouldn't get upset with him.

"Sir."

Yermalov made an annoyed sound but it didn't seem aimed at Alex, not really.

"I won't coddle him," he told Dwale.

"The doctor doesn't expect you to," Dwale assured him, and the anxious knot in Alex's stomach tightened.

Another annoyed sound but that was apparently normal, because Dwale turned his attention back to Alex.

"Professor Yermalov will make sure you find your way around the school and assist you with any questions. Many of our former students have fond memories of the school. I hope you will have the same," he said and sounded so sincere that Alex wanted to punch him.

Then, without any further instructions for them, Dwale turned and left, up the stairs and out of sight. A few seconds later, the door closed behind him and silence settled.

Yermalov didn't speak and Alex didn't dare to.

Alone with the professor, Alex almost wanted Dwale to come back. You'll be quite safe, the doctor had said, but the doctor had also had him kidnapped – him and his mum and Matilda – and Alex swallowed but didn't speak.

The silence stretched on. Then Yermalov reached out and Alex instinctively took a step back before he could stop it. For a moment he was scared of what the man would do but all that happened was an impatient gesture towards Alex's arm.

It still hurt a little but Alex reluctantly followed instructions. Yermalov made a considering sound and the scowl eased a little.

"Skittish," he said. It sounded like grudging approval.

Alex forced himself to stay still as Yermalov pushed his sleeve up and inspected the spots where the needles had gone in, then turned his arm to both sides to get a better view of the finger-shaped bruises. Something about seeing them like this, dull red marks and dark bruises from the needles, made tears sting in Alex's eyes again.

"Not too bad. It will hurt. It will not slow you down."

His accent reminded Alex a little of the time he had spent with Jamie in Russia. The name sounded like it, too.

Jamie. Was Jamie all right? Were they going to target him, too?

Alex wiped his eyes with his sleeve. He tried to be subtle about it but it was impossible to hide under Yermalov's scrutiny. Alex wasn't sure what he had expected. To see the man's scowl ease further as he crouched down to be closer to Alex's height wasn't it.

"Boy." He waited until he was sure he had Alex's attention before he continued. "You are here because of politics. The best you can do is to go along with it. You are here under Dr Three's patronage. No one will dare lay a finger on you."

I don't care. I want to go home.

Alex didn't say that, though. Just nodded. He didn't trust his voice.

Maybe Yermalov knew. He didn't press for an answer, at least. Just watched him for several more second. Then he got back up.

"Get dressed," he ordered. "Exercise clothes. You have five minutes."

Alex's confusion must have shown because Yermalov looked vaguely impatient. "You need exercise and I want an idea of your prior training. Go change. Meet me outside."

Short, simple instructions. Alex could do that.

Yermalov, Alex quickly learned, was not a kind teacher. Despite Alex's first impression, he wasn't mean, either. Just stern. Maybe he was different with the adult students, but he was patient with Alex and didn't get mad when Alex reached the natural limits of his age.

They had jogged around the island – to warm up, Yermalov had said – and it had served as an extended tour as well. Most of the place looked as awful as the parts Alex had already seen. The paths were worn into the grass from use, not any kind of planning, and the trees and bushes served as a natural wall all the way around the island. No one could see what happened and the subtle security Alex spotted made sure no one would sneak onto the island uninvited.

There were large, low greenhouses shielded from view by old walls that had held up roofs that were long since lost. There was an obstacle course that looked like something out of the army. There was even a building with shooting ranges that looked a lot more advanced than Alex was used to.

Yermalov didn't talk much but everything he said had a purpose. Mostly, it was explanations or instructions or a lot of questions for Alex about what he did or didn't know already. In any other case, Alex would probably have been annoyed. Now, he was so focused on Yermalov and everything he had to keep up with, that for a little while he almost managed to forget the situation he was in.

"You can shoot," Yermalov stated, because that definitely wasn't a question. Alex didn't want to imagine what the reaction would be if he hadn't learned. "What age, and what do you have practical experience with?"

"Six, and Walther TPH and SIG Sauer P220," Alex recited dutifully. "I've used a shotgun and hunting rifle, too, but I only got a few weeks of experience with them and I don't remember the models."

Yermalov made a sound that was probably approval. That was how Alex interpreted it, anyway.

"Hunter was a good instructor."

Definitely approval, then. Alex didn't get to enjoy it for long because Yermalov carried right now, but he wasn't sure he wanted to linger on his dad being a good instructor at an assassin-school, anyway.

"Martial arts. Did you learn a specific one?"

Had he? Not that he had been told, at least. It had always just been self-defence to him. "No, sir."

"Hm. Perhaps." Yermalov didn't sound convinced. "Hunter's was a bit of a bastard mix, at least in the records we have available. Sensible approach. Harder to predict. Show me."

Alex was tired already but Yermalov moved before Alex even had time to realise it and he only barely managed to dodge the strike. It wouldn't have hit hard, he didn't think so – he didn't hope so – but it was a sharp reminder that Yermalov was the close combat instructor, and Alex didn't stand a chance against his dad or Jamie when they trained. He didn't think it would go any better with Yermalov.

Then Yermalov struck again and Alex's focus narrowed down to the man in front of him and his own desperate attempts to keep up.

The sun had set by the time Yermalov finally let him go. It hadn't been all physical stuff – you're nine, the man had told him gruffly, you don't have the training to keep up – but the barrages of questions when Alex did catch a break were almost as exhausting in their own way.

Twice, Alex had seen the adult students. Yermalov had stayed away from the large, open courtyard but it was a small island and the students had classes. Alex wasn't surprised to see them but it was still unnerving when he knew just what sort of people they were. It was a small group that seemed to know to stay clear of Yermalov and whatever was going on, because they didn't linger and didn't stare. Not obviously, anyway. Alex still felt the prickle in the back of his neck of someone watching him, but when he turned around, the students had vanished around a corner.

"They know to mind their own business. Excessive curiosity is unwanted."

Yermalov's explanation had been as blunt and harsh as he himself was, and Alex had wisely ignored them the second time they passed by at a distance.

Eventually, the shadows grew longer. The sun set. Lights hidden in the ground turned on. Finally, the questions and the tests stopped as well.

"It will do," Yermalov said. "The foundation is there. You had good instructors. Go shower. I will be back for you at a quarter to seven."

Right. Dinner at seven. What time was it? Alex had no idea. He didn't have a watch and there were no clocks around. The sun had set so … after five? But Venice was further south than Helsinki was, so 'after five' didn't say much. It could be past six for all Alex knew but he was so tired, he could have gone straight to bed.

It was easy to find his way back. The island was small and the bell tower never vanished out of sight for long. Yermalov still followed him all the way to his room and didn't leave until Alex had entered the code and closed the door behind him.

The room was dark and still. Silent and dead and with the sort of weird, dusty-clean smell of a hotel room where nobody had stayed for a long time. Alex turned on the lights. He could see what he was doing, at least, but the room was still too large and too quiet and too empty.

The books still waited on the desk. The clothes were still in neat stacks on the sofa. The clock said it was a little after six. He had about half an hour to get ready, then. The last thing he wanted to do was make Yermalov wait.

One of the sets of clothes looked more formal than the others. A shirt and nice trousers. Alex left them on the bed.

The bathroom looked like a hotel room, too. A tub and a sink and large, fluffy towels, but the bottles with soap and shampoo were full-sized ones. Maybe because the students stayed there for longer.

The shower was awkward. It was too tall and made for adults, not for a kid, and it took a few attempts to get the shower head far enough down that it was comfortable.

Soap, hair, rinse -

Vivid red caught Alex's attention and for long seconds, he just stared at his arm. The bruises had been bad earlier. Somehow hours of exercise and a shower just made the colour look even worse. It was sore and it hurt when he poked it and he knew it would be awful in the morning.

Alex forced himself to look away. The shirt would hide it, at least.

He got out of the shower and managed to get his hair mostly-dry with the large towel. The clothes fit, which made him wonder just what else they knew about him. He didn't want to think about that.

Yermalov knocked on the door three minutes early. Alex was already done and let him in immediately.

"Punctual."

At least that sounded like approval. Yermalov closed the door behind him.

"You are here to ensure Hunter's cooperation," he said with the bluntness that Alex had already learned to expect. "That is not the story SCORPIA wants to be told. The official story is that Hunter always worked for SCORPIA but was undercover as a freelance assassin. Enemies of SCORPIA found out and hunted down him and his family for revenge. SCORPIA saved you from an attempted kidnapping and brought you here for protection until your family could be safely extracted from Helsinki as well. That is the story you will remember. The students here know better than to ask, but body language will betray you more surely than words. Do you understand?"

He wouldn't just have to eat with the people who had kidnapping him and his mum and sister to get to his dad; he would have to pretend he felt safe with them, too. Because they had saved him. Because they were his dad's colleagues.

The knot of tension in Alex's stomach tightened.

"Yes, sir," he agreed, a little quiet but the best he could manage.

He felt sick. When did he last eat anything? He wasn't sure. He just knew that he wasn't hungry. All he wanted was to throw up.

Still, it was apparently good enough. Yermalov led him outside, away from the student building and towards another one that looked just as hazardous as everything else on the island. There was a hole in the roof and several windows were boarded up but when they stepped inside, it transformed the same way everything else had.

Fancy tables, expensive-looking lamps, white tablecloths, and painfully formal-looking chairs made the room look like one of those restaurants that Alex had always hated; with long menus he didn't understand half of and dinners that took forever to get done.

There were people, too. All of them were adults but some looked younger than others and Alex assumed those were the students. He wasn't sure what he had expected but they all looked … unnervingly normal. Like people he could have walked by somewhere and never noticed.

All of them but one. Alex's attention kept drifting back to one of the students. He was younger than the rest of them, maybe even a teenager, and while his skin was black, he had symmetrical white marks, too.

Were they scars? Did they hurt? It didn't look like it but Alex still felt bad for him. That would have been awful in school.

"Vitiligo," Yermalov said. Alex realised he must have stared and quickly looked away as the man continued. "His skin lacks pigment. Harmless but makes it hard to remain anonymous."

His voice was low enough not to carry. The room had gone silent at their entrance, but then the quiet background noise had picked up again. The stares remained, though. Nothing obvious but Alex was painfully aware of every flicker of attention in their direction, every glance that lingered a moment too long, and he did his best to ignore it.

Yermalov led him towards a table at the end of the room, right where everyone at it would have a good view of everything around them. The sort of spot his dad or Jamie would have approved of. Alex tried to ignore that thought, too.

The table was set for six with expensive-looking plates and silverware but only two of the places were taken, and both of the people were older than what Alex assumed were the students. They were probably teachers, then. Like Yermalov. They didn't seem to mind the empty seats and no one seemed in any hurry to come join them.

The woman was small, smaller than his mum, with black hair and dark eyes and a soft smile. She was Asian but Asia was huge and Alex didn't know enough to make a better guess. He wasn't sure it would make a difference, either. The man was red-headed, taller and a bit scrawny but with tattoos visible at the top of his shirt. Unlike the woman, he definitely looked like someone who belonged in a place like this.

"This must be Hunter's son," the woman greeted when they sat down. Even her voice sounded gentle, and her English was flawless. "It is very nice to meet you. My name is Eijit Binnag, but you can call me Jet."

Poisons. Alex recognised her name from one of the textbooks. She looked nice. Kind. Like one of those understanding teachers that never raised their voice and didn't mind if the lessons derailed a little, except she had written an entire book about poisons for people training to become killers, and she was going to be his teacher.

SCORPIA saved you.

"I'm Alex," he responded quietly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Professor Binnag."

That is the story you will remember.

"Gordon Ross," the man introduced himself in a heavy Scottish accent. "Polite kid, huh? What do you think of this place so far? Not your usual kind of school!"

Alex recognised that name as well. Electrical Engineering. Ross hadn't written that book but what Alex had seen of it made no sense at all, and he wasn't sure if that was better or worse than understanding all too well what Binnag's book was about.

What did he think about the school? A lot of things, and none of it was good, but Alex didn't say that.

Calm, connect, capitalize. It hadn't worked with the doctor but it was the only thing Alex had to rely on. The doctor had been pleased with his analysis. Alex hoped the same approach would work with the rest of the staff.

A silent waiter appeared with dinner for Alex and Yermalov both, and the brief interruption gave him a chance to think about his answer. By the time the waiter was gone again, he felt a little more confident meeting Ross' eyes.

"You want the students to do well. You have an entire school on a private island for just one small class. The teachers are good, because Dr Three doesn't seem like someone who accepts less than perfect. Either it's a very expensive school, and the students are only here because it's worth it, or it's free and you only pick the best of the best."

Alex's school in Geneva had been for mostly rich kids, he knew that now. Alex hadn't been there on a scholarship but his parents also hadn't been rich the way some of his classmates had been. Helsinki had been a huge change but he had liked it. It was less formal. More relaxed. And no one bragged about what their parents did, not the way some of the kids in Geneva had done.

This school reminded him of Geneva and that was the answer he went with. It wasn't the same at all, it was for adults training to be killers, but … the idea was the same. Small classes, good teachers, lots of individual attention. That was how his mum had described it when she had talked about his new school in Helsinki and the differences before he had started.

Ross barked a laugh. Binnag just smiled. Alex took that as approval.

"Sharp kid," Ross said. "No surprise from Hunter's boy. Eat! You're going to need that energy to keep up with the students tomorrow!"

Easier said than done. The nausea was right back at that reminder, and the food on the plate – some sort of pasta and seafood – was something he would normally have loved, but right now just the thought of food was enough to make him sick.

He still picked up the correct knife and fork and forced himself to take a bite. At least eating would give him an excuse not to be social.

The small bite was enough to remind his stomach that nausea or not, it was still hungry and the lingering effects of the drugs were mostly gone. The second bite was bigger and a little more enthusiastic and for a brief while Alex focused on the food while the quiet murmur of voices filled the room around him.

There was Coke in his glass – his favourite brand, too, which just reminded him of how much they seemed to know about him – and a glass of white wine next to it that he didn't touch.

It really was just like an expensive restaurant but Alex supposed that for a school that used an entire private island to teach seven students, expensive dining was the least of it.

Alex hadn't been to that sort of restaurant since Geneva but he dug deep for the manners he remembered and kept a close eye on the people around him for anything he might do wrong. Forks, knives, the proper way to hold the glasses, the right way to eat the pasta … based on the smile Binnag gave him, she probably knew what he was doing.

"Malagosto offers a broader education than you might imagine," she said and confirmed his suspicion. "One of the classes is essentially finishing school for ambitious young assassins. Manners, social skills, fashion, art, how to handle oneself in wealthier circles – everything one might need to blend in with the upper class. Dining like this offers the students a chance to practice this in safe surroundings. But with your upbringing, you would have a much better foundation than most of our students."

She smiled. It was probably meant to be friendly, but Alex didn't feel reassured in the least. Just nodded and focused on his food again.

She treated him like a potential student, not like a hostage. Did she know the truth? Did she even care? Alex didn't know. It could have been either. Yermalov had obviously known. The rest had to as well, didn't they? To make sure Alex wouldn't try to escape. That thought just made her and Ross' friendliness that much creepier.

Dinner dragged on. The conversation at the table was mostly Binnag and Ross discussing current events, half of which Alex knew nothing about, with the occasional comment from Alex when they asked him directly about something. Yermalov didn't talk. Something about that felt weirdly reassuring. Like there was at least one person who didn't try to pretend everything was normal.

Alex had lost any sense of time when he was finally allowed to leave. He had been completely focused on playing the role he had been told to, and everything else had been pushed down the list. His guess was that it was past nine. All he knew was that he was exhausted from the kidnapping and the drugs and everything and all he wanted was to be left alone.

Yermalov still followed him to his room. Maybe to make sure Alex didn't try to escape. Maybe to make sure he wouldn't get lost. Alex was too tired to want to think about it.

He was glad the man was there to remember the code for the door, though. Alex wasn't actually sure he could have remembered himself.

He turned on the lights. The room looked exactly the way he had left it … except for a small bundle on the bed that Alex didn't spot until he moved closer. It looked like clothes. Not like the clothes someone had already left for him, which all looked a little like a uniform, but – softer. Normal. A moment later, he realised the colour was familiar, too. It was one of his mum's favourites.

The door closed behind him. Yermalov was still there. Alex knew that had to be a bad sign. He still walked the last few steps and picked up the clothes -

- and he recognised the cardigan at the same time as the faint scent of his mum's perfume reached him.

Tears stung in his eyes and he wiped them away, beyond caring what Yermalov might think as he held the cardigan tight to his chest.

His mum was somewhere in Venice, his mum and Matilda, and he didn't want them anywhere near the doctor or anyone on the island but at the same time, he wanted to see them again so badly that it hurt. He wanted a hug, he wanted to hold Matilda, he wanted to make sure they were okay, he wanted to watch stupid cartoons and children's song he was too old for, and he was alone and no matter what that doctor said, he had no idea if he would ever see them again.

Alex didn't speak. Neither did Yermalov. Eventually Alex forced himself to let go and he carefully folded the cardigan before he put it back on the bed. He wanted it to look nice when he could give it back to his mum.

"Politics," Yermalov finally said with the same scorn in his voice that Alex had heard before. "Your mother and sister will be safe. SCORPIA has committed to the story that Hunter always worked for them. The most convincing proof of this would be for the world to see his wife and children thriving with SCORPIA. The best schooling money can buy for your sister and yourself. A SCORPIA-approved career later on. A gilded cage for your mother and approved pastimes for her cooperation."

Politics. It sounded awful, all of it, and made him feel even more claustrophobic than he already did. It all sounded so final. Like it had all been decided and they had nothing to say about it at all. And maybe they didn't, because right now it seemed like SCORPIA held all the cards.

Yermalov hadn't said that his dad would be safe, either, just that his mum and Matilda would be. Alex didn't ask. Yermalov didn't elaborate.

"Brush your teeth. Sleep. Don't stay up," the man instructed instead. "You need to be dressed and ready by six. Morning run, then breakfast. Classes do not slow down for students. Eat enough to last you until noon."

Another awful reminder, because there had been so many books and he'd barely had half an hour to himself and -

"I haven't done my homework." The thought was a surge of nausea and exhaustion. He was so tired his eyes hurt but he had classes in the morning and he hadn't even opened the books and it was too much and no time to do it in. "The books -"

"- will wait."

Yermalov sounded so sure. All Alex could think about were his teachers in Geneva and how strict they had been about homework and if the teachers here were anything like that -

"Classes are practical," Yermalov continued and cut through Alex's frantic thoughts. "Students are expected to read up on the theory in their own time. No one will expect you to know lessons you should not have needed to learn for another decade. Read the relevant chapters if you have time but sleep has priority."

The nausea was still there but Alex nodded. It was apparently good enough, because Yermalov gave him a curt nod in turn and left.

Once more, Alex was alone. For long seconds, he just stared at the closed door. Then he forced himself to move over and lock it.

Toothbrush. Sleep. He could do that.

Ten minutes later found him on the bed. It was large but a little too tall and a little too firm, and the bedding was heavy and didn't help his claustrophobia at all. Like the shower, the bed had been made for adults, not for him.

It was okay. He could manage. He just had to sleep there, and he was so tired, he could have slept on the floor.

Alex set the alarm on the bedside table and curled up under the covers, his mum's cardigan neatly folded on the other side of the massive bed.

He was asleep before he could change his mind and stay up to study instead.

Malagosto came to life long before the sun crept over the horizon. At five, the outdoor lights switched from their dim night state – little more than the barest of courtesies to anyone who might be up unusually late or early – to something that actually lit up more than just the paths. The larger lights for the courtyard were still dark but would turn on later to accommodate the morning workout.

John could see it all from his room. Well, 'room' was a little generous. It had been a monastic cell once, but that was still leagues better than the actual cells that Malagosto also housed. A simple but comfortable bed, an equally simple antique desk and chair, and a lamp that had been chosen to complement the style. No TV and no computer, though there were plugs for both.

He had spent most of the evening after his talk with Three picking Dwale's brain for anything useful about the school and the changes since his own time there. There were several neat stacks of papers on the desk, but numbers and reports could only tell him so much. Dwale, who had gone through the school well after John, had been able to fill in some of the blanks John knew he would find. The things Dwale had found himself lacking in the field. The parts of the curriculum that had never been useful. The parts of the day-to-day routine that worked and the parts that had somehow, for whatever reason, never clicked just right. It was only one former student's impressions but every bit of it would help.

John had gone over the room the moment he had been left alone, as careful and thorough as he would have been on any job. Three would know, of course, there was surveillance, but the doctor would have been surprised and probably disappointed if John hadn't taken the time to do it, anyway. He had known a few of the rooms existed but had never actually seen them himself. Sometimes they were used if a guest instructor was a less-than-social type who wanted to be left alone and have at least the illusion of privacy. Sometimes a promising student that struggled academically would be given the chance to catch up away from other distractions. And sometimes they obviously acted as a slightly more polite version of Three's cells for potential future instructors that attended their job interview under duress.

The room was on ground level in a corner of the building with a view of the courtyard. The walls were solid stone, thick and soundproof. Like the rest of the island, the monastery looked like a ruin from the outside but the core of it was centuries old and built to last. The only window in the room had the distinct colour of one-way glass; meant to look out of the room but make it impossible to peer in from the outside. It was also thick; the sound when John knocked on it left little doubt about that. Soundproof, too, then. Three's reasons behind the choice of room wasn't lost on John. If Alex attended classes, he would pass by outside. He would be in the courtyard for physical training. He would be so close that John would almost be able to reach out and touch him. They would be separated by mere yards, but behind soundproof glass and a mirror finish, it might as well have been an ocean.

John could have slept longer. He could make do with four or five hours of sleep but unlike Yassen, it wasn't his default. He needed the time, though, and he wanted to see as much as possible of the students outside. On a practical level, to maybe give him a slight edge on the test that Three had given him. On a more emotional one, because Alex would be out there with the students. Because he would be able to see for himself that his son was … as well as he could be, given the circumstances.

At five-twenty, the door opened and one of Malagosto's silent kitchen staff arrived with a tray. The surveillance was useful for that, at least.

The man set up breakfast with quick, efficient motions. He didn't talk and John didn't expect him to. In his time on the island, the kitchen staff had always been picked for their competence and discretion and he didn't expect that to have changed. They were expected to do their job, ask no questions not directly related to their responsibilities, and show no curiosity about the school or the inhabitants on the island, and they were generously compensated in return.

Malagosto's lower-ranking employees had seen a lot of students disappear and never return, had probably even seen some of those graves dug, and never blinked.

The man stepped back and picked up the tray.

"Would that be all, sir?"

"Yes, thank you," John agreed. The food looked delicious but he doubted he would enjoy it. The important things were there. Coffee and something substantial enough to keep him going. The rest didn't really make a difference.

The man left. As John started on his breakfast, the courtyard beyond the thick glass lit up as the floodlights blazed to life.

John grabbed the first report on the table but he didn't open it. The entire situation had been set up by Three but he didn't care. For now, he would take the chance to finish his breakfast as he kept an eye on the courtyard and maybe, just maybe, he would catch a glimpse of Alex. A world and five inches of solid glass removed from him but alive and reasonably safe, and that was all John could hope for at the heart of SCORPIA.

Alex's alarm went off at five-thirty. He should have been up sooner and he knew it but he was too tired and had needed the sleep.

There were a lot of things Alex needed but he was so exhausted he could almost taste it, like wool in the back of his mouth, and sleep came first.

He wanted to stay in bed. He wanted to go back to sleep and wake up in another five hours and realise it was all a bad dream. He didn't, and he couldn't, and instead he forced himself to get up and moving.

The clothes were on the chair where he had left them the night before, along with a bottle of water and an energy bar of some sort that he had found in the basket of snacks. Morning run at six, Yermalov had said. Then breakfast. Alex just hoped the candy bar, energy bar, whatever was in it, would help wake him up a little without making him want to throw up when he had to run.

Cold water on his face woke him up a little more. Then the energy bar, which mostly tasted like cheap chocolate and peanuts. Finally the workout clothes. All of them fit him, even the shoes, and Alex resolutely refused to think about it.

A quick check of the code to his room, because he was still terrified of forgetting it, and he was out the door ten minutes to six – enough time to find his way to the courtyard and not be late.

As it turned out, he didn't need to. Yermalov was already waiting outside the door.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Yermalov seemed to look for something as he watched him, but Alex couldn't even begin to guess what it was.

Somewhere on the floor below, a door opened. Footsteps appeared, then faded away again as one of the students went outside. Finally, Yermalov broke the silence.

"You are nine. You will not be able to keep up with the adult students. Do your best, anyway."

It seemed more like a vague attempt to calm him down than an order, but Alex had no real idea. It wasn't like it was something he didn't already know. He wasn't sure what to say to it, either. Instead he just nodded. There wasn't anything else he could do. Try his best. Try to live up to everyone's expectations. Fall miserably behind, anyway.

He already regretted eating the candy bar.

It was barely past six when Helen woke up to Matilda half-crawling, half-flopping against her side. She instinctively wrapped an arm around her and held a little tighter as everything that had happened came flooding back.

The room was silent. It was still dark, and only the occasional muted sounds from the city beyond the old walls revealed that they weren't entirely alone in the world.

Six was better than Helen had expected given how early Matilda had fallen asleep. She would take any small mercy she could find.

"TV, mama," Matilda demanded.

Any other day, Helen might have argued. As it was, she reached for the remote she had already made sure was within reach and turned on the TV that had been neatly hidden inside an antique-looking cabinet on the wall.

The room lit up, so bright it almost hurt. Helen flipped through the channels, looking for anything useful. Some of the channels were familiar from Geneva, some were not. Morning news, weather, some American drama series, cartoons meant for older kids, international news … eventually she stumbled over an Italian version of Sesame Street and settled for that. Matilda settled down with her.

A few minutes later, the door opened and one of the domestic workers slipped silently inside. Helen didn't recognise him but he had the same distinct sense of competence as several other people she had seen so far in the palatial home. Maybe not in John and Yassen's league but dangerous people all the same.

"Mrs Rider," he greeted her quietly, just enough to carry over the sound of the TV. Matilda glanced over, then ignored him in favour of better entertainment. "Mrs Rothman is unavailable at the moment but she would like to speak with you later today. Your luggage has been delivered to the adjoining room. Would you like some breakfast?"

"Please," Helen said, more for Matilda's sake and something to distract herself with than any real desire for food. "Thank you."

The man vanished outside for a moment, then returned with a small cart loaded with a generous amount of food. Coffee, that was the first thing she spotted. Bread, pastries, cut fruit, and several kinds of juice. Cereal, muesli, and milk, and a myriad of intricate little bowls and plates with an assortment of butter, jams, honey, and what looked like Nutella. Alex would have been delighted, and that thought brought the whole flood of worry back to settle around her heart as a steel vice.

Alex was out there somewhere. So close and so far and he was entirely alone. Alone and afraid, and there was nothing she could do. Nothing. Just go along with Rothman's plan, whatever it was, and hope it would keep her children safe. Three days, Rothman had said, and Alex would be back with her. Even that was no guarantee. Would she see John again? She didn't know that, either.

Helen held Matilda a little tighter and watched as the man arranged their breakfast on the ornate table in the room. It felt like an expensive hotel more than someone's home; all quiet, formal efficiency. How often did Rothman have quests she allowed to stay over? Probably not often. It was a house meant for hosting and was undoubtedly used frequently for that, but Rothman's work was not the sort that fostered enough trust to let someone simply borrow a bed to save on a hotel room or just enjoy some time together. Friendship alone would be risky enough and Helen doubted there was any of that to be found with SCORPIA, either. Useful acquaintances, certainly, perhaps even friendly colleagues, but not friends. Not someone actually trusted to stay under the same roof for any longer than a social event.

The man left. Matilda stirred enough to focus on the table rather than the TV.

"Bread, mama," she said. "With butter."

Butter, Helen knew, meaning as much as she would let her determined offspring get away with. An entire brick of it, if Matilda had things her way.

"And milk?" she offered.

"And milk," Matilda agreed.

Inside, the murmur of Italian voices carried from the TV, the show both familiar and foreign at the same time.

Outside, the day inched on, slow and relentless.

At a little past eleven in the morning, Yassen's flight departed from Karachi.

There was no easy route home. It would take two layovers and thirty-something hours to get to Tallinn, then an additional five hours to get to Helsinki and the current Rider home. He knew better than to risk a direct flight to Helsinki, but a flight to Tallinn and by ferry the rest of the way would do the job just as well … assuming, of course, no delays long enough to cause him to miss a flight or his ferry.

It was how it would have to be. It had been three in the afternoon the day before when the SMS had reached Yassen's phone. He had stilled the moment he recognised the number – danger, do not return – and the sudden spike of emotion had been confirmed by the message that followed.

You have 3 missed calls.

It had not been a mistake, then. It was significantly less likely to be, at least, with the three agreed-upon calls.

Yassen had known what it meant in practical terms as well. He had to assume the worst: that his operation – or what Hunter knew of it – was compromised and that he was about to become a target himself.

The uneasy situation in Pakistan offered some measure of protection. Yassen had risked the extra hours to finish up the job he had been paid for – more rushed than he would normally have risked, but doable – and then focused on the situation at hand.

Hunter and his family were compromised. Yassen was in Karachi. By the time he got back to Helsinki, any evidence would be gone if the attackers had been even remotely competent. Based on the fact that Hunter had been alive to send the warning but not add anything more, Yassen suspected someone had wanted them alive, which implied at least some degree of skills.

First step, Helsinki. Then … draw on his contacts and learn what he could through those means, because he doubted there would be anything left to go on.

Hunter was a valuable target. Sooner or later, his location would become known and Yassen's options would expand. Until then, he had to trust that the man could keep himself and Helen and their children alive and reasonably safe.

Hunter was one of the best in the world for a reason. Helen was a practical woman with a ruthless streak to rival him. Alex had already been trained well beyond any normal nine-year-old.

Yassen would trust in those skills now, because for thirty-something hours, there would be nothing else he could do.

Chapter Text

Dwale stepped inside John's room at precisely seven in the morning with a folder in his hand. John had expected him. They had talked the evening before and when Dwale had offered to drop by again to continue the conversation, John had agreed immediately. There was no guarantee he would get the offer again, and he knew he would have plenty of new questions once he got the chance to consider the information he already had.

It had been enough time to have breakfast. Enough time for a quick shower in the tiny bathroom. Enough time to find his equilibrium again after he had watched Alex outside the small window.

Alex had looked – all right. Better than John could have hoped for, given the situation. He had arrived with Yermalov, and none of the students had dared to approach him. There had been curious looks, John had seen as much before they had left for the morning run, but even with the world outside muted by the thick walls and window, Yermalov was still very obviously a man who did not tolerate disturbances in his class. That had offered a small degree of protection to Alex as well.

Alex had kept his arms wrapped around himself until the class had started. It could have been explained by the early morning chill but John knew his son's body language and the meaning was both obvious and unsurprising. Wary and tense; not necessarily afraid, but on unwanted and unfamiliar grounds and with no one to help him. No one but Yermalov, it seemed, and Alex clearly kept as close to the man as he could without drawing unnecessary attention.

John wanted to scream. He wanted to hit the glass until it – impossibly – shattered beneath his hands, he wanted to tear open the door, he wanted to do something, and he knew he couldn't. The glass was solid, the window too small, the door both locked and armoured. Three had planned his game well.

John wanted to do a lot of things. In the end he didn't and merely greeted Dwale courteously; the only thing he could do.

"Good morning. Coffee?"

"Please," Dwale said, willing to be courteous in return.

John let it set the tone for the meeting and poured a cup for his guest.

"I would offer breakfast but …" A gesture at the mostly-empty desk completed the sentence.

"… Breakfast here waits for no one," Dwale agreed. "I hope the service was acceptable."

"Excellent as always," John said honestly. "The standards of Malagosto's kitchen always complemented the Countess' lessons well."

Dwale put the folder on the desk to join the papers already there. John had been given no computer, no electronics at all, which meant that everything from class schedules to accounting reports had been left for him on paper. It was a bit of a mess but nothing John couldn't work with.

"I found several reports you may be interested in," Dwale said. "Students whose graduation assignments went wrong but who survived and succeeded in spite of it. Their experiences may be of interest to you."

John had mentioned it the night before. The lack of any sort of detailed interviews from graduated students. Malagosto looked at statistics, at survival and success rates, at the general feedback from the students and instructors and those who worked with the graduates … but no one had sat down and really asked those graduates, after a month or a year, what they turned out to lack in the field. Where their education had failed them. By then they would be deep in the messy business of corporate terrorism already and picked up what training they needed on their own, and SCORPIA's attention would have turned to the newer students.

John flipped through the first few. Standard reports but more detailed than usual, and nothing was redacted. Names, locations, dates, mission objectives, everything was there.

The implications were obvious. Dwale had no issue giving those reports to John, because either he would fail Three's test and be disposed of, or he would become an instructor at the school again. Either way, it wouldn't matter that he saw potentially confidential information.

Operative: Lyra. Novosibirsk, 16 June 1991. Mission objective -

Operative: Talwar. Nairobi, 3 November 1993 -

Operative: Sarissa. Montreal -

The names meant nothing to him but they didn't have to. What he needed was details, and those reports promised just that.

"Thank you," he said and meant it. Both for the information and the meaning behind it. Dwale hadn't needed to find those reports. Based on when he had left the evening before, it had probably cost him actual sleep to find them. That he had still done it meant that he wanted John to succeed, which in turn meant that Three's offer was likely genuine. That if John could make himself useful enough, Three would in turn use his own influence and persuasive abilities to ensure John and his family's survival.

Dwale nodded. Glanced at the papers and John's notes, then back to John himself. There was a flicker of genuine curiosity in his eyes. Genuine, or skilfully faked, but John suspected the former.

"You have a preliminary idea, I expect?"

There were plenty of situations where John would have said nothing. Now, at Malagosto and surrounded by surveillance and any number of enemies, he saw no reason to lie. That wasn't mentioning the very real possibility that Dwale's evaluation would have something to say in his future survival, too. Three trusted Dwale's judgement. That sort of trust did not come easily.

"The school has a problem with experience," John said bluntly. That had been the gut feeling he had come away with after his first talk with Dwale, and the documents he had gone through so far had only strengthened that impression. He expected the new files would only support that case further. "Both from the students and the people who screen the candidates. The average number of students in class has been steadily increasing over the past decade. Not fast but the trend remains. Currently it's at nine. The time they spend at Malagosto has decreased over the same period. By less, but somewhere, somehow, on average a month of training got shaved off. Classes and training got optimised over the years, that accounts for some of it, but the curriculum has been expanded as well. More students and a larger curriculum doesn't mesh well with a shorter time to learn it in."

Dwale nodded, conceding the point. "Malagosto, in its early years, was an experiment. Students were nurtured in a different way. Over time, classes grew and the curriculum was adjusted to suit demands. With those adjustments, SCORPIA broadened the search for candidates, too. The standards for newly accepted students have increased over the years. As a result, the percentage of failed students has remained roughly stable."

"All of them lost profits. People who could have paid back the cost of their schooling and made SCORPIA a very decent profit over the course of their exclusive contract. I suspect that some of these were preventable, too," John said. "Not all of them, but some of them should have been caught in the screening process and never allowed on the island. Some of them just needed a bit more time and experience and should have been spotted and given that month or two extra. They weren't, though, because there is no central, standardised screening process, and no experienced operatives to help approve them who might have a better idea of the real world requirements. Fifteen years after the school was founded, Malagosto still finds her students mostly through serendipity. Through word of mouth or fortunate encounters or former students who find potential prospects through their work. For an organisation as streamlined and profit-focused as SCORPIA, that's a shit way to run it."

Had he pushed it too far? John wasn't sure. He had several long seconds to wonder, and then Dwale smiled. A little wry but genuine. A bit of the personality behind the shield that was a requirement for anyone who was around Dr Three on a daily basis.

"Your file did state that you were known to be unusually blunt with the executive board at times. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that hasn't changed."

"I would never have been able to get as far as fast as I did otherwise." Blunt and honest to match Dwale's words. It cost him nothing to admit, not now when the strategy wouldn't work again, anyway. "Was I skilled? Sure. There were others who could have become just as skilled with the right training and time. But the Board is surrounded by people terrified of speaking up, picked for their obedience and ability to follow orders without question. It was a gamble but it worked and got me the attention and favour I needed."

"I think we've all wondered sometimes how you did it," Dwale mused. "Risky, though."

"A calculated risk," John agreed. A heartbeat, and he continued. "I was young and stupid and invincible. The danger was a drug in itself. Now, with a family? The risk would have been too much. But we didn't have Alex or Matilda back then, and I was too blinded by the thrill of it all to consider the consequences it would have had for Helen if I had gambled too much and lost."

Dwale made a sound of agreement. "Malagosto's students are usually in their twenties and with little or no close family for a reason."

Young, impulsive, stupid; thrill-seekers with nothing to lose and everything to win. John knew the profile.

Which brought him to another question.

"'Usually'," he agreed. "But not always. Did the general age requirements get lowered? Cossack was on the limit of it and one of your students out there looked even younger than him. Once you start recruiting teenagers, the risk that they don't have the ability to keep up increases exponentially."

"It does," Dwale conceded. "Sometimes, there are exceptions. Unusually talented students like Cossack and -"

"- Nile," the youngest of the students introduced himself.

Alex remembered him from the night before. Up close, it was obvious that the white areas of his skin weren't old scars or anything, they just … didn't have any colour. He was also really, really young. Alex wasn't good at guessing ages but he was pretty sure Nile was still a teenager. Like Alex himself, he probably still belonged in school. A normal school, not somewhere for killers.

Jamie, Alex realised, hadn't been much older when he was at the school. He had always been the cool older brother to Alex. It wasn't until now, staring at Nile, that he realised how young Jamie had been.

It was the first time any of the students had talked to him. Alex had arrived with Yermalov for the morning run and no one had been willing to talk while he was there. He had clung to that safety through the whole class.

Half an hour of exercise later, Alex had been too exhausted to do anything but grab a shower. His lungs had burned and he had side stitches and his arm had hurt from the bruises and needle marks both, but he had completed the same run as the rest of the students. Yermalov hadn't said anything when he had escorted Alex back to his room but Alex got the impression he wasn't displeased, at least.

Now Alex was on his own. Yermalov was with the other teachers at a separate table and Alex found himself entirely alone in the middle of a class of people training to be killers.

Like Jamie, Alex's mind added treacherously. Like dad.

If the doctor hadn't lied, at least, and Alex didn't think so. Everything made too much sense for that. Everything he hadn't realised never added up right before.

Nile smiled. It was warm and friendly and Alex was absolutely sure that nothing about it was real. He still forced himself to smile back.

SCORPIA saved you. That is the story you will remember.

He had managed all right with the teachers at dinner. He had been polite and attentive and mostly let them talk and that seemed to work well enough. He could do that again.

"Alex," he said. Nile had only used one name and Alex mimicked that now. Even if everyone seemed to know who he was. Nile nodded and Alex knew he had figured it out, too.

"Hunter's son." It wasn't a guess. It didn't sound unfriendly, either. It made Alex wonder what everyone else had been told. They all acted like he belonged there. Like he was welcome. Like his dad was welcome, too. Did everyone else believe the story Doctor Three had created? That his dad had always worked for SCORPIA? Or did they just go along with it like Alex did because they didn't have a choice?

With the ice broken, it seemed like Alex had lost the last bit of the protection Yermalov had offered.

"How do you like the school so far?" another of the students asked. He was older. Mid-twenties, maybe, but Alex wasn't sure. He sounded American, though, and almost enthusiastic. "Your dad taught here once. He was one of the best instructors SCORPIA has ever had. He trained Cossack."

Another weird name for what had to be Jamie. Another one Alex didn't like. But then, he didn't have to. He just had to stay safe for as long as he could, and if the people around him idolised Jamie as much as Alex himself did, that would make his goal a little easier.

"It's – a little scary," Alex admitted honestly.

The breakfast on his plate, beautifully arranged and enough to feed him several times over, probably tasted great. Alex got nauseous at the thought of it but still forced himself to eat a bite of fruit. At least to give himself a tiny break to think about his answer.

Calm, connect, capitalize.

These were people who obviously thought highly of Jamie and his dad. It was the same school, the same training, and they would probably have to live the same sort of life as Jamie and his dad, too. Always lying, always being someone else, always hunted. This place was a nightmare to Alex but to people like them … maybe it was the first time they could actually be honest about what they did and what sort of people they were. He could use that.

"It's – weird that people suddenly know my dad and – Cossack like that," he continued quietly, catching himself before he could say the wrong name. "It's always been a secret. I was never supposed to talk about stuff I learned. About the shooting lessons and self-defence training and how to remember a new identity and – everything. It was always a family thing. No one else could know. And now there's a whole school like it, with classes and instructors and everything."

"It's a little overwhelming at first," the enthusiastic student agreed. "You've always known that the only way to survive in this world is to keep your trap shut and suddenly you're in the assassin Ivy League and being graded on this stuff. I'm Julian, by the way."

"Pleased to meet you," Alex responded automatically. It bought him a few seconds to think about his reply as well. He had guessed right, then. The lack of secrecy at the school was a big thing, at least for some of them. "I think overwhelming is right. Even if it wasn't supposed to be a secret, there wasn't really anyone I knew who would get it. I don't think anyone else at school learned to shoot when they were six or had a safe-room in the basement or trained what they were supposed to do if they had to leave in a hurry."

"Useful things to know," Nile agreed, "but few children learn. I was seven when I first held a gun. The recoil was awful but it was a large gun and I was a small child. With a better weapon for your size and a teacher like Hunter, you will never need to unlearn the bad habits some develop."

There was an edge to the last sentence, almost a taunt, but it wasn't aimed at Alex. He recognised it for what it was. He had been young when they left Geneva and the sort of school where politics really mattered but he recognised a power play when he saw it. None of the students around visibly reacted but Alex was sure it was aimed at some of them.

He took a careful sip of the juice by his plate and considered his next move. He didn't want to get involved in that kind of politics, and he really didn't want to know what would happen if one of the other students lost their temper. He had to trust that it would be okay and that they wouldn't keep someone at the school who was a risk like that, but he didn't know and his mum and Matilda's safety relied on his good behaviour. He had to play along.

Calm, connect, capitalize.

Alex's eyes drifted back to Nile, or more accurately to the two sword-handles he could see over Nile's shoulders. Alex had first seen them during the morning run and hadn't been able to ignore them since. They looked like samurai swords but not as big. Maybe half the size based on Alex's best guess. Smaller than the swords Alex had seen in museums but definitely not small. He couldn't even begin to imagine how Nile kept up with all the physical training while he had those things strapped to his back. Either he was really good at it or really determined. Maybe both.

Alex's curiosity nagged, and people liked to talk about themselves, his mum had told him that. If he needed someone to like him or to stay on someone's good side, let them talk about themselves. Pretend to be interested for as long as he had to. In school, he had been able to get people to talk about football or cars or TV or whatever else they liked. Here, even he knew that it was dangerous to share too much personal stuff but they still talked and they were still social. It was obviously just about other topics instead. Weapons and training and politics and homework and anything else that was safe enough to discuss.

Alex bit his lower lip slightly and tried to make just the smallest bit of his nervousness show.

"… Can I ask about your swords?" he said and tried to put the same awe and fascination into his voice that he had the first time he had seen Jamie shoot.

Nile's smile warmed. Alex wondered if he had expected him to ask about his skin. Alex imagined he probably got asked about that a lot.

"These are just for practice," Nile replied. "The blades are dull. Professor Yermalov won't allow me to use them in the field unless I can prove they won't be a liability. If I can pass his classes while I carry them, he'll approve them in the field. He hasn't taken them from me yet, so I think I've done all right so far. It can be awfully hard to tell with him."

Alex could imagine. Yermalov had seemed strict but not actively mean so far, but it was hard to read him when he looked perpetually unhappy about something. He had also been a lot harsher with the adult students than with Alex himself. If he had been satisfied with anything they had done, Alex hadn't noticed.

"The real ones are Japanese," Nile continued as enthusiasm crept into his voice as well, "and I learned to use them two years ago. I practised what I could but I didn't have a real instructor until I arrived here. They are called wakizashi and -"

Nile happily spent several minutes explaining the details and logic behind his swords and when that topic wrapped up, the conversation around Alex easily moved on to the merits of them and different types of weapons in general. The talk flowed easily, a steady stream of words as one comment followed the other, and Alex felt his tension ease a little. Enough that he managed to finish his breakfast, at least. He could just listen. He didn't have to join in and he wasn't sure what he could have contributed with, either. He didn't know half of what they were talking about, and right now it seemed safer to pretend be cautious and quiet but smart and well-trained than to open his mouth and prove to everyone how little he actually belonged in their classes.

… Their classes. For a blissful second, Alex had forgotten about those. He still hadn't done the reading for the day and the moment the teachers started to ask him questions, they and everyone else would realise that he had no idea about any of it.

At the teachers' table, Binnag got up. She laughed at something Ross said, then smiled and left. She had told Alex to call her Jet but he didn't dare, not even in his own mind. Not when she was one of his teachers. He didn't dare slip up.

Her class was the first one of the day. She had written the textbook, too, and – how was he going to do this? Yermalov's class had just been physical training and Alex liked to move and climb and learn martial arts. That had been something safe and normal. Binnag's class had an entire textbook just about poisons and Yermalov had told him about the greenhouses, too.

Alex wanted to throw up. The smell of breakfast was too much and too heavy, the juice too sour and the food in his stomach too heavy, and – he had to keep moving. He didn't have a choice. He clenched his fists and felt his nails dig into his palms and focused on breathing until the awful sense of nausea went away enough that he would focus on other things again.

He could do it. He could. He had to.

The students got up, still talking a little among themselves. Alex followed along as they left.

Up ahead, Nile slowed down slightly until he kept pace with Alex. He moved the same way Jamie did, graceful and silent like the dancers Alex had seen at school once. Jamie could move through the house without a sound if he wanted to. His dad could, too. They never did, because it seemed to bother his mum, but he knew they could. He was sure Nile could do the same. It made it hard to forget that this was the same place where Jamie had been a student and his dad had taught.

"You'll be all right," Nile assured him in a low voice when the rest of the students were a few steps ahead of them. "The classes are practical and the teachers are used to new students. Pay attention to the lessons and the rest of us and you'll be fine."

It was good advice. Alex got the unspoken part of that just fine, too. He hadn't been quite as subtle about copying the rest of them during breakfast as he had hoped but at least it seemed like Nile approved. He also seemed to understand that Hunter's son or not, Alex was entirely out of his depth. Maybe because he was young, too. The oldest of the students looked like they were Jamie's age. Nile probably looked like a kid to them, too.

"I'll try," Alex said quietly, because there wasn't much else he could do.

Nile nodded. Up ahead, the building with the student accommodations loomed. In half an hour, Alex had to be ready for Binnag's class. He wanted to throw up again.

"The teachers want us to do well. There are punishments for failing, of course, but they all want us to succeed and survive. Sometimes, it's easy to forget what this place actually is," Nile confided. "Some days, it feels just like a very exclusive -"

"- Private school," Rothman said. "Venice has a perfectly acceptable international school. Nothing like Alex's school in Geneva, of course, but a respectable institution nonetheless. Private tutors and home schooling is an option, too, but it would be cruel to keep a social child like Alex away from other children."

It had been shortly before noon when Julia Rothman had appeared like a force of nature, taking over the room through sheer presence alone and chatting like they had always been friends. Helen, with no other choice, had gone along with it.

Matilda's play mat had materialised with the rest of their possessions that morning and it was now spread out on the hardwood floor for her to play on, the best Helen could do to protect the place from an enthusiastic young child.

With Matilda in familiar clothes, playing with familiar toys and ignoring her mum for a moment, Helen could almost imagine they were just visiting one of John's wealthier friends from Geneva. Almost. Then she would spot one of the suspiciously fit security people and be reminded of the truth of the situation again.

"The school in Geneva was an investment," she said and slipped into the same mindset she had learned as Caroline Morrison. The small-talk of the wealthier circles; the right schools and their children's futures and whatever charity they had decided to get involved in as a hobby. "It was expensive, of course, but it had a reputation to match the tuition."

"More than just a school," Rothman agreed. "A place to build networks and connections that can last a lifetime. We both had to claw our way to something more agreeable. It's a privilege to give the next generation the support we never had."

It was hard to imagine Julia Rothman, the only woman on SCORPIA's executive board, as anything but the powerful figure that could command a room with her presence alone. It was certainly hard to imagine her as Helen remembered herself; alone and powerless and on the brink of exhaustion as days and months and years passed by. Rothman had done well for herself. It was never the life Helen wanted for her own family but she could still see the appeal in that sort of influence and the agency it offered.

"I always hoped we would be able to stay," Helen said, a deliberate confession she was sure Rothman had already figured out. "Give Alex and Matilda a much better start in life and as many opportunities as possible for their future. Those connections would have been priceless."

"Set them up for life." Rothman sounded amused. Amused but approving. Maybe at the thought that Hunter's harmless wife would be so calculating. Helen was used to being underestimated. "A good school, a good education, a good marriage."

It sounded cynical when she put it like that. Helen shrugged. She didn't feel ashamed about those hopes and certainly not around someone like Rothman, who had done that and worse for financial stability. If Alex or Matilda married for love and their partner happened to come from money … well. That was just a bonus, wasn't it?

"John certainly did his part to help fit into those social circles," Rothman continued. "Half a year, and he was firmly embedded in insider trading, stock market manipulation, and whatever other little hobbies his new social circle got up to. A very profitable side business. It covered nicely for his other income, I imagine."

Helen didn't ask where Rothman got that information from. She doubted it was hard to find out for someone with SCORPIA's resources.

"He was always a social chameleon. Charming, charismatic, able to fit in anywhere. I smoothed over any cracks in the cover and fixed any mistakes that might have been caught. A charming man is much less suspicious with a loving, attentive wife by his side."

Rothman offered a wry smile in return. "He had a remarkable career with SCORPIA for a reason. Skills and the right personality is a powerful combination. Even we were probably less suspicious than we should have been. He had a wife at home, after all, trapped in England and with little money to support herself. There were none of the usual warning signs of an undercover agent."

Until they had found out about him, anyway. Until nine years on the run had finally ended when the consequences of MI6's mistakes caught up with them.

Helen closed her eyes briefly. On the play mat, still reassuringly close to Helen, Matilda was carefully covering a piece of paper with every single colour of marker she had.

What could she say to that comment? I'm sorry? It had not been her decision and even if she wanted to, it was hardly her apology to make. John had simply done his job.

It was also a reminder of what she was up against. Rothman and Three seemed to consider Alex and Matilda more valuable alive and unharmed than dead, if only as living proof that Hunter had always been SCORPIA's, but there was no guarantee the rest of the Board could be persuaded to see the logic behind that as well. She couldn't rely on John, not when he was the very reason for the animosity of the Board in the first place, which left her with precious few resources.

The pragmatic approach, then. John had spoken at length about the people in charge of the behemoth that hunted them. All male apart from Rothman; intelligent men with the arrogance that came with power and influence, little to no capacity for empathy, drive and ambition because no amount of money and power was ever enough, cut-throat politics, and ever-shifting alliances. They were a horde of predators more than anything, willing to turn on each other at any sign of weakness, and that made them somewhat predictable. Enough that she could work with it, at least.

She had known men like them before. Much less dangerous and influential, but still doctors and professors in powerful positions who could make or break a career with a word.

SCORPIA wanted to sweep Hunter's betrayal under the rug. Hunter's wife would be perfect for that. Competent but agreeable and harmless. Familiar with SCORPIA's world but trained for self-defence and to protect her family, not as a combatant or operative. Willing to remain at Hunter's side for her family's sake but slowly wilting under the stress of never having a home or a steady future. Enough medical training to be a potential assistant at Malagosto's small clinic or to handle what administrative work Dr Three's people did not have time for, but with no ambition other than to see her children thrive and grow.

It would be a balancing act but it wasn't impossible. Being useful would keep her alive and would help protect Alex and Matilda. Everything else was secondary.

Rothman clearly interpreted her silence as fear, because when she spoke again, her voice was warm and reassuring like the best of friends.

"We hardly blame you, Helen. You remained faithfully by his side but the choice to join MI6 was his own, and John Rider is hardly one to be dissuaded once he has made up his mind. A proud, stubborn man. I can't imagine you had much say in this whole mess, either."

Helen allowed herself a sigh. "The risks were awful and I never trusted Alan Blunt."

A heartbeat, enough to give the image of hesitation, then -

"And what was the alternative?" she continued softly. "Divorce? There was a prenup in place, I would never have seen a penny. I would have ended up alone in a tiny apartment somewhere with nothing to my name and the loneliness where my husband should have been. I still ended up in a tiny apartment in an awful area in the name of John's cover but at least I had the hope that John would return to me alive and well. And … there was a degree of protection in that as well. I was married to a murderer, but I had waited faithfully for him. Maybe I had an awful taste in men but that loyalty was worth a degree of respect."

Rothman made a low sound of agreement. "Divorce can be such a messy business. Widowhood is much simpler."

From a woman whose fortune was founded on her dead husband's business, the words were no surprise. It was undoubtedly the approach she would have chosen in Helen's situation. Life with John away had not been easy but … Helen had loved him enough to accept it. Loved him enough to follow him when their old life was no longer safe. Still loved him now, after almost a decade on the run.

She could have handled a divorce but she would never have had Alex or Matilda, then, never have had the family she had dreamed of, and she would take John's terrible choice of career any day if the result was their children.

Their children.

A reminder of another thought that had kept her awake that night. Not just Alex and Matilda but Yassen as well, several time zones away and entirely on his own. Had John managed to warn him? Helen didn't even know that much. They hadn't been left alone for a moment and had no chance to talk at all. John had been on his own for a few, brief minutes in Matilda's room. Nothing more.

Had it been enough? She had no idea and her heart clenched at the thought. It didn't seem like they were actively hunting him but Helen was well aware that it was only a matter of time. Yassen was too skilled for SCORPIA to allow him to remain at large and freelance with Hunter back in their grasp. No one had asked her about him but they might simply have decided John was the better source of information and asked him instead. If John hadn't managed to warn him, Yassen would be completely ignorant of everything that had happened. At best, he would return to Helsinki and simply find them gone. At worst, SCORPIA would hunt him down and he wouldn't know until it was too late.

Helen took a slow breath and the slight shift caught Rothman's attention.

"Helen?"

Low and pleasant and so genuinely concerned that Helen could almost delude herself into believing it.

Was it better to say nothing? To hope that they would write Yassen off with their primary target firmly under control? But SCORPIA never forgot and while it might be a risk, she had to try. For the skittish, abused twenty-year-old she had first met and the man he had grown into.

"Yassen," she said and Rothman nodded.

"Cossack. He always had the potential but the killer instinct wasn't quite there. John took a raw diamond and shaped him into a rare jewel."

An exceptional asset for SCORPIA, maybe, but a fragile, young man to Helen; the traumatised child that had finally learned to trust again, and she couldn't just stand aside and let SCORPIA's machinations destroy that. Not if she could do something to stop it.

"He was barely twenty when we took him in. He was a child when he learned about John's betrayal, not even out of his teens. He was terrified of the consequences if the Board decided he had been an accomplice, and he had nowhere else to go. He's no threat to you, not with us here in Venice."

Not with John under SCORPIA's thumb. Not with Alex and Matilda in Julia Rothman's care.

Rothman made a low hum. Careful. Considering. It might have been agreement. It might not. Helen had no way to tell.

"We have a team closing in on his location as we speak," Rothman said, calm and casual like they weren't discussing Yassen's life, and Helen's heart skipped a beat. "There was always the concern that two killers of Hunter's calibre would be too much to control, and it would be enough to keep Hunter alive, but perhaps that decision was too hasty."

Fear settled, cold and nauseating and overwhelming, and the images were too easy to see. Yassen hunted down with no idea that he had even been compromised, every escape route cut off until it was too late -

- assuming, of course, that Rothman told the truth, and Helen had no reason to believe she didn't. It might be a lie. It might be true. Another thing she had no way to know.

"Faced with the choice between your husband and your children, the choice was always easy. I suppose it would be unfair not to offer the same choice now," Rothman mused. "John or Yassen, then? We hardly need both alive."

Helen couldn't think, couldn't even breathe for agonising seconds. Everything was suspended in a haze of raw, icy terror, and she was vaguely aware that her hands trembled in her lap.

One breath. Another. On the play mat, Matilda had torn her way through several sheets of paper with the purple marker and left wet bits of purple paper in her wake, utterly unaware of the conversation taking place beside her. Something about it sharpened Helen's focus again and forced her mind back into gear.

As far as she knew, John was still at Malagosto. A single phone call, and he would be dead, and she would never see him again. And Yassen, young and traumatised and with so many losses in his past, and -

- how was she supposed to choose?

Rothman's smile was understanding and sympathetic and all steel, and Helen knew she would be offered no mercy at all. She was useless to SCORPIA if she couldn't handle the pressure. The only way she would remain alive and with Alex and Matilda was if she proved she wouldn't be a liability. That she wouldn't be in the way of Rothman and Three's plans.

She had loved John for a decade and a half, had started to dare to imagine growing old with him, and the thought of a life without him was both incomprehensible and something she had always known was a risk. Yassen wasn't hers by blood, he was skittish and distrustful and had never stopped hovering uncertainly at the edge of their small family, but he loved Alex and Matilda with everything he had, and he was the person Helen had always trusted to take care of them if something happened to her and John, and she loved him like her own.

Her priority had always been their children. That had always been the understanding. That had always been the way John wanted it, too. He knew the risks he had signed up for, and Helen's priority had been to shield their children from the sort of life they had never chosen and … it had worked. For almost a decade.

She closed her eyes briefly and didn't ask forgiveness, not for a decision she made with clear, deliberate intent.

"Yassen," Helen said and her voice was far steadier than she could ever have hoped for. "And John would expect nothing less. My children will always come first."

"It takes a strong woman," Rothman murmured, low and sensual and approving, "to condemn their husband to death."

Death. Helen desperately wanted to hug Matilda and never let go but didn't dare disturb the fragile peace, and -

- would they at least be kind enough to make it quick? She remembered stories about Dr Three and the thought that this was what she might have sentenced John to was terrible and overwhelming.

"Fortunately, that will not be necessary," Rothman continued, all business again. "We have not sent anyone for Cossack. John managed to warn him, so I imagine he's already a continent away if there is any truth to his reputation. By the time we find him, I expect the situation with Hunter will have resolved itself one way or the other."

A test. It had been a test.

Helen just nodded and didn't trust her voice. A test. To see what she would choose when it came down to it and – had she passed? Had she failed? Was there even a right answer? Was this going to be her life now, juggling SCORPIA politics to protect her family? She had known SCORPIA politics were lethal. She hadn't understood just how much.

Rothman offered her a warm smile. "For now, though … would you like to visit Alex? I think we can trust you and Matilda just fine for an afternoon."

And Helen, overwhelmed and grateful and still dealing with the bone-deep horror of I sentenced my husband to death could do nothing but nod and hope it was a reward and not a punishment in disguise.

Chapter Text

Alex wanted to throw up. He had wanted to most of the day. The nausea had been a constant companion all morning, sometimes barely there, sometimes so overwhelming it was all he could focus on.

His schedule for the day had been simple on paper. Morning run, breakfast, classes. Botany first, which sounded harmless and interesting except it was all about poisonous plants and medical stuff and the greenhouses were terrifying. Every plants in there was dangerous and Alex knew it. He didn't recognise most of them but the ones he did, the obvious ones from the book he had tried to skim … those were all the kind he didn't want to get close to. And Binnag – call me Jet, Alex – held her classes right in the middle of them, with chairs arranged in a half-circle among blooming oleander and belladonna.

Alex knew the plants were at a safe distance. No one else looked worried and he was sure SCORPIA wouldn't be happy if something happened to the students on accident. It was still creepy to be surrounded by an encyclopedia worth of poisonous plants, and Binnag's lesson material didn't make it any easier.

The smell in the greenhouse was overwhelming and the humidity only made it worse. Wet soil and dampness, sickly sweet flowers and the sharp bitterness from some of the plants – in any other situation, Alex would have found the place fascinating and never noticed the smell. Now, the combination made his already bad nausea even worse, and he spent most of the class focused on Binnag's words while he tried to keep his breaths slow and steady. Slow and steady kept the nausea at bay. Slow and steady gave him something else to focus on if Binnag's lecture wasn't enough.

Ross' class had followed. That one didn't come with a greenhouse worth of smells but that was about the only point of improvement. 'Applied electrical engineering', Ross had called it and brought out a bomb diagram that everyone else had looked familiar with while Alex was struggling to make sense of even half of what Ross said. What was a trembler switch? Or a percussion cap? Alex had never even heard the words before.

In the end, he had followed the instructions to the best of his ability and kept a close eye on the students nearby to figure out just what he was supposed to do. He didn't need to understand. He just had to do it right.

Do it right and try to forget what he was trying to build. The coloured wires and electronic bits and pieces and the small block of clay was just a – puzzle. Playing. Like doing art or crafts in school.

The diagram in the book didn't make sense, and it still didn't by the end of the class, but Alex had struggled along the best he could and managed all right somehow. Ross had helped, and some of the bits had been tiny enough to be a problem to the adult students but not for Alex's much smaller fingers, and that advantage helped him not fall completely behind.

Lunch followed. So did Alex's nausea.

Nile had stayed by Alex's side but that hadn't been enough to protect Alex from being the focus of everyone's attention. Lunch had been even worse than breakfast had. It seemed that since Alex had actually been in class now, everyone felt like they knew him better and didn't hold back from talking to him.

Alex had diverted their talk to the classes as much as he could and tried to stick to safe topics, but it was hard when everyone was fascinated by his dad and Jamie. About Hunter and Cossack, for all that the names were stupid and made no sense to Alex at all.

Alex answered what he could, diverted what he couldn't, and tried not to say anything that could get him into trouble, all while he forced himself to eat what was on his plate. Pasta, fish, and salad, all of which looked very pretty but all he could taste was the lingering nausea and the oil and the olives.

Lunch had started to draw to a close when Dwale appeared.

Alex's plate was mostly empty. Any appetite he had left vanished when he saw Dwale's attention focus on him.

The man smiled slightly, that friendly, sincere thing that Alex didn't trust for a second. It made him wonder if they taught that smile at the school, too.

"Alex. If you're done, the doctor would like to see you for your afternoon class."

According to his schedule, the first class of the afternoon was supposed to be individual lessons. Alex didn't know what that meant and he hadn't dared ask. He suspected he was going to find out now.

"Yes, sir."

His voice was steady and he didn't throw up. That was more than he had expected. Alex pushed his plate away and got up, and Nile offered him a friendly smile. At least it felt more real than Dwale's.

Alex felt too many eyes watching as they left the dining hall and it was almost a relief to step outside. He didn't speak. Just followed Dwale towards the main building and Dr Three's office.

Dwale was the first to break the silence.

"Students arrive here with a variety of backgrounds," he explained. "The individual lessons are chosen to complement the specific needs of each student. Usually this would be additional language tutoring but there are regularly students with time better spent on other classes. If a student is ahead of the curriculum, additional subjects will be offered. If one is behind, individual lessons will focus on bringing them up to the expected standards."

Alex didn't ask what would happen if a student didn't manage even with extra lessons. He was very sure he didn't want to know. There was no way they would just let a failed student leave with that kind of information.

Instead he just nodded and tried not to wonder what exactly Dr Three had planned. He could think of a lot of awful possibilities.

They met no one else on the way. Just the occasional glimpse of a guard and the security cameras Alex had spotted on the run that morning. It looked like it would be easy to escape but he knew that was a trick. Someone was always watching.

The office felt just as loud and overwhelming as the first time Alex had stepped inside, but this time he immediately focused on the doctor in his chair behind the huge desk. This time he knew a little more about what he was up against. He doubted it would help much but it was a start.

Alex didn't let his attention stray. Just crossed the room and tried to keep his breathing slow and steady. Calm. He could be calm.

"Alexander," Dr Three greeted him as he settled into the chair in front of the desk. Dwale left and closed the door behind him, and Alex was once more alone with the doctor. "How has the school treated you so far?"

He sounded so genuinely pleased to see Alex that it was impossible to tell it was an act. Alex knew it was but – it sounded real. It sounded kind.

It sounded like a trap.

"The instructors are very good," Alex replied, because that much he could say without lying or wondering exactly what trap he was about to step into. "They made sure I could still follow along."

Binnag and Ross had both been patient but now that Alex was a little distanced from the classes again, he wasn't surprised. They got new students all the time. They were used to people who didn't know a lot of things about their classes.

Three nodded like Alex just confirmed something he already knew.

"We employ only the best instructors," he agreed. "We expect only the best from our students and we ensure they have the proper environment to learn. And how are you doing?"

Alex couldn't imagine the man wanted the actual truth. He wanted to pretend it was all fine and that Alex was just a guest, and Alex didn't have a choice but to play along with it. His mum's cardigan was still on his bed, carefully folded for her. It was a pointed reminder that his mum and Matilda were in Venice somewhere and Alex didn't want to do anything that might upset the doctor enough to take it out on them. Yermalov had said they would be safe. Alex still didn't trust that enough to risk anything.

"I'm all right, sir," he said quietly and followed the script he was sure Three expected. "Thank you."

Three made a low sound, a little thoughtful and a little sympathetic both. "Still nauseated, then?"

A brief flare of panic – he had tried to hide it, he had tried – and then Alex got it back under control. The man was a doctor. He had talked about the side effects of the drugs that had been used on Alex, too. It was just a stupid, cheap trick.

He raised his head, a little more defiant than he probably should have been but he wasn't going to be ashamed of it.

"Yes, sir."

"A common symptom of anxiety," Three explained and sounded exactly like the doctor he was supposed to be. "There is nothing to be afraid of, Alexander. You're quite safe here."

Something in Alex snapped, a full day of constant fear and overwhelming worry for his family and having no choice but to be on his best behaviour and hope it was enough, and his temper flared.

"You kidnapped me!"

Alex had an endless, terrifying second to realise that he had just yelled at the man who had left him in the middle of a class of assassins, to feel the blood drain from his face and the knot of horror settle in his stomach -

- and then Three nodded, and whatever reaction Alex had expected, calm agreement wasn't it.

"We did. Such, I'm afraid, is the nature of politics on this level of the world we move around in. Your father is a dangerous man and a valuable asset both. It would always take drastic measures to ensure his cooperation."

Alex didn't know what to say to that. The person Three talked about was so different from the dad that Alex knew and it was still hard to make the two pieces fit together. His dad and his dad's … shadow. And Jamie, too, because he was part of that same world as well and – maybe a part of Alex had already known, somewhere deep, deep down. That it wasn't normal at his age to learn to shoot or fight or – or learn to hunt because he might have to kill someone one day.

Three didn't seem bothered by his silence but carried on. "As I said – you're quite safe here. You, and your mother and sister, are far more valuable alive and under SCORPIA's protection than you would be dead. The circumstances are unfortunate, of course, but nothing you can do will change that. Take advantage of the opportunity you have been given instead. This is an exceptional school, with teachers who are all among the best in their field. No one knows what tomorrow may bring but whatever happens, I promise that your sister and you will be quite safe."

Matilda and him. Not their mum. Not their dad. Not Jamie. Just Matilda and him. His mum was more valuable alive, too, but … Three hadn't promised her safety as well.

Jamie had taught him how to hunt because one day their mum might not be there and he might be the only person able to protect Matilda, Alex had understood that. The reminder now was awful and so overwhelming that Alex couldn't make himself think about it. If he ever had to protect Matilda, it should have been because they were home alone or something, and not because their parents were -

- not there.

"Where's Matilda?"

He had to know, a bone-deep need to make sure that someone was all right, and he didn't care what Three might think about that. The doctor probably already knew, he seemed to know everything, and Alex was sick and tired of the games.

"Safe," Three repeated, "and enjoying Julia's hospitality with your mother. She is quite well and with a little luck, you will be able to see both of them today. You're very devoted."

It sounded like he approved. Alex didn't have a clue whether he actually meant that or not. The man sounded sincere but he also seemed like the sort of person who would sound just as sincere and kind right before he ordered someone's kidnapping … or worse.

Alex suddenly felt so tired, it hurt. All the stress and fear and exhaustion and constant worry had finally caught up with him. His sudden anger had drained the last bit of defiance he had left and now he was just numb. Nothing made sense. Everything was a mess of secrets. Every second he was in class was a desperate fight to keep up and not make a mistake, every word the doctor spoke layered in double meanings and ulterior motives, and this wasn't his world. He didn't want it to be his world.

Calm, connect, capitalize. Except Three had known from the beginning what Alex was trying to do and it hadn't worked, anyway, and he couldn't muster the energy to keep trying.

"What do you want?" he asked instead. He hoped it would sound like a demand but mostly it sounded tired. "I'm not my dad and I'm not Jamie, and Matilda is three. She's just a baby, she's done nothing wrong. Leave her alone. Just – tell me what you want. I'll do it."

Three's smile warmed. It was the look of someone who had things turn out exactly the way they wanted them to. It probably meant that Alex had made the wrong decision somewhere but he couldn't bring himself to care. Not if it could buy Matilda a little more protection.

"For now, I simply want to discuss the book I wrote for the two of you, Alexander. Tell me what you thought. Tell me what worked and what didn't, and what questions you had, and we will take it from there."

He handed Alex a familiar book. It was his own copy, from their home in Helsinki, and it was another awful reminder that their entire life there was gone now. Had Three's people brought everything to Venice? Alex wouldn't even be surprised.

With no choice, Alex opened the book, found the part of chapter two that he always stumbled over, and started talking.

Julia Rothman's yacht was a modern, expensive thing with an air of luxury it did nothing to hide.

In any other situation, Helen might have enjoyed the visit. In the middle of a hostage situation, stressed and pushed and prodded and tested every moment by Rothman, with Alex alone in a school for assassins, Matilda entirely reliant on her protection, John trapped in SCORPIA's web, and Yassen's status unknown … all that luxury did was remind her of the sort of people she was up against and how few resources she had to bargain with.

Rothman herself had vanished below deck, presumably for business she didn't want Helen to hear. Possibly to alert Three and whoever else was involved about the result of her – test. Possibly just whatever business that came with being on the executive board of a freelance terrorist organisation.

John.

The horror still lingered in her, the very real fear that the reason for their visit to the island – to Alex – was to kill John in front of her. There was nothing she could do, though. Nothing that wouldn't endanger her children, and she had long since made her choice clear about that.

Alex and Matilda came first. Everything else was secondary.

Matilda pressed tighter against her side, a small hand finding Helen's own. It was mid-afternoon and the sunlight was pale and hazy, but it was still warmer than Helsinki had been. Matilda's closeness had nothing to do with warmth and everything to do with comfort. Helen had done her best to shield Matilda from the situation but she couldn't make it all go away.

"Mama, I want to go home." Matilda's voice was soft and almost drowned out by the sound of the engine, and Helen's heart broke all over again.

It had been Alex once, and that same lost plea for everything to go back to normal. They had tried everything they could to make sure it wouldn't happen again and … it hadn't been enough. It would never be enough.

"I know," Helen admitted. "I want to go home, too. But we can't. We'll get all our things and then we'll find a new home here. It'll be warm enough to go to the beach all summer, and they make wonderful ice cream, and we'll find a fun school for you and Alex where you can make a lot of new friends."

Depending on what Rothman and Three and SCORPIA would allow, of course, but Helen hoped the promise of other children would be enough of a lure to distract her. They had kept her at home in Helsinki in part because of security reasons, in part because of Helen's unwillingness to have Matilda elsewhere when she was still so young, but she would be old enough for school soon. Old enough to need playmates beyond her immediate family and the neighbours.

Matilda didn't reply but pressed closer to Helen, tiny and helpless and trusting.

Whatever it took. Her children would be safe, whatever it took.

Up ahead, their obvious destination became visible. The island was small, clearly in use but with buildings that were somewhere between severely neglected and complete ruins in the glimpses she caught, with broken windows and boarded up doors and the occasional, haphazard repair. Helen was familiar enough with deceptive appearances to know that this meant nothing. The bell tower, slightly tilted, had probably been done to exact calculations and the pier they finally approached was nothing fancy but certainly not the rotting wood structure one might expect.

Rothman reappeared. The man Helen had come to know as Corvo, Rothman's right hand and bodyguard, was the first person off the yacht and he offered Rothman a hand as she stepped onto the pier as well.

Helen doubted Rothman needed the help. Her heels were hardly practical but she moved like someone who could still be lethal in them, and she was not the type of woman to risk an obvious vulnerability like that.

Helen picked up Matilda and accepted the hand Corvo offered her for stability. He reminded her of Yassen a little, and John when he was younger. All lean strength and coiled danger. Another of SCORPIA's best.

"Welcome to Malagosto," Rothman said, red lips curving into a sensual smile. "The school that shaped Hunter and Cossack."

John was here, somewhere on the island, and Alex -

Alex.

Helen put Matilda back down, safely away from the water, then took a shuddering breath and tried to calm her frantic heartbeat.

"John has shared a few stories," she admitted, "but they were rare."

"Hardly a man for sentimentality," Rothman agreed, "but he loved it here, and I believe he was truthful about that. With me."

The path they followed was narrow and winding, worn down through use more than planning, and Helen let Matilda run free a little at the slight, permissive nod from Rothman. There were guards, Helen noticed, and subtle security, but the island was meant as a school. That at least implied a degree of safety and a lack of traps.

By the time the actual buildings came into view, Matilda was a little calmer, a little less full of restless energy, and Helen felt the unnatural calm of a high-stress situation settle around her. Alex was here, John and Alex, so close she almost imagined she could feel their presence … and so was Dr Three. Another awful, nightmarish figure she had never met but heard plenty about.

"Matilda," she called.

Matilda seemed to consider the merits of paying attention to her mother's instruction against more playtime. Then the decision was settled in Helen's favour and Matilda returned to her side.

The structure they finally reached was an old monastery. The outside gave every appearance of having fallen into disrepair but the security measures – the cameras and locks – were state of the art, and the courtyard they entered was meticulously kept and the walls newly painted.

It looked lovely. A quiet oasis in time, untouched by the world outside. Given that it was Malagosto, Helen recognised it for the dangerous deception that it was.

Through the courtyard, past a door under one of the arches -

- And Helen found herself inside what had undoubtedly once been a church, alive with mosaics and columns and intricately carved angels. Now the only thing left for those figures to watch over was the decidedly less holy business of a school for assassins.

"We renovated the buildings when we took over," Rothman explained. "It would have been a terrible shame to see artwork such as this lost to time and neglect. The paintings on the ceiling couldn't be salvaged but the rest turned out lovely."

Of course. For purely altruistic reasons and the sake of art, not because the idea appealed to their egos and sense of dramatic irony. Helen didn't comment. Just nodded and kept a firm grip on Matilda's hand as they moved through the old rooms.

They reached a wooden door, undoubtedly reinforced, and Rothman didn't bother to knock. She just opened it and stepped inside.

Helen's first impression was of things, old and new, posters and books and anatomical models and glass jars, all in a meticulously organised mess. It reminded her of a few of the professors and older doctors she had known, each with their own collection of medical curiosities carefully gathered over decades of their careers. The office could belong to no one but Three, then.

"Excellent, we were just wrapping up." The voice belong to a small figure behind the large desk; around sixty, male, Asian, with a calm, cultured voice, and in front of him, on a chair that was far too large -

"Mum!"

The scramble of a chair, a blur, and then Alex was in her arms and clung desperately to her as she knelt on the stone floor. For a moment Helen allowed herself to forget the awfulness of the situation and just hugged both of them, Alex and Matilda held close as she finally, finally had both of her children back with her.

"Alex," she whispered into his hair, half desperate prayer, half overwhelming relief. "Alex."

Alex shifted to wrap his arms around Matilda, and Helen felt the way Matilda clung to him, too, small fingers tangled in his blouse as she hid in the safety of her big brother's embrace. A little more of the tension in Alex's body drained away and the implication made Helen's heart hurt. They had always done everything they could to keep their children safe, but it had still come down to Alex alone with Matilda in a safe-room in Geneva, with no idea of whether Helen would be back, and that trauma would never leave Alex.

He was nine. He was a child. He should never have had to worry like that, never have been entirely alone, never have had to learn what to do in case he was the only one left to protect himself and his little sister. Helen couldn't change the past but she would do what she could to make sure it wouldn't happen again.

Eventually, she couldn't postpone it any longer. She got up and met Three's eyes, a protective hand still on Alex and Matilda.

Three had been talking with Rothman, a low conversation that Helen could only assume regarded her choice of Yassen over John. They stopped when she looked their way.

Three smiled. It looked perfectly warm and human, the kind, elderly professor, and only the complete lack of anything resembling real emotion in his eyes gave the truth away. Helen was sure he could perfectly mimic that part, too. That he didn't bother to do it now meant something, though she didn't know what.

"Doctor," she greeted, the only way she dared address him. "Thank you for keeping Alex safe."

Half politics, half truth. It was the story SCORPIA wanted, the story she had no choice but to play along with, but she also knew with dreadful certainty how much worse Alex's situation could have been. He was physically unharmed. That alone was a gift.

"It was my pleasure," Three assured her. "He's a wonderfully bright child with a natural curiosity about the world. You raised him well. He is a credit to his family."

Half a year ago, it was not a compliment Helen would have liked to hear from Three. Now, it was another small bit of protection for Alex and she would take anything she could when it came to that.

Three's attention shifted back to Alex.

"I need to discuss a few matters with your mother," he said. "A few practical matters, nothing more. Julia will make sure the two of you are taken care of."

Alex turned. "Mum -"

He wasn't happy. Matilda wouldn't be, either, the moment she realised her mum wasn't there. There was nothing Helen could do about it now.

"I'll be back soon," Helen promised and hoped Three wouldn't make her a liar. "It won't be long."

Alex didn't look convinced but he didn't have a choice, and he followed Rothman and Corvo outside, Matilda's hand in his.

The door closed behind them. Helen was alone with Three. The man's eyes settled on her, cold and calculating and utterly inhuman, and Alex had been alone with him. That knowledge stayed as bleak, icy horror in her chest. No one among the members of SCORPIA's executive board was harmless, but Three was more insidious than most.

The silence stretched on. Three didn't speak. Helen recognised the strategy for what it was, but that didn't mean it wasn't effective, and certainly when he was someone she had no first-hand experience with. She didn't know if it was better to speak or remain silent until he made the first overture into what was undoubtedly going to be the terms of her future association with SCORPIA. She didn't know what might make him lose his patience or what might earn her a measure of respect.

What did Three want? She didn't know – couldn't know – but she could make some broad guesses based on what she knew about him. He was an educator and a good one. He liked bright, attentive students. He was on SCORPIA's Board and was still alive, which meant that he obviously enjoyed the political games and the challenge they posed, and he was frighteningly good at it. Dwale's file spoke of someone favoured for their loyalty and quiet competence, so Three likely wanted subordinates around him he could trust to do the work he did not have the time for, and to do it to his exacting standards.

Three did not want a challenge, not from the people he controlled, and that included Helen now as well. Like a lazy feline, Rothman enjoyed the games and the unpredictability involved. Three wanted absolute control in his domain.

To remain silent would be seen as a challenge. Helen spoke first.

"I want my children safe, unharmed, and thriving, and I want to see them on a regular basis. I will agree to any terms you want in return."

"A blunt approach for Hunter's wife," Three noted. His voice gave nothing away. "You have no demands of your own?"

Hunter's wife. Hunter, whose entire relationship with SCORPIA was built on a foundation of lies. Hunter, whose very nature it was to test every angle and to twist his words and appearance and approach as needed. Hunter, who was not the man she had married but the man she had learned to accept, and the man he would have to remain to have any chance at all of surviving in SCORPIA's grasp.

Helen had married John Rider, not Hunter, and the sooner she made that distinction clear, the better.

"I have nothing to negotiate with." Helen's words were frank. She'd had time to come to terms with the situation and the limited options she had. "John and I always had an agreement. Our children would always come first."

Three made a thoughtful sound. Helen recognised the attempt to unsettle her for what it was. "Including Cossack, it seems."

It confirmed that Rothman had shared the result of that little test with him. Likely, it had been planned between the two of them in the first place.

"He was a child when he learned the truth about John, and he was barely twenty when he came with us to Geneva. John entered this world as an adult, aware of the realities of it. Yassen was a child given the choice between continued slavery or signing his life over to a terrorist organisation."

"Indeed," Three agreed. "And now you offer to do the same."

Because like Yassen, she had no other choice. Offer was a generous interpretation.

"Our expectations of you, then," Three said. "As it happens, I am in need of a qualified assistant, and I believe Malagosto would benefit from a trained physician as well. SCORPIA will see to anything needed to qualify you as a doctor. It may have been some years since you last worked in a medical setting but based on the books you own, your academic knowledge of the field is well beyond what a normal nurse would be expected to know. I have no doubts you will excel if given the opportunity."

Three paused long enough for Helen to nod in unspoken agreement, then he continued.

"I expect punctuality and precision. Clean, concise notes. Professional conduct at all times, and the ability to keep an analytical mind and heed instructions in any situation. If you can fulfil those expectations, I will personally ensure your safety here as well as your continued presence in your children's lives. Alexander and Matilda will be offered the best education possibly, by private tutors if necessary, and given the foundation needed to thrive and succeed in whatever path they choose in life. Are those terms agreeable?"

Calm, clear, precise demands. Helen could work with that. She was out of practice but she would learn. The rest – she would deal with that when she had to.

In the end, her answer was given and they both knew that.

"Yes, doctor. They are."

Julia left Corvo in charge of the two Rider children. Malagosto was hardly a place for children but the obstacle course would serve as a suitable playground until it was time to leave again. It had been her first glimpse of Alexander Rider – the child that had made Hunter abandon Operation Orcus in favour of his family – and her first impression was … not unfavourable. In appearances, he obviously took after his father, but the fierce protectiveness he showed around his sister was far more his mother's influence.

Julia had never cared for the idea of children of her own, but she could see the appeal in a daughter like Matilda. Someone young and bright and full of potential that could be shaped into something magnificent. Julia's own parents had been more focused on the cause than their child. She had done well enough for herself despite the setbacks of her upbringing, but the question of how much further a child with such potential could go with Julia to guide her … it lingered.

Matilda was young. Soon enough, she wouldn't remember a life before SCORPIA. Alexander would, but he also had his mother's stubbornness and strong protective instincts. It wouldn't take long to twist that into absolute, unquestionable loyalty instead.

Hunter, like all of SCORPIA's best, was a bit of a psychopath. He obviously had the emotional capabilities to develop some degree of genuine attachment, but Alexander – Alexander was all fire and emotion, and Julia could use that.

She would need to take the time to properly speak with the boy but not now. Not when she had other priorities.

There were two guards by the door to Hunter's cell, both heavily armed and alert. Even on Malagosto, they knew better than to let down their guard around a prisoner like that.

They stepped aside for her as she approached.

"Will you need security, ma'am?" one of them offered.

Julia felt a smile curl on her lips. "It shouldn't be necessary."

Not with Hunter's family in their grasp. Not when her complete lack of security would drive the point home so much better.

The guard opened the door and Julia stepped inside the small room. Hunter had been working at the desk but got up at her arrival, every movement carefully telegraphed to make sure she knew it was not a threat.

For long seconds, neither of them moved.

Julia took the chance to really look at him for the first time since the Mdina operation. They had photos and surveillance videos, but those would never catch every detail and nuance.

He was older, of course. So was she. He carried it well. Not yet forty, but old for someone still in the field. They had been aware of the plastic surgery he'd had done but in person, it was clear how skilled the surgeon had been. No scars to reveal the work done, nothing obvious enough to notice. Just enough to subtly change Hunter's features into someone slightly different. Greying hair but that, too, suited him and only lent a distinguished air to his appearance.

John Rider was as handsome as he had been a decade ago. Life as an independent operative had treated him well.

"John."

She kept her voice warm and pleasant. She could afford to.

"Julia."

Even the voice was the same as she remembered. The accent slightly different, a decade removed from the man he had been, but still pleasant. The use of her name had been a small risk but she had expected nothing less from him. Hunter could not afford the subservience that 'Mrs Rothman' would imply, nor the disrespect of merely using her surname. She had been Julia to him once. She could accept it once more, in a situation where she held all the cards.

"You ruined a number of my plans."

"I did."

There was no apology. Hunter was a sensible man. He knew Julia would not take kindly to a lie. If he regretted the damage he had caused to SCORPIA, it was only for the consequences that had followed from it.

"My family?" he asked. His priority spoke volumes to Julia. Hunter was as lethal as always but there were weaknesses, too. Attachments that had been allowed to grow.

Julia felt the slight smile on her lips curl into something … more.

"Alexander and Matilda are under my personal protection. They'll be quite safe, I assure you. Matilda is a darling child and Alex is full of potential. Helen is discussing her future terms of employment with the good doctor. She has wasted her skills and experience for so long as the stay-at-home wife to an absent husband. She was positively grateful for the chance to put those medical skills to use again."

Did Hunter's wife have the stomach for Three's work that she would need to remain his assistant? If not, she would learn, Julia was sure of it. Her determination to keep her children safe would allow for nothing else.

"Her cooperation for Alex and Matilda's safety, then," Hunter summarised, familiar enough with SCORPIA politics to read between the lines.

"For all of your children, John."

Julia was never one for surprises but for Helen's choice of Yassen, she would make an exception. The sheer ruthlessness and the possibilities a decision like that might offer – it was nothing less than a delight.

Julia's voice turned low and warm and sensual, the sort of thing to twist men's minds and make them listen, and while Hunter knew that tactic better than most, he still did not dare not to pay her the attention she desired.

"There was never any doubt that she would choose Alex and Matilda above anyone else, but we hardly need two killers of your calibre alive. We gave her the choice and she chose Cossack over you. My children will always come first, as she said. She knew you would understand."

That had been the main question Julia had been left with. Hunter's wife had clearly known what she would condemn her husband to, and it would have been far easier to simply write off the apprentice who hadn't lived under their roof in years. Possibly thousands of miles away, he would simply never return, and she would never have seen the body. That she had still chosen the absent little stray assassin that Hunter had taken in … well.

She had seemed sure Hunter would understand, that he would expect it, even. As Julia saw the wry smile on Hunter's lips, she knew Helen Rider had been right.

"Did you expect that a woman willing to accept my kind of career would be squeamish? Yassen lived with us for years. He's Alex and Matilda's brother in every way that actually matters, and he's the person Helen and I trusted to take them in if anything happened to us. I would be surprised if she hadn't picked Yassen when you made her choose."

Point, not that Julia cared to tell him that.

"The sort of ruthlessness that will serve her well," she said instead. "Three is delighted to have such a qualified assistant at his side. His work is hardly for the faint for heart."

A slight nod of acknowledgement from Hunter, accepting the point. He knew better than most just how meticulous Three was about his research and the standards he held his subordinates to. The doctor's protection would be priceless but the demands that came with it would be harsh.

"As for you …" Julia's voice cooled a degree as she trailed off. He was too useful to merely dispose of, and he knew it. She didn't bother to pretend otherwise. "I would by far prefer to make a suitably gruesome example out of you by my own hands, but we can't always get what we want. Life is full of little disappointments like that."

"I'm surprised you didn't," Hunter said with the same bluntness that had earned him the respect of the Board in another time. "Helen and the kids would be plenty to keep up the image that I always worked for SCORPIA."

Hunter was an intelligent man and Julia made an indulgent gesture for him to continue with the analysis he was already working on.

"You would have," he continued, "if it had been only you. Three would have been delighted at that development, too. He wants the potential Alex and Matilda represent, and Helen and I would just be unwanted complications. But – this isn't a SCORPIA operation, I suspect. This whole set-up with Helen and the kids is run strictly by the two of you and will be presented to the Board as a fait accompli. By now, the rumours that I am SCORPIA's are prominent enough that if anything happened to my family by SCORPIA's hand, it would raise unwanted questions."

Hunter paused and watched her, a familiar sharpness in his eyes. Cold and calculating, able to keep up with her but with an instinctive awareness of when to step back and simply see her orders carried out … he had been exceptional already as an undercover agent, and the thought of what he could have become as hers still left a smouldering anger in her.

"I'm the bargaining chip you plan to use to remove focus from everything else," Hunter concluded. "The rest of the Board won't care about Helen and the kids, not with me right there. You want me to know this, because you know this will also give me incentive to go along with that plan. If all attention is on me, my family is safe."

He would have been perfect. Intelligent, lethal, and loyal. Julia smiled, slow and sensual and without a drop of warmth.

"You were always exceptional. Make us proud, Hunter."

The Board had already condemned him to death once. This time, he would get his chance to convince them otherwise.

Chapter Text

Yermalov's lessons had never been Nile's favourites. He learned a lot from them and they helped remove the weaknesses in his close combat skills, but Yermalov was a harsh instructor. He was sharp-tongued and relentless, with an unnerving ability to spot every single mistake they made, and he had few approving remarks on even the best of days.

Nile had accepted that Yermalov's lessons were not something to be enjoyed but simply something to pass with a decent impression, and he consoled himself that he was at least among the best of his class. He was young, but he had learned to fight to survive, not to show off, and Yermalov favoured that kind of combat.

Yermalov rarely singled him out. That dubious honour usually belonged to the worst of the students, which meant that the times when it happened, it was never good news. To see Yermalov's attention zero in on him when they arrived for the afternoon lesson … Nile felt a familiar unease settle, though he knew better than to let it show.

"You," Yermalov snapped. "Abara. You won't fall behind if you miss a class. You will be with Corvo for the rest of the day. Obstacle course. Go!"

There was no further explanation and Nile didn't ask. Just responded instinctively and immediately, the way he had learned would keep him alive.

"Yes, sir."

It was the closest thing to a compliment he had received from Yermalov so far, and he took off at a run before the man could change his mind.

Corvo was Rothman's second. Nile had seen the man from a distance but never interacted with him. What did he need on the obstacle course that required a student there? If Nile had been at the bottom of the class, struggling to keep up, he would have been worried. As it was, he was more cautiously curious than anything.

Malagosto was a small island and it didn't take long to reach the familiar obstacle course. They used it often enough. It was part fitness, part agility, part problem solving skills, and part punishment, and Nile loathed all of it it. He hated climbing, hated heights, hated the bone-deep fear of falling into nothingness, and some of the obstacles were so tall that only stubbornness and desperation got him past them. With such a small class, there was no way to hide it, either. Fear of heights was a weakness and Malagosto never let him forget that.

Nile found Corvo easily but the man wasn't alone. Alex, Hunter's son, was there – and so was a little girl with the same fair hair and features as Alex that the boy hovered protectively over. Siblings? They almost had to be. She seemed to be three or four, so the ages would fit. Nile hadn't known, and even Alex hadn't mentioned her, but that wasn't a surprise. Nile had learned the need to protect the people he cared about at a young age. Hunter's son had obviously learned the same.

Those questions could wait, though. Nile went straight for Corvo as he had been instructed.

"Sir. Professor Yermalov sent me."

Corvo's look was appraising. "Nile, wasn't it?"

The sudden awareness that the second-in-command of one of the Board knew his name was – not a realisation Nile wanted. He knew he looked distinctive but that shouldn't have been enough to make someone of Corvo's importance learn his name.

He didn't let his unease show. Just nodded. A bit away, Alex followed the conversation with sharp eyes.

"Yes, sir."

Corvo nodded. "Excellent. You've met Hunter's son already. The girl is his daughter. Mrs Rider has a meeting with Dr Three, so their safety will be Malagosto's responsibility for the afternoon."

Hunter and Hunter's son and daughter but … Mrs Rider for Hunter's wife and the mother of his children. There was something political there that Nile was still too inexperienced to grasp.

Nile had his suspicions about Alex Rider's presence on Malagosto. The protective way the boy hovered around his sister now confirmed them. That was not the pampered child of luxury the son of an elite SCORPIA operative might grow up as. That was someone who had learned the realities of the world almost as young as Nile himself had, and who was all too aware that he might be the only thing between a terrorist organisation and his little sister.

They were hostages, both of them, though only Alex was old enough to understand – and understand he did, based on how hard he had worked to live up to Malagosto's expectations of him already. As for their mother … Mrs Rider has a meeting with Dr Three could mean a lot, and frequently 'meeting' was a euphemism for something much worse according to rumours, but Nile had the suspicion that this time the words were genuine.

Hunter's children because they were young enough that their primary value right now was the potential they showed and the importance they had to the political games they were now part of through no fault of their own. Mrs Rider … because she was someone who had either already made a significant impression on her own as more than just Hunter's wife, or she was about to learn how to. She was still Hunter's wife but also a person in her own right to SCORPIA. She had a name, even if they used her married one. Her maiden name, whatever it was, would have carried a very different meaning.

Nile filed it all away in the back of his mind. He was not about to let himself get distracted in front of Mrs Rothman's second, and those thoughts had drifted dangerously close to that territory.

Part guard, part babysitter, part … playmate, then? Nile wasn't sure but probably a bit of all three. If they were supposed to be only hostages, a couple of guards and a locked room would have done the trick. The girl didn't look traumatised, Alex had been treated well so far, and they were outside in the open. For now, SCORPIA seemed to have decided on a more hospitable approach for them.

It always paid to be sure, though.

"Yes, sir," Nile agreed easily. "What are my instructions?"

With the wind and the sound from the trees, Alex was too far away and in the wrong direction to hear their words, but the sharp attention he paid them revealed he knew something important was going on.

Corvo shrugged slightly. "Entertain them. Malagosto's security is responsible for their safety but it may be an hour or more before Mrs Rider returns."

Entertain them. Someone else might have considered that order an insult, something that was beneath a student at the best school for murder in the world. They were there to learn the art of the kill, not run a daycare.

Nile knew better. There were politics involved well beyond his pay-grade, politics he would never normally have known about but now found himself tangled up in, and he was not about to dismiss that. If anything, this was an opportunity. Hunter's children were far more valuable than one student, however good, and Nile had enough of a sense of realism to acknowledge that.

"Yes, sir," Nile agreed again, because there wasn't much else to say to that. He had his orders. Unusual orders, but orders, and if the girl was anything like her brother, it wouldn't be a hardship. Alex was intelligent and trained beyond what most people ever managed even as adults. If his sister was similarly bright, she could go far in life.

There was no playground on Malagosto for obvious reasons but Nile supposed that the obstacle course was the next best thing. Someone had tied two of the climbing ropes together to form a rudimentary swing, and the balancing beams and the nets would do a decent job as a jungle gym as well. It would do well enough for an hour or two. Nile himself had grown up with far less than that.

Nile crossed the last bit of distance to the two of them, slow enough to make his intentions obvious to Alex. The boy was perfectly aware of the danger everyone around them posed, and Nile didn't doubt that he would fight like a cornered beast if anyone made a move against his sister. The tension in the boy's frame told him as much. He undoubtedly knew he couldn't win, but he would still try, and Nile could respect that.

He deliberately stopped a couple of steps away, close enough to talk but far enough away not to crowd them.

"My name is Nile," he said, and watched the girl watch him warily. Alex was half a step in front of her, not even pretending not to shield her. "Mr Corvo asked me to look out for you for an hour or two until your mother is back."

He could almost hear Alex turn over every word in his mind and consider the implications before he reached the reasonable conclusion that Nile had as much say in the situation as they themselves did. Then he relaxed fractionally before he glanced back at his sister.

"He helps me in class," Alex added, clearly in an attempt to ease the situation. "He goes to school here, too."

The girl's expression turned dubious. She didn't understand the sort of politics she had become the centre of but she understood an unfamiliar, unwanted situation just fine. Nile hoped he wouldn't have to deal with a tantrum.

"… I'm Matilda," she finally said. "I'm three. Why did you draw on yourself?"

For a moment, Nile wasn't actually sure what to say. He had heard a lot of comments about his skin, most of them bad, and – children were cruel creatures. Alex had noticed but never asked, astute enough to leave it alone. His sister, on the other hand, was too young to know.

"He didn't draw on himself," Alex corrected before Nile could. "That's how he was born. Like you have blonde hair and Jamie has blue eyes and dad is tall. Nile just has drawings on him."

"I want drawings, too." The girl still watched him as intently as Yermalov in a bad mood.

"We only have your crayons, not your markers." Alex didn't miss a beat. "You can't draw on yourself with crayons. Besides, if you drew on yourself with markers, you'd have to get a bath to get clean again. A really long one, with lots of soap."

The girl pursed her lips but her dislike of baths seemed to win out.

"… But why does he get drawings?"

Well, Nile amended, temporarily win out. He stayed silent, though. The interaction seemed familiar to Alex, although how he planned to explain genetics to a three-year-old, Nile had no idea.

"Mum knows. She can explain it."

A decade and a half and a continent removed, the echoes of a childhood memory flickered through Nile's mind, bright and vivid and gone a moment later. The ghost of the child he had been once, young and innocent and convince that his mother had been the world.

Mama knows. She always had, to the five-year-old he had been.

"Why?" the girl demanded again but the question seemed to be automatic and not a real demand for an explanation. Alex answered, anyway.

"She's smart, like a doctor. She knows stuff like that."

That was apparently enough. The girl eyed him one last time, then turned her attention back to the obstacle course and dragged her brother with her. And Nile, with firm instructions for the next few hours, simply followed along as a silent shadow and let them have the time together.

The pale February sunlight almost blinded Helen when she stepped outside again, a respectful step behind her new … employer. Behind Dr Three.

They had talked for almost two hours and Helen was exhausted. It had been part instructions, part test of her knowledge, and part calm, ruthless interrogation as the man picked through anything of interest in her past. Stress had long since settled in her body, the constant awareness of what was at stake and the bone-deep fear for her children, and two hours of Three's undivided attention had done nothing to help.

Had her level of knowledge matched what he had expected? She didn't know. Probably, given that she was still there, but she didn't actually know. She didn't know a lot of things. Not their future, not John's fate, not where Alex and Matilda were. She didn't even know what the plans were for the rest of the day. All she could do was to remain quiet and respectful and observant and hope for the best. She had done what she could to protect her children, at least.

The doctor seemed to know where they were going. Helen didn't but simply followed along, acutely aware of the discreet security that watched their every move.

Helen knew his expectations now. Security detail was not on that list but a lack of observational skills could still get her killed.

They followed a trail through the woods behind the monastery until the trees parted and revealed a small but well-kept obstacle course in a clearing, along two adult figures … and, climbing among the obstacles like it was nothing more than a particularly sinister playground -

"Go on," Three said in the indulgent voice of someone who had decided to afford a moment of magnanimity in victory. "See to your children."

Maybe it was a test, maybe it was a trap, maybe it was a reminder of the power SCORPIA now held over them, but Helen didn't care.

"Mum!"

Alex spotted her the moment before she could call their names, helped Matilda down from the beam she had balanced so carefully on, and then her world narrowed down to the two children in her arms. Scared and tangled up in the sort of politics they had no place in but – alive. Alive.

She would do whatever it took to keep it that way.

"No one would tell me anything," Alex whispered into her shoulder. "Just that you were meeting with – with the doctor."

His tone left no doubt that he was well aware of Dr Three's dangerous nature, and it was the sort of lesson he should never have had to learn. The sort of fear he should never have come to know.

"Just figuring out a few things, sweetheart," Helen whispered back. "It's all right, I promise. We'll – have to be here for a while, I agreed to be his new assistant and nurse for the school here, but we'll be safe, I promise. I promise."

Whatever it took, she would pay that price without flinching. If this was the price for her children's safety, there was no alternative.

Matilda still clung to her and Helen picked her up. Small arms wrapped around her neck and Matilda settled against her chest, curled up in Helen's embrace.

"I want to go home," she said, and Helen's heart broke again.

"I know, sweetheart, but we can't. Remember how we talked about moving? This is where we'll live now."

She didn't mention a new school for Alex, nor did she promise a preschool for Matilda where she could meet other kids her own age and find actual playmates. Not when she didn't know if she would be able to keep that promise. Not when she had no idea of what Three and Rothman's plans for them were. At the very least, she expected Alex and Matilda would be kept close for the first long while until SCORPIA was certain she could be trusted. After that … she didn't know. Rothman had talked about a school for Alex but she knew better than to trust that.

Matilda tensed in her arms, the only warning that Helen got before the girl squirmed out of her grip. If Alex hadn't immediately stepped in her way, Helen was sure Matilda would have tried to run off, too.

"No! I don't want to! I want to go home!"

Like Alex, she was all fire and passion sometimes, stubbornness and determination and everything that Helen had never been allowed to be. That complete trust that whatever they did, their parents would love them unconditionally. Most days, even the worst of tantrums still carried that whisper of gratitude in Helen that her children felt safe enough to do that, and she found a little more patience for it somewhere deep down. Now, though, surrounded by enemies at a school for killers -

"Madison Greaves! You stop this right now, young lady!"

- now, she couldn't afford that, and Alex knew it, too.

Matilda stopped, startled by the sharp voice – and when had she last spoken harshly to her daughter? Helen wasn't even sure, and she hated Rothman and Three and everything SCORPIA had ever touched for making her raise her voice to her child – and then her lower lip trembled.

Helen knelt and then Matilda was in her arms again, clinging hard to her as Helen held tight and never wanted to let go again.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," she whispered and stood back up, Matilda still held close to her. "I'm sorry. I know you want to go home but we can't. We can't. We'll get news toys and you will meet new friends but this is home now. It'll be much more fun than you think. There are boats everywhere, and in summer we can go swim and eat ice cream and visit all the playgrounds with Alex."

"And Jamie," Matilda mumbled into her shoulder.

Jamie. Helen heard the soft inhale from Alex, saw the sudden tension in him because he understood terribly well already, and he was so young and so strong and he should never have had to be.

If Jamie was there, it was because he was a prisoner, too. If they saw him again anytime soon – possibly ever, Helen acknowledged somewhere deep down she would never speak out loud – it was because SCORPIA had caught up with him, too, and he had become another piece on the chess board as well. Helen had already proved willing to pick him over John. She had no delusions about how interesting that might suddenly make Yassen Gregorovich to certain members of SCORPIA's executive board.

Right now, Yassen was a hunted man but he was free and safer than anywhere to be found within SCORPIA's grasp. That mattered.

"If he can," Helen settled for as a compromise. "He'll be busy this summer but he will be here if he can get the time at all. He wants to see you, too."

"I miss Jamie."

"I miss him, too," Helen confided.

Matilda settled in her arms and seemed in no rush to get back down. Helen took the chance to assess the situation instead. Dr Three had left again without Helen's notice to … well, she didn't actually know. That left the two adults Helen had initially seen with Alex and Matilda.

Corvo was a familiar figure now, the undercurrent of a threat that never entirely faded and an eerie reminder of the man John might have become in a different world. The other figure made her realise she had been wrong in her initial, split-second assessment that the two figures had both been adults.

Up close, the truth was painfully clear. The second person was a child. Legally an adult, perhaps, late teens to Helen's estimate but – a child. Younger than even Yassen had been when SCORPIA had sunk its claws into him. Still with the slightly coltish appearance of a teenager despite how fit and well-trained he obviously was, and he carried his vitiligo with an undercurrent of the wounded, defiant pride of someone too used to cruel comments.

More than anything, Helen knew, it was a warning that most people did not understand enough to grasp. An assassin lived and died by their ability to be perfectly anonymous and forgettable. That the school had still accepted someone with such a striking appearance spoke volumes about his skills. The pair of swords strapped to his back only served to underline that.

Alex spotted the shift in her attention and glanced behind him, then back to Helen when it clicked.

"That's Nile, he's a student here. He's – helped me a lot, figuring out classes and everything."

Nile moved with the ghost of the same grace as Yassen and John did, the echoes of the lethal training the school provided, but his eyes were large and dark and impossibly young.

How old was he? Nineteen? Eighteen? Even younger? Young enough that he should never have caught SCORPIA's attention in the first place. The fact that he had spoke volumes about his childhood and Helen's heart clenched.

Helen shifted until Matilda rested on her hip, then held out her hand. The boy accepted it after a moment. His smile was all charm and warmth, the same sort of charm and ease that John wielded like a weapon, but he was careful beneath it all. A little more cautious than John. A little less sure in his own act. Not skittish, that had obviously been trained out of him if it had ever been there, but – careful. Aware of the dangers of the school and the politics he was now involved with in a way that few his age would be.

Helen knew there was nothing genuine about the smile or the charm, but that was still a child underneath all that training. Like Yassen had been once, so long ago in London.

"Helen Rider," she introduced herself. "Thank you for watching out for my children."

"Nile," the boy replied with a smile, and his voice matched his appearance. Warm, friendly, and painfully young. "I was happy to help. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Rider."

Helen was not surprised by the reply. It was exactly what she had expected. Whatever Nile's personal opinion was didn't matter. Even if he hadn't been given explicit instructions, he was smart enough to read between the lines. SCORPIA wanted to keep up the act that Hunter's family were honoured guests that were welcome at Malagosto and undoubtedly relieved to be safe again after they had been targeted by Hunter's enemies. Nile's approach would match that story.

"Just Helen, please," she said and played along with her own mental script.

"Nile is one of the more promising students here at the moment," Corvo said and spoke for the first time since Helen arrived. "I asked Professor Yermalov for a student who could afford to lose an afternoon of lessons. It's high praise that he sent the youngest of the class."

Nile showed no reaction but the slightest shift where he stood, no more than what could be dismissed as coincidence. Well-trained but unused to praise. Vulnerable, should someone take an interest in him … and being one of the best of his class, someone likely would.

Another thing to add to her mental file on Nile. Another thing to hint to the sort of life no child should have been exposed to.

She smiled and it felt more genuine than she had expected. It was hard not to feel a small bit of real warmth towards someone so young, even knowing what he was training for.

"I appreciate the extra protection, then."

Politics, layers upon layers and … this would be her life now. For Alex and Matilda. Alex was old enough to understand a degree of what was happening and the lie they would have to live, but … even that might not last. Helen knew the sort of lure SCORPIA offered if someone was worth the effort, John had warned her about that as well. The sort of resources the organisation was willing to put into something in the name of investment. Money, power, independence. No ethics committee and research funding and no questions asked so long as the job gets done, always tailored to the person being courted, and it was successful a frightening amount of the time. Between that sort of promises and the risks that came with a refusal, few would turn it down.

If Three or Rothman put their mind to it, Alex in another five years might very well not remember the terror of his kidnapping as anything but a distant memory, muted by years under the aegis of SCORPIA. And Matilda was so young, she would never know differently.

A part of Helen hoped they would thrive with their new lives. A part of her remembered Helsinki and Geneva and years on the run, entirely on their own, and hated SCORPIA for the way that history would be rewritten to suit their own narrative until even Alex couldn't entirely remember the truth. It would just be Helen who remembered, Helen and Yassen … and John.

Where was John? She didn't know and knew better than to ask. He was very likely within the school itself, possibly so close they might only have been a few feet apart and never known, but it might as well have been a world away.

Would she see him again? That, too, she didn't know. The next time she saw him might very well be for the sole purpose of his execution, and that knowledge never left her mind.

Matilda finally reached her limit for boring adult talk, because she squirmed out of Helen's arms again and grabbed her hand instead.

"Mama," she said insistently and pulled Helen towards the obstacle course. "Come play."

Helen could have argued, could have continued her careful attempts to build up some sort of human connection with Nile or Corvo but … what would the point be? Three and Rothman had made the situation clear, Helen had agreed to every condition they had demanded, and she was painfully familiar with the sort of people that thrived with SCORPIA. It would take months or years to get past that facade to find the human beneath, and even that would offer very little protection in the event things went wrong later.

For now, the best she could do was allow her children to be children and embrace the brief time they had been allowed together.

The rest could wait.

The Queen Victoria departed from Melbourne on Saturday well before five in the morning as the first departure of the day. The sheer size of the Airbus A340 meant that it was mostly restricted to larger commercial airports rather than the numerous smaller ones meant for business jets, but it was a trade-off Winston Yu was willing to accept.

It would take twenty hours before they touched down in Venice with only a brief stop in Singapore to refuel, and to be able to simply bring the comforts of home along with him was a priceless thing.

A bedroom and a decent-sized bathroom, an office, and a compact but well-equipped medical suite ensured that the flight would simply be a pleasant break and chance to rest, and that any emergencies could be handled in the air. An interior designed to work with his unique medical needs along with the presence of his security, assistant, and personal doctor ensured his peace of mind.

Over the years, the profits from the snakehead and Unwin Toys had grown to a magnitude more than what Winston earned from SCORPIA, and he had little desire to simply see it languish as financial investments somewhere. His manor had been his first true indulgence, not merely a heavily-secured villa like he had originally settled for, but the luxury to choose exactly what he wanted and see it transported across the world to be reconstructed brick by brick and stone by stone. A business jet with the range to reach anywhere within his considerable territory had been his second indulgence. Once more, it would prove its worth.

The notification regarding the executive board meeting had arrived Friday morning along with news of Hunter's capture, two hours after Winston's own contact at Malagosto had alerted him to the situation. It was not a long delay between Hunter's capture and the message to the rest of the Board, but it was still enough to leave several undisturbed hours for Rothman and Three to work – and would also mean an additional two entire days until the rest of the Board would be physically present to assess the situation. Many things could be handled through the easy convenience of online meetings. This was not one of them.

Winston could have left immediately. He chose not to. He by far preferred to spend the day working, and the additional day gave his own sources time to supply a somewhat more detailed report on events at Malagosto. He was also a strong believer in an early start to the day, and to get up a little earlier than usual was worth it to avoid a night spent in the air, even with the best amenities that money could buy. There had been no traffic and no delays, and he had been in the air within ten minutes of his arrival at the airport.

What other solutions his esteemed colleagues on the Board would resort to with a meeting on such short notice, Winston hardly cared. They were intelligent people who understood the value of safety and would prioritise that. If there had been someone Winston had wished to target, there would be easier places to do so than a meeting where everyone would on high alert.

A place on SCORPIA's executive board paid well, and all the more so as the organisation kept expanding, but not enough on its own to buy and operate a private jet. That luxury was Winston's alone and the indulgence was all the more satisfying for it.

He would travel comfortably, arrive right on time, and avoid the dangers associated with spending a night in Venice within Rothman and Three's territory. What someone like Chase did … well. Winston expected he slept rather less comfortably.

Right on cue, Winston's secretary arrived with a large tray. His traditional morning tea was served in silence with careful, precise motions, followed by a plate with a light breakfast before the woman left again without a word spoken.

Winston enjoyed competence. It was a source of constant annoyance to him that a number of his subordinates beyond his immediate household put so little importance on respect and proper manners. He had other ways to keep them suitably controlled but – it grated on his sensibilities.

An hour and a pleasant breakfast later, his secretary returned. The tea set and plate was removed with the same quiet efficiency to be replaced with a second, smaller tray with a new tea set.

Winston's personal doctor held the door open for her, then stepped inside as the woman left.

"You wished to see me, sir?"

Like Winston himself, Anne Taylor was not British by birth but had learned the language and culture later. Chinese by birth, she had been adopted by a British couple and embraced her new life. Her son, a hard-working, young man, was in his final year at Harrow, paid for by Winston. Like Winston's own mother, Anne Taylor's loyalty was entirely to her son and through his good fortune, to Winston as well.

There was no better loyalty in Winston's opinion than that of a mother protecting her child – and, in the matters of the most recent development in the Rider case, it offered Winston a uniquely qualified insight into the situation beyond the immediate issue of Hunter.

"Please," Winston agreed. "Do come in. It's nothing serious, I would just a second opinion on a situation."

"Of course, sir." Anne closed the door behind her and settled in the chair across from Winston's desk with the same precise, efficient motions she performed her medical craft with.

Winston had considered the situation since he was first alerted to it. The message regarding the Board meeting had offered few details. Hunter's capture along with his family, kept separate from him as added insurance. The fact that he had been given the two days until the meeting to prove he would be more useful to SCORPIA alive than dead. That was all.

Winston's own agent at the school had been able to provide a few more details over the course of the day but still not much. Hunter's wife and daughter were kept in the Widow's Palace, beyond the reach of Winston's agents – Rothman's doing, Winston expected. Hunter's son, at the age of nine, was a guest of Malagosto and attended classes there. That arrangement and the deliberate way the boy was kept from his family had Dr Three's fingerprints all over it.

Both of those details hinted to politics beyond merely the need to decide Hunter's fate and to keep him controlled. Dr Three's children's book on anatomy, something which the Board had seen as a clear taunt to Hunter, merely added to that evidence.

Who had been the first among the Board to suggest that they allowed the rumours that Hunter was secretly SCORPIA's to work in their advantage? Winston wasn't sure but suspected that may very well have been Three as well. They had all agreed but … someone had offered the suggestion first.

And the rumours? Those went back years, quiet but increasingly persistent as Hunter remained elusive. Had those rumours sparked naturally or had they been helped along as well? Right now, he could rule nothing out.

Winston brought out a slim file and handed it to Anne. She accepted it without question but didn't open it.

"One of SCORPIA's targets was recently captured along with his family. I expect a suggestion will be made to allow him to live in SCORPIA's employ with his family as insurance. I would like your opinion on the situation."

Only then did Anne open the file, used to his instructions. She read in silence, sharp eyes going through the papers line by line. It was a short file with only the most pertinent details included but it would be enough. Finally she closed it again, and Winston made a small gesture for her to speak.

"Control his family, and you control Hunter."

There was no doubt and no hesitation in her reply. Winston was well aware that he himself was perhaps too close to the situation to take the necessary step back and analyse all variables properly, but Anne was not. She also didn't know the backstory. Few did, which complicated that analysis further.

Winston took a sip of his tea and considered the situation. Anne never moved and never fidgeted. If Winston's lieutenants had a tenth of her grace and composure … the things he could do with that sort of loyalty and competence. The kind of money and power he could see his fortune increase with.

"He has a reputation for ruthless competence," Winston finally pointed out. "He may decide his freedom is more valuable than his family's lives and turn on us again. SCORPIA can't afford to see him escape again. Revenge on his family wouldn't make up for that embarrassment."

"He's too attached." Anne's reply was blunt and concise. "He remained with his family despite the liability it presented. It was an expensive decision in material resources and risks both, yet he still made it and remained with them even after their initial discovery and escape. Those are not the actions of a sociopath who has accepted the cost of a family as the price to pay for a secure cover. He may have a dulled sense of empathy and limited ability to form real human connections, but all evidence point towards his attachment to his family as a genuine thing. If the price to see his family safe and well-treated is his unconditional cooperation, he will agree."

That was … a good point. A family was a convenient cover but from a pragmatic point of view, Hunter would have been far better off on his own and he had to know that, too.

A weakness in Hunter's armour, then. It was not a choice Winston himself would have made but there was a reason why he was on SCORPIA's executive board and Hunter currently enjoyed Malagosto's hospitality.

"And his family?"

Hunter's wife in particular, given the children's young ages, but still. Even children might one day be old enough to become a serious problem.

"His wife remained with him through everything and even had a second child with him. That choice was entirely hers. With the amount of time Hunter presumably spends away, he would never have known if she had chosen otherwise. She will do whatever it takes to see her children safe."

That, Winston had no problem believing. Like Anne herself, Helen Rider gave every impression of being the sort of mother who would do whatever it took for her family. She had killed four of SCORPIA's people to protect her children and clearly had no problem with Hunter's choice of career given her continued marriage to him. A wonderfully pragmatic woman. Winston could work with that.

He nodded. "Thank you."

"My pleasure, sir." Anne put the file back on the desk and then left, closing the door softly behind her. The office fell silent again with only the muted sounds of the four Rolls-Royce engines providing a background hum. The insulation on the plane was exceptional and another reminder of how good of an investment a private jet had been.

The Board meeting was in nineteen hours. Winston's agent might very well return with additional information before then but it was not something he could afford to rely on.

That left the question of what to do. Three and Rothman, at least, would campaign to see Hunter spared and under SCORPIA's control. Kurst, depressingly predictable, would want the entire family killed to make an example of them. The rest of the Board … Kroll and Grendel, older and less prone to emotional fits, would likely be persuaded that Hunter was more valuable alive. Mikato would agree with Kurst, always with brute force as his first weapon. Duval was more unpredictable but usually with a level-headed approach – he, too, would likely be persuaded to agree with Three and Rothman's approach. Chase and Greene lacked the political strength to challenge the full Board and would follow whatever side that appeared to be the strongest.

The majority would side in favour of Hunter's survival, then, but – the Board's decision would have to be unanimous. It would not be the first time that rule had resulted in prolonged discussions.

Assuming, of course, that Hunter would present a compelling enough case to make his continued survival and employment valuable enough to even consider, but Winston considered that a given. Life as a freelance operative had not dulled Hunter's edge and Winston genuinely looked forward to meeting the man in person again in a – controlled setting.

If the Board did decide in Hunter's favour, then came Winston's second concern: did he wish to allow the kind of leverage that Hunter's family presented in Three and Rothman's hands? Because that was very clearly what was going to happen. Hunter's wife and children would be kept close to the heart of SCORPIA, secure enough that escape would not be possible but still in a position where Hunter would see them frequently. Prolonged separation might dull the edge that this leverage would provide, and no one would want to risk that.

The logical place to keep them would be Venice, one of the centres of SCORPIA's networks and within reach of Malagosto – and, conveniently, within Rothman and Three's grasp as well.

Control his family, and you control Hunter.

A living, breathing weapon with a keen awareness of SCORPIA politics and every reason to keep his immediate superiors happy. That sort of thing could prove inconvenient at a later time, if politics should turn against Winston. His snakehead and SCORPIA's reliance on it in the region was protection in itself but one never knew.

And then there was the matter of Cossack. Hunter's protégé with an impressive reputation of his own, trained to Hunter's standards, all but an adopted part of the family – and currently his whereabouts were unknown. In any other case, one missing operative would hardly be a matter of concern. In Cossack's case … even he couldn't take on SCORPIA on his own, but he would still be capable of significant damage if necessary, Zurich had proven as much.

The easy solution would be to kill them all. The easy solution was rarely the most profitable one, however, and Winston could appreciate what Hunter's reputation would add to SCORPIA's influence.

Winston leaned back carefully in his chair, his walking stick close at hand. The flight was so steady, the tea set didn't even rattle on its tray.

The file remained on the desk, a silent reminder of the stakes and the politics he was once more about to step into at the Board meeting. It offered no more answers than Winston's own, far more detailed files did. Only more questions that no one could answer.

Outside, the glow of dawn turned the horizon into a palette of colour. Beneath them, still in darkness, the Outback passed by.

Winston had nineteen hours to make a decision.

Chapter Text

Saturday arrived with the stillness of a sniper before the kill. When the seconds dragged on but hours passed in the blink of an eye.

There was nothing outside the small window in John's room. The day before, he had caught glimpses of Alex, of Helen and Matilda, and for a few moments he had been able to reassure himself that they were – all right, at least. As well as could be expected given the situation.

Now, there was nothing. No sign of the morning class, no students passing by, not even the occasional member of the staff. It was admittedly a small window, and between that and the thickness of the glass it was only a fraction of the courtyard outside that he was actually able to see, but even then it felt deliberate. That small window to the world outside and a few visits had been the only breaks in the isolation of his room, and now even that had been removed.

The world was silent. The heavy glass and solid walls blocked all sounds from the outside, from the birds and to the muted gunfire from the range. The loudest thing in the room was the whisper of paper as he flipped through the files along with the occasional scribble of his pen.

A part of him wanted to keep working on his notes, wanted to improve them further, wanted to make sure he hadn't missed something dangerously obvious among all the information he had been given. Another part of him knew it would be useless. The stillness beyond the room served its purpose as a constant distraction as his attention drifted back to that window again and again in the hope that he would catch one more glimpse of his family. Anything he worked on would be half-hearted at best and at worst might undermine the confidence he would need to stand even a chance of survival.

He was distracted and restless and – it was too late to change his mind now. He had settled on an approach, prepared his arguments, and there was no time to redo that now. He didn't know when the meeting was set for, but he suspected in the afternoon. That left previous little time.

John flipped through the files again but none of the words on the paper registered in his mind. He looked over his own notes as well and caught himself reading the same paragraph over and over with no real comprehension.

Eventually, he put it all aside. He knew his arguments. He knew the only approach that might stand a chance of success, however small. That would have to do.

The door opened at just after two that afternoon. Dwale stepped inside.

John got up.

John's transport waited for him at the pier, a familiar boat of the type that SCORPIA kept a minor fleet of in Venice. Fast, comfortable, and surprisingly anonymous. The two guards on board were equally anonymous, with nothing at all that might mark them as anything but regular crew. Only John's familiarity with SCORPIA's methods told him otherwise.

One of Malagosto's guards followed him to the pier but didn't get into the boat with him. Just waited until John had settled into a seat and the powerful engine had started back up before he left again, his duty done.

The man who handled the boat did so with the skilled hands of someone used to Venice, but he was also clearly former military of some sort. It wasn't meant as a threat, John knew, but simply the nature of a lot of the people employed by SCORPIA in those jobs, but it was still something that he filed away in the back of his mind.

The boat turned left slightly west as they left Malagosto and picked up speed. The mainland part of Venice, John guessed, not the older historical part of the city that Rothman and Three favoured.

It wasn't a surprise. No one was supposed to be privy to Board business beyond the closest and most trusted employees but no one could entirely stop rumours from circulating. John knew the Widow's Palace had played host to Board meetings before but they wouldn't use it for something like this. It gave Rothman too much of an advantage, too much power, and she had more of a personal interest in his fate than most of her colleagues. They would never have agreed to such a disadvantage.

Mainland Venice, then. Close to Malagosto and the Widow's Palace – both heavily secured places that would easily be able to handle a civilian woman and two children as hostages – but neutral grounds. SCORPIA had several subsidiary companies in the area. John expected one of those had a suitable location available. The Board had always made sure to have secondary and tertiary options ready if needed.

The weather was pleasant, the sunlight brighter than usual for February, and the water was mostly calm. They stayed clear of the numerous other boats and even if they hadn't, there was nothing about the situation that would in any way warrant a second look. That was no surprise to John but it did confirm that for now, at least, SCORPIA was willing to pretend he had never betrayed them.

If they wanted to keep up the impression of Hunter as the undercover agent that had triumphantly returned from a successful, decade-long mission, that was the approach they would need to take. A single report that he was transported somewhere under heavy guard would be enough to ruin that image. Hunter had the protection afforded a valuable operative such as himself, nothing more.

It was theatre, nothing more, and John would play along because he didn't have a choice. Everyone involved knew that. His family's safety was enough to keep him controlled. If it wasn't … well. Hunter was expendable with his wife's corporation already ensured.

The guards didn't speak. Neither did John. Only when the boat finally docked in an industrial harbour area on the mainland did one of them speak.

"Sir," he said.

John followed the unspoken instruction and stepped onto solid ground again. A car already waited for him with its engine idle. The driver opened the door and John followed the manuscript and settled into the large leather seat. The boat had already left by the time he had buckled his seatbelt.

Everything happened exactly according to schedule and as smoothly as John would have expected from SCORPIA. It didn't change the fact that it was a rush job and he knew it. Three and Rothman had not acted with the rest of the Board's knowledge, and John suspected that the two days he had been granted to prove his worth was exactly the time needed to arrange for a Board meeting in person, given transportation times and security concerns. It was a professional job through and through, because anything related to the Board was, but it had been on extremely short notice.

Would it work in his favour? John didn't know. Short notice meant less time to plan and negotiate alliances, and less time to build up that cold, lethal, calculated rage. Short notice also meant less time for that initial fury and burning desire for revenge to ease, and that could be enough to tip the scales against him.

He had done what he could with what he had been given. He had solid arguments and valuable experience to offer in an area that Malagosto's records showed had been a weak spot since its conception. It would have to be enough, because he had run out of other options. Was it enough to keep him alive? That, too, he didn't know. His only consolation was that Helen had obviously been able to negotiate for Alex and Matilda – and Yassen's – safety. John's main focus now would be to prove his own usefulness while not jeopardising what Helen had already done.

It was not a long drive. The destination was not the corporate sort of building John might have expected but a stately old villa converted into what seemed to be a small, high-end hotel.

It wasn't one John recognised but SCORPIA had expanded significantly in the past decade, and the Board had always kept backup options available to them. This place was very likely one of them. With a meeting on such short notice, an unknown and previously unused location would add that bit of extra security to an otherwise riskier than usual meeting.

A guard already waited by the door when the car stopped and he guided John inside and up to the first floor without a word. Another guard was posted by a closed door, the sort of ornately decorated dark wood that looked antique but which had all the signs of a solid armour core when it was opened to allow John through into another hallway.

The door closed behind him. The guard had remained outside, not needed for reasons that became clear the instant John got a proper look at the new hallway. It was parallel to the gardens outside and could have been mistaken for a wealthy owner's summer retreat, but the security left no doubt that there was a Board meeting in progress.

Four guards, in body armour and heavily armed, undoubtedly with the standard order to shoot first and ask questions later if anyone unauthorised approached the room. Reinforced doors, bulletproof windows, and a single access point that was guarded and protected by multiple checkpoints. John's presence was only tolerated because he had been summoned for the meeting and even then, he was meticulously checked for any sort of weapon by one of the guards before he was finally left alone.

He was not allowed to wander, and John knew better than to even test that, but he was at least allowed to stand quietly and watch the gardens, possibly even to sit down if he got such an urge, without physical restraints.

The fact that one of the guards constantly kept an eye on him and one finger a hairbreadth above the trigger of his MP5, well, that was only to be expected. The guards used by SCORPIA around the Board were trusted with such a responsibility for a reason.

It gave John a chance to consider his approach, as he had already done more times than he could count the past two days, but it left him nowhere closer to an answer. Would he need to be Hunter or John Rider for the meeting? What would give him the better odds? He didn't know. What was the current political climate, beyond generally hostile? He didn't know that, either.

Outside, the gardens were silent and deserted. The only figures were the carved marble statues that lined the edge of the meticulously kept lawn, so carefully cleaned that they almost glowed in the sunlight. Marble benches rested in the shade of stately, old trees and at the centre of it all, an elegant fountain brought it all together.

John didn't doubt the whole place had been cleared for the meeting. It wasn't the busy tourist season, so it likely hadn't taken much to get it done, but it was still a risk. John doubted they would use this place for another meeting.

It said something that they were willing to burn what was presumable a valuable backup location for this. They would never have done it if their decision had already been unanimous, one way or the other. That meant that whatever John was about to step into, there would be people calling for his blood, just as there would be others arguing for the profit he could bring in the future. Kurst and Mikato, at least, would want him dead. Three and Rothman had already planned for his survival. The rest – those were harder to predict.

Who was even the current chairman of the board? Another unknown factor. SCORPIA guarded that knowledge zealously, just like they guarded the knowledge of who was ultimately in charge of any given operation. The latter had always been easier to work out than the former. Sometimes rumours filtered down through the chain of command and into the world beyond. Sometimes, the board member in charge left their own personal touch on the operation; identifiable to those familiar with the people and politics but few others. For the chairman … it was fairly safe to rule out Rothman or Three, since control of SCORPIA demanded too much time to have any left for the games they had indulged in. That still left a lot of options. In theory, it shouldn't matter. In practice … the right – or wrong – chairman could influence proceedings just enough to ensure the decision they wanted.

Did they watch him even now through a cleverly hidden camera somewhere? Probably. There was nothing he could do about that, and so he dismissed it again.

There was no clock in the hallway, and John's watch had been removed on the flight from Helsinki and not returned again. He didn't know the time, nor did he know when their meeting had started. All he could do was wait; another of the psychological games that the Board liked to play.

It was twenty minutes later to his best estimate when the door opened and one of the guards gestured for him to step inside.

The first thing he noticed was the antique-looking table shaped as a half-circle, the curved side of it large enough to seat the ten people that made up the Board these days. The door opened towards the straight side, where the circle might have been cut in half, and left John as the immediate focus of every single other person in the room.

The windows were behind them, large and old-fashioned but undoubtedly with glass able to stop even a high-calibre sniper bullet. It left him with the distinct disadvantage of the sharp sunlight that flowed into the room and left faces and features in partial shadow.

It was another game but an effective one. John could easily tell them apart – would have been able to, even just from the silhouettes – and as his eyes adjusted, more details finally appeared. Still, the sunlight left him unable to watch for the minute shifts that might give an idea of their mood and the general situation.

In the mid-afternoon, as the sun slowly crawled towards the horizon, every minute would add to that disadvantage. As it was, he already had a better view of the faces of the distant marble statues than he had of the people who would decide his fate, and they knew it. No wonder they had picked this particular room for the meeting, then.

Kurst at the centre of things, between Grendel and Mikato, was not a good sign. Then the man spoke and confirmed John's suspicion.

"Hunter. Back to us, like the dog returned to his masters."

The acting chairman of the board was Zeljan Kurst, then. It was not a guaranteed death sentence, the chairman did not have that sort of power and the decision had to be unanimous by the very rules of the board, but the chairman still held sway, and Kurst could hold a grudge like few others.

John's odds, already bad, dropped several notches further. So be it, then. He could do nothing to change that, only try to adjust his approach accordingly.

Helen and the kids were safe. As safe as they could be in SCORPIA's grasp, anyway. That was the most important part. If he could focus the Board's animosity on himself, that would only be added security for them. If anyone planned to object to using Helen and the kids to give the impression that Hunter was always SCORPIA's … well. Hunter himself in their grasp should be enough to focus their full attention on him instead.

"I could hardly refuse an invitation like that."

Not quite insolent but not the respectful, subservient approach he might have picked. He had considered it, too, but knew just as well that no one would believe it.

A few might appreciate seeing him brought low like that but to most of them, it would have the exact opposite effect. John Rider, deferential and broken like a beaten dog, was useless to their schemes. They need Hunter – sharp, lethal, and dancing on the edge of insolence. Firmly under their control but still with the image that he had so carefully cultivated in his years as an independent operative. They couldn't afford anything to ruin that image if they wanted people to believe their ruse.

"Indeed."

Kroll this time. Older than he had been last John had met him, like all of them, but – it was more pronounced in him, somehow. Not enough to lose the edge he had but time had not been kind to him.

"You have grown settled. Attached," Kroll continued. "You were one of the few operatives who came to us with a wife to support. Family would either be a potential liability or strong incentive to succeed for their protection. We thought it would bind your loyalty. In the end, it became your downfall."

Some would have been insulted. John was pragmatic about it. It was not the first time he had imagined what his SCORPIA career would have been like without Helen and Alex and the grounding influence they provided. Bright, fierce, violent, and presumably short. Risky behaviour ran in the family; always pushing, always testing the limits … without the knowledge that he had a family that loved him and the reminder of the sort of grief his death would cause, he would have pushed too far sooner rather than later. Or maybe, impossibly, he would have lived long enough to be considered for the Board. It was not an option that held much more appeal.

"If the esteemed Board believes I would have lived this long without human connections to ground me, you need to reconsider Steiner's qualifications."

John's reply was deliberately blunt. SCORPIA had untold amounts of material on him. With his position and history, there was no chance they hadn't stolen every single piece of intel they had been able to get their hands on. His family was no secret, and any analysis worth the paper it was written on would have taken it into account.

Steiner's opinion had always been that the best assassins had no emotional ties, and John didn't doubt that this was the analysis he had offered the Board, too. Did the rest of the intel agree with him? John hoped the intelligence world at least had a better grasp of the more human side of things than Steiner did.

"He has excellent qualifications within his very specific field," Three spoke, "but his focus was always on shaping the assassins SCORPIA needed. You, Hunter, have grown into something more, I expect."

More than the mindless obedience that John remembered from some of SCORPIA's best. SCORPIA did not favour the sort of operatives that asked questions. They were supposed to follow orders, adapt as needed, and see the job done to the exact specifications. That was what the Board preferred. John had been an exception to that rule even then.

"It's easy to come to believe your own legend. Helen kept the myth of Hunter from getting to my head."

It would have been an easy trap to fall into, to embrace the legend he had built up around himself and which their world had taken and amplified. He knew himself well enough to admit as much. There was a part of him even now, sharp and intent and lethal, that remembered the whispers of Hunter and wondered what it would have been like to cloak himself in that presence. The overconfidence would have killed him, absolutely, but – there was a small part of him that wondered if it wouldn't have been worth the risk. Surely he would have been able to control that ego enough to stay on that knife-edge and never fall.

"And yet," Kroll said, "here you are."

"Alive," John agreed, "and older than a number of your elite operatives are likely to get despite my freelance career."

A risky job and risky lifestyle, chosen by people with a warped or entirely missing comprehension of risk in the first place. SCORPIA had elite operatives that lived to retire from field work, but they had plenty more who grew addicted to the thrill and adrenaline and their own reputation. Push the limits again and again, until one day their luck ran out.

"Despite a good effort from a number of people more valuable than you. Tell us why we should not fix this oversight where you stand."

Grendel. Oldest among them, but it didn't show. His voice was as calm and even as it had always been. A voice of reason on an executive board that might already have slowly begun to fracture from the strain of years of politics.

He had expected the question. Maybe worded differently, maybe asked sooner, but he had known it would come and had prepared his answer long in advance.

"Because I'm a blemish on your record and my cooperation could fix that, because my reputation would be a significant boon to SCORPIA, and because the premier school of assassins in the world has a problem with experience. I didn't survive a decade as one of the best in the world because of Malagosto's training, and neither do your veteran operatives. We survived through skill, luck, and experience, and by learning the lessons only the field can offer faster than the job could kill us."

He went with the truth, blunt and harsh as it was, because there was nothing else he could do. It was a risk but still the least bad of a dozen approaches.

The silence that followed told him nothing, good or bad. The sunlight through the windows left him without any sort of visual clues that might reveal something about what went on inside the twisted, calculating minds of the Board. All he could do was force himself to remain calm and still, acutely aware of every single muscle in his body and the slightest movement that might give too much away.

Outside, the marble statues offered a fixed point among it all, and John breathed slow and steady as he counted them, starting from the Venus de Milo replica in one corner.

One. Two.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Someone shifted slightly with the whisper of fabric against carved wood. Then the silence was broken once more.

"Blemishes can be removed." Mikato this time. "Your mutilated corpse should help erase that stain nicely."

John had expected that from the man. Of somewhat more concern was Kurst's continued silence. He had not spoken since that initial greeting, and there was absolutely nothing reassuring about that. Any reliable intel John had on the inner politics of the Board was a decade out of date, and while he kept up with the various rumours, that was not the sort of intel he wanted to gamble his life on.

"Revenge before profits?" he asked and brushed the edge of insolence again, the reminder that SCORPIA's official policy had always been profit first.

"Reputation before profits," Mikato corrected. "Profit comes with reputation. You should know, given the effort you put into the image of Hunter."

John nodded, conceding the point.

"Reputation before profits," he agreed. "A reputation that my death won't improve as much as my cooperation will. The rumours that I was always SCORPIA's have flourished for years, and I expect you permitted them because you knew I would keep my head down and accept it for the slight protection it offered my family. My death will either make it obvious that I was never SCORPIA's and that my betrayal was real, or it will leave the impression that SCORPIA was unable to protect one of her most valuable operative from enemies gained in her employ."

"Bold words from an undercover MI6 agent."

Three's voice was familiar and so was the topic. They had covered that already, the two of them, but no one else knew that – no one but Rothman, presumably. Three wanted him alive for now. That meant that something in John's answer would enable Three's agenda enough that it was worth bringing it to the attention of the rest of the Board.

John's focus shifted accordingly, even as the doctor continued.

"You allowed MI6's extraction at the cost of several of their agents, and then you defected less than four months later. Curious timing for an agent loyal enough to risk his life on a long-term undercover operation. Callous, even, one might say."

"Necessity," John replied. "My life depended on my ability to analyse a situation. I gave MI6's plans a chance and when too many things didn't add up, I made the decision to get us out of London before it became impossible."

John picked his words with care. He would need to stick to the truth as much as possible but still twist the story to what would serve best in his situation. No lies that could be discovered through any intel they might have available, however obscure. Nothing that anyone alive could refute. Just a slight shift in the narrative, nothing more.

"You didn't trust MI6?" Three prompted.

"I thought their security measures regarding my extraction were arrogant and dangerously lacking, and I would only ever trust Alan Blunt to be Alan Blunt. He always has ulterior motives. The question is only whether those ulterior motives will be a risk to you."

"As any good head of an intelligence agency does," Kroll pointed out. "You discovered those motives, then?"

It was the opening John needed.

"They weren't exactly subtle," he said. "The plan was for me to retire in France with Helen and Alex. Settle down in a small fishing village somewhere and live a quiet, unassuming life. Perfect on paper but tailored to smother both Helen and me. I expect that after a year or so, once the claustrophobia had started to set in and we had realised that we couldn't simply move without losing MI6's protection, Blunt would have approached me with freelance offers. One job at first that no one else could do, then another and another. I would have been the perfect asset – trained, lethal, and with perfect deniability. MI6 had nothing to do with me, after all. Any trail would have been destroyed and all I would have been left with would have been a prison sentence for murder and my SCORPIA career. Once I became a liability, Blunt would likely have used my location as a convenient bargaining chip if some old enemy of mine happened to be in a position where Blunt needed something from them."

"MI6," Greene said, "has an assassination program of their own. That would be a lot of resources spent to keep one agent in the field."

"Not a good program. Not one up to Blunt's standards. Not when I left, at least." It was decent enough from what John had heard but not on the level that Blunt needed. Nothing like what SCORPIA had created over the years. "It might have changed by now, but back then they didn't have the skills in-house for the more difficult jobs. They hired me for one of them a few years ago, and I doubt I'm the only one."

That was news to SCORPIA. The complete lack of a response to that spoke volumes to him.

"So you left," Grendel summarised a heartbeat later, "and brought Cossack with you. Young and on the brink of failure. A liability."

"My student," John corrected, "who had nowhere else to go. Who expected – at best – to be shot on sight for my treason, as anyone would assume he had known about it. He found us in London, expecting me to be dead, and yes, I brought him with us. I was responsible for the situation he was in, and it was my responsibility to fix as well. My hope was for someone to protect my family when I had to work. As it turned out, he thrived with a permanent tutor and exceeded every expectation I had."

"A part of the family," Kurst finally spoke. The words sounded almost mocking in his voice. "Enough so that your wife chose his survival over yours. Without hesitation, we are told."

Of course Kurst would latch on to that. He was as much of a sadist as Three in his own way, but that just made him somewhat predictable. He would go for any weakness, real or perceived. It was John's luck that he agreed with Helen's choice.

"Helen's priority would always be the kids, that was our agreement, and Alex and Matilda have come to love Yassen like a brother. He's ours in every way that matters. My decisions put my family in this situation, and that makes it my responsibility to handle. I would have been disappointed if she had chosen otherwise."

"A wife and two young children," Three noted "You would have been able to escape without a trace had it not been for the restrictions their presence put on your movements."

"Most likely," John agreed. "I would have spent my life alone and on the run. It would not have been much of a life in the end."

"If you didn't trust Blunt, why did you return to MI6?" Chase this time, his accent distinct among the group.

There was an obvious answer to that question and they all knew it, but this was just as much about his body language and reactions as it was about the answers. They wanted the truth, and every answer he gave would be another chance to get tangled up in a lie if his story had any holes.

"To be honest, I considered staying with SCORPIA. In the end, it came down to Alex and Helen. They would be safe for a while with MI6, long enough that I would be able to find an alternative. If I'd come clean about my background to you, I would have been killed and my family with me."

Chase made a small, noncommittal sound. "And if the price for their continued survival now is your death?"

"I would hope that I had been able to convince the Board of my usefulness and sincerity in my cooperation."

"Assume you hadn't," Rothman said, and there was an edge to her voice, sharp steel under cool silk that promised nothing good. "Assume that we offer you the honourable way out in exchange for their future with SCORPIA. Tie up all those loose ends neatly and prove your sincerity in a different way."

The honourable way. A gun and a single bullet. Far more merciful than what Three or Kurst or Mikato might favour but also just the sort of game the Board thrived with. John hadn't considered that angle and he knew he should have. Kurst enjoyed watching prisoners in the moment of execution. If anything could draw him away from his usual games of brute force and torture, that would be it.

He had already gambled everything on his approach. It was too late to change it now. The only way out was to see it through, to one end or the other.

"Then that," John said, his voice as calm and level as it had ever been, "is the Board's decision."

The room was still. John counted the heartbeats and sent another bitter thought to the spring sun that left faces and features in shadow. The somewhat more subtle version of the sharp lights of an interrogation room. The Board had always gravitated towards drama.

Three wanted him alive. Kroll and Grendel, older and less volatile, would see the use of his experience as more valuable than a dead body. Rothman would want to kill him herself, as would Kurst and Mikato. Was this was the Board had compromised on, then?

It was not an entirely unfamiliar thought. John had been an undercover agent in an organisation known to use such agents as research subjects and lessons if caught. He had always known that in the worst case scenario, a quick death by his own hand would be preferable to whatever SCORPIA had in mind for him.

It did not make it a desirable option, but John was enough of a realist to accept that in this situation, he had very little to say.

The stillness stretched on. His eyes drifted to Venus de Milo again and the brightness of the white marble in the sunlight, so clear and vivid even through the windows that he almost imagined she was about to come to life.

Slow and steady breaths, counting the seconds between each. Calm and even. There was nothing he could do. Just wait for whatever came next.

"You have been busy. Assassinations, operations management, protection details, security, elite personnel training. Most of which Malagosto does not teach."

Duval. One of the members that John had less insight into. Influential in his own way and at the centre of a spiderweb of intelligence networks, but without the focused ambition of Rothman or Yu or Kurst. Still, it was no surprise that the Board knew about a number of his diverse jobs, even the ones that he was paid well to never talk about. Not with the sort of intel SCORPIA prided itself on.

Was it approval? Disapproval? Duval's voice, as dead and lifeless as the rest of the man's body language, gave nothing away.

"I might not buy into the legend of Hunter, but if I was going to survive as a freelance agent, I had to make sure the rest of the world would. Malagosto specialises. I couldn't afford to. A job is a job, and there were a number of clients who wanted to have their security checked and tested by one of the best assassins in the world, or who wanted their own private little army trained to their exacting standards with no questions asked. More time-consuming than an assassination but often significantly better paid, too, for my time and silence."

"I am surprised they did not simply dispose of you afterwards."

"Some planned to," John said bluntly. "You don't survive freelance without contingency plans, either. My insurance was information. If something happened to me, Cossack knew where to find the information regarding my most recent jobs and where to start looking – for me or for revenge. The threat of someone with the skills and ability to take issue with that sort of thing was enough to get me out of a few tense situations."

"Yassen Gregorovich. The Board wonders if he might not have thrived similarly under Malagosto's tutelage," Grendel said.

"You know as well as I do that Malagosto had all but written him off when you brought me in to train him. He was given a second chance on account of his extremely useful lack of a past and the small classes at the school at the time. These days, with more students, you would have failed him. He thrived in the field, not in a classroom setting."

And, in a different world, he wouldn't even have done that. Yassen would have a new life for himself far away from SCORPIA before he'd ever been forced to kill someone for the first time. A quiet, lonely existence, maybe, unable to ever speak a word about the first twenty years of his life without the risk of unwanted attention and with enough trauma to break most people but … he would never have become Cossack.

"And do you believe that a single, successful student qualifies you to claim you can do better than the premier school of murder in the world?" Kroll asked.

From a different person, it would have sounded like an insult. From Mikato or Kurst, it would have been spoken with harsh words and an undercurrent of blood. From Kroll, it was calm and even. There was nothing in his voice, good or bad.

"I believe I could afford to take the time needed to train him up right and turn him into one of the best in the world, because he was my only student and I understood what would work for him. That's a very different situation from Malagosto. That said," John continued, "I do believe that qualifies me to state that Malagosto fails more students than necessary. Profit first, that was always the foundation of the school, but I was allowed access to some of the former student files and there is a pattern there. Some were killed in situations that could not have been prevented, but a number of them could likely have lived and become a profitable investment with additional time and specialised attention."

That had been the original suspicion he had based his approach on, and that was the suspicion he kept finding further validation for. Did the Board know? John had no idea. Rothman and Three kept an eye on the island, but for all John knew, the rest of the Board might never see anything but the annual reports from the school along with the files of the most recent graduates and occasional promising candidate. If nothing else, the Board understood the value of self-serving interests, and the best of Malagosto's graduates were snatched up as soon as their potential was clear. Still SCORPIA's, of course, and used for a range of operations but often unofficially claimed by a single Board member. A talented operative familiar with the exact demands and expectations of their boss was an extremely valuable asset.

Rothman folded her hands on the table. It was a calm, graceful, deliberate motion that belied her skills with a number of weapons and gave the impression of someone politically powerful but hardly dangerous on her own. People had died from underestimating her like that. John had never made that mistake.

"There are few who would dare level such a critique at a school of Malagosto's reputation."

From Rothman, one of Malagosto's two patrons, the words carried more weight than they would from just about anyone. All the more so when John knew exactly how much she wanted him dead, but he didn't let that stop him. Couldn't let that stop him.

"There are few who would dare do so where SCORPIA's upper management might hear," John corrected. "Malagosto has an excellent reputation but it isn't flawless. New operatives need to have that pride and arrogance from their graduation ground out of them before they're actually able to operate to the standards they're expected to in the field. Anyone with field experience who's worked with a new graduate knows this, even if they'll never admit it out loud. Those students spend months being reminded they're the hand-picked elite, the rare few deemed good enough to be accepted by the best school of murder in the world, and that ego doesn't go away until the reality of field work on that level sets in."

Most survived to live and learn, at least among the better ones. Some didn't. A rare few, John knew from whispered rumours, had been removed by more practical means, without the risk of unwanted attention from higher-ups. Accidents happened, and it was easy enough to stage one in the field. If a particularly grating new operative happened to get themselves shot by their target or an enemy operative due to inattention or mistakes, well, no one would ask any questions and any evidence to the contrary would be long gone.

Malagosto created exactly the sort of potential one would expect from a place with its standards and tuition costs, but it took practical experience to sharpen that half-finished blade into a lethal weapon.

Had anyone ever actually told the Board that to their faces? John gambled on 'no'. The main reason he had managed to get so close to the inner workings of SCORPIA during his undercover days was a combination of skills and an honesty that bordered on audacious at times.

Even back then, the founding members of SCORPIA had been feared. An operative who didn't immediately cave and who had the competence to back it up was a breath of fresh air – within reason, of course. It was a fine line that could easily get someone killed if they stepped on the wrong side of it. There was a reason John was one of the few people who had dared risk that approach in the first place, much less survived it.

There was no reaction to his words. Just a silence that stretched on as the seconds ticked by.

Had he been younger and less experienced, the stillness of the room might very well have been enough to rattle him to a lethal degree. Quiet, ominous, and oppressive, it was the sort of mental strain that would grow until something broke if the target wasn't aware of it. John had seen it happen before.

At almost forty, though, with his family in SCORPIA's hands and his future balancing on a knife's edge, John found that the stillness barely registered to him. He was still alive. Every moment he kept them wondering, kept them asking question, kept them interested, the odds that he would get out of the room again alive and able to shield his family in the future got just a little better.

Outside, the leaves shifted in the gentle breeze. Sunlight danced among the branches and cast intricate shadows on the lawn and Venus de Milo both. The statue next to her looked familiar as well, even if John couldn't quite remember who it was supposed to be. It was some Roman emperor or another, he knew that much. Just the sort of artwork for a place owned by SCORPIA.

It wasn't Nero or Caligula, he was sure of that, but that left a lot of other options. Augustus, maybe? He vaguely remembered something about a statue of Augustus, at least. It didn't matter, but it kept his mind busy and calm, and he needed every edge he could get.

This time, the silence didn't last quite as long. Maybe they had realised it didn't work on him.

"Your suggestion, then."

Duval's words were more a demand than a question. It was also the crux of the matter, and the thing that John had spent two days piecing together.

Whatever else one might say about the school, its instructors were among the best. Yermalov was a living weapon, Binnag's knowledge would have seen her hired by any number of companies if she had chosen a civilian career, and Ross' broad area of expertise and genuine passion for teaching ensured his students left with a firm foundation in the sort of skills that might have taken years to learn otherwise.

In the years since John himself had graduated, Malagosto had turned from an experiment to a well-oiled machine, with every part of the curriculum carefully adjusted for optimal efficiency. There was nothing John could offer in terms of skills that Malagosto did not already possess, and the options he had were just as easily covered by a variety of guest instructors.

What John did have was the field experience of a decade as one of the best in the world, and in the right circumstances, that might just be enough.

"Malagosto has some of the best instructors available but none of them have recent field experience. Binnag is the only one with an actual background in the sort of operations that SCORPIA deals in, and she spent less than three years in the field before she was reassigned the school."

Jet had been an excellent operative, too, but SCORPIA had seen her potential as an instructor early on. Operatives were easy to train. A skilled instructor for Malagosto was far harder to find. Her talents had been a boon for the school but it also meant one more instructor with field experience that was either limited or years behind them – or both.

Yermalov, a recent addiction, had spent more than a decade in the field, but he had never handled the sort of operations that Malagosto's graduates were trained for and that mattered.

"That lack of experience," John continued, "is Malagosto's most serious problem right now. The recruitment process catches most of the unsuitable candidates, but it doesn't catch enough of them, and it catches significantly less than it used to. The screening will never be perfect, but it should do better than it currently does."

"That screening process has successfully identified more than twenty would-be undercover agents since its creation."

Yu's accent was as crisp as always; the polite and civilised upper class image that had worked as a shield to divert attention from his less legitimate business since before the foundation of SCORPIA. His presence at the meeting only emphasised what John already knew: he would leave the meeting tied to SCORPIA, body and soul, or he wouldn't leave at all.

"It missed me."

John did nothing the soften the words. They were harsh and blunt and potentially enough to put an even bigger target on his back at the reminder, but if that was the only way to make sure the Board understood just how much the current model had failed, so be it.

If Malagosto's vaunted security measures had missed one undercover agent of his calibre, how many others had slipped by? Not many, John would wager, but at that level, even one was enough. It was SCORPIA's luck that John had been left with no option but to leave MI6 in the end. Had he stayed, had he decided to put his career and mission before his family and remained with SCORPIA, he could have cost untold amounts of damage, and the Board knew it.

"That screening process worked better when the school was smaller and SCORPIA sought out the students on an individual basis. When every potential recruit was a referral or deliberate headhunting, and that initial screening had already been done by others. The sheer amount of candidates now means that initial step is no longer there. There will always be students that fail despite the best of qualifications, but a number of failures could have been prevented. Some of them weren't good enough and should never have been allowed to set foot on the island. Some had a fundamental weakness that should have been spotted earlier. They could have been redirected to a mercenary company or somewhere else in SCORPIA, but they had nothing to do on Malagosto. Just as important are the students who were killed on their graduation assignment or the early months of their career but who might have succeed if they'd had a slightly better foundation."

An appeal to profit, to usefulness, and to SCORPIA's reputation. On their own, none of the arguments would be enough. John could only hope that together, they might tip the scales in his favour.

"You have studied the files you were given," Grendel noted. "Examples, then."

Those, John had prepared as well. It meant something that the Board had listened for long enough to demand them, but that first, vague hope could still be destroyed by a single mistake.

"Aguirre." The man had stood out to John as a prime example of his points. "Flawless qualifications, used to do wetwork for his own government with an excellent record. Everyone missed that those wetwork operations came with official support and backup. He worked alone but always had a mission partner in his ear and the sort of security that came with government backing. He fell apart when sent on operations where he was actually on his own, with no support beyond what logistics gave him and only the instructions in his briefing to go by. There are dozens of places where he could have thrived and made SCORPIA a nice profit, but not at Malagosto. He might even have learned to adapt if he'd been able to have that first breakdown in a safer environment, but that wasn't an option."

A heartbeat, then -

"- Cossack," John said, because in the end, so much came back to that kid. "Malagosto accepted him primarily because he no longer existed in any government database in the world. He was effectively a ghost with no past, no history, and no name. He was also a traumatised teenage slave who had never killed, not even in self-defence, and who showed nothing of the potential that Malagosto needed. He failed his first graduation and was given a second chance. If he had remained at the school, he would have failed his second as well."

There was no need to expand further and no comments from the Board. John had already made his case regarding Cossack. John, on his own, had been able to take the time needed to give Yassen Gregorovich the best possible chance to succeed in the world he was determined to stay in. Malagosto, with budgets and graduation statistics and cost-benefit analyses to consider, would never have been able to do the same.

Plenty of potential candidates would be able to be shaped into decently-competent killers given two years of training by one of the best in the field, but that wasn't what the school was for and the exorbitant cost would never have been recuperated.

In the end, it all came down to profit, and John knew the value of his level of skills.

"You asked what I could offer SCORPIA to make it worth my survival and my family's protection. That's it. A decade of freelance experience as one of the best in the world and a much better idea of what it takes to succeed in that career. An additional level of screening to remove more of the unsuitable candidates, and someone who will have a better chance of fixing any dangerous oversights in their training before they're sent out on their own. Either through personalised lessons shortly before graduation, or a training mission with an experienced partner to handle some of those beginner's mistakes. Malagosto has lost promising students in the past to both sudden anxiety and overconfidence."

"And you imagine we will simply let you leave with yet another promising student?" Kurst, not that John was surprised – by the question or the man who voiced it.

"I imagine that with my family in SCORPIA's grasp, along with whatever security you send along, you will have enough insurance that I will follow whatever orders I'm given."

His words were deliberate, meant to encompass more than just teaching duties, because Hunter was a valuable asset as more than just a Malagosto instructor. It wouldn't matter if the target was someone from his past, if his orders were to dispose of his student if they failed to meet acceptable standards, or if the entire training mission was simply one part of a larger operation – Hunter had thrown in his lot with SCORPIA, and he knew the price if he betrayed them a second time.

The Board remained unreadable in the sunlight that streamed through the windows. John could see more details in the garden beyond the room than he could in the faces of the people who would determine his fate.

Even then, something about the silence felt … slightly less sharp than when he had arrived. He had been allowed to present his arguments in full. That alone was more than he had dared hope for, deep down where he couldn't afford to acknowledge it.

In the end, it didn't matter. He could do nothing to change things now. He had made his gamble, the most profitable offer he had been able to find, and it would have to be enough. If it wasn't, he would have to trust that Helen, at least, had been able to protect their children better than he had.

A murmur from Kroll in a language he didn't understand. A nod. The whisper of papers as Grendel flipped through several pages in the dossier in front of him.

John didn't move. He had not been dismissed and it would not be the first time the Board discussed the fate of some particularly unfortunate soul in front of them before they voted. If the vote came out in their favour – well. The lesson would stick that much better.

More whispers, the snippet of the occasional word he could make out that told him very little, and despite knowing the game for what it was, John still felt that knot of anxiety settle in his chest. There was too much at stake, not just him but his family, and the seconds stretched on like an eternity.

One. Two.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

John focused on the outside again, on the row of marble statues. His attention drifted past probably-Augustus, past the third statue – some senator or another, maybe – and settled on the fourth one, larger than the rest by far and easily recognisable as Hercules. It was as detailed and life-like as the rest. Someone had gone all-out for the estate, because none of those replicas had been cheap, not at that level of quality.

Objectively, it was a lovely place. In another situation, he would even have appreciated that.

The curves of old architecture and antique furniture. Art on the walls and the occasional marble bust and smaller artworks that lined the hallways. Intricate figures that danced along the arches of the windows, and stained glass at the very top of them that cast rainbows in the sunlight.

Hercules, then. John's attention drifted back to Venus de Milo, or more accurately the shadows she cast. How much had they shifted? He wasn't sure. He had lost any sense of time and the position and angles of the shadows did little to help.

He was about to look away again and focus on the Board when something in the back of his mind made him stop. There was nothing out there, nothing but the statues and the trees and the endless expanse of grass and -

- then he saw it. A flicker of light that acted wrong, almost hidden behind the brightness of Augustus' statue, and John's instincts sharpened to the absolute focus of somebody wants to kill me.

He didn't think, just reacted, and dropped to the floor even as he shouted out an instinctive warning -

"Down!"

- And then his vision narrowed down to nothing but survival as the world exploded around him in a roar of light and heat and dust – and, an endless moment later, the chilling, bone-deep rumble of collapsing walls.

In one world, Yassen Gregorovich took out key members of one of SCORPIA's largest competitors and was gifted the Fer de Lance as a result. The organisation collapsed within a year and would never recover.

In another, he did not.

Chapter Text

Helen Rider had always known that life with John was on borrowed time. She had agreed to his undercover mission with SCORPIA with the knowledge that the risk was significant and the odds that they would grow old together would be just as significantly worse from it.

Neither Alex nor Matilda had been planned but she had never regretted it for a moment. She had simply held her children for the first time and quietly acknowledged among a surge of love and worry and hormones, that she might one day need to raise them as a widow.

The terrible potential reality of it still arrived too soon. She had known and she had lived with that risk every time he left on a job but now, in SCORPIA's grasp, it was a terrible weight she was not ready to bear.

She and Matilda had said goodbye to Alex on Friday evening with the promise from Rothman that they would return again in the morning, and that had made the parting marginally easier to bear.

Alex, so brave it made her heart break, had hugged them and kept up that determined front that everything was okay, and Helen had smiled and ruthlessly pushed aside the horrible suspicions she had about the timing of it all.

Those suspicions had only grown increasingly insistent by the complete lack of Rothman and Three upon their return to Malagosto the following morning.

Rothman, with her relentless games, had been nowhere to be seen at breakfast, and the boat that had brought them to the island had not been her private yacht like previously. Three's absence had been glaring as well, and certainly after she had been blackmailed into the job as his new assistant.

No one had told her anything but she could do the maths just fine, and everything added up to a board meeting. John's future, then. All of their futures, because whatever happened, the fallout would be significant.

If Three and Rothman's absence was not enough of a hint, the odd tension of the day would have sealed it. Alex had not been sent to classes. Instead, the three of them had spent the day together. Alex and Matilda had played in the woods and on the obstacle course, first under the watchful eye of Malagosto's security and later on with Yermalov for company.

Helen did not ask for information she knew better than to expect. Yermalov did not offer any. Instead, they both avoided the topic with the caution of people familiar with the dangers of their world.

The afternoon was quiet, the sunlight bright but not terribly warm. It was perfect weather for outside classes but Helen had seen none of the students.

Up ahead, close enough to ease Helen's gnawing fear, Alex helped Matilda climb the crumbled remains of what had once been a low wall, stones now scattered in piles and fragments on the ground and half-covered by vegetation. It was not a bad place to spend a while.

"Avoid the cemetery if security doesn't keep you away," Yermalov said. "Not all the bodies are old plague victims."

Helen nodded. "Yassen told me about it. A convenient way to dispose of inconvenient bodies."

His first task on Malagosto had been to bury the body of the man who had brought him there and failed Julia Rothman. Helen had never forgotten the too-vivid mental image of a starved, abused nineteen-year-old slave sent to dig a grave as a lesson. Yassen, she learned, had never forgotten the blisters in the palm of his hands from the hours of shovelling wet soil. There were no scars, he had surprisingly few of those, but the memory lingered.

Yassen Gregorovich, Helen had understood painfully well between the lines of his quiet reminiscence, had trained to shoot at Malagosto with blisters on his palms and grave-dirt beneath his nails. Had learned the foundations of his lethal close combat skills those first days with the bone-deep ache and dull throb of muscles still strained from heavy tools and backbreaking work.

SCORPIA considered it a lesson. Helen considered it another reminder of the people she was surrounded by. Yassen's training had happened under the sharp eye of the previous principal but she doubted the new one was any better.

On the crumbling wall, with the grace and tenacity of a mountain goat, Alex scaled the last bit and held out his hands to let Matilda use them as support. Younger, smaller, far more unsteady, but Helen could already see the improvements from earlier in the way she moved. Alex's attention and Matilda's insistence that she could keep up with him did wonders for improving her sense of balance.

"He has been trained well," Yermalov noted.

From Three or Rothman, the words would have been unwelcome; the opening gambit to an unwanted game. From Yermalov, a man who watched Alex and Matilda with the instincts of a parent and not an instructor, she could accept them in the spirit they were meant.

Helen did not know where Yermalov's family was, did not know if they still lived or how many people he'd once had around him, but she knew without the shadow of doubt that he had once been a parent. Still was, wherever his child – children – were.

She would not ask. It was not her business. But she appreciated the presence of someone else on the island who might not be an ally but who understood young children in the way that only another parent could.

"We wanted them safe. We always knew they might become a target some day because of John. We trained him from as early as we could. Matilda is still too young but … she will need the same protection."

Even – especially – with Rothman's unwanted attention. Whatever protection Rothman and Three might promise, it came with even more of a threat than John's career had ever posed.

"His results on the range are excellent. Hunter's influence, I expect. His reputation as an exceptional instructor remains even now."

"He has always been a wonderful teacher," Helen replied honestly. "He always enjoyed that part of his job."

In another world, he would have thrived as an instructor, Helen was sure of it. With the Paras, with MI6, even with SCORPIA. He had always enjoyed seeing his students grow and learn.

Yermalov shifted, attention focused on the narrow path that led to the impromptu playground, and Helen tensed as she saw an unfamiliar guard approach. No raised weapon, no hostile appearance – it was something urgent, then, but not a danger. Not an immediate one, at least.

"Sir, ma'am," the man greeted them. "There has been an incident. The school is now on lockdown. I'll have to ask you to return to your rooms."

Incident.

It told her nothing and she knew she would get nothing more if she asked. Instinct took over, cold adrenaline and sudden fear as her world narrowed down to her children again.

"Alex, Matilda, we're going -"

- where? She didn't know. The man was one of Malagosto's guards, not one of Rothman's people that had accompanied her on the boat, and everything in Helen fought against the idea of leaving Alex behind on the island alone, in the middle of an unknown situation.

"The boy has been given a room of his own," Yermalov pointed out. "More than large enough for all of you."

Relief, gratitude, because she would not have to leave Alex behind, and -

- "Thank you," she said and knew Yermalov would understand the weight of the words. "Alex, sweetheart, you'll have to show us the way to your room."

An incident.

Where was John? Given the timing and the Rider luck, probably in the middle of it. Helen didn't ask. Her first responsibility was Alex and Matilda's safety, and even if the guard had known the answer to her question, she would not risk anything that might bring the wrong sort of attention to them.

Yermalov's expression had sharpened but he didn't look concerned. The latter was no surprise. He was an established instructor and more secure at the school than just about anyone because of that. As for the former … something about that sharp expression made Helen doubt that incidents bad enough to justify a lockdown was a common thing.

Whatever had happened, it had been enough to make Malagosto – and SCORPIA – resort to little-used protocols. That was not a good sign.

"They have instructions," Yermalov said in a voice low enough not to carry to the guard. "Follow them and you will be unharmed."

Helen nodded once, silent appreciation for reassurance he did not have to give. Matilda reached her side, Alex a few steps behind, and Helen easily picked her up. They both bore the stains and scratches from a day of being just kids and that was the first glimpse of normality Helen had seen in days. There and gone again, the brief moment of respite destroyed by – whatever had happened.

Yermalov headed in the direction of the staff quarters, well into forbidden grounds for the students. The guard remained with Helen.

Alex slipped his hand into her free one and tugged lightly on it as she followed along to the room that Rothman and Three had arranged for him. To the room they left a nine-year-old alone in, with no one else for company, and Helen's heart hurt for the reminder that there had been no one to tuck him in or offer bedtime stories. No one to talk to about everything he had done that day, the way he had always loved.

Helen could do nothing to change that, nothing but play along with SCORPIA games, but at least he would not be alone for now.

She squeezed his hand slightly in silent reassurance, and Alex squeezed back. And if his grip was a little tighter the rest of the way to the room, well, so was Helen's.

Breathe.

John's eyes burned when he tried to open them. He instantly regretted it when his only reward was more darkness and the sting of dust in his eyes.

Breathe.

The air was heavy, a cacophony of smells so sharp that it burned all the way into his lungs. Melted plastic from electrical wiring, scorched stone and bricks, the distinct smell of smouldering wood somewhere. Something indefinable John couldn't grasp but instinctively knew was the remnant of the explosives that had brought down … at least part of the building. The corner, at least. Where the board room had been.

Breathe.

He didn't want to, didn't want the painful coughs it wrenched from his lungs, but he forced himself to do it, anyway.

He couldn't move. He couldn't see anything. Everything and nothing hurt in that hazy, distant sort of way when too many injuries added up to nerves unable to focus on any particular one of them. He could – think. Sort of. Enough to hope that there hadn't been so many flammable materials in the old building that he was about to burn to death, but with the quality of the air he was breathing, that might very well kill him first.

He couldn't hear much. Everything was muted and fuzzy, either damage from the sound of the explosion or a result of being buried under the rubble. How many tons of stones were above him now? He wasn't sure. The room had been on the top floor but the roof had been large and ornate, too.

Breathe.

He could move his fingers and his feet, so that was something. He couldn't move enough to do anything but it didn't feel like permanent damage, at least. He didn't feel like he was bleeding out, either.

He could do nothing now but wait, for whatever would happen. Breathe, slow and steady, and keep the fear and panic and claustrophobia at bay, because that would kill him as surely as a fire would.

Breathe.

Exhaustion claimed him again.

The isolation of Alex's room was broken by a knock on the door shortly after dinner.

They had been left alone all afternoon, with only the arrival of afternoon tea and dinner to disturb them. Matilda was asleep against Helen on the couch on the lower level of the room and Alex was curled up against her as they watched a children's show in Italian. She should get up and get Matilda to bed, but she didn't want to and … that was all the reason she needed in a situation like the current one, when every moment could be on borrowed time.

The knock was obviously just a courtesy, because the door unlocked a few seconds later and Dwale stepped inside, a small stack of papers in his hand.

The knot of anxiety in Helen's chest tightened, a flare of fear and claustrophobia and a hundred terrible possibilities of what his presence might mean.

The man's expression gave nothing away as he descended the stairs, as calm and affable as Dr Three undoubtedly expected of him.

Alex stilled on the couch, eyes trained on the intruder in their little bubble of calm. Matilda didn't stir.

Dwale stopped in front of the couch. Even up close, his face revealed nothing. Just like Three and Rothman. Was that a requirement of the job? It seemed like a terrible way to live, always with an iron grip on every emotion, but now she wouldn't have a choice. None of them would.

"The doctor," Dwale said, "is unavailable on account of executive board business. He had a two-hour lecture planned for tomorrow morning that you will need to take over. Idle hands are hardly good for our students."

A two-hour lecture. By Dr Three.

Helen swallowed. She could vividly imagine just what kind of topic a lecture like that would cover and she wanted nothing to do with it, but that was not the answer she could give. She had agreed to become the doctor's assistant. This was part of it.

"Of course," she agreed instead and kept her voice calm and even. "What is the topic? Are there any notes I should use?"

Dwale shook his head slightly and handed her the small stack of papers. Helen accepted them, careful not to disturb Matilda.

"He prefers to lecture without notes. It is his belief that the students retain the knowledge better in an organic setting. You have free hands to choose a suitable topic for them. I have a copy of the curriculum for you to avoid repeating anything they already cover elsewhere but beyond that, I leave the students in your capable hands for the lesson."

For two hours. Was this a test? Would she be judged on the topic she chose? Almost undoubtedly so.

"It has been arranged with Professor Yermalov that your children will spend the morning with him while you lecture," Dwale continued. "The students have half the Sunday off. As such, you will be able to spend the rest of the day Alex and Matilda."

A lecture and … a reward for doing it well? At least her children wouldn't have to listen to it, though only Alex was old enough to really understand. That alone was a relief.

"Thank you," she said and meant it.

Dwale offered her a brief, polite smile. Then he left as silently as he had arrived and they were alone again.

Alex glanced at the papers in Helen's hand. Then he deliberately looked away again. He understood terribly well just what sort of things that would be hiding on that list.

The silence stretched on, but there was an intensity to it that told Helen that Alex had something to say. She stayed quiet and let him take the time he needed.

"… If the doctor isn't around because he's busy," Alex asked softly. "Then what about dad?"

Because Alex was nine, not stupid, and he could put the pieces together far better than Helen wished at that moment. Because there had been an incident and the doctor was busy and – Helen had done what she could to keep her own anxiety from showing, but it hadn't been enough.

"I don't know," Helen admitted just as softly because she couldn't bring herself to lie. Not about that. "He was supposed to meet the board today. I think he's still with them, then."

She hoped. The most likely alternative was not one she wanted to linger on and absolutely not one she wanted Alex to worry about. He probably did, anyway, but she could at least do whatever possible not to make it worse.

Alex didn't answer. Just curled up against her again and watched the TV in silence as Helen stroked his back and the minutes inched along.

It had taken the first responders less than twelve minutes to arrive after the explosion. That had been the easy part. The rescue and recovery process that followed … that could take days depending on the conditions they faced.

Roberto had taken over command as evening fell, with new personnel and additional equipment as the operation slowly carried on. Sunset had not made it any easier. Difficult already thanks to narrow roads and spaces never meant for modern rescue machinery, the loss of daylight was another blow to the operation. It was no matter. Roberto's people still had a job to do.

The fire had been easy to put out, at least. The rest of the building still stood. For all of its delicate decorations, it had been built to last, and the stones had stood their ground when it mattered. Only the southern corner of the structure had collapsed, reduced to a pile of rubble in what had been an obvious terrorist attack of some sort.

That meant Roberto didn't just have to deal with an unusual and unwanted number of news-hungry vultures on his rescue site, but also far more police and SISDE agents than he had any desire to work with.

Their questions were useless. No, he didn't know anything. No, they didn't know how many more people were still unaccounted for. No, there had been no surveillance records found so far and no witnesses to the explosion – no one willing to admit anything, anyway. Yes, there were survivors. There were bodies. There were – more questions than answers, frankly.

Roberto's job was to ensure that every last being in that pile of rubble, alive or dead, was recovered. The pissing contest he would leave to the intelligence agencies and local law enforcement.

Let them decide their own conclusion, he had long since learned. They were all corrupt, anyway.

Helen carried Matilda to bed a little after nine, before Alex could fall asleep in front of the TV as well. Alex had followed reluctantly, though that had been reluctance to move from the couch to brush his teeth more than any real objection to sleep.

By the time ten rolled around, both of Helen's children were asleep against her and she slipped back out of bed again as carefully as she could.

Matilda objected for a moment, still deep in sleep. Then she calmed down and Helen risked a light caress of her hair before she moved downstairs to the living room on silent feet.

The TV turned on silently, the volume already lowered to a whisper before Helen had originally turned it off. She had not dared risk anything but the child-focused channels, not with the word incident so prominent in her mind.

Now, though, she clicked through the channels, one after the other, until she found an international news station. Her Italian was rudimentary at best. If anything bad enough had happened that it had made the news, she wanted it to be a language she actually understood.

There was nothing immediately useful. International politics. The financial markets. The weather in a dozen places she had no interest in.

Helen had expected nothing else. She should start on her notes for the morning lecture, Dwale and the doctor had made their expectations clear and she did not dare to fall short of those, but she couldn't focus. John was somewhere out there, maybe alive and maybe dead, and no one had told her anything, and even the news channel might not give her the answers she needed.

Maybe the incident had been an assassination attempt. Maybe a strike by the Italian authorities. Maybe a dozen possible things that had nothing to do with John's situation but something in the back of her mind, some instinct or another, told her otherwise.

It was worth the hour it would take to cycle through the news.

Helen left the TV on as she made herself a cup of coffee in the flickering light of the screen, whispered voices droning in the background. They were still droning on as she settled back down, caffeine slowly returning the energy she would need to prepare for the morning. Upstairs, Alex and Matilda still slept, a part of her mind constantly aware of their presence and even the slightest sound they made.

It took fifteen minutes for her patience to be rewarded. The images were unfamiliar, the place nowhere she recognised, but the report made her still the moment she registered the word Venice.

"- No one has claimed responsibility for the attack, but authorities confirm that Winston Yu, the British-Chinese CEO of Unwin Toys, appears to have been the target of the explosion. Yu, a former major of the British armed forces, was recuperating in Venice after a medical procedure in -"

Helen froze.

Winston Yu. She knew that name.

She held her coffee cup tighter to stop the tremor in her hands and watched through a haze as emergency personnel went through the rubble of what had once been part of a beautiful, old building. The sort of opulence she had come to expect from the Board, based on Rothman.

It had taken SCORPIA no more than half an hour to put the school on lockdown after the explosion, a small, clinical part of her noted. An incident, all right. If a direct attack on the Board in Venice itself did not warrant that sort of action, she did not know what did.

Yu was dead, then. And – somewhere in that rubble, alive or dead, was her husband. She knew that without a shadow of a doubt. Trapped somewhere under a mountain of shattered stones and bricks, claustrophobic and suffocating and -

Helen took a shuddering breath. Put her cup down, careful and deliberate with trembling hands.

Then she turned off the TV and simply sat there for long minutes and forced herself to breathe, slow and steady until the surge of anxiety passed.

She couldn't afford to break down. Not now. Not with Alex and Matilda depending on her. She could do nothing for John, nothing but protect their children the best way she could.

Make herself valuable to SCORPIA. Make sure Three had no reason to rescind his offer. Make sure that their children grew up with at least one parent and not just the unwanted influence of SCORPIA's most powerful.

The coffee had grown tepid by the time her anxiety had finally settled enough that she could bring out Dwale's unwanted gift of paperwork. It gave her something else to focus on, and she had precious little time to prepare.

It took longer to read than it should have but she was grateful she managed to get through it at all, everything considered. The curriculum was exactly what she expected based on her knowledge of Dr Three and John's own experiences at the school: grim, gruesome, and dressed up in pretty, academic words like that somehow made it a science and not the playground of a sadist with too much time and influence on his hands.

What was she supposed to teach the students? She barely knew the basics of most of Three's curriculum, much less enough to expand upon it. Her own lessons for John and Yassen had been medical in nature; things to keep themselves – and potentially others – alive if things went wrong. First aid, medical care, basic surgery. Some of it, the very basics, were already covered at Malagosto. The rest was hardly something the doctor would want her to waste their students' time on, much less in one of his lessons.

Whatever she chose, she would be judged on it. If she could not be trusted to act according to his wishes, she would be useless to him, and there would be no one in a position to protect Alex and Matilda.

She had no time to read up on the numerous subjects she knew by title alone. With no notes, she had no idea of where to even begin. Three's knowledge was detailed enough to simply wing an entire lecture based on his mood that day. Helen could have done the same with a number of medical subjects but not with this.

Half-forgotten memories of her own classes lingered at the edges of her mind as she grasped for anything she might be able to use, and -

- A case study, then. She remembered those from her own classes. Welcome breaks between dry lectures and doctors who treated them like dirt.

John, then. Hunter. And – Zurich. The statement that John himself might not have shared the details of, but which she had found out just as well on her own. She knew exactly the thoughts and considerations put into it, and she knew which ones to avoid speaking of in a place where her children's future depended on her ability to pretend that Hunter never left.

A lot of political considerations had gone into that planning but most of that could be twisted to support the illusion that they were always SCORPIA's. That John had acted as an independent contractor on the Board's command, unknown to all but a dozen people. And – they needed that. The students. Helen had seen them and most were in their mid-twenties. Not children but also not adults experienced enough with that sort of world to understand the politics their lives might depend on in the future. People who might one day be ordered to 'send a message' with no further instruction and no real idea of the considerations behind it but what they might have managed to pick up by chance through experience.

It wasn't what Three would have lectured on, but it was something Helen could live with, something she could manage with short notice, and something that the doctor would hopefully accept, and – that was the best she could do.

Helen Rider spent the rest of the late evening writing notes on Hunter and Cossack's murder spree in Zurich in the name of education, with her children asleep where she could see them and a dull pain in her heart where John and Yassen should have been.

Yassen arrived at a tiny apartment on the outskirts of Helsinki close to midnight on Saturday. Everything in him made him want to continue on to the Rider home but he knew it was too risky. It was too late; his presence might draw unwanted attention from their neighbours, and the darkness of night meant that any enemy forces left behind would be able to spot him through night vision long before he realised they were there.

The apartment, cheap and rarely used, was one of his safe-houses. His neighbours, polite people who didn't pry, believed he worked with sales and travelled much of his time. The apartment was a place to stay when he visited family, nothing more. A single room with a built-in kitchen and a tiny bathroom, but he didn't need anything else.

Yassen's first action was to turn on the TV to a news channel. He had been out of touch in Karachi and the newspapers he had picked up on the way to Helsinki were already a day behind.

The TV droned on in the background, late enough that it was blissfully free of various debates and discussions and with only regular ads to interrupt the stream of information.

Come daylight, he would have to visit the Rider home. He did not expect to find anything but even the absence of evidence could be a clue of its own. Hunter's warning alone was – damning. Not many people had the resources to track down Hunter, much less successfully strike against him. There had been no follow-up message, nothing since the brief warning. Based on that, the odds were that Hunter and his family were – at best – in enemy hands.

At worst … Yassen did not want to consider the alternatives.

Daylight. It would have to wait until daylight.

Yassen moved around the small space with only the TV to break the silence as he took stock of his resources and considered his next move. Weapons, surveillance gear, contacts who might be useful. He checked his usual communication channels with Hunter once more but found nothing new. He hadn't expected to but it still left a dull ache in his chest; the brief, deceptive hope that somehow, impossibly, a message would have come through.

The news were the usual sort, politics and war and unrest and everything else that Yassen had to be aware of to do his job well. Nothing he hadn't expected, either, and he was about to pack up for the night and go to sleep when the relentless barrage from the TV made him stop in his tracks.

"- luxury hotel in Venice. No one has claimed responsibility for the attack, but authorities confirm that Winston Yu, the British-Chinese CEO of Unwin Toys, appears to have been the target of the explosion. Yu, a former major of the British armed forces, was -"

Winston Yu. SCORPIA.

What were the odds that Yu was by chance in Venice and the apparent target of a terrorist attack at the same time as Hunter had gone missing? Not impressive. Certainly not something Yassen was willing to gamble on.

Geneva had been SCORPIA, too. An unsanctioned attack, but SCORPIA's people nonetheless. Doctor Three's book had been all but an all-out announcement that he was hunting. And recent rumours and political manoeuvring had made it clear that time and distance had not dulled the Board's grudge against the undercover agent in the heart of their operation.

SCORPIA had already been at the top of Yassen's list of suspects. The attack in Venice only added to that suspicion.

Yassen did not know the details of the attack or the politics behind it, and he didn't need to. Not for the moment. What he needed was a clear and extremely cautious look at the Rider home in daylight and -

- What, then? Venice, obviously, if his suspicions held, but he was one man. One man against the massive machinery that was SCORPIA and the well-protected Board that controlled it. If Hunter and his family were held hostage, that was an added complication, since they would undoubtedly be kept apart for security reasons.

Yassen had handled large-scale assaults before, but that had always been at Hunter's side or with other competent backup. Never alone. He did not have the intel or the firepower to manage, and if he made even a single mistake, it could get all of them killed.

Yassen had contacts but no one he would trust against SCORPIA. Hunter had contacts but no one that could be trusted against SCORPIA in such a situation, either, Yassen suspected.

What, then? He knew what Hunter's orders would be – escape, and never look back – but that was one instruction that Yassen would never follow. He could not imagine the alternatives, though. Alone, without backup, and -

- Maybe not. There might be one person, even if Yassen had never met him. If blood and loyalty still bound the Rider brothers together despite everything.

Yassen had no solid intel but no time to waste, either, and he found the number before he could change his mind. It was still accurate to the best of Yassen's knowledge. Hunter had never updated it, at least, and Yassen knew he would have.

The voicemail was brief and simple, the best Yassen could manage on short notice. He didn't know if Ian Rider was at home or halfway across the world for his MI6 masters, but he had little choice but to try. He left no name, just the number of a burner phone. If Ian Rider could not work out the rest based on the message, he was hardly going to be of help, anyway.

If there was anyone in the world who might take on SCORPIA for Hunter's sake, it was his brother.

It was a gamble. Alone, against presumably all of SCORPIA, it was one Yassen was willing to take.

Helen Rider stepped into Malagosto's main classroom at eight exactly. Matilda and Alex had been safely delivered into Yermalov's care for the morning, she had meticulous notes and five hours of sleep and … that would have to do. She would be no more sleep deprived than the students, at least. It was practically like being back in school herself.

There had been no news. Dwale had not returned since his visit the previous evening. Breakfast had arrived at their door along with new, clean clothes, and – that had been it. Whatever had happened beyond Malagosto's shores during the night, she didn't know.

Even if she'd had the time for it, Helen would not have dared to turn on the TV to check the news, not with Alex there. He was old enough to put the pieces together and he had enough to bear already. He did not need that knowledge added to his burdens. Not until she had no choice.

The students already waited by their desks at her arrival, pens and notebooks at the ready. Silent and attentive. Malagosto allowed for nothing else.

What was their impression of her? She didn't know. She had interacted with no one but Nile, and how much of the situation he had figured out, she didn't know. At least he would know better than to share what was highly classified information.

She took a slow breath. Forced herself to ignore the fears and worries and anxiety and focus only on the next two hours and the students that paid attention to her every word.

"My name is Helen Rider," she began. "My husband is John Rider, known to SCORPIA as Hunter, and I am here to go through an example of the political considerations you may face in high-level operations in the field."

John's first impression was of exhaustion. Clean air and bright lights and, beneath it all, the artificial, heavy exhaustion of recent general anaesthetic. It was a struggle to keep his eyes open, even more so to focus.

Surgery, then. What kind and how bad, John wasn't sure, because he had also very clearly been given painkillers, but he at least still had all his visible limbs. That was a start.

Someone appeared by John's bed. Exhausted and with his sense dulled, it took him a painfully long time to notice.

"Mr Rider," the man said in accented English. "Good to see you awake."

Italian, John's mind supplied. A doctor based on his initial impressions, and almost certainly one of SCORPIA's based on the use of his name. The lack of other people in the room only added to that impression.

"… Sorry," John said. His voice sounded hoarse and his throat hurt when he spoke. "Everything is still a little hazy."

The man nodded. "Understandable. I am Dr Moretti. You are in Venice. It is current Sunday, February eighteenth, shortly before ten in the morning. Do you remember what happened?"

A bright flare and overwhelming sound; the smell of burned wood and scorched stone and -

"- There was an explosion," John said as the memories slowly came back. "We were in a meeting and … there was an explosion. Everything collapsed. I woke up under the rubble."

Moretti nodded. It was probably accurate enough, then. John tried to avoid any details. He wasn't sure what the current situation was but he knew that providing any real details about the meeting could only end badly.

"You were recovered from the rubble shortly after midnight. Your condition is well considering the circumstances. You had some internal bleeding that required surgery and several fairly deep wounds that have been stitched. You seem to have avoided a concussion but have inhaled significant amounts of potentially toxic smoke with unknown, long-term effects. If you smoke, I strongly recommend you stop as soon as possible."

He paused and John nodded to confirm he still followed along.

"Beyond that, you have a significant amount of heavy bruising. You will be sore for a number of days as you heal. You have no broken bones but your right shoulder was dislocated. It has been put back into place but will need rest. You will be given a sling to use for a few days and shoulder exercises to start afterwards. You are right-handed?"

"Ambidextrous. Mostly," John amended. "My handwriting is atrocious with my left hand, but my wife would argue that's the case normally, too."

He could feel the effects from the dust and smoke with every word. His throat felt like sandpaper and his lungs hurt if he breathed too deeply. Considering what could have happened, it was a small price to pay. A part of him hadn't expected to wake up at all.

Moretti nodded. "You will manage, then. I will let your superiors know you are awake. They have been impatient for your report."

John just nodded, and the doctor left again.

His mind was still foggy, the remnants of the anaesthetic like tar in his mind. He had to focus but every thought was a struggle.

Impatient. That would certainly be a word for it. Given how fast Moretti had left, he expected it was a matter of minutes before he got company again, this time much more unwanted.

John was a witness of the attack. An attack that must have killed at least a few of the Board, given the destruction. Depending on circumstances, John realised with sudden, icy clarity, he might very well be the only witness.

Had the gardens had surveillance? Had that exact area? With that kind of attack, odds were that they hadn't, or that something – someone – had ensured surveillance wouldn't be a problem.

The room had been located in the very corner of the building. The Board had faced away from the windows. The guards in the hallway had been on the wrong side of the building to see anything, and John had spotted no one outside but the attacker. If someone had been on guard duty and done their job, that attacker would have been seen. SCORPIA's security was supposed to be better than that.

John did not know the current situation on the Board. What he did know was that he had been given a sudden opportunity to prove his value – or to sign his immediate execution order if his memory and observation skills proved less than desired.

John had maybe five minutes to get his thoughts in order.

Hunter had worked with worse than that.

"When you joined MI6, Hunter gave you a Walther PPK and a copy of On Her Majesty's Secret Service. Your family needs you."

It was the third time Ian had listened to the short message and it offered no more answers than it had the first time.

Until he had heard that message, Ian would have sworn that only two other people alive knew about the unsubtle gift from John so many years ago. John himself and Helen, because that was the sort of thing John would never have kept from her.

Now he could add Gregorovich to that list, because there was no one else it could be. No one else close enough to John – to Hunter – to be told something like that. The half-feral teenage assassin who had grown into a killer skilled enough to rival Hunter along the way.

MI6 kept Ian carefully away from anything to do with SCORPIA and his wayward brother, but that didn't mean Ian was without sources of his own, and Gregorovich had built up an impressive reputation.

Your family needs you.

It could be a trap. It quite possibly was. Ian hadn't been in any sort of contact with John since the single, short postcard he had sent so long ago; a harsh message from a harsh man and with no way to respond to it. If Gregorovich used that connection as bait, if he had a good enough reason to target Ian, John might even have offered Ian's phone number with his blessings. Hunter hadn't had any issues shooting Ian's colleagues when they had ended up on opposite sides of an operation, after all.

It could be a trap.

But – if it wasn't, if he refused, what was the alternative? Ian had loved his early years with MI6, full of danger and adrenaline in Her Majesty's service. Then SCORPIA had happened, SCORPIA and John and Helen's escape from London and … the intelligence world had grown abruptly darker and much less appealing when it was his own family tangled up in those dangers.

Ian had a nephew he hadn't seen in nine years, a niece he had never even met, and -

- He had a choice to make. To respond to Gregorovich's message was a risk and carried the very real probability that he was stepping into a trap. To ignore it, to carry on as he had the past nine years, entirely on his own, with no one at home, no family left, no one to miss him …

What did he have to lose? A career he had grown increasingly tired of, superiors that didn't trust him in an ever-growing number of cases because of John's association with SCORPIA, co-workers he barely knew?

Was he willing to look the other way and simply wait for the day when those rare glimpses of his family in the intelligence files simply stopped or worse, be called into Jones' office to be told that they were dead, killed, and he was entirely alone?

The moment he didn't show up at work and worse, left the UK with no warning and no legitimate reason, he would burn every bridge behind him. Whatever the future held, it would not be with MI6 or even in the country of his birth.

He had nothing in the UK left to keep him there. Somewhere, probably in Europe, he had a niece and a nephew and a brother and a sister-in-law.

Your family needs you.

Ian picked up his phone and dialled the number.

Chapter Text

It was almost noon when Yassen got his first look at the Rider home since he left for Karachi. He had not dared to approach directly by car, not dared anything that might risk bringing unwanted attention to his presence. Instead he had made his way through the forest near the property and approached it with the same caution he would have in enemy territory.

Had SCORPIA left people behind specifically to set a trap? Yassen didn't know and he had no way to tell for sure. It had taken more than an hour of careful reconnaissance before he could say with reasonable certainty that there had been no unpleasant surprises left behind and he dared to actually approach close enough to observe the property through strong binoculars.

The house was empty, Yassen could tell that even from a distance. What he could see of the interior was devoid of everything, even furniture, and the outside had been cleared of any visible sign of human life, from the cars and to the toys scattered on the lawn.

It had been less than three days. Someone had worked fast. If Yassen had still had doubts about SCORPIA's involvement, that would have put them to rest. There were few others with the means and motivation to clear a crime scene as thoroughly as that, because Yassen doubted there was a single piece of evidence to be found anywhere on the property.

Beyond that, there was nothing of use. Nothing to bring back with him, nothing to take note of, nothing but the professional nature of the job.

Yassen lowered the binoculars and began his cautious trek back to the car. There was nothing more to be found in Helsinki, no vague hope that they might have escaped after all and fled to a safe-house. SCORPIA, then. SCORPIA and Venice, because there was nowhere else to start.

The phone rang just before Yassen reached the spot where he had left his car, and he stilled.

It was the burner phone, the number he had given to Ian Rider. He wasn't sure he had actually expected the man to call, much less that soon. On the other hand, the call might very well be on the order of his MI6 masters, should Yassen's gamble on familial loyalty have failed. There was no way to know. No way but to answer and allow things to play out as they had to.

It was a risk to answer it now. It was a risk not to answer it, too. There was no guarantee Ian Rider would call a second time, or that he would answer if Yassen did.

Yassen made his decision.

"Rider," he greeted, because there was only one person it could be.

"Cossack." The voice was male, British – or a very good adapted accent – and not one that Yassen recognised. That was no surprise. He had never seen Hunter's brother in person, much less interacted with him."Where is John, and how did you get this number?"

Blunt and to the point, but that told Yassen nothing. Not when he had no previous interactions to compare with. Still, Rider had called him back. Yassen could work with that.

"Hunter's location is unknown at this time," Yassen replied, as direct as Rider himself had been, "and he kept your number in his personal files."

His answer was truthful but still as unhelpful as it was blunt. Rider obviously picked up on that, because when he spoke again, there was a distinct touch of annoyance in his voice.

"Don't play that game, I got enough of that from John. Intel, Gregorovich. What is the situation, and what do you want from me?"

And there was the family resemblance. Not entirely how Hunter would have responded but the echoes were there. Their careers had diverted a decade ago but that did not erase the bond or the childhood that had shaped them both.

Once more Yassen wondered about the wisdom of contacting Rider, of what he was about to do, but he had no other options. Even Rider was a gamble at best but backed into a corner, it was a gamble Yassen had no choice but to take. He couldn't take on SCORPIA alone. He doubted he could take on SCORPIA with Rider, either, but he would accept any help he could find.

"Hunter and his family were captured on Thursday. He had enough time to use a pre-arranged code to alert me they were compromised but nothing else. The house has been cleared with no sign it was ever inhabited. There are few organisations with the resources to successfully manage such an operation, and none more likely than SCORPIA."

A heartbeat. Yassen had no idea of what went through Rider's mind but he thought he could imagine. If Rider was still attached enough to the bonds of family to contact him, that sort of news would be – unwelcome.

"If that's true, they could be anywhere. You sound very sure for someone with no evidence."

His voice gave nothing away. Hunter's wouldn't have, either.

"Recent events makes me expect Venice would be a reasonable place to start hunting. Hardly solid evidence but I have completed missions on intel less certain than that."

The response was more honest than Yassen was comfortable with, especially with an unknown factor like Rider who might very well be recording everything for MI6. Experience with Hunter and the few stories he had heard of Ian Rider made him expect that the best approach was to simply lay his cards on the table and let Rider make his choice, however uncomfortable that made him.

The words were honest, if severely lacking in details, and that was Yassen's own little test of Rider's usefulness. If he couldn't connect the dots, if he couldn't live up to his reputation as an MI6 field agent, maybe Yassen would be better off on his own after all.

"The terrorist attack?" Rider asked, then continued with a touch of annoyance when Yassen stayed silent. Doubtlessly, he did not appreciate being treated like a slightly slow student. "Someone targeted Winston Yu. We both know that wasn't John, not that close to Rothman and Malagosto. He wouldn't risk that. So either SCORPIA did it and you think it was connected to the kidnapping, or there's more to the story. I expect the latter, since Venice is too valuable to SCORPIA to risk that sort of attention there, too. If they wanted Yu dead, they would have found somewhere else to manage that."

From such a small amount of intel, that was a surprisingly accurate conclusion. Yassen kept an eye on his surroundings as he considered his words.

"Winston Yu," he said, careful and measured, "did not merely control a powerful snakehead. He was a member of SCORPIA's executive board. Hunter and his family were captured on Thursday, but it would take time to transport them elsewhere and to arrange for a board meeting. Yu's presence in Venice means the likely presence of the full board, as there would be few other reasons for him to be in that part of the world. He had his criminal enterprises in Southeast Asia and Australia, not in Europe. That is enough to make me believe they are kept in Venice, likely at Malagosto or Rothman's home. Heavily fortified, firmly within SCORPIA's territory, and conveniently close, should more decisive actions needed taken."

Because Hunter was a threat and the board still carried a grudge. The ruse that he had always been SCORPIA's could easily be kept up with merely his family left alive. The possibility that Hunter would simply be executed was not one that Yassen could afford to dismiss. Helen would do anything for her children, including going along with whatever story SCORPIA demanded. That might very well make Hunter's continued survival unnecessary.

"Yu was former MI6," Yassen continued when the silence stretched on; a single moment of pettiness he would never admit to. "He left after medical reasons forced his retirement from field work. MI6 judged him an unlikely threat and never followed up on his departure, not until he re-emerged as the undisputed head of an increasingly powerful snakehead. His place on the executive board was an exceptionally well-kept secret, even from the intelligence world."

Another severe error in judgement and something to perhaps fan the flames of resentment in Ian Rider.

Yassen understood enough of the intelligence world to know that Hunter's brother would almost certainly have been kept away from a number of files, including anything to do with SCORPIA and his brother's career. To have lived with that for almost a decade and then hear that his agency had employed a future member of SCORPIA's executive board and never spotted a single warning sign … well. If nothing else, it would hardly leave MI6 in a good light to Rider.

A second passed. Two.

"How sure are you about that analysis?"

If Rider had any opinions about what he had just been told about Yu, Yassen couldn't tell, but he hadn't expected to. There were more important matters to see to. Let Rider find the file on his own and see the proof of Yassen's words himself.

"I consider that likely enough that I plan to leave for Italy within the day."

By plane to Germany, then by car. There would be several detours to trusted contacts for some essentials but Yassen expected to be in Italy by Tuesday.

The silence stretched on. Even Yassen could admit that he had given Rider very little information to decide what was potentially a life-changing choice.

"Your decision makes no difference to my plans," Yassen continued, "and I will make no further attempts to convince you. I intend to see this through. The call to you was a courtesy and respect for someone Hunter still considers a brother. If your agency sends agents to interfere, I will permanently ensure they won't become a threat to Hunter's family. I will keep this phone for a week. After that, I will not contact you again."

"Understood."

The curt reply did not invite a response. The line went dead a second later.

Yassen didn't blame him. Rider undoubtedly had classified files to look up, and Yassen had deliberately aimed to rattle him as much as possible. Question his agency, their competence, their treatment of Hunter, his career, his distance to his family. Whatever it took to remind Rider of where his loyalties should be instead of with the agency that paid his salary.

Despite what Yassen had implied to Rider, he would prefer to not face SCORPIA alone. Any competent backup would be useful and increase the odds of a successful rescue.

Yassen got in the car. A few minutes later, he turned back unto the road as just another anonymous driver on his way to Helsinki.

Behind him, the former Rider home remained silent and empty.

Dwale tracked Helen down again after lunch had finished.

She watched his approach carefully and looked for any sign at all that something was out of the ordinary. She was not surprised to find him as unreadable as always, everything hidden away by a polite, friendly expression. He probably still looked like that in the middle of an interrogation room, handing Dr Three his surgical tools.

Helen had heard nothing but what had been on the news. The atmosphere of the whole school was slightly on edge, which was understandable given the way the school had been locked down with no warning, but she doubted the students knew any more than she did. The instructors might, but they would know better than to share without permission. Dwale was her best bet, but she doubted she would get much from him, either.

Alex hesitated behind her but stayed close and Matilda, about ready for a nap, consented to being picked up without a fuss. Helen felt better with both of them within reach, when she knew exactly where they were.

"You are a skilled teacher," Dwale said as he reached her. It sounded sincere, though there was more to it than just a compliment even if Helen couldn't pinpoint what.

Whatever ulterior motives the words carried, she could at least appreciate the comment for what it was. Her lecture had gone well enough, then. She had thought so, too, but she had no idea of what merits SCORPIA might judge it on. To know that Dwale at least approved was a relief. Maybe he had talked to the students, maybe there had been cameras somewhere. Either way, it was no surprise they had kept an eye on her.

"Thank you," she settled for. She had never taught a class before, but she had taught John and Yassen often enough, and Malagosto ensured that the students would do everything possible to avoid failing. "They are a dedicated, focused class. A delight to teach, honestly."

"Malagosto screens its students well. Anyone deemed unable to keep up with the academic demands are removed from the list of potential recruits."

Better for everyone that way, though Helen knew it was solely for pragmatic reasons from SCORPIA's side. Failed students were expensive and took up valuable spots better spent on more promising candidates.

Even Yassen, young and lost and terrified and stubborn, had been screened in his own way. He would have been shot if Rothman had found him lacking, not merely marked unsuitable as a potential recruit, but even then, Malagosto had held its students to exacting standards. Brutal and dehumanising, but … exacting nonetheless.

She wasn't going to share those musings out loud but before she could find something suitable positive to say about the topic, Dwale continued.

"Torture and interrogation is partially a self-study course. The students are expected to learn the theory on their own, while practical lessons and additional topics have been taught according to Dr Three's schedule. The doctor has always taken a personal interest in Malagosto's resistance to interrogation training and he has, in the past, graciously offered to teach classes as time and priorities have permitted. When Board matters have taken priority, the doctor's assistants have taken over as needed."

Personal interest. Graciously. Flowery words for the truth of the matter: that Dr Three was a sadist with far too much power and influence, given free reign to twist the future of SCORPIA's assassins to his whim and to use human beings as toys to be taken apart and discarded once he grew bored. The same man that now held the future of her children in his hands, and all she could do was play along with his games and hope it would keep them safe.

"Some things are best taught in person," Helen agreed when Dwale seemed to wait for a response. That reply was safe enough, at least.

Dwale smiled – kindly. "Spoken like a true teacher."

The expression reminded Helen of the doctor, at his most dangerous when he pretend to be at his kindest, and she wondered how much Dwale had picked up from him.

She didn't want his approval but she wanted his disapproval even less. If being a decent if coerced guest instructor to a class of assassin students would offer Alex and Matilda a little more security, she would take it.

"I'm certain you are aware of recent events," he continued and didn't wait for a response. "As the Board currently has more urgent priorities, the plan was to entrust the class with further self-study material and to present the more practical lectures at a later time, but that was hardly the optimal approach. I would like for you to handle the class until a more permanent solution has been found. Two lessons every week, along with any associated homework, nothing more."

Because SCORPIA was scrambling to respond to a direct attack on the heart of the organisation, Helen understood with sudden, sharp clarity. Because Yu was dead, Yu and potentially others, and all possible resources were now diverted to deal with that situation. Dwale and the doctor's assistants had more important things to do now and Helen, trapped at the school and with all the incentive in the world to do well, was the most obvious solution to that problem.

Helen didn't dare to refuse. Wouldn't have, even if the option was there. Not when it let her prove her usefulness to SCORPIA. She would figure out the curriculum and the lectures, one way or the other, because there was no other option. Her only concern now was the logistics of it all.

"Alex and Matilda -"

"Professor Yermalov has graciously agreed to personal lessons for your children while you teach," Dwale assured her.

Alex shifted beside her but it wasn't necessarily a bad sign, Helen knew as much. It was the idea of being away from her more than any objection to Yermalov. The man was a parent himself and understood children in a way no one else on the island did, and he was the closest thing to someone Alex trusted even marginally. Additional self-defence lessons would always be welcome. If it offered her children a slightly bigger chance of seeing adulthood, she would take any assistance she could get.

"Then I gratefully accept your offer," Helen said and kept her words as polite and friendly as Dwale's. "The professor is a wonderful teacher."

Someone who, like John and Yassen, understood the limits of Alex and Matilda. Understood that Alex was a child forced to grow up too soon and that Matilda was not yet even four. He was a harsh man but he was not unkind. If Helen couldn't have her children right there with her, he was the only other person she could imagine leaving them with on Malagosto.

Dwale nodded once and left without any further comment, and that more than anything drove home just how tense the situation had to be. How much SCORPIA was left scrambling after the attack.

"Mum?"

At her side, Alex had clearly picked up on the same.

"Later," Helen said quietly, part promise and part plea. Not now. Not in public.

Alex didn't look happy but he listened. Helen would take her victories where she could.

Ian Rider came out of the conversation with Yassen Gregorovich with more questions than answers and a lot of information he needed to check up on to make a decision.

On the surface, the decision was simple: Yassen Gregorovich was Hunter's apprentice about to eclipse his mentor's reputation and one of the best contract killers in Europe, a man who involved in any number of criminal ventures and not someone Ian would want to be within ten miles of, much less trust in the field.

Calm reason said he should go to Jones or Blunt with his information, because this was the best chance they would ever have to target Gregorovich.

Sharp instincts recoiled at that thought, so harshly that he felt nausea settle in his stomach at the very idea of it.

MI6 had his loyalty. Instincts had kept him alive.

Ian, with no family and little in terms of a social life, was no stranger in MI6's building on a Sunday afternoon and no one looked twice when he arrived. He had a report to finish, an operation regarding financial crimes with threads to France and Portugal, and he wanted to get it done.

Fifteen minutes undisturbed and a pitifully short file proved Gregorovich's words about Winston Yu correct. A mediocre analyst, someone who would never return to the field but wasn't content behind a desk, and he had quit shortly after. MI6 had checked up on him twice, then lost track of him, and then simply not bothered again. He had been written off as not a threat and since he had never had access to really sensitive materials, either, MI6 had closed the file and diverted the few resources they had spent on it to more pressing matters. Until his position at the very top of a powerful snakehead had come to light, anyway.

They hadn't known about his part in SCORPIA. Very possibly no one had. MI6 had employed a future member of SCORPIA's executive board, one of the most powerful figures in the underworld, and written him off as mediocre and inconsequential.

Had John known about Yu from his time with SCORPIA? Ian didn't know. He could only assume John would have shared with MI6 if he did, but everything he had done as an undercover agent had been a balancing act. He might have found out then, he might have found out later. Whatever the truth, MI6 had missed it. Another traitor they had overlooked, while Ian's every step had been closely watched for months and years after John and Helen had fled London. Fled, because MI6 had failed them in the first place and left them no other option.

Gregorovich planned to take on SCORPIA for Ian's family. Even the idea of it was preposterous but Ian believed him. There were far more believable ways to lure him into a trap and despite everything, his instincts told him Gregorovich spoke the truth.

How old had Gregorovich been when he had met John? Nineteen? Twenty, when he had left London with them? It left a sharp, bitter taste in his mouth to admit that to the half-feral Russian teenage assassin John had taken in, it was as much his family as it was Ian's. He had seen Alex and Matilda grow up, had seen John grow slowly grey and fine lines appear on Helen's face and … Ian hadn't. That was what it all boiled down to.

This was Gregorovich's family, all he had left, and he was willing to take on a suicide mission to get them back. If he failed, at least he would not be alive to live with the loss. Unlike Ian.

Assuming, of course, he ever found out. That he wouldn't live the rest of his life wondering if his only remaining family was still alive or if they had been buried in a shallow grave somewhere.

To take on SCORPIA was a death sentence. Even Hunter hadn't managed to stay ahead of them in the end.

Gregorovich was willing to pay that price. Staring at the office around him, neatly organised and utterly impersonal, in a building with people he barely knew and even fewer he cared about, Ian knew he had made his decision, too.

Alex had almost been lulled to sleep as well by the sound of Matilda's bedtime story by the time stubborn yawns gave way to deep, steady breaths and their mum closed the book softly. A part of him wanted to just … ignore everything. Go to sleep as well and imagine that somehow everything would be better when he woke up.

A much bigger part of him wanted answers he wasn't even sure his mum could give, but he had to try. There was no one else to ask, and he didn't want Matilda to hear.

Later, she had said. He hoped that meant he could ask again now.

His mum looked exhausted in the soft light from the bedside lamp, like everything had caught up with her, too. How much had she even slept? He realised he didn't know that, either. She had gone to bed after him in the evening and been awake long before him, too.

She put the book aside and slipped out of the bed, careful so Matilda wouldn't wake back up. Alex followed her downstairs and settled on the couch. Neither spoke as she made a cup of coffee for herself and hot chocolate for Alex, then settled down next to him.

The room was silent. The real students were probably busy with homework and if there was anyone outside, Alex couldn't hear. It was dark and overcast again but in the distance, the lights from Venice still broke the darkness. Did anyone there know what sort of school the island was host to? Did anyone on the neighbouring island know, the one that was so close Alex almost imagined he could just … swim across the water and get help?

Alex finished his hot chocolate in silence, his mum probably too tired to talk and Alex himself not sure where to even start.

In the end, he just asked.

"Where's dad?"

His mum had always been the foundation of their family. She had always seemed superhuman to Alex somehow. She took care of him and Matilda and their home and everything when his dad wasn't home for weeks or months, she had saved them in Geneva, and she had been ready to carry on alone with himself and Matilda if she had to, Alex was sure of it.

This was the first time he had seen his mum exhausted like this and he hated SCORPIA and the doctor and everyone for it.

She hesitated. Alex wondered if she was about to tell him it was another thing he was too young for, another thing it would be better if he didn't ask about and she wouldn't tell him, and then she sighed.

"I don't know," she admitted.

Oh.

Alex wasn't sure what he had imagined the answer would be but that wasn't it. Maybe some sort of reassurance or vague promise that it was all right that he wouldn't have believed, anyway. He hadn't imagined she would just – tell him the truth like that.

Maybe she was as tired of keeping up a mask as he was. Maybe she was tired of having to lie all the time, too.

He wouldn't have believed a lie but right now he kind of wished she had tried to give him one, anyway.

Alex curled up on the couch next to her, pressed tightly against her side. He wanted to cry and he wasn't even sure why. It wasn't like it changed anything. He had already known that if his mum had known any good news about – about everything around them, she would have told him already.

His mum hugged him tightly and pressed a kiss to his hair. A week ago he might have objected but he didn't. Not now.

A lot of things had changed in – too little time. A week ago, he doubted his mum would ever have admitted something like that. Not unless she -

- didn't have a choice.

Alex stilled.

"Something happened to dad," he said and put words to the sudden, awful suspicion. It wasn't a question. Not when every instinct told him it was true.

His mum's admission when he asked, how she suddenly had to teach a class, the incident no one had explained that meant they suddenly had to go to their rooms … something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

"There was an attack on the executive board yesterday," his mum said quietly. "Winston Yu, one of the board members, was killed. It was on the news last night after you went to bed. I'm not sure how much the students here know. I only know because I recognised his name, but it wasn't common knowledge, and no one has told me anything official. That's why the school went into lockdown. SCORPIA has to react or they will look too weak and they'll be attacked again. Venice is important to SCORPIA, and someone attacked them here. Everyone will be watching to see how they respond, and the executive board knows it."

Killed. That word hit Alex in the chest with a force that almost knocked the breath out of him because he remembered their talk the night before, his mum's answer when he had asked about his dad and -

"Dwale said the doctor was busy. You said dad was supposed to meet with them and that he was probably busy, too."

If his dad was supposed to meet with the Board, if he had been there when they were attacked -

- He might be dead, too. Alex might already have lost his dad and never even known it, and his mum knew that, too.

"… How?" He didn't want to know but he couldn't stop himself, either. Not when someone was finally willing to explain things to him.

His mum held him a little tighter and Alex knew there and then that it wasn't going to be good.

"An explosion. The official story is that Yu's hotel was attacked but I think that if he were the only target, we wouldn't have been allowed to stay here on the island with you. The Board would have carried on their business without him. It would take a larger attack to change their plans like that."

Because Rothman and the doctor had been careful to keep Alex away from his mum and Matilda. To make it harder for someone to rescue all of them. Alex hadn't seen the doctor all day and thinking back, he had only seen Dwale when he came to talk to his mum about more classes. No one had arrived to bring his mum and Matilda back to Rothman, either. There had been nothing. Just tense teachers and students and a lot of silence.

His dad might be dead. His dad might be dead and – when was he going to be told? Probably when it hurt the most, because that was the sort of person the doctor was, but his mum had taken that weapon away now.

"I'm sorry," his mum said softly, apologising for things she had never had anything to do with.

Alex wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and pretended it didn't leave wet streaks on his skin. His mum didn't say anything, either.

"Jamie?"

"I don't know," his mum said again, "but not with SCORPIA or they would have tried to use him as leverage against us. Rothman admitted that your dad managed to warn him and that he was most likely already far away. I hope she was right."

The words settled heavily in Alex's mind. Jamie was – somewhere. Safe, hopefully. If he had been with SCORPIA, he would have been a hostage, too, and Alex knew it, but it didn't help on the dull pain in his chest. Jamie was safe, but Alex didn't know when they would see him again, or even if they ever would. Venice would be too dangerous and Alex would never forgive himself if Jamie got caught just because he tried to meet with them, and that was assuming he would even be able to find them in the first place.

His dad might be dead, and Jamie was a world away, and he had to be strong now. For his mum, who had to make sure SCORPIA stayed happy with them, and Matilda who was too young to understand what was happening.

Alex nodded. There was nothing he could say that his mum hadn't already thought about, and he couldn't make himself say the words. Just nod and try to ignore the awful thought of months or years without his brother and the tight knot in his chest at the thought of his dad.

His mum ran a hand through his hair, and some of the tension in Alex's body slowly faded. The couch was soft, and the room was silent, and the lights outside were almost soothing.

And if he fell asleep curled up against his mum, the only moment of vulnerability he had been allowed to have for days, no one needed to know.

Ian packed on Sunday evening. He still had things to do, still had intel he needed to get in order to give them the best chances of success, but he packed, anyway. Just in case he needed to leave in a rush, which – given how he planned to get that intel – was not an unrealistic possibility.

Packing only hammered home that he had made the right decision.

The personal items in the house could fit into a suitcase. It shouldn't have been a surprise, not with the sort of life Ian had lived and the family he and John had come from, but it still stung to see it all packed away like that. Photo albums, a few of Alex's old things that had been left behind, and a small selection of watches and jewellery they had inherited.

What was left for him in England? No family, an empty house he was away from more often than not, and a career he was increasingly indifferent to.

There was a not-insignificant amount of money tied up in the house that Ian could do nothing about, but his bank assets would be moved Monday morning before he arrived at work. The house … didn't matter in the end. They had inherited it, first John and then Ian, and – now it would be someone else's problem.

Nine years ago, John and Helen would have gone through the exact same motions and that thought settled heavily on Ian's shoulders as he closed the suitcase.

Nine years ago, they had gone through that house as well and picked out the most important few things to bring with them. They had closed those suitcases, too, and picked up Alex and left, knowing that John would be a hunted man and that they would never be able to return.

Ian had been miles away in his own apartment at the time, just returned from an assignment. While they would have packed, he would have unpacked. When they had left Heathrow for the final time, he had been working on his first draft of his report.

And now it was his turn.

Sometimes, Ian Rider bitterly regretted he had ever heard of MI6.

John Crawley's Monday paperwork routine was interrupted shortly before one by a knock on the door. Not too many people would do that these days, and John looked up to see a familiar face.

"Are you up for lunch today, or do you just plan to eat the report when you're done?"

Ian Rider's question was perfectly casual and perfectly normal for most but it still made John pause.

Ian preferred to have his lunch alone when he was physically at the bank, and the forced casualness – old friends catching up over lunch – sent mental alarm bells ringing for John.

He didn't allow it to show, though. Just nodded. He had planned to skip lunch entirely but Ian wouldn't ask lightly. Whatever he wanted, it was important.

"Sure." He kept his voice as casual as Ian's and packed away the report. "Lead the way. Anything is better than another pre-packaged sandwich."

Fifteen minutes later found them at a small pub nearby. It was late enough that the lunch crowd was gone by the time they had actually finished their food and they were mostly alone with their two cups of half-drunk tea. A strategically chosen table had offered the privacy Ian obviously wanted but even then, it took John most of the break to decide it was safe to demand an explanation for the sudden invitation. He had waited for Ian to broach the topic but when that didn't happen, the direct approach would have to do.

"You want something," John said, deliberately blunt, "and it's something you can't risk MI6 finding out about. That leaves very few good possibilities as I see it."

"My brother saved your life while he was undercover with SCORPIA. I'm calling in that debt on his behalf."

Short, precise, and with the impact of a sledgehammer. John froze for a second as his mind went over the words, sorting through implications and re-evaluating the situation in an instant.

Ian had information about his brother's time with SCORPIA – detailed information that was not available in any report, at that – and felt comfortable enough calling in that favour. More importantly, if he called in that favour, it had to be -

"- On his behalf?" John repeated, voice perfectly even. "I won't insult you by implying you would waste this on a minor thing, but the debt is owed to him. Not you."

"On his behalf," Ian confirmed. "His behalf, and his family."

Ian didn't continue. John let the silence drag on for long seconds until he was sure that was all he would get.

"What do you want?" he asked. "And why?"

The latter question was a gamble and not necessarily something he expected Ian to answer, but the need to know made him ask, anyway. MI6 had been careful to keep Ian away from anything related to SCORPIA and Hunter. As far as anyone knew, Ian Rider had not spared his family a single thought in almost a decade. This strongly implied they had been wrong about that. Possibly dangerously so.

"The full SCORPIA file." Ian made no attempt to soften the demand. "Everything. SCORPIA, Hunter, everything MI6 has."

John stilled. Ian was about the last possible person he would believe to be a SCORPIA mole but even without that risk, to let that sort of information outside of MI6, into the hands of an agent whose loyalties had suddenly come into doubt – that was more than merely dangerous. It was potentially treason.

"Why?" Because now it was more than merely sharp curiosity. The sort of favour Ian was asking, that sort of intel in the hands of someone who was very likely going to hand it over to one of the most dangerous killers in Europe -

"- You're asking me to commit treason," John continued when Ian didn't speak. "The least you owe me is to tell me why. It's been a nine years. Why now?"

A second. Another. Then Ian took a slow breath.

"I have it from a reliable source that John and his family were taken from their home in Helsinki on Thursday last week. All signs point to them being in SCORPIA's hands now, most likely in Venice." Ian paused. "Venice. I have a niece and a nephew at the doorstep of Malagosto, at Rothman's mercy."

If that intel was reliable, it was no wonder Ian was willing to run such a risk. His family had spent a decade half a step ahead of SCORPIA but now that luck and skill had obviously run out.

"How reliable is your source?"

"Someone John would trust with his life and his family."

With Ian ruled out as the source, that left few options based on what John remembered of Hunter's file. Plenty of friendly acquaintances, because Hunter wielded social networks and his charm like a lethal weapon, but few who would know the truth enough to ever hear the name SCORPIA.

In fact, the list was pretty much down to one.

"Gregorovich."

The teenager that Hunter had taken under his wing and then with him on the run, grown into a man whose reputation was about to overtake his mentor's. If there was anyone Hunter would trust and whose intel Ian might actually listen to, it was Gregorovich. The man was also dangerously intelligent and John mentally upgraded the reliability of the intel. If Gregorovich was involved, it was either an elaborate trap or more likely exactly as risky of a situation as Ian had been told. John was inclined to bet on the latter. Ian obviously was, too.

"Why Venice?" John continued.

Ian's lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. "The terrorist attack. Winston Yu is – was – part of SCORPIA's executive board. If he was in Venice just days after John's capture, that sounds like a pretty good place to start looking."

Well. That was not the answer John had expected. Winston Yu was a familiar name, and all the more so after the attack in Venice, but it had rapidly become clear they had missed some major points in his file.

Based on Ian's expression, he was aware of that, too. MI6 had cleaned house after it had become clear SCORPIA had sunk its claws deeper into the organisation than they had ever suspected, but this was almost mocking their efforts. They had focused on Special Operations first, on the people working with sensitive data, on life and death matters. They had never even imagined that the mediocre analyst that had quit years before had, in the end, been a far bigger threat than any of the moles their investigations had dragged into the light. Ian had never been involved in the investigations, deemed too close to Hunter and potentially compromised by SCORPIA, but he had obviously looked up the file later. Probably after Gregorovich had contacted him.

"Winston Yu," John echoed. "He worked for MI6, as I'm sure you've already found out. Regular information analysis, not Special Operations, but he apparently decided that wasn't enough and simply left one day. He was a mediocre analyst with a lacklustre career and medical issues that barred him from any field work, but we still wanted to keep an eye on him to make sure he didn't end up going somewhere … unfortunate. He vanished without a trace until he reappeared later in the Philippines and Indonesia, already in control of a powerful snakehead. We never found a trace of his SCORPIA connections. He covered his tracks exceptionally well."

"He wouldn't have survived as long as he did otherwise."

"He's confirmed dead?" That information would be valuable and right now Crawley trusted nothing they got from Venice. Not when SCORPIA's executive board was involved.

"Not confirmed but as sure as anyone can be without a body," Ian admitted. "It could be a decoy. He could have taken the opportunity to fake his own death, but it would also have severely weakened his more legitimate business. With his medical issues on top of that … yes. I think he's dead but I don't expect we'll ever know for sure."

John nodded. They could at least fill in some of the blanks in Yu's file now. He would credit the intel to an old source, no names mentioned. He had delivered reliable intel that way before.

Venice, though. Malagosto and Rothman. SCORPIA politics at their most lethal and Ian knew that.

John watched Ian as he took the chance to gather his thoughts. The man looked stressed, John could tell as much now. Ian had hidden it well enough, but up close the strain was impossible to hide. Had Ian slept at all? John doubted it.

In any other case, John would have told him to accept the loss. That to have them brought to Venice was a death sentence. In this case, though … there were complications. Somehow, there always was when it came to the Rider family.

There had been increasingly insistent rumours that Hunter had always been SCORPIA's. To most, they would sound credible and Hunter had done nothing to dispute them. To the people who had known John Rider and the details of his undercover assignment, it was an obvious attempt to change the narrative to work in SCORPIA's favour. The approach was not unexpected. Hunter was close to retirement age and still alive after almost a decade of SCORPIA's best attempts to the contrary. The only real way SCORPIA had left to recover from the loss of credibility Hunter's defection had cost was to change history to ensure it was their plan all along.

Hunter, alone and with a family to protect, had no chance but to go along with it. With those rumours as strong as they had already grown, perhaps it would save his life now. His, along with his family.

It would be survival for the minor cost of being a slave to SCORPIA, and John couldn't even blame Hunter if that was the choice he made. He had a family to protect and he had always thrived with SCORPIA. If that was the price, Hunter would pay it. A decade as one of the best in the business would be a valuable addition even to SCORPIA's reputation, and John expected that even the executive board would be able to put aside the desire to see Hunter dead for that sort of prize.

Ian, though – Ian had no such thing to bargain with. John knew that. Ian had to as well. That left precious few other methods, and none of them were good.

"Intel won't be enough to bargain for their freedom," John warned and knew even as he spoke that it wasn't what Ian had planned.

Ian's responding smile, grim and sharp, confirmed that before his words could.

"I don't plan to even try. With the sort of reach they obviously have in the intelligence world these days, I'm sure they could get it through other means, anyway."

That left exactly one option that John could think of, because Ian Rider would never be valuable enough to SCORPIA to trade him for Hunter or his family, and Ian knew that, too.

John didn't need to ask. The sinking feeling confirmed it; finely-honed field instincts that had learned to read and predict a situation in a way that analysis alone would never be able to.

John took a slow breath. Released it, and let the sudden tension ease with it. Stubbornness had always been a Rider trait. Ian had already made up his mind but John had to try. For his own peace of mind if nothing else.

"Taking on SCORPIA alone is a death wish, not a plan," he said quietly. "You know that. Even if you get Gregorovich to go along with it, it's suicide."

"At least I'll have tried." In another time, before everything with Hunter and SCORPIA, the words might have been defiant. Now they were just tired. "What's the alternative? Stay here, do my job while no one really trusts me because of my brother, and one day find out my entire family has been killed? The nephew I haven't seen since he was small enough to sleep in my arms? The niece I've never met? There is nothing left for me in London. If there's any chance for this to work, I have to try."

"If you do this," John said and tried another approach, "if you survive and manage to walk away from this, you will have no future with MI6. You'll be lucky to ever set foot on British soil again without vanishing into a black site somewhere to be interrogated and locked away as a traitor or worse."

John had seen it happen before. Loyalties were sometimes questionable in their line of work and the truth a nebulous thing, and MI6's foremost duty was to see to the security of the United Kingdom. If that sometimes meant locking up potential dangers before they could become more than a risk assessment, so be it. Ian was well aware of that.

"Like my family?" Ian's voice cooled. "Like my brother and sister-in-law, who were promised protection and a new life for the risk that John took, working undercover with SCORPIA? Like my niece and nephew, who will never bear the name of their birth because MI6 failed to keep that promise and trusted traitors in their ranks? John did his duty and the payment they got was being forced to flee to have even a chance to escape SCORPIA's reach, with John branded a traitor by the people who forced him into that situation in the first place, and with no choice but to rely on the name he had made as Hunter to keep them safe. If this costs me my career and reputation, then it will be worth it."

Fair. John took a slow breath. Took the chance to sort out his thoughts, too. This was no impulsive action, then. It was the sort of conviction that would take years of resentment to build up. The sort of conviction that turned loyal agents into traitors.

Maybe they were just fortunate that the resentment had come out in Ian's family's favour. John could imagine the sort of damage Ian could have caused in enemy hands and the image was as unwelcome as it was chilling.

"Who else is going to help them?" Ian demanded when the silence stretched on for too long. "My brother is Hunter. Half the intelligence world wants him dead, the other half wants a trained assassin on a leash to use as they see fit, and no one cares what happens to his wife and children. To my family."

John held up a hand, a request for a moment to gather his thoughts, and Ian fell silent. Between them, the tea had grown tepid and utterly ignored.

Ian's anger was justified, that was the worst of it all. The situation with Hunter was MI6's failure more than anyone's and John could acknowledge that. They had promised Rider and his family security and anonymity, and they had failed to live up to that promise. That Hunter had been forced to take matter into his own hands was not something John could blame him for.

MI6 had been careful to keep Ian Rider well away from anything to do with his brother but perhaps, in the end, it would always have come to this.

Family or career for Ian. Personal debt or duty for Crawley himself. He hadn't thought about that debt in years but – sometimes the memory would flicker by, when something or another regarding Hunter crossed his desk.

He could refuse, of course. Duty and loyalty would always rank above personal debts, and what Ian asked for was treason. He could refuse, they would get up and return to work and that would likely be the last he ever saw of Ian. If he refused, he didn't doubt Ian would be out of the country before nightfall, if nothing else then to prevent a pre-emptive strike against him if Crawley should share his request with his superiors.

He could agree, too. Repay the debt that Hunter had never claimed – had told him to forget about, in fact – and honour the risk Hunter took when he worked around SCORPIA to save a promising MI6 operative that he barely knew.

He would hand over highly classified information to Ian if he did, but it was information that SCORPIA could undoubtedly already gain access to if they truly wanted. Ian was right about that.

If Ian's intentions were true … it would still be treason, but it would also be a way to help a rogue agent against the far bigger threat that SCORPIA posed. Crawley would still be one of the people to burn Ian and brand him a threat once his disappearance became known, but he could acknowledge and respect the motives that drove him.

The debt that MI6 owed Hunter would – could – never be repaid. The past could not be changed, and Ian was right that Hunter was too far tangled up in the underworld to ever truly get out again. But perhaps John could do this much for the man he had always liked and respected and who he ultimately owed his life.

"Tomorrow," he said and made his decision. "We'll have lunch again. Bring a briefcase. Not everything in those files is digital."

SCORPIA and Hunter's files were, in fact, a mess of formats, but John would manage. He was trusted and had access to a little-used photocopier. It wouldn't matter if it took him the rest of the day to copy everything. Getting the files out of the country … he trusted Ian had that handled. His record spoke of those skills.

"I can give you three days after that," John continued, slow and measured. "A brief trip to Nice to check up on an asset the day after tomorrow. If you return as expected, this conversation never happened. If not, given the attack in Venice – on SCORPIA's territory – and your familial link with Hunter, you will be considered a rogue agent rather than simply missing."

John himself would likely be under scrutiny, too, as the person who sent him to Nice, but he had weathered worse. He knew how to cover his tracks and he was exceedingly valuable to MI6. The bulk of the blame would fall on Ian.

Ian nodded once, sharply. Then the tension seemed to flee his body and he slumped a little in his seat as exhaustion took over again, and John got a much better idea of the level of stress he was under. What it had cost him to take the risk to approach John for the files and just how far he had been backed into a corner, and John knew he had made the right decision.

John Crawley could do nothing himself to help Hunter and his family but this – this he could do.

Chapter Text

By Tuesday morning, John Rider could recite his report of the events leading up to the explosion in his sleep. Every detail had been examined repeatedly over the course of Sunday and Monday by a number of people, none of whom John actually knew.

He had been told nothing about the status of things and hadn't been allowed access to any sort of media, either, presumably to avoid having his memory influenced by others. Well, influenced any more than it might already be by hours spent trapped in rubble and partially unconscious, anyway. The guard outside of his room never spoke. The doctor and nurses kept strictly to medical matters. The windows of his room opened to a courtyard somewhere in Venice – the Civil Hospital, he suspected – but that told him nothing of actual use.

How many of the Board had survived? John didn't know. His fleeting impression was that the RPG had impacted slightly left of the centre of the room. Near Yu and Kroll and Grendel and Three. If that was correct, Yu was dead. With his medical condition, there was no chance the man had survived. The rest of the Board … there was no way to tell, and no one had any reason to keep him updated on things. He doubted all of them had been killed, not with how organised things had been around him, but it would be a minor miracle if Yu had been the only casualty.

Well, the only casualty in the explosion. It was likely that the guards were already dead, should SCORPIA have deemed them at fault for not preventing the attack. Or worse for them, if they were suspected to have been a part of that plan, they were probably still alive and 'debriefed' through far worse methods than John himself had been.

John's own circumstances might very well save his life now, and he was acutely aware of that. Out of everyone even marginally involved in that meeting, he was the only one that SCORPIA could tell with absolute certainty had nothing to do with that attack. The only eyewitness with every reason in the world to be truthful and to leave nothing out. He wasn't sure what the current situation was, wasn't sure if he would be better off or worse off for it, but he at least did not have the suspicion of treason hanging over his head now.

John had expected another round of debriefing bordering on interrogation when the door opened after breakfast, another futile round of digging for minute details he'd had no chance to see. Instead the most recent arrival – male, thirties, former military, unknown to John – handed him a neatly folded bundle of clean clothes and a travel set of toiletries.

"You have a meeting in an hour, sir."

The word meeting caught John's attention immediately, as did the polite sir.

Another debriefing, then, but presumably elsewhere as no one had cared about his hospital clothes the previous two days, and anyone important enough to dress nicely for would not bother to travel to the hospital but would expect John to be brought to them. The use of 'Sir' … wasn't necessarily good news, it could just be habit for his most recent guest, but it at least wasn't a bad sign. John would take it.

With a sore shoulder, it took longer than it should have to get ready but he was still out of the bathroom in fifteen minutes and felt like a whole new person for it. Based on his guest's reaction, he had not taken so long that it had made them pressed for time.

The clothes fit perfectly, no surprise. So did the shoes and jacket that waited for him by the bed. John finished up and followed his guest outside, where they were greeted by two guards that fell into step behind them.

No one spoke. No one they passed even glanced twice at him. They avoided the main entrance as they left, and the boat the awaited them at the canal was classic SCORPIA – both expensive-looking and unwelcoming.

John didn't ask about the destination. Questions would not endear him to whoever wanted a meeting like that, and he would know soon enough. He doubted it would be a long trip. SCORPIA had already owned or otherwise controlled a number of properties in Venice and the surrounding areas during John's time at Malagosto, and another decade had undoubtedly only added to that.

Half an hour later found them at the Lido, in front of an expensive villa. It was close enough to Malagosto that John could see the low silhouette of the island in the distance, though he didn't allow himself to linger on it. Merely followed his guide unto land and into the unfamiliar building.

Security was discreet but substantial. Unlikely to be noticed by civilians but to someone like John, the level of security spoke volumes about the situation. The security inside the building dropped any pretence and confirmed John's suspicions.

There were few who would be able to order a meeting with a prime witness to an attack on the executive board like that, and even fewer who would warrant that sort of protection.

A member of the Board, then. Who or how many, John didn't know, but based on recent events, he doubted the Board would risk a larger meeting this soon. One person, then. Two at the most. Potentially risky if there was an intel leak somewhere but not enough to be a crippling blow to the organisation.

John was thoroughly searched before a heavily armed security guard led him to a door on the second floor. He was unceremoniously shown inside, the door closed behind him – and just like that, John found himself alone with the distinct and unwelcome figure of Zeljan Kurst.

John ignored the lingering ache in his body and straightened as he slipped into a more military bearing in the half-second it took him to analyse the situation.

During his undercover operation, his life had depended on his ability to read a room in an instant and react accordingly. It had never been planned that he would be in as close contact with the Board as he had ended up – it had been luck and audacity more than anything; not a factor anyone could have planned for – but he had adapted to that situation as well. Thrived, even, on the knife-edge of danger and lethal politics.

Zeljan Kurst had a reputation as brawn more than brains. A temperamental figure that reached for brute force first and finesse second and someone who had earned his position through fear and violence rather than the sharp world of intelligence like his colleagues.

Hunter had never made that mistake. Kurst played to his appearance as much as Rothman played to her beauty and allowed others to see what they wanted to see. Rothman's soft, sensual appearances, far too delicate for someone on the Board – or, in Kurst's case, the bull in a china store that could easily be outwitted.

Kurst at his most fundamental was an intelligent, dangerous man, and right now he had every reason to want John dead. That was not something he could ever afford to forget.

"Sir."

Hunter's greeting was sharp and respectful; the subordinate with a dangerous superior.

At first glance, Kurst looked utterly untouched by the attack. At closer look it became clear that while Kurst had survived and fared surprisingly well, he had not escaped unscratched. The edge of a large bruise in a vivid, purple-ish blue was visible just above the man's shirt, and his suit seemed unusually heavy. John's guess was a carefully hidden chest injury, possibly spreading across his right shoulder and back. The suit, dark but unusually formal for the situation, would be able to hide the visible signs and any necessary bandages and support underneath, and Kurst himself – as competent with a gun in his left hand as in his right – would be no less lethal for it.

An outsider might see John's presence in the room with no additional security as an unacceptable danger. To John himself, with the ever-present knowledge that his wife and children's well-being was dependent on his good behaviour, it was a sharp reminder of the control Kurst held of the situation.

Sharp eyes took in John's condition to judge the state of his injuries and probably the use he might still be to SCORPIA. There was a time when Kurst had genuinely liked Hunter, and that made the man all the more dangerous for it. Kurst never forgave a weakness, in himself or others.

"Hunter. The rat survives again."

John didn't move, didn't rise to the bait in any way, and Kurst continued.

"If I had it my way, you would have been executed where you stood. Your loyalties are too dubious to risk it for one operative that is rapidly growing too old for effective field work, and time has not made your treason any less unforgivable."

A pause. John remained silent. Kurst liked his mind-games and John knew that while the rest of the Board – whatever members of it that were still alive – had obviously voted in favour of his survival, Kurst might still take the chance for revenge. His death would cause displeasure among the rest of the Board, but he would still be dead. It was a course of events he would prefer to avoid.

"Your analysis of the situation." The order was sharp and clear, and John didn't hesitate.

"Someone attacked the Board at the heart of SCORPIA's territory. The audacity of such a strike implies an organisation that is powerful and capable enough to gain access to that level of information, carry out the attack, and presumably believe they can not only weather the potential fallout but take advantage of the situation as well. Whether they're realistic about that analysis or they're upstarts who have overestimated their own capabilities is unknown until they have been identified."

And identified they would be. SCORPIA had to retaliate and everyone knew it. To do nothing would be a sign of weakness the organisation could not afford. To not do enough would send the same unwanted message: that SCORPIA had lost its stinger and that it might have grown weak enough to take down given enough force. Someone had to send a message – thorough, brutal, and public – and they would have to do it fast. The entire underworld was watching.

That had been the safe part of John's analysis. The obvious one. That was not the one that was likely to prove him valuable enough to SCORPIA to keep him alive.

"Based on the situation and the speed with which it must have been planned, my primary suspect would be Atlas," he concluded and took the risk he had to take. "Whatever it took to carry out that attack, the ability to gain the information needed to strike in the first place cuts down the options significantly. That was not a Board meeting planned months in advance. That was a last-minute logistical nightmare that a small, trusted group of people had to keep under absolute wraps, and to be able to successfully target that sort of loyal staff speaks of a strong, established competitor."

The attacker could have gained the intel from sheer carelessness, but John doubted that was the case in this situation. Logistics for the highest echelons of SCORPIA was reserved for the most trusted, competent people available. To turn one of them would be difficult at best but still leagues more likely than simple negligence would be.

Atlas Executive Solutions was younger than SCORPIA but had thrived after the fall of the Berlin Wall. Enough so that they had grown to a point where they were now SCORPIA's closest competitor. Their business didn't entirely overlap but they still competed for a number of the same customers and jobs, and it was hardly a secret that both organisations would take the opportunity to target a competitor like that if given even half a chance.

Hunter had stayed out of their way, as he had done with several other companies of similar type. Their circles rarely overlapped and while there wasn't the personal aspect that made SCORPIA so dangerous to him, he was still a notable figure in their world. That had made him a potential threat.

"The intelligence community would have little to win by targeting SCORPIA like this," John continued. "Any vendettas are personal more than anything and not something worth the risk that would come with targeting the entire Board."

Of course SCORPIA's upper echelons had enemies, but SCORPIA itself was exceptionally useful. Too useful and too powerful to alienate these days.

Kurst's expression was unreadable. John had no way to tell how his analysis matched the numerous reports Kurst had undoubtedly already been given.

"The intel leak?"

Hunter had avoided SCORPIA and other large organisations when possible, but that didn't mean he didn't know how one might want to target them. The vulnerable spots in their security. He had been sent undercover to do exactly that, after all.

"I would rule out Dr Three and Mrs Rothman based on location alone, as they were both already in Venice. The most likely intel leak would be where logistical security would have been stressed enough to allow for fractures."

His words were direct but respectful, and he didn't deviate from the preferred address for Three or Rothman. The last thing John could afford now was to seem less than respectful of the Board. Even if that hadn't been a concern, Three had killed people for less. To forget – or worse, dismiss – his medical background was suicidal at best.

"Without being aware of the logistics of the rest of the executive board, I would focus on the subordinates of Major Yu, Mr Mikato, and Mr Chase. The former two more likely than the latter. Major Yu and Mr Mikato both control criminal empires of their own and have the security concerns to match this. Mr Chase is less likely but the short notice combined with the distance if he were in Australia at the time could have stressed the operational security as well."

He would deliberately refer to them in the present tense until someone confirmed how many of them had survived. Yu was dead, John was sure of it, but … until it was official, that respect mattered. It was not his place to judge a founding member of SCORPIA's executive board dead. Not unless he wanted to follow shortly after.

John had already ruled out Kurst. There was no way the man wasn't already going through his subordinates in as brutal and bloody of a manner as it took to get to the bottom of the matter. The other members of the Board were also an option but … less likely than Yu, Mikato, and Chase. To the best of his knowledge, they were all based reasonably close to Venice, not on the other side of the world. If Three and Rothman had told the Board about his capture when he landed in Venice, that wouldn't have left much time for someone like Chase to get to the meeting.

"The Board agrees with your conclusions," Kurst said and sounded like the words had to be dragged out of him.

He was speaking as the acting chairman, John knew, not as Zeljan Kurst. The acting chairman always had SCORPIA's best interest in mind – or was supposed to at least pretend to, anyway. The acting chairman was pleased to see SCORPIA's gamble with Hunter pay off. Kurst had undoubtedly hoped that John's analysis of the situation had been flawed enough to make him a liability instead of an asset.

"You will hunt down those responsible for the attack. SCORPIA will see to her own intel leaks. You will ensure proper retribution on those who would dare to target us. You will be given SCORPIA resources to assist you. Consider this your penance. SCORPIA expects you to live up to your legend, Hunter."

With your shield or on it, John mind recalled unbidden, fragments from some long-ago history lesson or another.

He would succeed or die trying, because there was no other alternative. Not unless he wanted his family to pay the price.

"Yes, sir," he agreed, the only answer he could give. Kurst preferred the military approach to the political games, and John adapted accordingly.

Kurst had to have signalled to someone outside, because a moment later the door opened and an unfamiliar man stepped inside. The man didn't approach and Kurst's attention never wavered from John.

"Dismissed."

Harsh and blunt, but none of his feelings about John were obvious. Board businesses would remain with the Board, and in the event of John's success, SCORPIA did not want any possible suspicions that Hunter might once have had different loyalties.

"Sir," John acknowledged and nodded once, sharply.

He didn't speak until he was outside again, the unknown man beside him and the door to Kurst's office firmly closed. Only then did he risk breaking the silence to get his first impression of the operative he would be working with.

"Hunter," John introduced himself.

"Damascus, sir. I'll be responsible for logistics for the operation."

Names said a lot about Malagosto's graduates and Damascus' name spoke volumes to John. It was most likely a reference to Damascus steel. Not the obviously dangerous or intimidating name of someone that Malagosto might want to strengthen the confidence of and help build a reputation, but more like a trusted weapon, lethal and reliable.

Damascus was young but without the indefinable something that marked a new graduate. Still under Malagosto's draconian contract, maybe year or two left of it, but with less of an incentive to look for alternatives.

John was well aware of his reputation. His life had depended on his ability to integrate himself into any situation, and the Board was well aware of that, too. They obviously planned to minimise any risks that he might be able to twist the loyalties of whoever they sent off with him.

John was used to working alone these days. Even the few times he had been offered a job working with Yassen after he had let the kid go off on his own, he had turned it down. They both had. They wanted someone with Helen and the kids as often as possible, and working together, rather than having one of them elsewhere as insurance in case of unfortunate client decisions, carried risks they did not want to deal with.

Damascus was young, and John was used to working alone, and that wasn't taking into account whatever combat team – teams, possibly – that SCORPIA would add to the mix. On the other hand, SCORPIA also desperately needed the operation to succeed. They needed a show of strength to scare off any other competitors that might suddenly decide a takeover was worth the risk. They would not send him off with substandard assets to sabotage the operation.

Damascus was young but skilled, and whatever combat team he would be given would have a solid record of excellent results, too. SCORPIA would risk nothing else.

Hunter could work with that.

Helen spent Tuesday afternoon in Alex's room at Malagosto, preparing her lesson plan while her children played. Two moving boxes had been delivered to the island Monday evening with a selection of clothes and toys for Alex and Matilda both, all of it from their home in Helsinki. It had lent a bit of comfort to the place, a bit of an illusion that it wasn't actually a prison and while Helen never forgot the truth, the small touches of home and familiarity were welcome.

It also made her suspect their stay would be longer than anyone had originally planned. It would have made no sense to do that if they would return to Rothman's home within days. They hadn't been allowed to leave the island since the attack, and neither had the students, and now Helen wondered just how long SCORPIA planned for the lockdown to continue. She had been given no updates, nothing but what was on the news, and that told her painfully little of actual use.

Her first proper class had been that morning and she had kept to Three's material like it was the Bible itself. Her future – and Alex and Matilda's – depended on her ability to live up to Three's expectations of her, and she would go far to ensure he approved of her lessons.

If that meant hours in the late evening spent reading and memorising endless articles and long books on a subject she wanted nothing to do with, then that was the price she would pay.

She thought her first lesson had gone – well enough, hopefully. She had no way to tell for sure. Not until Dwale or Three himself made their opinions known.

On the floor, a little unsteady on the thick rug, an abundance of brightly-coloured wooden blocks stacked in towers and houses and a large castle lit up the muted colours of the room. Frequently, a precarious tower balanced by luck alone would collapse to Matilda's delighted laugh, followed by its swift reconstruction and repeated demolition.

For a little while, life felt almost normal.

Helen got no warning; only the sound of the door unlocking as Yermalov let himself inside the room with an expression that was grimly determined. Nile followed behind him as a silent shadow. His expression gave nothing away but to someone familiar with Malagosto's training, that spoke plenty. He could perhaps have known what was happening, but based on the carefully blank expression, Helen expected he was as out of the loop as she was.

"Dr Three will arrive in fifteen minutes," Yermalov said. "We are expected. Abara will remain and watch your children."

Helen wanted to refuse. Wanted to dig in her heels and argue and demand to stay, rather than to cater to the games of men with ego and too much power, but she didn't. Not when everything depended on her usefulness to SCORPIA.

At least they would be with someone they knew. Alex liked Nile, and he had done well as a caretaker before when Helen couldn't be there for them. She trusted they would be safe.

She wasn't sure she could say the same for the rest of them. Not with Yermalov's grim expression. Not with the way he – and presumably the rest of the island – seemed to suddenly scramble to meet Three's demands. That was not the man Helen had met in that large and impossibly claustrophobic office. That had been someone calm and even-tempered, more likely to enjoy the subtle luxuries of power than vicious displays of control.

Dr Three had calmed over the years, John had told her once. His temper a decade ago had been far worse. Quick to anger, quick to take insult, and likely to use the offender as a research subject in return.

This was … decidedly not good news. She had no proof, nothing but instincts that told her something was very, very wrong, but she had learned to trust those with her life.

She didn't ask. Just nodded and knelt down to hug Alex and Matilda both.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," she promised, because there was nothing else she could truthfully offer. "Be good for Nile."

"Be careful," Alex whispered into her hair, so low no one else would hear, and she hugged them a little tighter before she reluctantly let go.

They had less than fifteen minutes, and they would have to be there as early as possible. Just in case.

"Mama -" Matilda began.

Helen tugged a loose strand of Matilda's hair behind her ear, fine and impossibly soft.

"As soon as I can, all right?"

Matilda nodded. She didn't look happy but she was slowly getting used to things. Behind them, Nile looked as lost as Helen felt, in his own, emotionless way.

Helen waited until they had left the room and closed the door behind them before she dared to break the silence. Even then, she kept her voice low enough not to carry to the rooms around them. The doors were heavy, meant to be all but soundproof, but it still wasn't a risk she wanted to take.

"How bad is it?" she asked. She wasn't sure Yermalov would – or could – answer, but she had to try. She needed any advantage she could get.

The man didn't even glance at her, but Helen could sense the tension in him without any need for visual confirmation. He was as unsettled by the situation as she was. Given his position at Malagosto and how well SCORPIA treated its most prized instructors, that was not a good sign.

"Unknown. There have been no news, but indications are unfavourable."

Short, almost curt, and direct. She had come to expect that from him and appreciated the straightforwardness.

She could only hope that Alex and Matilda would be okay. They had interacted well with Nile before but that meant nothing in an unfamiliar situation like this. She didn't think Nile was a danger to them, but that still left plenty of ways in which something might go badly. It might be fifteen minutes before she was back with them, safe and sound. It might be hours. Might be more, though she resolutely didn't think about that.

"If Nile misses too many classes -" she said instead, because the question nagged her now, dark and insistent.

He was just a child, even younger than Yassen had been. If his new duties as babysitter meant he wouldn't be able to keep up with Malagosto's brutal pace …

"He is second in his class, he can afford to miss them." Yermalov's verdict was blunt and gave no indication about his own opinion on the matter. "If the warnings about the Doctor's displeasure are true, he should be grateful for the opportunity. Out of sight is the safest place to be, and your children are under the Doctor's protection. Abara's classmates will not have that same advantage."

He will be grateful for the opportunity if he has any sense at all, Yermalov didn't need to say.

They stepped outside. The dorms, normally not guarded, had one of Malagosto's security personnel outside watching everything with sharp eyes. In front of the main building, Binnag already waited, her usual work uniform with its marks from hours in the greenhouses replaced by more formal, elegant clothes. Ross, like Yermalov, was in black SCORPIA uniform and there was no sign of his usual humour to be seen.

Everything seemed unnervingly on edge. Like a particularly vindictive commanding officer was about to drop by for a surprise inspection, based on what she remembered from John's stories.

Like their lives depended on a good enough impression, knowing Three.

"The students?" Binnag asked when Yermalov guided Helen along to the small group of instructors. D'Arc wasn't there, presumably at the pier to greet Three. Dwale, too, was missing and likely with the Doctor as well.

"The dorms are locked down."

Yermalov offered nothing further and had no reason to, since Binnag clearly knew what was going on, but it was enough that Helen could at least make a decent guess.

There were central locks on the student rooms, Yermalov had told her. Something able to override the individual locks in case it was ever necessary. That it had been deemed useful now when it hadn't even been used right after the attack on the Board was … not welcome news.

It also meant that her children were trapped in that room with no company but Nile for however long Malagosto deemed it necessary. It was leagues better than a lot of the realistic alternatives, but it still settled like a lump in her chest.

Silence fell. The instructors, Helen had found, were talkative for the most part but now no one spoke. Just waited in silent tension as the minutes dragged on.

One of the guards nearby touched his headset, then glanced at Binnag.

"The Doctor just arrived, ma'am."

If the words unsettled her, it didn't show. The woman merely nodded, though Helen could feel the tension tighten its grip even further on their small group.

"Thank you."

Ross let out a slow breath.

"Two minutes, then."

The seconds stretched on as all of them kept a close eye on Three's approach. Well, Helen did, anyway, and based on the utter stillness of everyone around her, she assumed they did the same. The ever-present guards in black uniforms somehow managed to almost become invisible even against the light walls of the building and Ross, as taut as a wire, seemed to attempt the same. Maybe that was why he had settled for a SCORPIA uniform, too. An attempt to stand out less from the herd. It was certainly the first time since Helen had arrived that he hadn't worn more casual clothes.

Then Doctor Three appear on the path, d'Arc by his side and Dwale two steps behind him, and the world stilled.

Alive, Helen's analytical side noted – and with such an attack, that had not been a certainty – but not uninjured. He moved slightly slower than usual, a large bruise marred the right side of his head, centred on the stitches by his ear, and his right arm was in a sling. Shoulder damage, based on the position and type of sling. Then the man turned enough that she got a better look at his injuries, and her blood turned to ice.

The bandages continued all the way down his right hand and made it painfully clear that the shoulder injury had been far more than just that. The hand was neatly wrapped and carefully supported, with most of it hidden by the sling, but that didn't change the facts.

Based on Ross' low, almost inaudible curse next to her, she wasn't the only one who had spotted it.

The Doctor was ambidextrous but his areas of scientific interest did not easily allow for work with just one hand, and with his age and the likely sort of injury he had from the collapsed building … odds were he would never regain full use of that hand, not even with the best surgery and rehabilitation that SCORPIA's money could buy.

Reduced dexterity and flexibility, loss of strength, and probable nerve damage, Helen thought, the analysis unwanted and unbidden.

At best, the hand would lack the finesse Three had always prided himself on. At worst, he might very well never use a scalpel with that hand again.

The attack had taken away what was one of his most prized abilities and he was known to take out his temper on others. Malagosto had quite abruptly become a far more dangerous place for all of them and while Helen would have preferred to have her children far, far away from that danger, the fact that they were hidden away with Nile offered at least a bit of shelter. Out of sight, out of mind. She could focus now on remaining alive for them.

D'Arc by Three's side looked – paler than usual. Calm and composed, but far less talkative and charming than his reputation. Mostly secure in his position but still acutely aware of how little it would take for the situation to turn against him.

Had he known about Three's injury or had it been just as much of an unwanted surprise as for the rest of them? Based on his appearance and Three's personality, she expected he had been left in the dark, too. His continued existence at Three's side presumably meant he had been smart enough not to draw attention to it.

Three was not a man to want pity or meaningless platitudes. He wanted the respect he felt he was due on account of his background and position, and he wanted revenge for the attack. Whatever adjustments that would be needed on account of that injury – Helen was certain he would see to that himself. It was not something he was likely to entrust to anyone else.

Dark eyes narrowed as they focused on the instructors. Any veneer of humanity in them was long gone and left only SCORPIA's most skilled interrogation specialist behind. Then his attention moved on and settled on Helen instead.

There was no verbal order, nothing she could put her finger on, but something about his expression and sharp attention left no doubt about his meaning.

Follow. Now.

Helen didn't dare question those instincts, just crossed the short distance and stopped a respectful few feet from the man.

"Doctor," she greeted quietly and deliberately didn't look at his arm. Three liked his assistants silent and competent, and whatever leniency he might normally have shown would be in short supply now.

The ghost of a nod. She had guessed right, then, and something in her eased a fraction. Then his attention moved back to the instructors and d'Arc and there was no mercy to be found, none at all.

"It appears," he spoke, calm and civilized and all the more dangerous for it, "that Malagosto's education has proved lacking. If not a single graduate from this facility caught even a whisper of the plans for that attack, perhaps it is time to reconsider the curriculum. Dismissed."

Then he was gone again, aiming for the main building and presumably his office as d'Arc scrambled to remain by his side.

Dwale paused for a second.

"Mrs Rider," he said softly and gestured for her to follow, like a gracious maître d' rather than the trained terrorist that he was. "The Doctor would like to speak with you in his office."

Of course he would. He would have some serious adjustments to make with an injury like that, and Helen was a pair of skilled hands he did not need elsewhere, unlike his second-in-command. If that was the case, her usefulness would mean added protection for her children as well, and Helen would adapt to anything for that.

The analysis took no more than a second, and she didn't miss a beat as she offered him a small, grateful smile in return. She knew the way to the office but that wasn't the point. If Dwale – and by extension his master – was willing to play civilised for now, she would do what she could to keep it that way.

"Please," she said. "Lead the way."

What Malagosto's staff planned to do to regain Dr Three's favour and confidence in their training, she didn't know. She could only hope for their sakes' that they worked it out fast.

Ian Rider landed in Milan Malpensa on Wednesday in the late afternoon. On a direct flight, it would have been no more than a few hours from London. As it was, Ian had dutifully travelled to Nice as MI6 expected him to, disposed of his papers and passport, and assumed a new identity before he had continued on to Milan with the SCORPIA files from Crawley and the few personal belongings he had brought.

He picked up his luggage on autopilot, got through the assorted border checks and customs without a second glance – just one more business traveller among hundreds – and then he stepped through the doors to the arrivals area, feet firmly on Italian soil as the reality of what he was doing hit him for the first time.

He had been out of the UK more often than not in MI6's employ but that had been a job. This was the complete opposite situation. On his own, no backup, and in two days, MI6 would brand him a rogue agent and a potential threat to the agency.

Ian stepped aside and let the other travellers pass as habit kicked in and he put on the tired, frustrated expression of someone expecting to be met at the airport by someone that hadn't shown up yet.

There was no plan, no orders, nothing but Gregorovich's vague instructions and dubious promise to be there.

For the first time in a decade or more, Ian wasn't sure what to do. Gregorovich was presumably out there in the crowd, but for now, Ian was on his own. The idea was familiar but the reality was not. In the past, 'on his own' had still been with government backing and a handler. Backup and support if he needed it. This time he had nothing. Nothing but his own skills and presumably the half-feral, Russian assassin his brother had apparently decided to adopt.

He could just go back. Buy a ticket home, pretend it had never happened. Crawley would never mention it again and Ian would carry on, week by week and month by month as somewhere out there, his family was in danger. Might be dead, and he would never know.

Or he could wait, hope Gregorovich kept his word, and … take it from there.

They both wanted the same thing. Both wanted John and Helen and the kids to be safe. Hopefully, they had the same idea of how to approach it, too, and Ian wasn't about to step right into a trap.

Ian's stance was deliberately a little tired, the weary business traveller waiting for a driver that had been delayed, but he kept a sharp eye on the crowds around him. Even then, Gregorovich had almost reached him by the time Ian actually spotted him. With his anonymous clothes and white sign with a careful, handwritten Mr Steele on it, he somehow managed to be all but invisible.

Like a good assassin, Ian didn't need to remind himself. In the right circles, it was common knowledge that Cossack was about to eclipse his mentor and become one of the best assassins in the world – and certainly the best freelance one.

Now, looking at the half-feral teenage boy that had somehow grown into an adult man, Ian found he could actually believe that. A decade at Hunter's side had forged a lethal weapon.

A lethal weapon that Ian was about to trust with his life. His, and John's and Helen's and the kids'.

There was a second where he could have changed his mind. Have ignored the sign and left. Then the second passed and Ian followed Gregorovich without a word. Through the crowds, to the parking lot and the equally anonymous car there, and only then, with the doors closed and away from potentially prying eyes, did Ian speak.

"'Steele'?" he asked dryly. "Really?"

"Hunter named two of my identities for James Bond and Jason Bourne. It suited the theme."

A fictional super-spy and assassin for John's adoptive baby terrorist, and Remington Steele for his little brother. Yes, that sounded exactly like something his brother would have done. If nothing else, it proved that Gregorovich knew the Rider sense of humour.

It was also the first time Ian had heard Gregorovich speak in person instead of on the phone. His voice was slightly softer than he had expected and while his English was perfect, there was no single distinct accent to his words. Ian wasn't surprised. Gregorovich had already known English when he had arrived at Malagosto, however he had managed that, and John had been able to change his accent. Gregorovich's exposure to the language had probably come from at least half a dozen different sources, and it had all averaged out to a bland, indefinable … something in the end.

Much like Gregorovich's disguise now. Perfectly anonymous, perfectly unnoticeable. An unimportant little cog in an impossible large machinery and not worth remembering at all. He looked younger than his years as well. He was around thirty, maybe younger – because John had somehow conveniently forgotten to mention that as well in his intel for MI6 – but with the appearance of someone in his mid-twenties.

No visible weapons and no signs of any concealed ones, though Ian expected Gregorovich to have at least a couple of them hidden away.

Another thing for Ian's to-do list. He had two guns carefully concealed in his luggage but given the sort of mission they were about to take on, he would need far more than that.

As Gregorovich navigated his way through the parking lot and out of the airport to the highway, the full weight of what Ian had agreed to settled on his shoulders.

They were two people against all of SCORPIA's vast resources. Even if they somehow miraculously found John and Helen and the kids in Venice, what were they even supposed to do? Malagosto was a fortress, for all of its carefully designed dilapidation, and Rothman's house even more so. That wasn't counting the numerous other SCORPIA properties in the area that they had no way to identify.

It was suicide, but Ian was enough of a sentimental idiot to accept that, and for the first time it really sunk in that Gregorovich apparently was, too. If anyone, he should know the risks of what they were getting into but he was willing to do it, anyway. Because somewhere out there, in SCORPIA's grasp and with no one else in their corner, was Ian's family.

… And, he supposed, Gregorovich's family, too. In some painfully awkward way, Gregorovich was presumably Ian's nephew now, though that was a thought he resolutely didn't want to consider and packed away in a mental box of things to yell at John about if he ever got the chance.

If Yassen Gregorovich was willing to take on SCORPIA alone for Ian's family, maybe it was time to put aside the mess of conflicting emotions that followed any reminder of John Rider in the past decade and focus on the operation. To pretend that maybe, impossibly, they had a chance.

"… I brought MI6's full SCORPIA file," Ian finally said. "It's got some holes, Yu proved that, but it's a start."

"I have access to Hunter's files. That might cover parts of what MI6's does not." There was a pause as Gregorovich seemed as unsure of how to approach the situation as Ian was. "Dare I ask how you obtained it?"

"Someone owed Hunter a favour valuable enough, and I convinced them to commit a bit of treason for humanitarian reasons."

Gregorovich hummed, the sound almost lost in the noise from the car.

"High-ranking, to have access to such intel."

Ian was almost sure Gregorovich knew where the intel had come from, but he didn't mention the name and neither did Ian. He owned Crawley as much after pressuring him for the file. Maybe John had told his apprentice about the MI6 agent whose life he had once saved, or maybe it was just an educated guess. Either way, it was something to keep in mind. Gregorovich was by all accounts a dangerously intelligent person, and given how John had all but adopted him, he had presumably kept few secrets from him.

It would have been easier for everyone involved if Blunt and Jones hadn't decided to keep any intel about his family far away from Ian. In the end, it only meant Ian had to put in a little work to get his hands on it and convince Crawley to break about a dozen rules in the process. The whole mess could have been kept isolated if they hadn't done that. Ian would simply have vanished, no need to get anyone else involved.

Just him and Gregorovich. How much of that Crawley planned to share down the line, under the guise of 'a reliable contact' … Ian didn't know and it didn't matter now. Crawley had the general idea of it. Not anything MI6 could not have worked out themselves given time. Not enough to get in their way. Speaking of which …

"What's the plan?" I assume you have one, Ian didn't add through Gregorovich no doubt heard it, anyway.

"I am surprised to hear that one of MI6's vaunted field agents does not already have three detailed plans ready along with contingency plans for all of them."

The words were sharp and there was something in his voice that Ian couldn't quite name. Not quite vicious, not quite angry, not quite bitter, but somehow still all of them.

… Personal, Ian realised a second later. It sounded personal. He had never met Gregorovich before, hadn't even spoken to the man before that phone call on Sunday, but – there was something there nonetheless. An echo of John at his most mercurial, ready to tear the world apart those final years before they could leave their parents' house for good and every day was another battle.

That was just what Ian needed. A suicide mission with a Russian assassin that had a grudge by proxy for something Ian didn't even know what was.

"I didn't betray John," he said, the only thing he could imagine would draw that sort of emotional reaction.

"But you remained with those who did."

Gregorovich's words confirmed that Ian's guess had been right and he sighed, because of course that was the issue.

"What was I supposed to have done? John successfully went undercover with SCORPIA. Do you think I had any chance of tracking him down if he didn't want to be found? There was no trace of them, not even the number for a burner phone. The physical trail ended in Frankfurt. The financial trail from his bank accounts went through Switzerland and ended there. If it took SCORPIA nine years to find them, I could have spent the rest of my life looking and never managed to get within a hundred miles of them."

It was meant as a defence, as a reasonable explanation to Gregorovich's unreasonable expectation that anyone, even Ian, had a damn bit of say in John's decisions. By the time he finished talking, he realised it was as much a defence to himself and the gnawing sense of guilt that he should have done something, somehow.

What he should have done, he didn't know. With the sort of contacts John had, along with the slight plastic surgery, he had become all but a ghost. Maybe Ian could have used his own contacts to somehow get a message through. Hunter needed some way to stay in touch with potential clients, after all. Even then, there was no guarantee John would have responded. At worst, he would have seen it as a threat and responded accordingly. MI6 had failed him before and there was no guarantee they had found all the moles. He would have had no incentive to risk it.

Ian knew he had been lucky as it was to walk away from the attack in Germany alive when a number of his colleagues hadn't. To actually reach out to him after that would have been a lethal mistake.

Outside, an unfamiliar town passed by their windows. Ian had never been to Milan but he had spent plenty of time in Italy. The location was new but the general feel of it was familiar enough to ease his tension a little. He wasn't on completely foreign territory.

North around the airport, then east. Towards Milan itself, Ian suspected based on general geography and the large signs. It probably wasn't the ultimate destination Gregorovich had planned, but it followed the general route towards Venice.

"… MI6 was the only way I had to get any information, however little it was," Ian finally said when it became clear Gregorovich didn't plan to speak. "I was kept away from anything to do with John, but I cultivated a network of my own. I couldn't afford to ask around but word would get to me eventually, and a favour or two would get me the update file. I didn't even know I had a niece until Geneva."

Until the attack, he didn't need to say. A lot of things had come to light for MI6 after the attack in Geneva.

Ian had loved his MI6 career those early years but time and experience had tarnished the shine of it. He had stayed for many other reasons than the access to information but … there had been times when he had considered his future with MI6, and a heavy point in the column for 'stay' had been the knowledge that to leave would have cost him the last, thin strand that connected him to his family.

Gregorovich kept his attention fixed on the traffic but the tension in the car felt like it had eased just slightly.

"Hunter's cover in Geneva was that of an investment banker," Gregorovich said, long minutes later. "He possessed the social skills to integrate himself into long-established networks. Through that and knowledge gained from his career as Hunter, he made a fortune, predominantly through insider trading and other questionable methods."

Ian nodded slightly. It wasn't a surprise. He had known about John's cover, and the less than legal activities would be almost expected from someone as successful as Séamus Morrison had been.

Hunter's skills had been highly sought after and he had undoubtedly made a fortune from them, but John had always been a realist. He would have known it was a career where one retired early, for those who managed to retire at all. Especially as a freelancer. He'd had maybe a decade to make use of those skills, but he hadn't just been making enough money to support his family, their security needs, and a number of contingency plans. He would have aimed for enough money that they would be able to make a comfortable, secure living based solely on the passive income from it.

For the sort of requirements Hunter would have needed for his family … Ian could imagine that John had made full use of any advantage he could.

"He invested a significant percentage of my income as well." Gregorovich paused. "We are not without resources."

Not without resources. If Séamus Morrison had taken as good care of his oldest son's money as he had his own for those seven years in Geneva, that might very well be an understatement, but a welcome one.

Ian had resources of his own but there was no way to know how much this personal war would cost them. How long it would drag on before it ended, one way or the other.

"I transferred what I could to a Swiss bank," Ian admitted in the interest of fair intel sharing. "I could do nothing about the house, but everything else is well out of MI6's reach."

Between the two of them, with financial resources and networks and hopefully complementary intel … Ian wasn't sure what he had expected, but this wasn't it. It was still an impossible task but there was a glimmer of hope now. A hope for what, only time could tell, but they wouldn't have to start from scratch.

The show of mutual good faith – or possibly proof that Ian wouldn't be a burden instead of an asset – seemed to be what Gregorovich needed, because he nodded and the tension eased a little bit further.

"I have rented a house outside of Verona. It will have sufficient privacy for our needs."

For planning. For handling weapons and other equipment no one else needed to see. And close to Venice, which was the only solid lead they had.

He wondered if Gregorovich felt as unsettled as he did. Ian had been used to government support, while Gregorovich had been freelance, but Gregorovich had also had Hunter waiting in the shadows. Added insurance and support if needed, and someone to discuss particularly tricky operations with. Gregorovich had been quite abruptly left without that.

It wasn't something Ian felt like lingering on. Between the two of them, they would simply have to make do.

Up ahead, Verona appeared on one of the signs as a side note beneath Milano.

"Well," Ian said. "Let's go hunting, then."

Chapter Text

By Thursday morning, Nile had officially become Alex and Matilda's … well, Alex wasn't sure what the proper term was. Minder? Guard? Jailer? He wasn't a babysitter, Alex knew that much, but the rest was … not something Alex wanted to argue about.

Politics, his mum had called it. Whatever Nile's new job title was, in practical terms it meant that he watched Alex and Matilda when their mum couldn't.

She would teach classes twice a week. That was five hours in total but she had made it clear to both of them that the actual amount of time she would be busy would be a lot more than that. Not just because of homework, which Alex already knew about, but reading up on things and preparing the classes and 'being available on a consulting basis', whatever that meant in SCORPIA's world.

She didn't know how long it would be for. Maybe a few weeks, she had said. Maybe longer. Dwale had said it was temporary and that they would find a permanent solution, but Alex didn't think he had much more of a clue than the rest of them did right now. Not with everything that had happened.

Alex and Matilda would be with Yermalov when their mum taught those classes, but Nile would be there the rest of the time when she needed it.

At least Alex had been removed from Malagosto's classes again. That was the only bright thing about the entire mess that he could see. The textbooks had been awful and the classes even worse and he wanted nothing to do with any of it.

Matilda liked Nile and Alex kind of did, too, but that didn't stop him from going over the many other reasons the Doctor or Dwale might have for leaving someone like that with them. It probably looked like protection to anyone else but Alex knew they were being kept prisoner, so that made Nile at the very least a guard of some sort, whether Nile himself knew it or not. They still hadn't heard anything about their dad, either – and Alex very resolutely tried not to think about that – but after the attack on that hotel, Alex couldn't rule out that Nile might be some sort of protection for them, too. It didn't make sense, not when they were prisoners, but nothing about the situation did.

Malagosto was still on high security and Dr Three had been seriously injured and – if they'd had any other options than his mum to teach those classes, they would have used that, wouldn't they? Instead of letting her move freely around the school like that? But maybe that was just to make it look like their dad had always worked for SCORPIA and they were safe and protected and trusted and –

- Politics, his mum had said. It was always about politics with people like the Doctor, and Dwale did whatever the Doctor wanted him to.

Alex glanced over at Nile. If the whole situation bothered him, it didn't show. Their mum had just left to discuss the curriculum. That was what she had called it, at least, which Alex had guessed meant that he shouldn't ask about the details. Not that he wanted to. Not when Dr Three was just looking for an excuse to lecture on whatever awful topic he was writing about.

Matilda reached out in an unspoken demand to be picked up and Nile easily did just that. Then she reached for the handle of one of his swords but before Alex could stop her, Nile laughed and gently stopped her hand.

"That is a wakizashi. A type of sword. You can't play with those."

Matilda frowned but reluctantly abandoned her target. She liked the swords, Alex knew. Probably because they were so unusual. They were training swords, Nile had told him that, but the last thing they wanted was for Matilda to get used to reaching for weapons.

"Why?"

"Well, they're about as big as you. And the real ones are sharp. They're dangerous," Nile added. "You can try them when you're older."

Matilda's eyes focused on the swords, then on Nile, and Alex stayed quiet. Nile seemed to have it under control and he wanted to see what their … guard was going to do. He didn't know anything about Nile when it came down to it, not really, and they could be stuck together for – a long time, possibly. Alex would take any advantage he could when it came to getting Nile to like them.

"How old?" she demanded.

"You can get a smaller training sword when you're as old as Alex. He's not big enough for swords like that, either, but you can always start early with smaller ones. Then you don't develop bad habits."

That seemed to pacify Matilda for now, because she settled down in Nile's arms and Alex took a cautious step closer.

Their mum wouldn't be back for at least another hour. Matilda was too young to think about anything but the here and now but Alex could vividly imagine how babysitting might go if Nile or someone else around them took a disliking to them. He had already done his best to be on the good side of everyone. This was just … more of the same, wasn't it? He could do that. One step at a time.

Nile glanced at him, his attention drawn by the movement, and that was another thing Alex could add to the list of stuff that reminded him of his dad and Jamie. Nile was always aware of his surroundings, even when he didn't look like it. Was it something they learned at the school or just the sort of people they were? He had no idea.

"I'm sorry," Alex said quietly. "About – all of this. I know you're supposed to have classes, not hang around with us."

He wasn't even sure exactly what he was apologising for but hopefully Nile could fill in the blanks with what he wanted. The last thing Alex wanted was for Nile to be angry with them for something they'd had nothing to do with.

Maybe that part was a little more obvious than Alex had hoped, because Nile's expression shifted to understanding and a bit of sympathy. Like he understood it, too.

"Malagosto will adapt to its students," Nile replied. "It's common for the better students to be offered additional classes to avoid wasting their time. This was an offer I was given, not an order, because I am already among the best in my class and it will be no hardship to extend my time at the school as needed. In many ways, this is my first assignment. I will remain with the two of you for protection and company and assist with your schooling if you need me to. In return, Malagosto has written off my tuition fees and I have been offered lessons by your mother. My tuition would likely have been close to two hundred thousand American dollars by the time I was deemed ready to graduate. That on its own is a generous offer. Lessons by Hunter's wife? Anyone at this school would have accepted for that alone."

It made sense when Nile explained it like that. Alex's school in Geneva had been expensive and he had known it, but it was never something he actively had to consider. It was more a matter of the sort of classmates and teachers he had. All the kids in their neighbourhood went to private school of some sort, so it had just been been normal.

Nile didn't have that. He had a place at a school for assassins that killed any student that couldn't keep up, and every single person in that class left with an enormous debt that no one else could pay for them. Of course he had accepted the offer. Even if he spent a year babysitting them, that was a lot of money.

The lessons … Alex would have wondered what could be worth that much to Nile, because his mum was a former nurse and hadn't worked with their dad or Jamie, but it didn't sit right. Their mum had kept everything together. She had handled their lives and made sure they all had a home and been the cover that meant that no one asked his dad any dangerous questions. That was valuable to someone in that world. Having a safe place to come home to.

"Your father is a legend. There are few true freelancers among the upper tiers of assassins, and no one as good as him and Cossack. Most work for an organisation or have an agreement with one, but he thrived for a decade with no backup, no support system, and no logistics. That is the sort of skill-set that is priceless," Nile continued even as his focus stayed on Matilda and the tiny, curious hands that traced the patterns on his skin. Alex shifted uneasily, ready to step in, but all he got from Nile was amused indulgence.

The silence dragged on. When Nile spoke again, his voice was a little softer.

"Few assassins have family they will admit to, much less a spouse aware of their career. For a decade, your mother has provided the foundation that has allowed Hunter and Cossack to become along the best. She has been your defender when enemies targeted you for Hunter's actions, the social capital that has allowed him to keep valuable identities for years and become an integrated part of the wealthier circles. That is the sort of experience that no one else can claim to have. Lessons that no one else can teach. For five years, SCORPIA owns us. That is the real price of Malagosto. We are seen as weapons, nothing more. Expensive weapons but … not human. Not really. Your family is proof that we can be more than that one day."

Maybe it shouldn't have been something that Alex understood at nine, because he didn't think any of his old classmates in Geneva or Helsinki would have, but he remembered Jamie's stories and the people his mum had killed in Geneva and having to become a whole new identity, and something in his eyes stung.

Whatever polite words the Doctor had used, they were still hostages and people still wanted them dead and he didn't know when or how or even if they'd ever be free again, but – at least him and Matilda had adults that cared. Their mum, who had bargained with the Doctor for their protection, and his dad who would have agreed to anything they asked to protect them -

- if he was even still alive, but Alex couldn't allow that thought to settle, not now -

- And Jamie was out there somewhere, too, and if there was anything he could do to help them, he would, Alex knew it.

Nile had no one. Malagosto killed anyone who couldn't keep up, and the instructors were there to teach, not to coddle anyone, and SCORPIA wanted weapons. Not humans.

Nile was still the larger-than-life figure to Alex, someone who wasn't even an adult yet but who still moved around the school with a confidence Alex desperately wished he had, but there was something more human about him when Alex looked now. Someone who, like Jamie, had probably been in an awful situation and made the best of it. Someone who just wanted to survive and be allowed to live his own life, too.

Alex knew his own and Matilda's safety might depend on his ability to predict people and their motivations, and for the first time he had an idea of who Nile was beneath the image of the perfect student. It was enough that he understood Nile a little better, at least. It was a start.

Unaware of Alex's thoughts, Nile smiled and set Matilda gently down again.

"Now, any training with weapons should be done with your mum or an instructor, but why don't we start on camouflage and disguises instead? SCORPIA has experts who can become an entirely different person as needed, but that takes years of training to master. We'll start with the basics instead."

Compared to the rest of the lessons Malagosto offered, Nile's suggestion was both useful and suitable for Matilda, and Alex knew it. He hadn't needed to be considerate but he still was and that mattered.

They didn't have a choice, none of them did, but maybe being babysat like that wouldn't be as horrible as Alex had feared.

Three had always ensured his office was quiet. The interrogation rooms were something else, of course, but his office – his place of study and writing, his very sanctuary – was silent.

The solid stone walls of the old monastery ensured there was no need for air conditioning in summer. Scientific equipment was kept in a separate room. The thick, old glass of the windows let in daylight but had never been made to be opened and kept out any outside disturbances. Dwale moved like a ghost, with the silent grace of Malagosto's best graduates, and the elegant clock on one wall was precise, modern technology made to look older instead of some irritatingly loud antique.

A single wooden board near the door had deliberately been allowed to creak but his closest people had learned to avoid it, and so, apparently, had Helen Rider. She had moved quietly past it and settled in the chair with nary a sound.

A week ago, Three would have leaned back in his chair to observe his reluctant guest. Now, it was another reminder on a long list of ways in which his life had been abruptly changed by recent events. Temporarily, for some matters.

Permanently, for others.

Three's own doctors knew better than to be less than honest in their assessment. Overly optimistic promises to spare his sensitivities would hardly be welcomed and they knew it.

He would never regain full use of his right hand. His shoulder would recover but would be permanently weakened. From a purely practical point of view, it could have been far worse. He had never relied on brute force and physical threats for survival, and with his concussion mercifully mild, his mind was as sharp as ever.

His craft, though. His calling -

Three's uninjured hand tightened briefly on the armrest. The creak of soft leather was a whisper but still carried in the silence.

Hunter's wife didn't flinch.

She had yet to speak. She had obviously deduced his preferences without the need for instructions, and with her and her children's future arranged, she just as obviously had no desire to disturb him until it suited him to break the silence.

Her posture spoke of some training in etiquette – presumably from their time spent in Geneva – and there was no tell-tale signs of unease. No restless fidgeting. No attempts to look around the room to pass the time.

Still, she had been able to teach a class with the suitable gravitas and desire to see their students learn, to explain as needed and not merely cover subjects they should already have learned from their textbooks.

Under normal circumstances, that would have been enough to make a decision. Now, Three had deliberately waited another two days to see how she would handle the stress of the situation. Any reasonably competent person could live up to the standards of a Malagosto instructor in stable times. To manage the same in harsher circumstances was something else entirely. When politics might shift with no notice, when the curriculum might need rewritten overnight, when the school itself might become ground zero of an attack meant to devastate the heart of SCORPIA. Still, she had managed. Perhaps she had modelled her behaviour after Binnag, perhaps her calm demeanour was a necessity from her marriage to Hunter, but the fact remained that she had lived up to his unspoken expectations.

She was a better prospect for a semi-permanent addition to Malagosto than any other realistic option Three had available, and her first few classes had proved she understood the gift the opportunity was. The seriousness with which it should be treated.

Dwale's decision to use the resource she represented to ensure their students would not fall behind was a sound one. Three hadn't doubted it, but it was always a pleasure to see a favourite student excel, and Dwale had thrived with attention and clear expectations.

It would be months before Three would be able to devote the time he wished to the school, much less return to his research. His responsibilities to SCORPIA came first but at least this was one issue handled.

"Your husband lives. He has been sent to hunt down those responsible for the attack and see to suitable retribution."

It was not the words Three had planned to start with, but the slight shift in her shoulders, like the weight upon them had been eased a little, proved that it had been a suitable reward for a job carried out admirably with very little warning.

Hunter had married a sharp mind. She understood the unspoken implication just fine. Her husband had not only survived but done so without serious injuries. SCORPIA would not have gambled an operation of such importance on an injured field leader. Furthermore, he was likely to remain in that condition, because to send Hunter to handle the operation only to execute him afterwards would weaken the story of his true loyalties that SCORPIA was constructing even now.

"Thank you, sir."

Relief. Sincerity. Muted, of course, as overly evocative body language was a weakness in their line of work, but genuine gratitude. Three nodded slightly.

"Your opinion on the students?"

"They're a delight to teach. Intelligent and attentive, with a desire to learn." There was no hesitation and that, too, Three believed. Malagosto chose only the best. "They understand the curriculum, including the parts they are expected to study on their own, and ask relevant questions."

It was a conclusion Three couldn't fault her for. Their students were skilled and the current class better than most. Still, it felt – incomplete.

"But?" he prompted.

There was a heartbeat where she seemed to consider her options; the wisdom in potentially speaking against SCORPIA's much-praised training. Then she answered.

"They're sheltered. They all have experience but nothing like SCORPIA. There is value in operatives that haven't learned the independence to be able to operate without a sponsor, but Malagosto coddles them. They expect that the tools they will need will always be available, that whatever plans and back-up plans they work from will always be one step ahead of the competition and able to take any new developments into account."

She paused with the natural caution of someone who expected disapproval at her words, which was hardly a surprise. She was well aware that her situation was precarious, and Three would not be surprised if she had found her opinion and intellect dismissed on a regular basis in her past. British intelligence was white and overwhelmingly male. If she was not dismissed for being merely a nurse, she would have been dismissed as an afterthought to Hunter's file and an annoyance for MI6 to work around.

It would have been little better in their years on the run. A stay-at-home mother and trophy wife was supposed to be charming and beautiful and up-to-date on appropriate topic, which hardly included the most recent medical discoveries. In the less legal circles, she would have been a footnote, nothing more. A curiosity as the wife of an assassin and the mother of his children. And those circles, Hunter had done everything possible to keep her out of.

Hunter and Cossack had always respected her sharp mind and abilities but few others around them had.

Helen Rider was desperate for company that would allow her to be more, to not be dismissed as a trinket, and Three understood just how valuable that was.

SCORPIA was weakened from an attack that was as much a statement as it was a strike against the heart of the organisation, but they were not without the means to make an example of their own.

Hunter had been set loose. For now, his loyalty was to SCORPIA and he would know to do their bidding without question or deviation. With SCORPIA weakened, they needed the strength his reputation would add and perhaps, in time, the loyalty of his young protégé as well. He would know his survival was ensured but also that there were numerous ways to make his life unpleasant, should he overstep his permissions and fail to appreciate the second chance he had been granted.

In the future, though … to control his family was to control him and Helen Rider was, in the end, the key to that. To gift her children a future and she a purpose would bring Hunter to heel as surely as any threat of violence could.

Control of a killer of Hunter's calibre was priceless in times of upheaval. All the more so if the majority of his surviving esteemed colleagues remained unaware of it.

"Please," he said. "You won't offend me with the truth. I asked you for a reason. It's rare to have an outside view like this of our students."

It seemed to have been enough, because she continued.

"They can quote key paragraphs from your books and know what to do if something goes wrong during an interrogation, but they can't realistically explain what to do if the situation is less than optimal. If the tools aren't there, if the interrogation has to be handled in the back of a van and no one is around to dispose of the evidence, or if they don't have the medical equipment available to monitor or stabilise a target as needed. They can think their way through the situation when prompted, obviously, but they miss vital information in the process, and I doubt they would have been successful in a deteriorating field situation with no backup. To even think about adapting your methods and deviate from your lessons is anathema to some of them. There are exceptions – you have a former freelance assassin, for one, who has clearly experienced that sort of situation first-hand – but most are from military or intelligence background. People used to taking orders and relying on others for intel and logistics."

A sharp mind, indeed, but he should have expected nothing less from the woman who helped train Cossack and Alexander.

"Your husband came from the same background. He managed."

Admirably so, in Three's opinion, but he was well aware that few of their students possessed the sort of potential that Hunter had. Nor would they ever be pushed to quite those extremes, where that potential was polished into something flawless.

Perhaps it was something to consider for another time, to see if they could replicate those effects. The resulting weapon would need to be harshly controlled if the experiment proved successful, of course, but – a thought for another day with less pressing issues.

"John was older than most students these days and came from a background that encouraged more self-reliance than might be the case now. He learned to adapt your lessons through necessity, and I supplied the medical training. Cossack was barely twenty and came from a very different background. We had to create those lessons from scratch for him."

The practicality of a woman willing to remain married to a contract killer and raise a family in the shadow of his career. And that was something else to consider. Hunter had already had a truly remarkable amount of potential but even then, he had not clawed his way to the top alone. Hunter and Cossack had served as each other's insurance, and Helen Rider had provided both the stability necessary and the medical knowledge to see her husband and adoptive son survive.

Malagosto taught the necessarily medical care for field work. Hardly on the level of the books that the Rider family had kept in their home, all lovingly bookmarked and annotated. Hardly enough to save their students from a genuinely serious injury, either, but enough to enable them to escape the situation and potentially rendezvous with a contact.

Helen Rider's lessons would have provided another layer of understanding of the human body and its limits, and what could be done to work around those. The sort of theory that had been the foundation of the craftsmanship that Hunter had displayed in Zurich. Needlessly brutal at first glance to inexperienced eyes but upon closer examination, every injury had been carefully chosen to avoid an unfortunate, premature ending to the interrogation.

Hunter had known precisely what every blow of the hammer would do and how long his target could remain conscious and coherent through it, and he had used his wife's lessons to adapt Three's own material for the field.

Malagosto did not appreciate independence and initiative in its students. It had served SCORPIA well, with a decade and a half of talented operatives chosen for their ability to obey without question and without the incentive to simply leave after the end of their contract, but sometimes Three wondered what could have been if they had trained them differently. If they had chosen some of those candidates that weren't quite right but who had other strengths and … encouraged those as well.

Another idea that might be worth some consideration when time allowed. Another bit of research that would be painfully delayed now.

"Your husband had a number of points to make about Malagosto's training as well but the core of his conclusion was much the same. We fail more of them than we should, perhaps, because not all of them are able to adapt their lessons to the real world without additional training. I would like you to provide an overview of the lessons you taught Cossack. The ones Hunter taught as well, if possible. Dwale will remain my representative at the school. I expect you to have the lessons ready for him in two weeks."

"Yes, sir."

Calm. Quiet. Precise in her statements without the need for excessive details and dreary verbosity, and with an instinctive understanding of his unspoken expectations. It would be no hardship to encourage her potential along with that of her children.

Decision made, Three nodded.

"Dwale has the authority to arrange for temporary teaching positions as needed. I agree with his choice in this matter. You will take over Malagosto's torture and interrogation class for the duration of this territorial dispute. Realistically, it will be at least for the rest of the year, as the more obvious choices will have other obligations. You will be responsible for resistance to interrogation training as well. One of my assistants will remain here on a permanent basis with the instruction to assist you in whatever way required."

And to keep an eye on the school when Three himself was unable to, though Hunter's wife would be well aware of such political necessities.

"Yes, sir," she agreed. "Thank you for the opportunity."

Was it a gamble? Certainly. But she also understood the value of the position she had been given and would work hard to live up to his expectations, whatever her personal view of the subjects. Should she be unable to do so, better to know now before he invested further in her training.

Malagosto's teachers were not untouchable but they were far better protected than most – and so, in turn, would her children be protected, too. Perhaps the budget for a small playground might be appropriate, too. The reminder and mental disconnection it would cause their students to see children at the world's premier school for assassins would be worth the expense.

Three's hand ached but he ignored it. The milder painkillers were not quite enough and the stronger ones dulled his mind to a dangerous degree.

It was no matter. He could change nothing now. Their focus now would be revenge and to ensure it would not happen again. As for the rest, he would adapt. He always had.

Malagosto would be in competent hands until then. Their more experienced instructors had been reminded of their students' failures and would know to do better, and his own curriculum, lovingly crafted over a decade, would be taught to the standards that only a mother protecting her children could manage.

Perhaps in another half a decade, with Hunter's son the appropriate age for Malagosto's training, it would be time to see if Hunter's daughter took after her mother's skills in the medical arts as well.

Damascus had never planned to specialise in SCORPIA's nebulous world of logistics. Random chance had decided that for him and in a world where luck could mean the difference between life and death, he had learned to go along with those strokes of good fortune.

Barely six months out of Malagosto, he had found himself in charge of organising a hostage extraction by virtue of being the highest ranking person in a rapidly devolving disaster of an operation. No one had been more surprised at the success of the task than he himself had been. He'd had no training or experience in that sort of thing, but his success had drawn SCORPIA's attention and – that had been it. Three years and a generous amount of training later, it was career he had thrown himself wholeheartedly into. His pay did not match the best operatives, but it was far lower risk and better paid than the average Malagosto graduate.

SCORPIA had no lack of normal operatives, however skilled or creative they might be at murdering people. Operatives able to organise things with little warning, to make sense of chaotic situations and with a background that enabled them to understand the needs of SCORPIA and the operation? That was a far more valuable thing.

Damascus had been summoned to Venice with no warning and only the scarce intel in the very thin file along with the public news on the attack to go by. The operation was a retaliatory strike for a direct attack on the executive board and his task would be to handle logistics for the operative in charge and – that was all he really knew.

He did know exactly how much responsibility that implied, because revenge for an attack on the Board in Venice, one of SCORPIA's strongholds, was about as serious as it got, but he knew he was missing a lot of of the picture. A file as thin as that usually meant either a developing situation or classified intel he would be told in person, though in this case he expected both.

Just how much information he was missing became clear when he arrived at a meeting with Zeljan Kurst and was introduced to Hunter.

Hunter. The only person to blatantly betray SCORPIA and actually get away with it, one of the best assassins in the world, and a man that Malagosto still proudly claimed as alumnus.

Well. 'Betray'. Given that Hunter had apparently worked on a decade-long undercover mission for SCORPIA, so secret that he reported to no one but the Board, the 'traitor' part was obviously more than a little inaccurate.

In retrospect, it suddenly made sense why Hunter had managed to work freelance for a decade after supposedly betraying MI6 and SCORPIA both. MI6 might have put a target on his back, but if SCORPIA's efforts to hunt him down had been carefully designed to look realistic but never actually been intended to kill him – well. Damascus still wouldn't have put money on his own ability to survive that sort of life but for someone of Hunter's skills, it had been enough leeway to make it work. To thrive with it, even.

Damascus had always been careful not to let his first impression of someone rule his opinion. Instead, he took the time to collect as many pieces as he could in the hope of getting a better idea of the final puzzle. People in their world wore any number of masks and the wrong analysis could get you killed.

Two days at Hunter's side in a large SCORPIA safe-house had given him a somewhat better insight into the man, though how much was genuine and how much was a careful act, Damascus had no way to tell.

The most obvious thing was that like Zeljan Kurst at the meeting, Hunter was injured. Not enough to take him out of the field, but an injury at the same time as a member of the board, right after an attack on SCORPIA – the only reasonable explanation was that Hunter had been present at the time of the attack. That explained why he had been given the operation as well. SCORPIA had always favoured sending a message, and who better to send that message than someone with a personal stake in that revenge?

Hunter defied all attempts for Damascus to profile him based on previous interactions with high-profile operatives, too.

For revenge on that sort of scale that Kurst had demanded, they would need assets and firepower. A lot of other things, too, but no amount of intel would help if they didn't have the force needed to strike.

Damascus had been prepared for Hunter to take over and name the assets he wanted. Experienced operatives had opinions on assets and it was easier to simply work around it than to argue with a superior about that kind of thing.

Hunter didn't. Instead, he had left it entirely in Damascus' hands.

"You know the available assets better than I do. So long as they're SCORPIA's and you trust them to do the job, those are the only credentials I care about."

Was it really that simple? Experienced operatives that were used to working larger operations usually had favourite assets. People they were familiar with. But – Hunter came from a different background. He had been freelance. The closest thing he'd had to a partner was Cossack, a man he had trained himself.

Hunter seemed to have realised where his thoughts had drifted to.

"I've trained private security forces and all-out assault teams for clients in a freelance capacity. I've never worked with one of SCORPIA's teams. You have enough experience to know which ones you work well with." Hunter response was blunt but not unfriendly and – maybe it really was all there was to it.

He trusted Damascus, because Damascus had been assigned to him and they both knew the stakes of the operation.

Two hours later, teams Theta-Four and Sigma-Nine – Citadel and Crucible when they worked for Damascus – had been recalled from Tajikistan and reassigned to Operation Castle. Hunter hadn't even blinked.

Damascus had prior experience with higher-ranking operatives and assumptions about how someone used to working freelance would handle being saddled with other people, but it was clear that he would have to start over that mental profile from scratch.

Two days later, that was the impression that still remained with him. Every time he thought he had Hunter mostly figured out, something would happen to shift that understanding again.

Of the two teams, Crucible was primarily former Spetsnaz while Citadel was more of an eclectic mix. Both teams specialised in surgical strikes, which was what Damascus expected they would need. He had been ready to defend the choice if Hunter – British, former MI6, and an operative from the Cold War era – chose to make an issue of their nationalities, but his only concern had been practical.

"What's the operational language for the teams? I'm proficient in Russian but not to the point of being able to run a military operation in it."

"English, sir," Damascus had said, because that was one thing logistical staff learned fast.

SCORPIA did not have an official business language. Not all subsidiaries were European-based and not all assets spoke English. Hunter was clearly used to that; Damascus had known numerous other people who were not.

Hunter was also a known polyglot but Russian hadn't been in his file.

Had it been a deliberate omission or had it been a later addition to the list? And if so, had he learned Russian because of Cossack or because of the business opportunities in what was now the former Soviet Union? Damascus would never ask, but the question lingered, because that was another oddity about his new, temporary superior.

Hunter was married. Hunter had a family. It was something Damascus had been aware of, but it wasn't until a casual reference to 'Helen and the kids' on that first day that Damascus realised what it actually meant.

Hunter had a wife who knew about his job. A permanent, loyal partnership was rare enough among SCORPIA's operatives; marriage was unheard of. And yet, Hunter had not just managed but apparently thrived with it, too, given that he had two young children.

… Three, counting Cossack. The man who was well on his way to overtaking his mentor's position as one of the best contract killers in the world, and who had somehow ended up informally adopted along the way.

What did a family like that even discuss at the dinner table? What kind of skills had their children already been taught? What kind of woman thrived with a husband like Hunter? It was another topic Damascus would never dare ask about.

He had spent two days with Hunter, and for every question he found an answer for, another two took its place. Even then, Hunter had never once lost patience with the questions that Damascus did ask. Necessary questions, sure, but the answers had always been calm and clear. Then again, Hunter had trained Cossack and he had been a teacher at Malagosto for a short while as well. Maybe it came natural to him.

Maybe that was what made Damascus voice the question that had nagged him since the meeting, too. With Citadel and Crucible due to arrive within the hour, with intel files already piling up, with several large whiteboards filled with clear notes and surveillance stills and an operation so vital to SCORPIA that he felt the stress and the stakes in a way that he never had before …

… Hunter was already the calm eye at the centre of the storm. Damascus needed that focus as well to do his job right.

"Sir?" Damascus almost regretted the word as he spoke it but a curious glance from Hunter forced him to continue. He had already committed to the idea now and – he needed to know. "If I may ask … what is your read on the operation?"

Damascus had handled logistics for high-profile operations before but nothing like this. Nothing directly under the Board. Hunter had been freelance but he was known to have worked on high-stakes operations. The harsh limits of confidentiality clauses and iron-clad security only went so far. Intel leaks and rumours in the lower ranks were common and sometimes a client even had an interest in bragging.

And – Hunter, in the end, had been SCORPIA's all along. Had some of the freelance operations he had handled even been under the direct orders of the Board, under so many layers of secrecy that no one would ever know? For someone in charge of an operation with such high stakes, he was calmer than Damascus would ever have expected. Had he been in that sort of position before?

Hunter made a thoughtful sound. He didn't dismiss the question, nor did he look annoyed by it, and some of the tension in Damascus' body eased.

"Fundamentally," he said, "there are two kinds of operations. The sort that you're supposed to survive, and the ones you're not. SCORPIA has a vested interest in this. Not only the success of the operation but also proving that the organisation hasn't been weakened by the attack. The best way to do that is the complete annihilation of the enemy while we walk away with minimal losses. SCORPIA makes a statement with our retaliation and my return both, and can then use that to appeal to new clients – advertisement, if you will. This is a high risk operation, don't get me wrong, but we'll also get the assets we need. There'll be no subtle sabotage and no one waiting with a gun afterwards. You'll get out of it with a hefty bonus and be involved with other valuable operations in the future, now that you've proven your worth directly to the Board."

That – wasn't the sort of answer Damascus had expected but maybe he should have. Hunter's experiences were just so fundamentally different from anyone else he had worked with that it shouldn't come as a surprise that his analysis of the situation was very different, too.

He was right as well. Damascus had never experienced it himself but the rumours were there, whispered in the corners where no higher-up would hear. Sometimes, assets just – vanished. Operatives or teams that would be assigned an operation and never heard from again. Not the decimation of a combat team with few survivors or the sort of disaster that might even make the local news with most of the facts twisted beyond comprehension. Just – gone. Because someone paid enough that SCORPIA's assets were expendable and the best way to keep something a secret was to kill all witnesses.

Had Hunter been in that situation? As a freelancer, how had he even navigated that risk?

Damascus hesitated, but Hunter's response had been as patient as everything else had been, ever the teacher, and - "... How do you know the difference?"

"Gut feeling and experience." Blunt but honest. It was a familiar thing from Hunter by now. "I know that's not much help but – listen to your instincts. Malagosto already teaches that but remember it, even if you can't find a reason to be on edge. There's – something about the clients like that. They're too agreeable sometimes, too flexible on terms, a little too lax with security. Too intense sometimes as well, for the ones that like that sort of thing. The anticipation gets to them."

There was nothing Damascus could say to that, nothing that wouldn't remind him of operatives he had known that had been a little too fond of Dr Three's textbooks. Once more he was grateful he had ended up with logistics. He rarely had contact with clients and the better logistics specialists weren't expendable the way mercenary assets might be.

"Cossack and I have always been each other's insurance," Hunter continued. "We always had access to information on each other's current jobs, and if we had doubts about any of it, we went over the offer together and usually turned down the job. The threat of another world-class assassin out there who would take immediate, violent offence to the other's disappearance worked wonders in weeding out those clients. It's saved my life a few times, too. It cost us some legitimate jobs as well, with clients that were too paranoid to trust our partnership, but I would have been dead years ago otherwise."

Another thing Damascus would never have considered. Another reason why there were so few truly independent operatives of Hunter's calibre in their world. Had Hunter even known all of those potential traps before he agreed to go undercover as freelance, or had he been forced to learn as he went along? Before he could wonder if that question was too personal, Hunter spoke again.

"Stick to logistics," the man summed up his explanation and unknowingly echoed Damascus' own thoughts. "Good operatives are easy to get. Someone who can juggle this kind of operation is valuable. It'll keep you alive and let you retire a rich man."

Damascus nodded and the subject was dropped in favour of the much more pressing matter of their current operation.

There were dozens of ways in which things might still go catastrophically wrong, and Damascus knew it. Dozens of things they would never even have been able to plan for. Still, two days after the meeting with Kurst and with his mental file on Hunter slowly taking shape, Damascus was at least hopeful.

Between intel, firepower, and Hunter's experience, they would find their target. It was simply a matter of time.

Venice was enemy territory. SCORPIA's heavy presence had made it a fact of life for the intelligence world for a decade or more, and the direct attack on the Board had only increased that. There was always someone watching, and certainly around the areas Ian actually cared about.

Venice, however, had weaknesses, too. The largest one was the fact that it was a tourist destination. That meant a steady stream of strangers of all sorts of nationalities flowing through the city like a sentient tide, a fact which made it impossible for SCORPIA to keep an eye on everyone.

Security had to prioritise, and that meant a lot of visitors simply never drew their attention. Sharper security now, given the attack on the heart of SCORPIA, but even then they still had to sort through vast amounts of intel and some people were simply so unlikely to be a threat that they got filtered out by default. Families with children, larger groups of friends, the very young and the elderly -

- And married couples.

Which not only explained the situation Ian found himself in but also why Yassen Gregorovich was effectively a ghost to the intelligence world. Why they had so few photos of him. Why he was so hard to track.

"I'm hungry, darling," 'Anya' said by his side. "I think I'd like lunch by the Grand Canal."

Long lashes fluttered against pale cheeks, framed by the brunette locks of a high-quality wig. Ian had never paid any attention to Cossack's build – he was shorter and far more lithe than Hunter, certainly, but that was more the comparison of a finely honed knife against the brutality of a machete – but perhaps he should have. Perhaps they all should. Artfully done make-up and feminine clothes had turned those androgynous features into a classically beautiful woman and even knowing that Anya was Yassen Gregorovich, it had taken Ian long seconds to find the familiar features beneath the elegant woman.

Malagosto taught disguises but Cossack had taken it to a level beyond that. Of course he had been a ghost when they had been looking for a pale man around thirty years old travelling alone. He would have been able to waltz right through customs and no one would have looked twice.

"Of course," Ian agreed easily. "I was thinking a gondola ride at sunset, too. That will give us a few hours to enjoy the meal, maybe visit a few shops."

It would also give them a good reason to check out a few of the locations they knew would have SCORPIA activity. The restaurant, already scouted in advance on maps, would offer an excellent view of the Widow's Palace. The gondola would give them a different angle. Malagosto was too far away to use that approach but the Lido, as close to the school as it was possible to get, offered several hotels and restaurants in close proximity.

A single man would have been suspicious to SCORPIA. A married couple was not.

"You spoil me." Cossack's voice somehow managed to dip into a purr, low and alluring. "A proposal in Paris, my birthday in Venice … what have you planned for our anniversary?"

"I was thinking Florence," Ian replied, and it was easy to immerse himself in the act and go along with the beautiful woman on his arm. "The birthplace of the Renaissance. Art and beauty."

Cossack's lips curled into a downright wicked smile and she pulled him lightly along as they made their way to the Grand Canal and the restaurant they would just so happen to find themselves deciding on.

Small-talk came easily and flowed between them with the same quiet intimacy of any recently married couple alone on vacation. Twice Ian spotted someone who had to be SCORPIA security of some sort, but they never even glance at them, their disguises already dismissed as not a threat.

The restaurant was overpriced and obviously catered to tourists but was perfectly located in terms of Rothman's palatial home. Ian would have wondered why her security tolerated its presence so close by, but it was very likely just the conditions they had to live with. Venice was a tourist destination and to remove everything inconvenient and crowd-appealing around the Widow's Palace would draw more attention than anyone wanted. Security simply had to live with it.

The pasta was mediocre and the wine matched it, though the prices on the menu could have come from a restaurant a league better. Still, they remained for dessert and kept up their talk and light flirting as they kept a sharp eye on the activity surrounding Rothman's home.

It was Ian's first time in Venice, and Cossack – Yassen hadn't been there since he left SCORPIA. They had little to draw on in terms of normal levels of security but even then, Ian had little doubt that security had been increased in the wake of the attack.

It was audacious enough for someone like Rothman to make her home in the heart of a city like Venice. To do so within five miles of the extremely known location of Malagosto? Ian did not envy her security team.

The gondola ride was quiet, with Anya curled up against Ian's side, bundled in his jacket against the cool air of the evening. From the outside, they looked like nothing more than a couple wrapped up in each other's presence and the gondolier left them alone to the soft, steady sounds of the oar and the small waves against the gondola.

The sunset was impressive against the backdrop of Venice but their focus was on whatever they could pick up on in regards to SCORPIA and between the two of them, Ian knew the list would be long.

They returned to their hotel on the Lido well into evening, a stately, old building with several rooms near the top that offered a sprawling view of the Venetian lagoon, with Venice itself to the north – and, barely half a mile away, the island of Malagosto in direct view.

During high tourist season, the room would have been obscenely expensive. In late February, with far fewer tourists, it was still expensive but not enough to make Ian baulk.

So close to Malagosto and with its impressive views, there was no chance that there wasn't some sort of surveillance at the hotel, however little it might be. Ian on his own would have drawn attention. Ian with Anya on his arm, focused on nothing but each other as they made their way into the old elevator with a tipsy giggle from Anya, no one looked twice at.

They kept up the act even inside of the room, with giggles and flirtatious comments until they had, between the two of them, checked the room thoroughly for any sort of surveillance. Only then, with the curtains drawn and the room cleared, did they drop the act.

It wasn't the first time Ian worked with an unfamiliar partner. It was, however, the first time Ian worked with a partner of Gregorovich's calibre. Whatever Ian's personal opinions on the man, he was one of the best in his field and Ian could acknowledge that. Relied on it, even, because he would have no chance at all of pulling off a rescue alone and they both knew it.

"I don't know the security situation before the attack," Ian began, "but I counted a minimum of two teams outside of the Widow's Palace and what looked like surveillance in several windows."

Mostly disguised security but it didn't change the facts.

"It is a significant upgrade from my experiences with the place," Yassen agreed. "Rothman has always prized the respectable appearance and heavy security goes against that image. She was the one who negotiated the contract with the Italians for Malagosto in the eighties. The ability to appear as nothing more than the beautiful, wealthy young widow has opened a number of business opportunities for SCORPIA over the years."

Because Julia Rothman moved in different circles than the rest of the executive board. She was rich – not as rich as Yu, presumably, but more than enough to make her a person of note – and through her late husband, she had integrated herself among the extremely wealthy in a way someone like Kurst and Mikato would never be able to.

They had no realistic way to get into the building unnoticed for now, but the increased security offered intel on its own.

"We'll assume she survived the attack, then," Ian said. "They wouldn't bother with that sort of security otherwise."

Someone else could have taken over the Widow's Palace – and had Rothman been killed, very likely would have – but not in this short amount of time. Not with the number of years Rothman had lived there and been able to leave all sorts of deadly surprises behind for potential intruders. It would have taken time to clear the building of any threats.

"Survived, and likely to make a full recovery," Yassen agreed. "Any injuries severe enough to make a member of the board unable to return to their position would have seen them permanently removed. They would be a weakness and too much of a risk to the rest of the Board. Given the level of security, I would expect her to be in residence as well."

Ian wouldn't be surprised if that was the case. SCORPIA had been attacked in Venice, true, but after fifteen years, Rothman's home was presumably a fortress. Outside of Malagosto itself, it was probably the safest location within a hundred miles – and Malagosto was territory shared with Dr Three. The Widow's Palace was Rothman's alone.

"How many do we think got knocked off? Yu is dead, Rothman is alive. Three, Grendel, Kroll – none of them are young."

Rothman hadn't even been thirty by the time of SCORPIA's foundation but time carried mercilessly on. How old was Dr Three? Sixty? His past had been buried deep enough that no one knew for sure, but even a relatively minor injury could have a devastating effect on him and the rest of SCORPIA's ageing Board.

"Unknown, but based on the state of the structure, I would expect more than the one fatality in the explosion and subsequent collapse. The security personnel that were present are unlikely to be alive at this point, either."

Either because they died in the attack, or after a thorough interrogation as a potential suspect. They would not have been allowed to live, not after a failure like that.

"It takes resources and audacity bordering on arrogance to attack SCORPIA in one of their strongholds," Yassen continued. "Not many possess enough of both to carry through with it. A competitor, most likely."

"Atlas." The name had popped up repeated in MI6's files and something about it clicked the moment Ian said it out loud. "That's their biggest competitor right now. They started as a private military company after the fall of the Berlin Wall but didn't become something of note until the breakup of Yugoslavia. They're growing and it's reached a point where SCORPIA is in the way. They're the only ones with a motive and the resources to manage. No intelligence agency has any incentive strong enough to go after SCORPIA at present, not that MI6 knew of."

Because they were useful for skilled, reliable, and – most importantly – deniable services. A necessary evil, according to Crawley. For those times when the risk of having something lead back to someone important was too high and it was easier to simply hire an outside contractor through intermediaries.

That meant the attack came from elsewhere and against something like SCORPIA … even for Atlas, it was a gamble, but they must have believed a strike that could potentially have killed most of the executive board – or all of them, in an extreme case – would have been worth it.

Only time would tell if that gamble had been right, but based on the amount of security and lack of any immediate sense of panic, Ian suspected that Atlas had miscalculated.

Yassen made a considering sound.

"We had deliberately worked to avoid SCORPIA and Atlas both. To draw their attention was unwanted, to become involved in their impending territorial dispute would have been suicide." A pause. "SCORPIA will want revenge. To allow this to remain unchallenged would be tantamount to surrender. It will be impossible to predict how they will arrange for it, but they will at least be focused on that for the foreseeable future."

Which would in turn leave opportunities for Ian and Yassen to – well. Ian wasn't sure. The vague idea was to get John and Helen and the kids out of SCORPIA's grasp but even that was a hazy idea more than anything. There were so many unknowns, it was impossible to realistically plan for anything.

"Based on security, Rothman is in Venice." Rothman, and an unknown number of the rest of the executive board. It wasn't confirmation that John and the others were there, too, but … "This is still our best bet, then. Malagosto?"

It wouldn't be the first time the island had hosted high-profile prisoners and it was the closest thing to a neutral spot for SCORPIA in a city that was firmly Rothman's territory.

"Malagosto," Yassen agreed.

By morning, they would take a closer look at the view of the school from the tiny balcony. For now, they focused on the intel a full day in Venice had netted them.

In one world, Ian Rider became one of MI6's best field operatives and carried on the Rider family tradition.

In another, John Crawley went to check on Agent Rider after his failure to report in after his assignment in Nice. As they had nine years prior, MI6 would find the house cleared of all sentimental items and no trace of its owner as Ian Rider carried on a different Rider family tradition.

Chapter Text

John Crawley had promised Ian Rider three days of head-start. As it turned out, he managed two and a half.

It had been a careful balance between his loyalty to MI6 and his willingness to assist Ian with his suicidal but understandable mission. On one hand, they now had a rogue agent armed with every bit of intel on SCORPIA that John had been able to supply him with. On the other, said intel would be used against the organisation, not to help it. What Ian would actually be able to do, John couldn't imagine, but if the man was willing to gamble his life and trust information provided by Yassen Gregorovich, John sincerely doubted he was going to be swayed from his path by anyone or anything.

John had laid the foundation of his own plan on Thursday evening with a report from an 'unnamed but historically reliable source': Winston Yu hadn't just been an MI6 agent turned criminal mastermind but also a member of SCORPIA's executive board – which, by extension, turned the attack in Venice from an assassination of Yu and to a possible attack on SCORPIA's executive board within the heart of SCORPIA's territory.

Unsurprisingly, that bit of intel meant that John had spent all of Friday in meetings. He'd had nothing else to add, and Blunt and Jones both knew better than to push for more information on his sources, but it had been valuable intel and meant that a lot of their previous assumptions had to be reconsidered.

Most likely, they assumed his source worked for SCORPIA. John did nothing to disabuse them of the notion. MI6 needed to know about Yu but he had no desire to incriminate himself in the process. It was one thing to have questionable sources, another entirely to actively help an agent about to go rogue.

Their main problem now was how to make use of that bit of intel. On its own, it was just a piece of the puzzle. They needed additional information to complete the picture. Most other places in Europe, that would not have been an issue. Venice, though – Venice was a problem in itself.

There were few intelligence agents stationed in Venice. It was sometimes a surprise to new agents, John knew, given Malagosto's blatant presence, but that surprise generally made way for understanding once the politics of it all were explained.

Venice was one of SCORPIA's strongholds. With their lucrative dealings with the legitimate intelligence world and various governments, they could hardly go about murdering enemy agents simply for being around but – accidents happened. People vanished.

With SCORPIA's assassins being trained within sight of the city, well. Sometimes, it was simply convenient with a target for training purposes.

Most agents were stationed well away from Venice these days. The Italians were a notable exception, since even SCORPIA did not particularly care to bite the hand that had so agreeably lent them Malagosto island.

It was frustrating for everyone involved. In a best case scenario, they would have been on top of the attack from the moment the first reports had come in. It was an attack on Italian soil but with a former MI6 employee as the target, and that would have been worth digging into.

But … that former MI6 employee had been Winston Yu, a man with powerful enemies of his own, and it was far more likely he had been targeted for that than his MI6 past.

Their asset in Treviso had gathered the information available and the rest of the story matched up with that. It should have been a clear-cut case.

A man of Yu's appearance had checked into a private hospital in Switzerland. All records matched what they knew of Yu's medical history. He had needed surgery for a suspected tumour and chosen to recuperate on the outskirts of Venice, a respectable distance from Malagosto and Rothman's palatial home. A risk, but perhaps they'd had an understanding. The list of casualties and fatalities had included members of the hotel staff and Yu's security but nothing else, with the entire hotel booked for Yu and his entourage.

The story had felt off but … there had been nothing they could put their finger on. Nothing solid enough to dig into.

Now, that story was called into question. Records could be faked, employees could be bribed, bodies could be made to vanish. And SCORPIA would have strong incentive to cover up an attack of such a magnitude.

It was late Friday afternoon by the time John finally had the chance to settle down in his own office and handle everything that had been pushed aside by the matter of Winston Yu.

At the top of the list was a phone call he did not wish to make. Ian should have landed in Heathrow more than two hours ago. By now, he should have been home. Would have been, in another situation.

John had Ian's number written down already. He let it ring for almost a full minute before he put the phone back down. He had expected it, but there had still been a whisper of hope that Ian would have picked up after all. That he would have reconsidered his suicide mission.

Still, John kept up his role. He checked the time again, then frowned slightly and called his secretary instead.

"Moira, I need you to check up on a flight for me. British Airways, flight BA 347. Please check its status and whether Agent Rider was on it. Thank you."

The silence stretched on as John waited to hear confirmation of what he already suspected. It was nearly five minutes later before the line came to life again.

"The flight landed without delay, sir," Moira Hayes told him. "Agent Rider was not on board."

"I need the number for Wright in Nice, then. Code Euston-Kassel-Four."

Thirty seconds later, he had the number. The phone rang four times before someone picked up.

"Mr Wright? My name is James Smith and I'm calling from the Royal and General Bank in regards to your investment account with us. Is this an inconvenient time?"

"No, no, it's fine, I just got home from work. Will this take long?"

"Just a formality," John assured him and followed the script to the letter. The line was secure and Wright was alone.

Identification codes ensured they both knew the other was the person they pretended to be, which was about as secure as it could get on short notice with an asset that had so far managed to draw not even the whisper of suspicion.

"I'll make it brief," John said and didn't bother with pleasantries. "When was your last contact with Agent Connell, codename Abydikos?"

"… Last summer to my recollection," Wright responded after a long second, which matched with John's own knowledge. Ian hadn't been the only agent Wright had been in contact with but he had been the most frequent. "I expect I should let it be known if that changes in the immediate future?"

The man hadn't asked for the details but he would hardly need them, based on a question like that. Whatever had happened, 'Connell' had clearly become a person of interest.

"That would be appreciated." It would never happen, of course, but John didn't need to share that. "Thank you for your time."

John put the phone down gently but it still felt final in a way it rarely did, even with the sort of duties that crossed his desk.

He had known the minute that Ian had left that this was the last he would see of the man. Even then, there had been a small, treacherous part of him that had hoped. That had refused to accept it, despite all reason.

He picked up the phone again. "Moira? We may have a problem. I need to check on Agent Rider's house. Could you find me an agent or two that hasn't left yet?"

"Of course, sir."

Unflappable as always. Right now John needed that.

Ian Rider had made his choice. Now John Crawley had to make his.

Saturday morning found Alan Blunt in his office. It had not been his plan for the weekend, but international intelligence politics waited for no man. Had the issue of Winston Yu not been enough to justify working through the weekend, then the news of Ian Rider's disappearance certainly would be.

"He cleared the house with the skills of a professional," Crawley reported. "At first glance, nothing was wrong. There was no sign he had left in a hurry. To all intents and purposes, it was the house of a man who planned to be gone no more than three days. It was only a closer examination that revealed that there was nothing of likely sentimental value left. The few photos he had were gone and his personal safe emptied, but none of the work files appeared to be missing."

MI6 had been Ian Rider's life for more than a decade. Alan's ability to predict others – assets, allies, enemies – was a key part of his job, but rarely had he been blind-sided like this.

Next to him, the mild scent of peppermint revealed Jones' similar displeasure at the situation. Undoubtedly, she was already going over any hints there might have been, however small, of Rider's plan.

"His financial assets?"

"Gone." Crawley did not hesitate, nor did he attempt to soften the truth. "Agent Rider has spent most of his career working with the financial aspects of intelligence work. He knows the tools we have available to track bank movements and the legal framework that surrounds it. More importantly, he knows where our methods fall short and how to cover his tracks. If – if – we are able to track down the eventual destination of the transfers he made, he will have enough of a head-start that the money will be gone by the time we find it."

"Switzerland," Jones agreed. "Nothing about the transfers were illegal. The accounts were his, with anything in them duly declared. To get the Swiss to agree to assist us with that would be far more effort than it would be worth, and certainly for an anonymous account that has undoubtedly been emptied and the cash physically moved to another one before the end of the week."

The financial assets gone and the house deemed an acceptable loss. Those were not the actions of an impulsive man. Urgent actions, perhaps, but – planned. Carefully considered.

On the table in front of them was the combined intel a day and a half had earned them from a number of MI6's sources and old files on Yu. It was a significant amount but there was no guarantee it would be enough to provide the answers they needed. Alan had left work Friday evening with the unpleasant knowledge that they still missed a key part of the puzzle; the piece that would make it all come together.

Now, perhaps, they had it. The timing was too conspicuous not to be related.

What could have pulled Ian Rider from London like that? What could have made him leave behind an entire life in the knowledge that he would most likely never be able to return? His brother had left for family. Ian Rider had not been in contact with any of them since and had been kept away from any operations that related to Hunter …

… or, Alan acknowledged, Rider had not been in contact with his family that MI6 had known of. The man had been an accomplished field operative with numerous contacts. If he had wished to keep up with his brother's situation, he would have found a way.

A member of SCORPIA's executive board had been assassinated. Rider had gone rogue four days later, before even MI6 had managed to obtain the intel needed to get a somewhat more accurate idea of the situation.

Rider had known something. Someone had warned him. Alan had no proof but every instinct told him that the connection was there.

What else was there, then? In retrospect, the file on Ian Rider's personal life was suspiciously empty. They had more on Hunter, and that man had managed to hide his family for seven years until …

… Geneva. There was something there, nagging at Alan's awareness.

Hunter's family had been attacked in Geneva, and the man had torn a bloody trail through SCORPIA's station in Zurich in retaliation. Ian Rider had done nothing … because he hadn't known, or perhaps, as Alan wondered for the first time, because Hunter and Gregorovich already had the matter in hand.

What if they didn't, this time?

Ian Rider had never made an attempt to access the information on his family or be assigned an operation that Hunter was involved in, and they had never questioned it. Rider and his brother had drifted apart during Hunter's undercover mission, and the mere months afterwards had not been enough to repair that. The bonds of blood were hardly unbreakable.

Now, that distance seemed increasingly deliberate. Why draw unwanted attention to himself if he had other ways to remain in contact?

What could have made Ian Rider leave behind his life and career in London?

… What, half a world away, could have brought Winston Yu to Venice – to Rothman's territory – less than a week prior?

They had expected the answer was a board meeting but even that raised more questions than it answered. Venice was simply too much of a risk for that. Too political and too high-profile. Yu had been safe within his own territory. In control of all around him. To travel was a risk, all the more so for someone with enemies like Yu. And if the meeting had been at short notice, at that …

Alan pulled the large map of Venice closer. There was something about that train of thought and he knew it.

"This was not a scheduled board meeting," he said. "This was not planned. Yu's security was stretched too far. The stress fractures began to show -"

"- And something slipped through the cracks," Jones finished the sentence. "The Italians are willing to turn a blind eye to Malagosto's activities, but a board meeting … the security issues alone would be considerable. They would need a sound reason for a location like that, when there are dozens of better-suited places for such meetings."

Better-suited but for two important locations: Malagosto and the Widow's Palace. Both conspicuously close to the hotel that had been attacked. Both valuable to SCORPIA – Malagosto for the tactical investment that it was, and the Widow's Palace for the networking that Rothman did on her organisation's behalf.

Both locations had been used to hold valuable prisoners and hostages, too. Malagosto was an obvious fortress to those in the know, and the Widow's Palace boasted security only slightly below that.

What did Ian Rider have left outside of MI6? Two days ago, Alan would have said nothing. Now …

"SCORPIA caught up with Hunter. Someone presumably warned Rider."

There was nothing else that fit, not with the intel MI6 had available now. Crawley's eyes sharpened and Jones looked up from the file in front of her.

"To meet in Venice was a risk," he continued. "Something must have happened to make it necessary. Something important enough to demand the attention of the full board. Their usual clients wouldn't warrant that."

An undercover agent would hardly have warranted that, either, but John Rider had always been the exception to the rules. A thorn in SCORPIA's side for a decade. If they had finally hunted him down …

"Likely Helen and the children, too. The matter of Hunter wouldn't necessarily require a meeting in person," Jones disagreed, "but for a more complicated matter, it could have been justified. There have been persistent rumours that Hunter's loyalty was always with SCORPIA. With John in their grasp, they would need to commit to a story. Either Hunter the undercover SCORPIA operative or John Rider the MI6 agent. Alone, he may have refused to cooperate. With Helen and the children dependent on him, he would have agreed to whatever ensured their safety."

Including his unwavering loyalty to the board, though that did not need spoken.

More pieces clicked into place with every moment, and this time they fit together far better than they had before.

"I want the most detailed satellite images of Malagosto available since Saturday."

It would be impossible to tell adult figures apart but a child-sized one would stand out. Two of them would be all but confirmation that Hunter's family was under SCORPIA's control. The other likely option would be the Widow's Palace, but Alan doubted Rothman would have tolerated children for prolonged periods in her home, and the political implications would not have gone over well with her colleagues. To control Hunter's family was to control a lethal weapon, and no one would allow such a thing to fall into Rothman's hands.

No, if the Rider family was in Venice, it would be at Malagosto. Close at hand, under heavy security, and as politically neutral as anything got in Venice.

"Someone tampered with the casualty reports," he continued. "That wasn't Yu's hotel, that was the location of the meeting."

There was nothing else it could be. SCORPIA had worked fast to craft a backstory to turn Yu into the sole target. That called into question everything else about those reports as well. The only reason they would bother would be if the attack was far more costly than they were willing to admit.

It was a race against time and they were already behind. SCORPIA was already rewriting events to protect their reputation and every hour that passed would erase more of what little evidence that remained.

Even then, Alan knew they were better off than most. Crawley's unnamed contact and Ian Rider's decision had offered them the missing pieces they needed. Most agencies would not be as fortunate.

"Activate any assets we have in the area. The official reports can't be trusted but they won't be able to remove all evidence. Hospitals, emergency responders – someone, somewhere knows the unedited truth and I want it found."

An attack on SCORPIA's board was a declaration of war. A suicidal one, in most cases, but if enough of the board had been killed in the attack, it could destabilise the organisation to a point where SCORPIA might ultimately collapse.

With an attack like that, it was exceedingly unlikely that Yu was the only fatality on the board. The only question now was the number of empty seats among SCORPIA's founders.

"Yes, sir," Crawley agreed. "And – Rider?"

Agent Rider, he didn't say because Rider's loyalty was no longer with MI6 and they all knew it.

Alan paused. The course of action was given; the extent of it less so.

How long had Rider's loyalties been dubious? How long had he been in contact with his brother? Had he used his clearance for intel before? A lot of unpleasant questions with no answers, but that did not matter to Alan's decision. He had to assume the worst case scenario, and for a trusted agent like Rider, that could call into doubt a decade of his work.

"Issue a burn notice. Assume he has been compromised since John Rider left MI6."

Crawley didn't question it but only nodded.

Whatever Ian Rider's plans were, they would be without MI6's protection and assistance. Alan did not have the resources to have him found, nor was there a reason strong enough to make his capture a priority, but that did not change the facts.

Ian Rider was now on his own.

Julia Rothman's personal quarters were quiet. The windows that normally offered a panoramic view of the Grand Canal were covered by heavy curtains, and the only light came from single lamp that offered the barest whisper of illumination.

Had it been summer, the air conditioning would have been put to work keeping the temperature pleasantly cool, but in February the slight breeze was enough to offer a welcome respite.

Her headache came and went and was mostly dulled by the painkillers she had been given, but it was still unwelcome. It was a result of her concussion and was both common and expected. Already it had become less frequent, though hardly less of an inconvenience when it did strike. Another week, she had been assured, and it would most likely be gone. Until then, her personal floor in the Widow's Palace was kept quiet, dark, and blessedly cool.

Under her light silk blouse, heavy bruising had faded to yellowish-green though the fractured ribs beneath would take weeks more to recover. The same yellowish bruises stared back at her in the mirror as a stark reminder of how fortunate she had actually been. The fracture in her jaw had been minor and would heal on its own. The dental injuries had been handled by the second day. The stitches along her collarbone had been done by a skilled plastic surgeon and would leave, at the most, the most minimal of scarring.

If the rubble had struck another twenty centimetres to the right, she would not have survived. She did not need a medical professional to tell her that.

For now, she had a thorough list of instructions to minimise the risk of pneumonia and other complications, and a timeline that was … manageable. She would recover fully, at least, and revenge would go a long way in making the wait more tolerable.

Footsteps arrived outside, barely a whisper against the expensive rug. The slight sound was deliberate; a way to announce his presence without disturbing her if she had other business to handle. Corvo knew her well.

"Ma'am." He kept his voice soft and quiet, mindful of her headache and temper both.

A competent man, Julia conceded, with an unusually pleasant voice when he kept it down. Perhaps she should stress to him how displeased she would be if he got himself killed and forced her to break in a new second-in-command. Later, though. Much, much later.

She made a slight gesture with her hand in an unspoken demand to get to the point.

"Mr Chase is dead."

She had expected nothing less but it was nice to have it confirmed. At least someone around her could do their job. Perhaps she should screen the security personnel herself next time.

The loss of another colleague was a pity, of course. All the more so for the fact that it hadn't been a conveniently swift death and it had been necessary to clean up the loose ends. Chase would never have recovered and that made him a liability. Julia had ordered Petrescu's death for much the same reason.

What was that expression? Ah, yes. A woman's work is never done.

"How unfortunate. Do make sure to send flowers for the funeral."

Assuming there was one, of course. Personal relationships were a liability in their line of work. Some of her colleagues had family. Most did not. With the right connections, no one would ask any questions if there was simply never a service at all.

Corvo nodded but didn't immediately leave. There was a shift of uncertainty, presumably unsure if she was in the mood to tolerate any additional work for the moment. Julia arched an eyebrow.

"MI6 has issued a burn notice regarding Ian Rider. MI6 employees are recommended not to deal with him, and any intel based on reports from him should be considered unreliable unless corroborated by other sources."

Well. That was an unexpected development.

Hunter's brother had gone rogue. Not only that, but for MI6 to issue a notice like that, the evidence would have been damning. To call into question all intel provided by him was no small statement. It meant that they had reason to believe it was not a recent development but possibly dubious loyalties stretching back years. Ian Rider had always been among their better agents. Hardly on par with his brother, of course, but few were. The loss of his loyalties and the information he had provided … well.

"Do we have the details they based the decision on?"

"Not yet, ma'am, but we have people working on it."

Unfortunate but expected. SCORPIA had moles with MI6 but no one with direct access to Blunt's files. It was no matter. They would get the intel in due time.

Now, did Ian Rider plan to help his brother or to murder him? That was the question. They had looked into Hunter's brother before but it had yielded nothing that could be used against Hunter. To all accounts, the brothers hadn't been in contact since the Rider family had left London. Hunter had set out on a profitable career and Ian Rider had remained loyal to MI6. Like a well-trained dog, some would claim, though with his lack of a social life beyond work, he would hardly have had anywhere else to go.

That meant they had two rogue pieces in play now. Ian Rider was almost certainly hunting for his brother, and Cossack …

… Well. Cossack might as well have been a ghost. SCORPIA had made a half-hearted attempt to narrow down his location but with Hunter's warning, he would have had enough time to disappear.

What Cossack's future plans were, no one was sure of. Likely not even John Rider himself, Julia suspected. The Riders considered him part of the family. Was the feeling reciprocated to a degree where Cossack would cross SCORPIA for their sake? Would he even know where to start looking, given that the only warning he had been given was danger; do not return?

It hardly mattered. Malagosto was a fortress. If Cossack decided to try his luck, he would simply be brought in. Alive or dead; with Hunter firmly under control, either was acceptable. His skills were valuable but if two weapons of such a calibre were too hard to keep in line, they would simply keep the more useful one.

Ian Rider … unless SCORPIA had drastically underestimated him, he would be on his own, possibly hunted by MI6, and with few resources to draw on. He did not have Cossack's contacts, nor the man's experience in working freelance. The likelihood that he would be able to track down Hunter, much less make it anywhere near him … that was hardly a stunning probability but luck had carried that family through worse odds before. It wouldn't do to write him off immediately.

Corvo still waited silently just inside the door, patient like the most skilled of snipers.

Julia needed more competent people like that around. If she had, perhaps she would not be suffering through a concussion-induced migraine.

What was the next reasonable step? Hunter had been sent to handle retribution. His wife and children were secured at Malagosto. The surviving board was in no condition to deal with new, large-account clients for at least another week.

"… Get me what we have on Ian Rider," she decided. A somewhat lower-risk task might be just the thing and her experience with Hunter might give her the edge needed to predict his next steps. "Dismissed."

Corvo nodded.

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed quietly.

The door closed with a whisper behind him. The room returned to soothing darkness, and Julia settled back down and waited for the painkillers to do their job.

A decade as a freelance operative had given John Rider an understanding of his own limitations that most of SCORPIA's younger operatives never developed. They all knew that injuries could be a death sentence in their line of work but the nuances – lacked. The knowledge of just what the human body could manage, under what circumstances, and what the long-term damage might be from it.

Hunter had nothing to do in the field with the sort of injuries he had, and John was painfully aware of that. In any other situation, he would have refused the operation. Now, he had no choice and the only saving grace was that most of the heavy lifting would be done by the two teams that Damascus had arranged for.

That was another unknown for an operation that was already dangerously high-stakes. John trusted that Damascus wanted to succeed almost as much as John himself did – if nothing else, then because failing an operation of such importance might see Damascus permanently retired as collateral damage as well – but he was still relying on assets he had no experience with.

Hunter had worked alone for the most part. He had worked with Cossack for longer stretches of time in the early years and occasionally with client security teams and minor private armies that he had helped train, but never with any of SCORPIA's combat teams.

Then there was the intel. John did not like to rely on others' intel on a job, but needs must and SCORPIA had resources far beyond what he and Yassen would normally have available to them.

Hunter believed Atlas to be responsible for the attack. SCORPIA's own analysts concurred and so Hunter got what SCORPIA had available. What with Atlas being a significant competitor, the amount of intel moved right past 'significant' and straight into 'overwhelming'. There was simply too much of it. It was not a surprise. No intelligence agency worth the name turned down information, however useless it might seem, and whatever else SCORPIA was, it had that intelligence approach at its foundation.

It was, however, an inconvenience.

Going through it all would take time he didn't have and focus he did not have to spare.

If Rothman had spoken the truth, Helen would be safe – as safe as she could be, at least, assuming Three had survived to keep her as his assistant. Alex and Matilda were needed as living, breathing proof that Hunter had only ever gone freelance on the Board's command and that he had remained loyal through it all. It might be a gilded cage, but they would be safe. Unharmed and protected. Alex was sharp and intelligent; he would understand the necessity of playing along. Matilda – growing up in the heart of SCORPIA, she would never know anything else. In another five years, she wouldn't remember her early years at all.

Yassen … John hoped he had listened and vanished, far away from SCORPIA's reach, but he had no way to know and realistically … the odds weren't good. The kid had no one else and he was family. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, his fate was out of John's hands.

That left John himself. However the operation went, it was his life at stake – his, and the others assigned to the operation, should any failure be tracked back to them as well – but not his family.

That left leeway, too. Not much, but enough to let John make some gambles he would never have dared otherwise.

They worked against the clock, hunting down those responsible before the tracks were completely erased, and there was a magnitude more intel that he could ever use. None of the reports could tell him for sure where Atlas was the most vulnerable, where their own board might best be targeted, or how to predict their next step. If they could, SCORPIA would have struck against them months or years ago.

In any other situation, John would have looked at the mission parameters and assumed he wasn't meant to succeed. That it was a suicide mission at best. Now – SCORPIA needed the operation to succeed. They wouldn't have given it to him if they didn't believe it could be done.

For the first time, John wondered if Hunter's towering reputation was about to come back to bite him in the ass. His life and his family's safety had depended on Hunter being too dangerous of a figure to go after. On a reputation for being a virtuoso with any weapon he touched and able to predict the movement of any target he was sent after.

SCORPIA's analysts weren't able to pinpoint a target because there were too many variables to be sure, too many risks to take into account, and the price of failure could be death if the fallout was bad enough.

John was already dead if he failed, and he knew that. To do nothing would get him killed. Taking those chances was the one thing that might keep him alive now.

What would Hunter do?

Atlas would expect that any retaliation would come from SCORPIA. From an organisation that was founded by former intelligence agents and whose influence would certainly show in an operation as important as retaliation would be.

They would expect to have time, because SCORPIA would want intel before they struck, to be completely sure of their target before they showed their hand.

If John moved fast enough, if he managed to cut the right corners – he could stay ahead of those expectations. Could strike before anyone expected it. That had been his advantage at times before. It was riskier, being freelance and alone, but it allowed him to move faster as well. To change his plans on the spot if necessary.

Of course, that approach was complicated by the fact that he would need to rely on others for most of it. He would be able to manage intel and surveillance but nothing combat related. No part of any actual strike. His condition improved day by day, but it was a simple fact of life that injuries bad enough to cause internal bleeding and a dislocated shoulder did not fade in a week. The aches had lessened and he could move normally again, but that did not change the conclusion: Hunter had nothing to do in the field. At best he would be useless, at worst a liability.

SCORPIA's combat teams followed orders, that was their job. The better of them could improvise as needed but even then, they operated within mission parameters. That meant Hunter needed someone else to be his eyes and ears in the field, and Damascus would have to be it.

It wasn't the optimal choice, but nothing about the whole disaster had been. It was something he could work with, though, and that would have to do.

Damascus wasn't a front-line operative but he obviously had a mind for logistical puzzles and a healthy appreciation for the good fortune he had stumbled into with his current position within SCORPIA. Far from everyone John had known would have been content with logistics despite the much lower risk and very reasonable salary. Intelligent and adaptable, then, and despite his current position, he had the background of an operative.

Damascus had graduated Malagosto. The potential was there. Hunter merely had to remind the man of the proper mindset.

That was the foremost thought in John's mind as he gestured for Damascus to join him by the large table that had been co-opted for operational management.

Most of the surface was covered in files and maps – intel on Atlas, on key members, on recent activities – and to most, it would look like a disorganised mess. To Yassen, John knew, it would have made sense. He would have seen the framework of an operation and the parts missing where John had already discarded intel that would only have confused things further.

There was the beginning of a plan in his mind. He just had to somehow shape it into something useful now.

Damascus was silent but his attention flickered across the table, taking in the vast information. He, too, would know that John had already sorted ruthlessly through it. He had seen the initial amount of intel.

"Atlas was founded as a business," John started once he knew he had Damascus' attention. "A criminal enterprise, sure, but fundamentally a business. SCORPIA was founded as a dark twin to the legitimate intelligence agencies. Two different approaches that most aren't aware of. After all, from the outside, they're both businesses."

John pulled the large map closer and spread it out on the table between them. Atlas' assets dotted the paper in blue and red and yellow.

"Now," he continued, "if you had just attacked a competitor like SCORPIA, where would you go? Not underground, certainly. To an organisation like Atlas, that would show weakness and would draw unwanted attention if SCORPIA had not worked out they were behind it. So business as usual, but – safer."

He watched as Damascus focused on the map and waited patiently for the man to speak. No student ever learned from being given the answers and thinking out loud had sometimes let him see things from the outside in a way that a report didn't necessarily do.

"Their executive board meets often."

It was half question, half statement, and the first small piece of the puzzle. John wasn't surprised that Damascus' first observation dealt with logistics. Business as usual, to someone with his responsibilities, would focus on practical observations. Working from the ground up.

"And SCORPIA's doesn't," John said, information that Damascus had no way to know. "SCORPIA's board meets according to security protocols set by former Cold War spies: infrequently, as necessary, and under heavy secrecy. There is a reason why there has been no successful attack on the board until now. Atlas focuses on the ability to move fast to take advantage of any new opportunities, that's why they have grown so large over the past decade. SCORPIA has a stronger focus on security."

A behemoth that might eventually grow too large and sluggish to survive against younger and more adaptable competitors, but that was not something John planned to say out loud.

It was easy to slip into the mindset of the teacher even now, and John found he had missed it. Missed seeing a student learn and thrive.

"They would want somewhere convenient, then," Damascus said. "It would be a risk but with different priorities, that might not matter to them. They would prioritise ease of travel."

John nodded but remained silent.

"So somewhere with a strong presence and where they feel secure," Damascus continued, "because increasing their security significantly somewhere else might also draw attention they don't want."

He moved a couple of folders to cover parts of the map where Atlas' presence was too small or the location too awkward or too remote. It still left a significant number of marks.

John moved another file to cover a large section of Russia.

"Not Moscow, either," John said. "They have a business presence but it's not their territory. That area is owned by far more powerful people. I think we can rule out anything in Russia based on that."

That left further west, where Atlas had expanded into the sudden vacuum left behind by the fall of the Iron Curtain. Still contested territory, but they had a stronger hold than in Moscow.

Parts of the former Yugoslavia could be ruled out as well from a security standpoint and another folder joined the map. John paused and considered the remaining possibilities.

North or south? Atlas had more resources in the southern areas than further north, but it would also bring them closer to Italy and SCORPIA. But then, that conflict was already there. That expansion further into Europe was what had seen the organisations clash in the first place.

Atlas would favour resources, John was sure of it.

Another folder blocked out Poland, Belarus, and the Baltic states and narrowed down the area even further. It still left a number of options but John's focus kept drifting back to Romania and the large red dot that marked Bucharest as a place of significant activity.

He had nothing solid to base it on, nothing specific he could point to. Just his instincts. With nothing else to go on, he would take whatever starting point he could get.

"Bucharest," he stated. "There are other options, but we start with Bucharest."

"Yes, sir." Damascus didn't question his conclusion. "Should I send one of the teams to a second location?"

It made sense for an operation like theirs. They had ruled out a number of locations based on very thin reasoning, and John could just as easily have guessed wrong. Both teams were more than able to handle a surveillance mission on their own. It made sense to cover twice the ground. Still, something in him hesitated.

"… Keep them together," he said. "Two days should be enough to tell if security has increased to a point where we can expect their board to have picked the place for temporary headquarters. There's security in obscurity, but it takes nerves of steel to trust anonymity and regular security in a situation like that. It can be done, and if they went for that, the odds of locating them just got a magnitude worse, but that's not how Atlas operates."

It wasn't how SCORPIA operated, either. Some members of the Board were anonymous to a point where they could waltz straight through airport security and never earn a second glance, but as a whole, they had drifted from their foundation.

Hunter had found his target in Zurich the same way. He had far better resources available this time but the principle was the same. The employees had been a little too skittish, the security a little too good. Once he had an idea of where to look, it was only a matter of finding the spot where something was off.

Damascus nodded. Hesitated for a moment in the way that John had seen with Malagosto's students before – the underling with a superior – and then asked the question that was obviously on his mind.

"Why Bucharest, sir?"

John was sure that the only reason Damascus even dared to voice it were the days he had spent patiently answering every question the man had asked. A student didn't learn if the teacher refused to teach and in many ways Damascus was just that – his student. A temporary one and different from those he had taught at Malagosto, but still someone who wanted to learn and had the abilities to succeed.

"Honestly?" John shrugged. "I don't know."

Based on the sudden, startled look he got in return – there and gone again in a second – he could perhaps have been a little less blunt. Still, it obviously did the trick and got the man's complete attention.

"Gut feeling tells me there's something there, and I've learned to listen to that," he explained. "It's a mix of intel, experience, and any number of things my subconsciousness has picked up that I haven't consciously noticed. There's at least a dozen possible locations as it looks now, and numerous more than that if we turned out to be wrong about one of the places we ruled out. We have to start somewhere, and something about Bucharest made me pause. If I'm wrong, we divide our assets and send a team each to our second and third priority."

He didn't expect to need to, but backup plans never hurt to have. The added peace of mind alone could be enough to ensure they wouldn't be needed.

"Of course," he continued, "if you need to explain it to a superior, instincts won't always be enough. Pick some good arguments from the intel and that'll usually be enough. No one has to know you're basing the arguments on the conclusion and not the other way around. In this case, I'd argue it's a location where Atlas has a heavy presence, it's politically stable compared to some of the alternatives, and it's a place where they're firmly in control. Sound confident and competent, and that half the argument right there."

Another reason why Hunter's reputation had served him well. Few people dared question someone like that. He still had to deal with an assortment of entitled clients, of course, but so long as he sounded like he knew what he was doing, most of their underlings had simply followed orders.

Damascus nodded and John could see him file the conversation away in his mind. Working around inconvenient superiors was the sort of thing Malagosto didn't teach but which was usually picked up through painful trial and error. If John could spare his temporary student a bit of that headache in the future, he considered that a job well done.

Damascus' attention returned to the map and he pushed the folders aside again to get a clear look at the route from Venice.

"By plane would be the optimal choice but I may need to look into alternatives. I should have our options ready for your approval within a few hours, sir."

It went without saying that Atlas would undoubtedly have the airport watched. John himself would have had no problem as a lone business traveller, but getting a group of military people past that would be significantly harder. That was part of the reason why SCORPIA had paired him with Damascus in the first place.

Hunter generally didn't work with others but in this case, with ample resources and his every logistical issue taken care of, he thought he could learn to accept it.

Malagosto's security was subtle. Ian had known it on an intellectual level but it was different to see it in person and learn first-hand just how difficult it made surveillance.

Why SCORPIA had settled for Venice for their terrorist school, Ian didn't know. Connections, opportunity, hubris – whatever the reason, it meant that the school had to balance security and anonymity and after fifteen years, they had it down to an art.

Even after the attack on the Board, the visible security remained the same. A few guards to deter any uninvited visitors to what was, on paper, some nebulous 'corporate business retreat', strategic bits of fence, and an abundance of trees and bushes to hide the interior of the island from view and … that was it.

The apparent condition of the visible structures provided the second layer of defence: dilapidated buildings with several broken, boarded-up windows and abundant graffiti, and a clock-tower that seemed to be one winter storm from collapse. The interior was state-of-the-art, Ian knew from Yassen's thorough briefing, and several other buildings were completely hidden from view, but from the outside, Malagosto was best left alone.

Past those obvious deterrents was the real threat – Malagosto's actual security set-up, which was an entirely unknown factor. Yassen's experience with the place was a decade old and dangerously out of date, and MI6's files on it were little better. SCORPIA was notoriously good at weeding out would-be undercover agents and even the students at the school did not know the full security layout.

Most would be deterred by the first two layers of security. Ian and Yassen would not, but that hardly made a difference if the school itself was too well-defended to approach.

They needed … well, optimally speaking, they needed a lot of blueprints and technical specifications but barring that, they needed to get as much intel as possible. Arrivals and departures from the island, the number of students and personnel, anything visible beyond the wall of green foliage and worn metal fences – whatever they could get.

For this reason, 'Anya' and 'James' had booked the hotel room until Monday. It was a belated second honeymoon, as James had been happy to tell anyone who cared to listen, and a very convenient reason why the couple had not wished to be disturbed in their room.

They had spent a full day and a half observing Malagosto as carefully as possible, though the sliver of an almost-closed curtain or in the cold, green world of night vision, but it was not until Sunday afternoon that they got actual confirmation that their gamble had been right.

The angle was awkward and the binoculars not quite as good as Ian would have liked, but there was no mistaking the small, slight figure that appeared by the pier next to a uniformed man for anything but a child.

Ian's heart skipped a beat. Everything in him said to keep watching, that his was his nephew, but common sense overruled it. They had to be sure.

Yassen took over the spot by the curtains and Ian ruthlessly pushed aside the sharp sting that John's little pet assassin would be able to recognise Ian's family where Ian himself would not.

The seconds felt endless. Then the man exhaled slowly and Ian knew the answer before he could voice it.

"That's Alex." Whatever Yassen felt about that, he didn't allow it to show but carried on, every bit the professional. "The man is one of the guards, based on his uniform. A second unknown person has just appeared, presumably male and a student based on his clothes. He has Matilda with him."

Ian's niece. The little girl he had only ever seen in a few, precious photos and never known about until he had almost lost her. How old was she even? Three? Three and a half?

Ian itched to take the binoculars back and take over again, to actually see the two of them, and maybe Yassen knew. Could tell, based on the tension in Ian's body. At least he moved aside and returned the binoculars.

For a second, Ian saw nothing but the empty pier and worried they were gone again, that he had missed his chance. Then he shifted slightly and they came back into view, a bit further down the exposed stone that lined the pier. He took a steadying breath, then focused on the two smaller figures that he now knew were his family.

His niece and nephew. The kids he should have been uncle Ian to. Did they even know he existed? Alex hadn't even been two months old the last time Ian had seen him, and Matilda had been born years later. For so long, their lives had depended on their ability to become someone else and lose every last connection to the Rider name. In all likelihood, Ian knew, John and Helen had simply … removed him from their past. If Alex and Matilda didn't think they had any other family, they would never ask or go looking for answers that might endanger them.

Ian took another slow, steady breath and forced himself to take a mental step back and look at the situation in the objective, analytical way that MI6 and the military had taught him.

Alex and Matilda were safe for the moment, that was the first thing he noticed. The guard kept his distance and seemed to act more like security than a warden and the student, whoever he was, seemed – protective, almost. He kept Matilda by his side and reached out when she moved too close to the edge of the pier. He was young, too, Ian noted. It was hard to pinpoint much about him but something about his build seemed … not quite grown. Almost but – not quite with the bulk of an adult man.

It also wasn't the first time they were there. There was a confidence in the way that Alex and Matilda moved, like the pier and the island by extension was familiar to them. SCORPIA would have no qualms about locking two children away in one of the cells on the island, which meant that whatever the situation, they were treated better than Ian had feared. They were allowed outside. They were allowed to be together. That was – good news. Great news, honestly, considering who their father was.

Then it was over, far too soon for Ian. The student made a gesture and Alex and Matilda followed him back into the cover of the island, out of sight again. The guard was gone as well a second later. Once more, Malagosto was silent.

Ian lowered the binoculars. Neither of them spoke but they didn't have to. Alex and Matilda were both present on the island and unlikely to be moved elsewhere soon, based on their familiarity with the place. Wherever John and Helen were, the most important thing was to get the kids away from SCORPIA.

That left the conclusion painfully clear to both of them:

They would need to find a way to take on Malagosto fortress.

Chapter Text

In the early hours of Tuesday, well before dawn, two German-registered trucks rolled into a warehouse on the outskirts of Bucharest. There was nothing unusual about them. They were just two more trucks from one of the country's largest trading partners feeding the ever-increasing demand for consumer goods, and a generous number of border-bribes had ensured that the story stayed that way.

The easiest way from Venice to Bucharest would have been by plane. John could have walked through Bucharest airport and never drawn a second look, but that wasn't an option with two military teams and enough gear for a large-scale tactical assault. Not without drawing attention SCORPIA did not need.

Instead, Damascus had arranged for the slower but more secure route and procured two of the trucks used to transport potentially sensitive goods around Europe. In normal cases, those goods might be drugs or weapons or assorted other smuggling needs. Now, they carried John, Damascus, and the two teams that would be the force behind the attack.

Having a logistics specialist at his side wasn't something John was used to but he adapted to it as he had adapted to most things in life. Freelance had meant relying on either his own contacts and supplies or whatever the client arranged for. To trust one of SCORPIA's people to handle that part now … wasn't ideal, but nothing about the situation was.

He could do nothing to change it, and so he pushed the unease aside in favour of other issues.

No one among his temporary team of people had worked in Bucharest before but they were all experienced enough that unfamiliar locations didn't faze them. John had been there twice before – never in that part of the city, but that was still a familiarity that the rest of them lacked.

That was fine, too. John had been in the same situation himself often enough, and what he had seen of them so far revealed sharp minds behind the rough exterior. He would treat Damascus and the teams both as he would have Yassen, all those years ago – like his students, because that's what they were. It had been a long time since he had taught at Malagosto, but the instincts remained and it didn't hurt to leave a good impression with the Board.

The Board, and the people he would have to rely on and whose debriefing would undoubtedly be used to judge his future as well.

They were students to see thrive and not subordinates useful only for carrying out his orders. Questions were encouraged and answered with patient explanations, help and suggestions were offered freely, and that included Damascus' two combat teams.

Five days later, on hostile territory in Bucharest, the pay-off began to show.

John had never worked with any of SCORPIA's combat units before but he knew the type and had several days with them already as a baseline. Now, he got to witness the slow change in their approach to him. The caution had faded. The tension born from an obviously difficult operation had eased. They trusted him enough to consider speaking their mind.

It was a victory he needed. If he couldn't be out there himself, he had to trust them absolutely instead.

They had a plan and a possible location. They all knew that was only the first small step towards their goal. In another situation, they would have shut up and carried out their orders without question. Now, though, with John's subtle campaign -

"It will be luck alone if we get it right on the first try, sir."

John knew that Volkov would normally never have voiced the words, much less to the person who had decided on their initial target in the first place. He didn't know Volkov personally but he knew the risk that was speaking up to a superior. That the man risked it at all spoke volumes to John, and he rewarded that approach with easy agreement.

It would have been easy to react to the unspoken doubt, but that would undo everything he had done to gain their trust.

"In this business, luck is the difference between life and death more often than we like to think," he said instead. "Audentes Fortuna Iuvat. Fortune favours the bold. It's an old idea; the Latin proverb stretches back at least a few hundred years before the birth of Christ. It was supposedly also said by Pliny the Elder as his ship approached Herculaneum."

His parents had been big on classical education and so had the boarding school he had spent his childhood in. Latin, dead and useless, had been the bane of his existence but some of the stories had stuck. Anything to make the grammar lessons more bearable.

Damascus hesitated, so slight that only John's experience with Malagosto's graduates let him catch it.

He didn't know the story, of course, it was the sort of obscure trivia that John had always delighted in, but there was a lesson there and he could tell.

"What happened to him?" Damascus asked before he stop himself.

"He was killed in the eruption of Mount Vesuvius," John said bluntly. "There's a fine line between bold and dead."

Because luck would only carry them so far. Luck could save their lives but see them dead as well. Luck was a last resort or an additional edge and not a substitute for planning. John hadn't survived a decade as a freelance killer from luck alone. Based on Damascus' nod, the message had been received.

"This is not an easy operation," he continued. "If Atlas' leadership had been so easy to track down, SCORPIA would have removed them when they first encroached on their territory. We're trying to solve a puzzle that no one has dared offer a solution to yet, because the sheer amount of possibilities have left any conclusion too uncertain to risk. We don't have that option now. Relying on luck will get you killed eventually but right now, it'll hopefully be the edge we need."

It was not the sort of analysis anyone wanted to hear, much less the people who might be held responsible for the failure of the operation, but to their credit, no one showed their doubts. Not Damascus and not the two teams. They had them, and John could have listed their small tells, but no one voiced it. They all had a job to do and planned to carry that out to the best of their abilities. Damascus trusted them to do their job, to know when to follow orders and when to adapt, and John would just have to do the same.

In another situation, he would have been in the field as the operative in charge and able to adjust the plan as needed. To get a feel for the situation and react to split-second developments. Now, with his injuries, Citadel and Crucible would be on their own, and Volkov and Konstantin would need to make those necessary decisions themselves.

His job now was to prepare them as much as possible – all of them, not just the two commanders. Based on Damascus' reaction, the rank and file probably didn't get a place at the table normally, but that was John's call. They would be his eyes and ears in the field, and he needed every advantage he could get. Volkov and Konstantin had experience, but their snipers had the sharp eyes and focus he needed the most.

With the clock ticking, John had claimed the largest table in the building for the vast amount of intel and the numerous people that needed to see it. Maps, photos, threat assessments, personnel profiles – SCORPIA was thorough, especially in matters of potential competition.

"Atlas' primary base of operations here is Griro Towers. It's an office building leased by three separate companies, all ultimately owned by Atlas," he summarised. "We don't know if this is the right target, and there are multiple factors speaking against it. There is no underground parking, which makes it difficult for Atlas' executive board to arrive in secret. The building is more than a decade old, which means that it wasn't build to Atlas' specifications but is, in fact, an actual office building, which in turn severely limits the security Atlas would have been able to install without a major reconstruction effort. This is not a place built to stand up to an assault. On the other hand, it's perfectly anonymous, Atlas' influence here has grown significantly in the past couple of years, and its location in the middle of the city means that a large-scale assault would be difficult without alerting Atlas to that approach. Most would not risk an operation like that."

It was not a place John would have picked to weather a storm like that but he could see the appeal. It all came down to the balance between heavy security and anonymity. His instincts told him Atlas would favour anonymity against SCORPIA, but it was time to see now if he got that part right.

Konstantin pulled a photo of the building closer and his frown was distinctly unimpressed. John supposed that was fair. The place was not as bad of a choice as some, but that didn't make it a good one. It had nothing of the carefully disguised security that a location like Malagosto or the Widow's Palace boasted. It had presumably never been needed before, and there had been no time to set it up now, not when too much activity would draw attention.

It might also be the wrong location entirely, and that was the reason for the lack of security, but John didn't allow himself to linger on that.

The photo was pushed aside and Konstantin focused on John instead.

"I've seen better security in room clearing exercises, sir. They must have better options."

"Oh, they do," John agreed. "Well-known, heavily-secured locations that Atlas knows perfectly well are prime targets for a surgical strike, and which will be the next step if we fail this operation. The thing is, missiles are expensive and draw the sort of attention SCORPIA doesn't need. The Board doesn't want to take that step for now, but Atlas doesn't know that. They can't afford to risk an obvious location like that, because they have to assume we will come after them with everything in SCORPIA's considerable arsenal. Their known locations were never an issue before, but then they attacked the Board and left enough survivors to make themselves interesting. If they hadn't, they would probably have had another year or two before SCORPIA moved against them. In this case, I expect they believed they could wipe out SCORPIA's entire leadership and be home free. When that didn't happen, they had to scramble to find alternatives."

That sort of plan took a frankly staggering amount of hubris and overconfidence to carry out, but looking at the result, John couldn't even say they had been wrong. It had been a gamble born of the success of two years of aggressive expansion and it was as close as anyone had ever come to taking out the entire Board. In another world, Atlas could easily have succeeded.

"A pity they didn't go for somewhere with big, modern windows," Volkov noted. "It will be hard to get a good look inside. Secondary indicators won't be as reliable."

Sudden security upgrades. Construction traffic. Convenient work vans and expensive cars with tinted windows. Realistically, anything out of the ordinary might be the evidence they needed but they didn't have the days or weeks of surveillance to know what 'ordinary' might be for the building.

Then again, John hadn't had that in Zurich, either. They would make do.

"It's not optimal," he agreed, "but it's the best we have. You need to pay attention and listen to your gut feeling for that part. I have carried out a similar operation in the past, and in that case, the most damning evidence was how attentive security was in the middle of broad daylight in a business district. Anyone else would have considered it a cushy assignment but they were warned something might happen. We'll give it two days. If we don't see anything, we move on to the next possible target."

Konstantin made a considering sound. Damascus hadn't spoken yet, probably because he wouldn't be in the field, but John didn't mind. It let him get a better idea of the two commanders.

"How sure are you about the location, sir?"

Not in the least, though that wasn't the story John wanted out there. He relied on instincts, experience, and more luck than he reasonably should, but there was no other way if he wanted the operation to succeed. There was no time to go through every potential target site, no time to spend days analysing probabilities and patterns. He would have to gamble and hope he got it right.

"Not dead sure," John admitted. "If there had been a smoking gun of that calibre, SCORPIA would have levelled the entire neighbourhood already. But sure enough to risk this."

It was a careful balance between truth and lie, and to develop a degree of trust through carefully curated information. Never something that could cause John serious trouble down the line but – enough to give the impression that he told them more than he probably should. That he trusted them with information that they would normally never have been given.

Damascus shifted but didn't still speak. John could imagine what went through his mind, though. Their talk on operations that were sometimes supposed to fail had been a blunt eye-opener for someone who had thought himself already painfully familiar with the grittier, more brutal parts of high-level mercenary politics. He would be surprised if Damascus didn't remember that now as they went through the intel and wondered if they were supposed to survive at all.

John took the chance that offered to build that trust a little further,

"I'm guessing that the real question here that you want to ask is why us? Why two teams generally used to lower-level operations and an operative with injuries that should have resulted in medical leave? Why not call in a dozen teams, spread out over the most likely spots, and take down anything that looks suspicious in a coordinated attack?"

As John – as Hunter – would have done in a client's place, when speed was of the essence and resources no limitation.

"It would be a reasonable concern, sir." Konstantin's reply was cautious, threading the careful needle of just what a lowly subordinate could get away with when the superior in question was someone like Hunter.

It was exactly the sort of trust he wanted to encourage. Hunter had no reason to need it, not when he was favoured by the Board and in possession of the sort of security clearance that none of them would ever reach. John Rider, though, scrambling to find solid ground and a way to ensure his family's protection – any bit of trust might be priceless down the line.

They would not have risked it with a normal operative, but John's reputation as a respected former Malagosto instructor had stuck and that mattered. He was still a lethal weapon, but he was a lethal weapon that had been paid a king's ransom to help train SCORPIA's killers to the school's exacting standards. He had been entrusted with the next generation of operatives and with Malagosto's security. So long as he played into that instructor's role, they would be inclined to treat him like one, too.

"… Officially," John said, "we're here because I was one of the targets during the attack, and I have a decade of experience in hunting people down. We can move fast and unseen in a way that a larger operation can't, and I have every reason to want personal revenge. There's no better incentive than that."

A heartbeat. Two. Timing mattered, after all.

"And unofficially, sir?" Damascus asked and finally spoke up as well.

John shrugged slightly, a careful gesture to convey his calm lack of concern about the situation. It would do none of them any good if he let his tension show.

"I'm a neutral party. Someone leaked the intel that enabled the attack and SCORPIA still hasn't found that source. I was a last-minute addition to the meeting and didn't know the location until I arrived, which makes me one of the few people involved in that security disaster that the Board can categorically rule out as the security breach." He paused. "And with no one sure where the failure came from …"

"… The Board won't trust anyone involved with it," Damascus concluded. There was a tension in his posture, the understandable unease of someone who just had their first encounter with Board-level SCORPIA politics, but he would manage.

"The attack on the Board was unforgivable," John agreed. "To have this operation fail as well because of a second lapse in security would cause permanent damage to SCORPIA's reputation. We are here because until the security issue is handled – permanently – the Board can trust no one associated with them to handle an operation such as this. I have been elsewhere working freelance, and none of you have worked on operations directly associated with the Board. We either manage to hunt down those responsible or we hold down the fort until someone else can. SCORPIA trusts you, gentlemen, and that can make or break your career."

Someone breathed a soft curse, familiar from John's lessons in Russian, but he deliberately ignored it. It was the sort of trust he wanted, and it was an understandable reaction to the sort of information he had just dropped on them.

No one wanted the attention being around the Board brought them. Even newly graduated operatives, itching to prove themselves and make their promised fortune, knew better than to invite that kind of scrutiny.

Well, welcome to my world, John didn't say. They had no more say in their assignments than he did now, and they had already had one brutal wake-up call. Kindness paid better in this situation.

"So that's the status," he continued to give them something else to focus on. "Right now we have no single piece of evidence, just suspicions. If I'm right about the location, I expect we'll know within a day. If that's the case, we're fairly well off in terms of assault options. The building has no accessible basement but it has something better: a ground floor with stairs low enough to drive up at speed and an open, airy interior. Take out the structural support, and you take out the building."

His tone of voice was clearly familiar to Damascus, who straightened slightly in the manner of all Malagosto students that had caught their instructor's focus. The two teams didn't have the same shared experience, not quite, but they had clearly either had similar instructors or took their cues from Damascus, because they responded in much the same way.

"A car bomb?" Volkov asked. "Remote controlled would be doable. From the right direction, the vehicle would only need to turn once."

"Preferably controlled from a nearby building," John agreed. "Anything too close gets risky."

Volkov nodded and glanced at one of his men in an unspoken order. Jaroslav, John remembered. His own Russian was better than Jaroslav's careful English was, too, which provided another of those concessions that John could offer.

"You have experience with it?" he asked in Russian, and it wasn't just his imagination that the tension in Jaroslav's shoulders eased slightly.

"I trained as an equipment engineer, sir. I can have something ready in two days, perhaps less. It will not be a complex machine but it will provide rudimentary steering from a distance. We would only need a range of a kilometre or two."

He was obviously careful not to promise more than he could deliver, but even then, it was still more than John could have hoped for in a situation like theirs and with the time restrictions they worked under. If Jaroslav could rig up something that would let him get a fully-loaded car up those stairs and into the building without risking any of his men, John would take it.

"What equipment will you need?"

Jaroslav hesitated. "We should have most of what we need in our supplies, sir. It will not need to stand up to long-term use. A human shape to pass for a driver. For the car, I will need to look at our supplies before I know the specifications we will need. Something older and simpler would be best."

John nodded. It was better than expected and based on it, Jaroslav had worked on similarly odd projects before. Adaptable, then.

"Anything you need, Damascus will arrange for. Have a list for him as soon as possible."

Even if he was wrong about the location, it might still be useful. A lot of the potential targets on the list were in populated areas. A strategic assault was always a little more awkward in those situations. A remote-controlled bomb the size of a car, though … that he could work with, and their transport to Bucharest had been large enough to have the room to spare for an improvised weapon like that.

How much high explosives could you fit into a Lada without making it obvious that something was wrong? It was never a question John had wondered about but maybe it was time to find out. Enough, certainly, to take down a building like that.

The Board would appreciate that approach, too.

"We take today to rest and set up surveillance rotations," John continued in English. "By midnight, I want eyes on the building at all times for two full days. If there is no sign of them here, we move on to the next two targets Thursday night. Any questions?"

No one spoke. The tension and uncertainty had eased slightly with clear, concise orders and a plan to follow, but they all knew what was at stake. They all had every incentive to want the operation to succeed.

John nodded.

"Excellent. Dismissed."

A decade of freelance work had taught Yassen certain truths: No plan was fool-proof, no one could predict every variable, and no building was absolutely secure. Not permanently, at least.

Malagosto was a fortress, but Malagosto was also a functional boarding school with students, instructors, and support staff, and that was a logistical nightmare in a high-security environment.

They had a detailed overview of Malagosto's security from Hunter's time on the island, but that was a decade out of date. They had new intel from the files that Rider – Ian – had brought with him from MI6, but that had obvious, glaring holes in it. They had intel from their own weekend of surveillance, but that was a snapshot at best.

Put together, though … there were options and they both knew it. Ian Rider was not the man Yassen would have chosen to take on Malagosto with, but he had come to accept the thought. His opinion of Hunter's brother had never been particularly generous but working with him had improved it marginally, at least.

Ian Rider was still an MI6 agent used to clear-cut operations and support, but he was learning fast. He would have to, if they wanted any chance at all to succeed.

"None of the recent intel contradicts what we know of past security measures," he began. "We can expect that the framework remains the same though the measures themselves will have improved. Certainly in terms of technology and presumably in terms of personnel as well. SCORPIA has vastly more resources available than they did back then. The same will be true for the guards."

Ian Rider didn't speak but kept his focus on the files spread out on the table between them as Yassen spoke. Ian was not his brother but Yassen could still see an echo of Hunter at times. The grim determination to see it through and the ruthlessness to make it happen. A glimpse but – potential. Enough to offer some hope.

"SCORPIA is well aware that the human factor is the largest weakness in most operations," he continued. "They will have done everything possible to ensure that is not the case here."

It was a safe assumption, as it had already been a focus of SCORPIA's ten years ago. The security personnel remained for three months and never returned. There was no pattern in the choice of them, there was no leave during those months, there were no repeat postings. No names, no identifying marks, not even any talk around the students that wasn't strictly necessary. No way to target one of them in advance, and no way to identify them afterwards. It was a well-paid, favoured position, and the guards returned to their former postings with a generous bonus, but it was a one-time thing.

A direct assault would be suicide. Surveillance meant that any approach would be spotted long before they reached the island. They could easily have targeted the outside security perimeter from a safe distance but that would only send the rest of the compound into lockdown.

There was a way in somehow, the logistics were too complex not to leave a weakness, but the intel files spread out over the table gave no answer, only additional frustration.

Hunter could have found an approach. Hunter, by necessity, had been forced to master every skill he touched – or at least give a convincing impression of it – because his reputation had been the shield to protect his family.

Yassen was not Hunter. He had wanted little to do with clients on a long-term basis and had specialised in high-skill assassinations instead. He regretted that now for the first time.

For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine the map like Hunter might have, to see a perfect way in. Perhaps Ian allowed himself the same, because his attention remained on the map as well, just a little off of the island proper.

Careful notes marked distance, water depth, currents, and water corridors, as detailed as on the island itself. Altitude, buildings, terrain, known hostiles – everything they might possibly need, except for a way in.

Ian looked back up at Yassen.

"… How's your SCUBA training?" he asked.

It was the obvious choice to target an island but it still rankled to hear it out loud. The implication that he had not already considered that option.

"Hardly of much use when security will spot us when we leave the water." Yassen didn't bother to hide how unimpressed he was by that suggestion. "Security is well aware of that risk."

As Ian should know, having seen the outside perimeter security in person. Perhaps thermal imaging cameras didn't work well underwater as a general rule, but that hardly mattered when anyone attempting such an approach would eventually have to leave that shelter to step unto the island.

"Well, security is flawed." The response was blunt and annoyed – not Hunter, nothing like the teacher's patience, but Ian was on as unfamiliar grounds as Yassen himself was. It was, perhaps, understandable. "From a strategic point of view, they've done a decent job fortifying the place, but there's only so much they can do about logistics. As far as I can tell, there are two major weaknesses: supplies and night-time exercises. The former is more frequent but I think the latter would be our best shot."

Yassen's immediate reaction was to dismiss the idea – because better people than Ian Rider had looked at that approach and decided against it for good reasons – but he forced himself to pause and actually think it through.

Ian Rider wasn't Hunter but that on its own was no reason not to give his suggestion due consideration.

"They are well aware of the vulnerability that logistics bring to the island," he said instead. "All shipments are closely watched. As for the night-time exercises … they are kept on a deliberately irregular schedule. The wait could be significant."

It wasn't a no because despite it all, Yassen could see the appeal of it. The exercises generally took place every couple of weeks and provided valuable training experiences. They also meant that for several hours, security would have to deal with the presence of students working solo or in pairs in complete darkness and would have to rely on night vision cameras rather than visual identification. It would not be a single group of a dozen students with outsiders easily spotted. If security mistook them for part of the exercise …

And what was the alternative? There wasn't one, and they both knew it. Malagosto was a tactical investment and a valuable target, and the security matched that.

There was no good approach. Others had considered the same issues that Yassen and Ian now did and had – reasonably – ruled it too dangerous to risk.

Others, Yassen knew, also had other considerations to take into account. The unwillingness to cause a political incident. The need to remain unseen. The added difficulties of a force large enough to carry out an attack.

They did not have those limitations. The only thing that mattered was to retrieve Alex and Matilda. Nothing else was a concern. Let the Italians be angry. Let the island burn. Let SCORPIA know who did it. Yassen would ensure they were halfway across the world under new identities before anyone had the chance to retaliate, and the more destruction they caused in the process, the better.

The moment Yassen had made the decision to go after SCORPIA, he had accepted that it was a likely suicide mission. Maybe that was the only edge they now had – that security wouldn't genuinely expect an attack. That fifteen years of high security and no serious attempt to target the island would dull their edge just enough.

"…. Under normal conditions," he continued, mind still turning over the mental pieces of the puzzle, "the risk that SCORPIA might move Alex and Matilda before we could strike would be too great to make it a viable approach. High-value hostages are known to be moved to make a potential extraction harder. With the attack on the Board, though … they will have other concerns, and under these circumstance, there is no better place for SCORPIA to keep the children than Malagosto. They are far too valuable to allow Rothman the chance to control them, and Hunter won't be given enough of a leash to be allowed near them."

Under normal conditions, the very idea of leaving Alex and Matilda at Malagosto for potentially weeks or more would have been unthinkable. But the world was changing, and SCORPIA appeared to have committed to the story that Hunter was always loyal. They needed his children safe, happy, and unharmed for that ruse to work. The two of them had looked – as well as could be hoped for, everything considered. They would be safe for the time it would take Yassen and Ian to get to them. He had to believe that.

Ian nodded. His eyes drifted back to the map of the island and the buildings. Yassen wondered what he saw. Unlike Hunter and Yassen himself, he had no real experience with SCORPIA, much less Malagosto. He relied solely on intel he hadn't gathered himself. It was a situation Yassen avoided if at all possible.

"We'll have to decide on the exact approach once we have an idea of where the students will be," Ian said. "There are multiple good approaches but not if they land us in the middle of the exercise."

Too close to the students, and they might be identified as outsiders. Too far away and security might grow suspicious. It would be a balancing act, and it wouldn't be the only thing to consider.

"There are other issues to keep in mind as well," Yassen pointed out. "Alex and Matilda are most likely kept in the student dorms but it is by no means guaranteed. Nor do we know the specific room or the codes to get inside the building. Should we manage that, there is the issue of the extraction from the island. Alex is SCUBA trained but can't be expected to swim almost a kilometre in those conditions, and Matilda is three. It will be impossible to return the way we arrived. Finally, be aware that if – once – we do this, it will trigger a chain reaction of consequences. The loss of Hunter's children may be enough to make SCORPIA decide that Hunter is easier managed as a conveniently dead legend than a live complication, and without the children or Hunter, they will have no hold on Helen and thus no reason to permit her to live."

It was a very real consideration. They had not seen Helen or Hunter on the island, only the children. They would be lucky to find one of the adults with Alex and Matilda, and both would be unthinkable. SCORPIA also had clear protocols about the number of high-value hostages kept in the same location, and Hunter's family would certainly count.

Yassen knew with absolute certainty what Hunter and Helen's stance on the situation would be. If there was a chance to get the kids out, he was to take it, whatever the consequences. Should the worst happen and their kids left orphaned, Yassen had always been their first choice of guardian.

Now he was in the very real position of potentially being the cause of that. To knowingly and willingly go through with a plan that could see the closest things he'd had to pseudo-parental influences since his childhood killed.

Ian Rider had not seen his family in almost a decade. He had remained in London with MI6 and had no idea of the experiences that had shaped the people he should have been loyal to instead. Perhaps he knew on a theoretical level the stakes they now gambled with, but he hardly understood the reality of it.

It had been Yassen, those late evenings, making plans with Hunter and Helen to see to their children's future should something happen to them. It had been Yassen who carefully coordinated with Hunter to ensure that it would never be possible to strike against both of them at the same time – that one of them would always survive to return.

It had been Yassen who promised Helen after Geneva, the endless nights when they waited for any sign of life from Hunter, that whatever happened, their children would always be his first priority. He knew what it meant to become an orphan and had meant his promise that Alex and Matilda would not be left to navigate that world alone.

Ian's hand tightened fractionally on the map.

"Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I haven't kept track of those rumours, too?" Anger, tight and restrained but the most honest reaction Yassen had seen from him so far. "Do you think I don't know what happens when hostages become a little too inconvenient? Do you think I haven't seen enough of Dr Three's twisted hobbies to last me a lifetime?"

And that was the sort of fate they might condemn Hunter and Helen to, he didn't need to say. He had made his point clear enough. It would be a decision made with due consideration.

Yassen nodded once in acknowledgement and allowed the matter to drop.

Ian released the map. Pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment before he stood a little straighter again. Yassen could hardly blame him. The stress was getting to both of them, and this was dangerously unfamiliar territory.

"For the escape – frankly, the boats are the best option. Steal one, cause enough destruction to slow down pursuit and meet up with a secondary escape vehicle on the shore."

Risky, but – not impossible. Yassen's eyes followed the line of the Lido, then the other islands and tried to gauge the situation as it might be in the middle of the night and hunted by SCORPIA's people.

"A secondary boat first," he said, not quite agreement but close enough, "with a vehicle waiting on the mainland. The distance is too far to risk it in one of SCORPIA's boats, but a change of transportation would make it risky but … doable. Liberal application of explosives should buy us the time needed."

It was an optimistic assumption but also the best option they had. Malagosto on its own was a difficult target, and they had no experience with underage hostage extractions. That they had even found a potential way inside was better than what Yassen had hoped for, in the darkest, most miserable hours of the night.

Ian nodded.

"What are we looking at in terms of active hostiles beyond security itself?"

A relevant question that Yassen wished he knew the answer to with any degree of certainty. An expected one, too. The files had been unclear on that part of it for the simple reason that there was no easy answer.

"Unknown," he admitted. "Malagosto has only been targeted by undercover agents, not military assaults. They are prepared for an attack but the proximity to Venice has shielded it so far. During my time at the school, instructions in case of an attack were to retreat to the dorms and that any student caught in the middle would be treated as a hostile agent. I would expect that to remain in place."

Because students were replaceable but Malagosto wasn't, he didn't need to say.

"Some might have been tempted to defy that," he continued, "but in a place like SCORPIA, it might very well have been a staged attack to test their ability to obey. I would not expect that the students would become a problem, but with the lack of previous information, we have no way to know. The instructions are the same for non-security staff – or were, during Hunter's time there. Security would not need the added complications of unexpected additional combatants, and Malagosto values her instructors."

Ian nodded again. Yassen had the sudden, vicious urge to grip his arm and demand to know if he took it seriously at all, but he restrained himself. It was the stress of the situation getting to him and he was well aware of that. Hunter's approach had always been different from Yassen's on account of their different strengths, and he had never faulted the man for that. Ian Rider … had strengths of his own. His lack of obvious worry was not necessarily a sign of a lack of commitment and concern when he knew the stakes.

"I've worked on a similar mission before," Ian finally said, words careful and measured. "A hostage extraction as well."

Not what Yassen had expected but the experience was hardly unwelcome.

"An island as well?"

"A military compound in a desert, so it might as well have been." Ian paused. "We targeted logistics in that case. The lack of a freshwater supply was the only real vulnerability and meant more traffic than should have been tolerated from a security point of view."

"Successfully?" The primary question in a situation like that, though based on the way Ian had brought it up, Yassen suspected the answer.

"Partially," Ian said and confirmed what Yassen had already concluded. "Two hostages were killed, along with a member of the SAS team. Three hostages were safely retrieved. Our intel was flawed and security more alert than expected."

Which also explained his unwillingness to rely on the supply shipments for the vulnerability they needed to get past. He had seen it done once unsuccessfully and knew what the cost had been.

Yassen mentally went over their discussion again in light of this new information. Paused at one particular part of it. Three successfully extracted hostages meant the team had managed a decently acceptable escape, at least, which put significantly more weight behind Ian's suggestion of a possible escape route.

"… Exactly what level of destruction was necessary to stop pursuit?"

The obvious target would be any other boats along the pier, but -

"Abundant and preferably structural." Ian's reply was blunt and for a moment, Yassen heard Hunter in his place. "Transportation, security, personnel. We targeted the primary security points and the building that held most of the trucks and security personnel. It bought us the time needed to get away."

Malagosto had no obvious security measures to target but that did not mean there weren't an abundance of other options.

The boats for transportation. For personnel … the student dorms to cover their tracks, as they would likely need to get inside to find Alex and Matilda. The base of the looming bell tower, if opportunity allowed – and that would require far less C-4 than a lot of other targets, given the nature of the structure. The main structure of the old monastery would be a waste of time, too low and durable for large-scale damage and too time-consuming to risk, but between the dorms and the tower, the destruction would be significant.

In an optimal situation, Yassen would have targeted the rooms that contained surveillance and general security, but they had no idea of the location and those rooms were likely too fortified to destroy with the options they had.

In the end, time and supplies were the main constraints. They were two people and had to consider what they would realistically be able to bring with them on their dive. Weapons, ammunition, explosives, the SCUBA equipment itself … it was less of an issue of weight and more of bulk, but that was an issue for later.

"The boats, the dorms, and the bell tower," Yassen concluded. "Those three targets should buy us the time needed."

Ian nodded. "Supplies?"

"We make a list. I still have contacts available to me."

Some, Yassen would not risk with Hunter in SCORPIA's grasp, but they would manage. Nothing they needed was specialised equipment. Two days, no more, and he expected they would have the supplies needed.

It was Tuesday. By Thursday evening, they would need to have an escape route set up, and well enough that it would remain undisturbed for the week or more it might take before they got the opportunity to strike. An anonymous, older secondary boat in a convenient location. An old car on the mainland. After that … they would decide once they got that far.

They would succeed one way or the other, because there was no alternative that Yassen was willing to accept.

Konstantin had spent six years with SCORPIA, four of those as the commander of his own team. He had carved out a niche for them over time, a tried and tested team with a proven track record but with no history of working on high-level operations. Perhaps in time, Damascus would have made his way up the ranks through logistics and brought them with him, but as it was, their position was – comfortable. Stable. Reliable. As safe as life could be for a SCORPIA mercenary team.

Hunter had turned that predictable world upside-down and left them all scrambling to adapt.

Damascus was familiar to them and his responsibilities normally meant that he handled most of their orders, as passed down from whoever was in charge of the operation. For the times he didn't, all Konstantin had to do was take orders and grunt at the right times.

Hunter – Hunter wanted their opinions. He wanted their suggestions, their questions, their comments, and Konstantin could only assume it was because of his background as a Malagosto instructor.

Hunter was used to would-be operatives, still learning the trade. With more than a decade in the field, it would make sense Konstantin and his team still seemed like students to him, too. He had trained Cossack as well, hadn't he? Compared to someone like that, most of the people around him would probably make the instructor in him want to train them up to the right standards.

Konstantin hadn't been sure how he felt about that, either. The approach was so unfamiliar that it had taken days to cautiously test the impression he gave, and only after the briefing in Bucharest had they dared to actually trust it.

It was unlike any other operative Konstantin had met. Maybe, they had theorised, because Hunter had much less to prove. He was older, settled, with a towering reputation and the trust of the Board. He did not need to carve out a place for himself in the way a newly graduated operative would want to. His focus was on the success of the operation and his family, shielded at Malagosto after the attack.

Even the idea of an operative with a family was preposterous but there Hunter was, with not only a partner but two children as well – three, counting Cossack, which Hunter obviously did.

And maybe, in the end, that was why Konstantin believed Hunter when he said that Atlas was in Bucharest. When it went against all logic, when they had nothing to base it on, when SCORPIA had already hunted them and found nothing -

- Hunter had spent a decade as a freelance operative, trusted by the Board to not just survive but thrive in the position.

If Hunter said Atlas was in Bucharest, Konstantin was not about to argue. Just focus on finding the one damning piece of evidence that had to be there somewhere.

They got it Thursday just before noon, thirty-six hours after they set up surveillance and eight hours before the deadline Hunter had set.

The first thing that drew their attention was an anonymous black car with tinted windows that approached the building. It it didn't park but continued as close as possible to the entrance before it stopped, idling as two male figures got out and vanished into the building. One older, in a suit. The second younger, well-trained, and carrying at least two guns to Konstantin's experienced eye. A boss and security, most likely.

The car drove off again. Vanished around the corner.

"I have eyes on the car," Paval spoke on the radio. "It stopped in the parking lot three buildings away."

Konstantin did the mental maths of Paval's position and the map of the area he had memorised, and that fit with the parking lot he remembered seeing. Close enough to get back fast if necessary and to avoid having the boss wait for too long.

How convenient. Not a smoking gun, and certainly not enough with just one important-looking person, but – suspicious enough to make them all pay attention. Useful, too. Presumably any movement from the car would mean the approaching departure of its high-ranking passenger.

Konstantin adjusted his binoculars, still focused on his sector of the surveillance area. It had been impossible to get a good look at the passenger, but even then, one target was not enough. Atlas had six people on its executive board, which meant that in the best case scenario, they should be able to pinpoint six people arriving with security within a short amount of time. That would be good enough to consider it reliable confirmation.

The minutes dragged on as they all waited for something more to happen. Then, ten minutes after the first car, the distinctive shape of a Mercedes G-Class drove up to the building.

"A bit out of place here," Vanya noted. "It looks like two targets with security."

Konstantin could only see one suited figure from his angle, though the second appeared from behind the car a moment later and confirmed Vanya's observation. They looked important, both of them.

Three out of six. No clear view of their faces that might be possible to match against the files they had, but progress nonetheless.

There had been nothing substantial on Wednesday, only the vague sense that security was somehow more than it should be, but this … well. The day was certainly looking up for all of them.

Five minutes. Another car and another important-looking arrival, which brought the total to four. It became clear that Atlas had, indeed, relied on protection in anonymity. There was security present but nothing near what it should have been, if – as it became increasingly likely – those arrivals were indeed the executive board of a company that had just attacked the heart of SCORPIA.

Atlas clearly expected that a few expensive cars and a bit of added security would be overlooked. They expected no one would know their location. And until Hunter, no one had.

Fifteen minutes and another two cars later, Konstantin lowered his binoculars.

Six in total. It wasn't solid confirmation, not when they hadn't been able to reliably identify the arrivals, but it was as close as they would get in these circumstances and every instinct told him that this place was important.

How long Atlas' leadership would remain in Bucharest, no one knew. Long enough, hopefully, to provide a target the next time they met.

Konstantin brought up his radio. With his team on surveillance when the possible targets arrived, the decision was his. Hunter and Damascus would go over the intel as well, but they would rely on his impressions in the end.

The call was his. Konstantin took it.

"Sir? This is Crucible Six. Target has been confirmed."

The reply came instantly.

"Copy, Crucible Six. That's a relief to hear. They were cutting it a little close there."

There was no doubt in Hunter's voice, no second-guessing Konstantin's judgement. Konstantin had trusted Hunter's intel and Hunter, still too injured for field work, had trusted them to be his eyes and ears in turn.

It was still an unfamiliar dynamic but one that Konstantin thought he could get used to.

The radio fell silent and Konstantin settled down for the long wait once more. Eventually, the cars would leave again. Then, they could reconvene. Plan their attack.

They had their target. All they needed now was the right timing.

Death walked the heart of Malagosto.

Nile knew the history of the place, of course he did – Gordon Ross would gleefully share the morbid facts at any chance he got – but for the first time, he felt the echo of those centuries of death and misery buried beneath their feet.

The school had never been a place of enjoyment, not with the demanding curriculum and the brutal punishments for failure, but even then some of the instructors had allowed them to be just students sometimes, too. They had joked, shared anecdotes, or allowed for things that weren't entirely according to the curriculum if class had gone particularly well.

Now, with the attack on the executive board and Dr Three's injury, even those moments of humanity were gone. Malagosto's training had failed when it mattered and it was by the grace of the Doctor alone that they were allowed the opportunity to make up for their shortcomings.

It didn't matter that Malagosto taught assassins and operatives, not intelligence agents, and that no one among those years of graduates could possibly have been expected to pick up on something that SCORPIA's own intelligence section hadn't, either. It didn't matter that nothing the curriculum taught could possibly have stopped it.

Not when Dr Three had descended upon the island like a spectre of death and not left again. Not when they had all heard gruesome stories of how little it would take for the man to choose them as his next research subject.

Their already-substantial workload had increased further. The curriculum had been quite abruptly expanded. Yermalov's uncompromising approach to teaching had spread to the rest of the instructors and turned every lesson in a tense and terrifying experience.

It was not a pace that any of them could keep up with on a permanent basis, but for now they didn't have a choice.

Even then, Nile was more fortunate than most and he was well aware of it.

He wasn't sure what he had expected when he had accepted a place at Malagosto. A chance to survive, maybe. A future that life hadn't offered him before. Becoming the guard-babysitter-companion to two children was not on the list, and he scrambled to adapt to that situation as much as to the abrupt change in their training.

Nile wasn't alone in that. No one else really seemed to know how to treat him now, either. His new duties put him apart from his classmates in a way that even his age didn't, and in any other situation, he was sure he would have heard condescending comments about it, well out of hearing range of the instructors. They were at the school to learn how to be accomplished killers, not babysitters, but -

… But.

There was always a but, Nile had learned. He should have been the best in his class but his fear of heights held him back. He had so much potential but he was young and had to work twice as hard to prove himself. He was a babysitter for the moment, but the children were Hunter's.

No one was going to imply that watching Hunter's children was a menial task and beneath them. Even if the man himself was not around to take offense to that, their mother – the woman who had knowingly and willingly married him – was their new torture and interrogation instructor, and by all accounts a gifted teacher and obviously used to supporting her husband and adoptive son – Cossack, to make matters worse – with the medical knowledge needed in the field.

That was not taking into account that he had been given the job by Mrs Rothman's second-in-command, which in turn allowed him a degree of protection afforded no one else. He had never wanted that sort of attention, but now that it could possibly mean the difference between his life and a gruesome death at Dr Three's whim, the relief it offered was so strong it was almost a physical thing.

If anything, Nile had been given a gift in that opportunity and everyone knew it. He was well ahead in his curriculum and learned well in practical settings. He had an excuse to keep his head down and avoid the instructors at their harshest and most stressed. What he lost in class time, he more than gained back from the continued personal tuition from Hunter's wife, who knew the demands and realities of the job better than anything Nile could learn in a classroom.

Hunter's family were honoured guests at the school, kept at the safest place possible while Hunter handled the threat to them, and that was the story SCORPIA had committed to.

No one spoke the word 'hostage' out loud. Even Hunter's son, still just a child, had been trained enough to keep his mouth shut and play along.

How many others at the school that had any idea of the true nature of the situation, Nile didn't know. He had only realised that the family was there as hostages due to his proximity to them, and none of his classmates had that advantage. He had to assume the other instructors knew, but now Helen Rider had become an instructor as well – a temporary position, but trusted – and that added a whole new level of complications to the fairly simple hostage situation that Nile had initially seen.

That wasn't his business, though. Excessive curiosity was unwanted, and certainly when it came to high-level SCORPIA politics. He was already in a dangerous position, and he had no desire to make it a death sentence instead.

His task was to watch the children when their mother couldn't and to assist in her any other matters she might need help with, and he would follow those instructions to the letter.

It helped that they were, for the most part, fairly easy instructions to follow.

"Wakizashi," Matilda had demanded, each syllable carefully pronounced thanks to Nile's patient repetition, and reached for the weapon on his back, endlessly fascinated by the fabric and pattern in the handles.

"Wakizashi," Nile had agreed and allowed her to hold one of the training blades, realistically heavy but dull enough to be harmless.

It certainly hadn't been professor Yermalov's intention with the training swords, but even he wasn't immune to a three-year-old able to pronounced the name of a weapon some of Nile's classmates still couldn't remember. He had only frowned at the size and found a smaller training blade for her instead. It was still a massive knife in her hands but far less absurd than the wakizashi.

"None of this makes sense," Alex had confessed when his mother was busy with class and his sister distracted by her toys; books and notes spread out around him as he struggled to understand Malagosto's approach to mathematics and physics.

It was a very practical approach, Nile knew, but he didn't know how it compared to – more normal schooling. He had no experience with that himself, though he expected that at nine, nothing of what Alex had been taught had been focused on the theory behind sniping or how to pinpoint the structurally important points of a building.

"It made little sense to me, either," Nile had confessed in return. None of his classmates seemed to struggle, but they were also older and had an educational background that Nile himself lacked. "I understand most of it now but I will never have the instinctive understanding required of a skilled sniper."

He didn't understand the theories well but he understood enough of the struggle to explain it to Alex in the same way that had finally made it click to him as well.

Alex was not expected to follow the full curriculum and the books he had been given seemed to be an exercise in compromises, but he worked hard to catch up, and Nile could respect that.

It wasn't what Nile had signed up for but he found himself adapting to it nonetheless. Hour by hour, day by day.

"Thank you," Helen Rider told him softly, when the days had become a week and kept counting, and February slowly drew to a close. "You're very patient with them."

It was evening. Both of her children were asleep and Nile was about to retire to handle his own homework. It was as quiet as it ever got. The student dorm rooms were spacious but not when shared by a small family, two of them children. It had felt claustrophobic to Nile at first. Now, his own room felt almost barren in comparison.

Nile wasn't surprised at the exhaustion that showed in minute features, in the fine lines around her eyes and the way she held herself. Her new responsibilities at the school came with a strict adherence to Dr Three's standards and no one would dare to fall short of those. Especially not in the current political climate and their own precarious situation. He had not attended her classes, given his own responsibilities for Alex and Matilda, but he had seen the piles of material she used to prepare. Malagosto's standards for the students were brutal, but the expectations for the instructors were beyond that now. As soon as things settled even slightly, resistance to interrogation training would resume again as well. That, too, would be her responsibility.

Nile didn't comment, though. It wasn't his place and excess curiosity was unwanted.

"They're easy to watch over," he settled for.

Helen smiled. Even that held the edge of exhaustion. "They're endless bundles of energy."

Endless bundles of energy that would be trapped indoor with their mother if Nile hadn't been offered as a babysitter, but neither of them needed to say that out loud.

"You'll want this one, too," she continued instead and handed him a copy of the torture and interrogation textbook, painfully familiar from long evenings of study.

Why, Nile wasn't sure, but he accepted it nonetheless. It was handed out as part of the standard curriculum at arrival, and he had been exceedingly careful with it, as he had with everything issued to him. The book was his to keep but he didn't want to leave his instructors with the impression that he was reckless with SCORPIA resources, and much less with something written by Dr Three.

"I added notes for you," Helen explained as Nile opened a random page. "References to additional topics that may be useful for understanding specific subjects. The Doctor is among the best in his field, but he sometimes forgets that the rest of us aren't and that we need a different medical grounding to understand what we are taught."

That was when Nile spotted the first of the notes, done in blue pen and in the sharp lines of her handwriting, scribbled next to a section on the mandibular nerve: A textbook on neuroanatomy for dentists will explain this from a less medical angle. Then, a few pages on, a reference to a chapter in a specific book on field medicine: This assumes a familiarity with blood pressure and heart rate and how it responds to trauma. If you have not studied first aid, this will explain what you need.

Nile stilled as he abruptly realised just how valuable this version of the book was. The Doctor's writings were a collection of articles more than a traditional textbook, with some of the chapters painfully academic, and Nile had never finished even the most basic of formal schooling. He struggled with that book, page by page and chapter by chapter, and relied on the notes he diligently wrote down during every lesson, and -

- Now he might not have to. Not as much, at least, and with Malagosto's demands hanging over his head, every little bit counted. He was among the best of his class but he had worked hard to get there and had always spent the rare half-day off studying rather than visiting Venice.

Malagosto had a surprisingly well-stocked library for the students and relevant books were easily ordered. If the books Helen referenced were not already there, they could be within a week.

Helen reached over and gently flipped the book to the chapter on psychological interrogation tactics. There, in the same sharp handwriting -

Psychological vulnerabilities like phobias are not necessarily a permanent thing that can be relied on during prolonged interrogation; a psychology book will give a useful perspective on exposure therapy as a starting point.

For a moment, Nile knew nothing but the cold surge of panic, of one more person figuring out his weakness because that couldn't be a coincidence and -

- he looked up and met her eyes, and felt the panic fade, replaced by restless unease.

The comment was as good as an instruction to look up therapy. Disguised as a comment on the adaptability of the human mind, but meant for him.

"It's not a comment on your abilities," Helen said softly when she seemed sure she had his attention, "but on SCORPIA's nature. They will target any vulnerability you have until they destroy you. They almost did the same to Yassen. A lack of confidence can kill as surely as overconfidence can."

Her voice was so low that the words barely carried to Nile, and there would be no chance any microphones would have picked up on it.

They almost did the same to Yassen, she had said but Cossack had obviously moved past whatever that weakness had been and had thrived in his new life, because – he'd had Hunter and Helen. People who had taught him what he needed to manage it.

She couldn't do that for him, but she could give him the tools to do it himself, and – so she had. In the most discreet way possible, because this was Malagosto and she was a hostage and neither of them could afford to show weakness.

Nile took a slow breath and released it again. He let his unease leave with it, until only a distantly familiar feeling was left. Nothing uncomfortable, just … vaguely familiar and a long time gone. The soft memory of family, for all that he would never left himself linger on that.

"Thank you," he said instead, as quiet as her voice had been and knew she understood the message when she smiled.

"Thank you for watching them. Goodnight, Nile."

"Goodnight, Mrs Rider," he responded automatically, because she was still an instructor and that ingrained respect sometimes forgot that he could use her name.

It was too late to visit the library, but if he finished breakfast fast enough, he would be able to visit it before the first morning class.

He had a book to read and a number of new references to get his hands on.

Chapter Text

The last piece of John's complicated puzzle fell into place in the early hours of Friday morning in an empty parking lot well outside of Bucharest.

The dented Lada Niva had been loaded with bits of scrap metal and concrete to simulate the weight of the explosives that would replace them later. Old blankets hid any details about the cargo and slightly dirty windows meant that Jaroslav's modifications weren't obvious at a glance.

From the outside, it looked like an older, beaten-up Lada Niva, not different from thousands of others. From the inside, it was obvious it wasn't meant to actually be driven. The top half of a mannequin would keep up the impression of a driver, but most of the legroom was taken up by metal, wires, and assorted electronics.

The many bits and pieces moved smoothly as Jaroslav tested the control system. Clutch, brake, accelerator, steering wheel, all of it entirely remote controlled by the bulky rig that the man had set up over the course of two days. It was a solid construction – it had to be, to handle the car and not be shaken apart when it reached the stairs – and John was pretty sure it could crush a finger or two if someone wasn't careful enough around it.

It didn't really matter, as it would be transported the rest of the way to Bucharest by truck. There was just enough room for someone to drive it the few yards necessary and after that, Jaroslav's setup would handle the rest.

In a situation like this, John could appreciate that he had competent people at his back, even if they were SCORPIA's. He had worked with various clients' security often enough but there had always been a level of distrust in that arrangement. Working towards the same goal, perhaps, but John was always Hunter. Always the exceptional killer, for sale for the highest bidder.

Now, he trusted Damascus and Citadel and Crucible to want the mission to succeed as much as he did, and they trusted him in turn. It was a nice change, if he ignored everything surrounding their circumstances and how he had ended up in the situation in the first place.

"Everything works," Jaroslav reported in Russian.

John had made it clear that he didn't mind the language and that he could use some practice himself, and it said something that they trusted him enough to take his word for it.

John nodded. "Time to test it, then."

They retreated behind a concrete barrier for that part as an added precaution. As expected, the first, short test-drive was slow and jerky, the unsteady start-and-stop as Jaroslav got used to the awkward angle and the delayed response of the car. The next attempt was smoother, until – an hour later – the only thing that marked the car as anything unusual was the lack of a driver.

It was not as easy as it looked, John was well aware of that. With the delayed reactions and the lack of tactile feedback from the car, Jaroslav had to carefully plan every turn, and the awkward visual angle only made it worse. He would be stationed in the building directly across from their target, which meant they would have one chance to get it right.

Most would have considered it a gamble too risky to take. Most would probably have requested additional backup and sent the grunts to handle it instead and accepted the casualties as the cost of revenge. For an operation that important, SCORPIA certainly wouldn't have cared if it cost them a few dozen soldiers.

John didn't have that option and a part of him, the tiny part that remained John Rider despite all that Hunter had done, didn't want the option, either. It was the obvious strategy and Atlas would know it, too. An attack from the ground floor would leave too many opportunities for escape and see his men slaughtered in the process. A failed operation SCORPIA couldn't afford and for which John would pay the price. Worse still was the risk that his family might pay the price for it, too.

Instead he had found an alternative. One that would make the sort of statement that the Board wanted.

That his plan would also minimise the risk to his men hadn't been part of the decision but it was a welcome result, anyway. Hunter had sent people to their deaths before without blinking; had once sent half of a client's private army to be slaughtered to take out a competitor and walked away with a generous bonus for his efforts.

This time, he would be grateful to walk away with his life and his family's future guaranteed.

The car came to a stop. Jaroslav put down the heavy control system.

"How does it handle?" John asked.

"Well enough." The quiet satisfaction of a job well done, and John nodded.

They had already picked a location to hide the car, a garage close enough to the target to strike when the opportunity presented itself but well-hidden enough not to draw attention from the added security around the building. They would still need to transport it, replace the concrete and steel scraps with as many explosives as they could cram into it, but that was a minor issue now.

Hunter had his weapon. Now they just needed the right time to strike.

Friday evening marked the deadline that Ian and Yassen had allowed themselves. In any other reasonable situation, Ian would not have doubted their ability to make it – but then, in any other reasonable situation, he would have had MI6 support as well.

Now, for the first time in a decade, he didn't.

Ian had never seriously considered the logistics of freelance work. He knew the theory, of course. He had his own contacts and was aware of how valuable those could be, even as a gainfully employed intelligence operative in the calmer, less volatile areas of the business.

Logically, he knew that as a freelance agent, those contacts would have been all he had. That everything he needed without a paper trail or outside of official channels would require an extensive knowledge of who to contact, as well as how and where to do it. That unless it was on a client's dime, every necessity, from equipment and intel and all the way to bribes and new identities, would be something he would need to pay for himself. That he would have to know the price of specific weapons and judge the balance between preferences and the time it would take to procure, and the added fees for rush orders and specialised requests.

Yassen Gregorovich dealt with those limitations with an ease that would have made any field agent envious but then, Ian supposed he'd had a decade to learn. John Rider had never been the type of man to coddle anyone, least of all his subordinates. Ian doubted that Hunter was any different.

SCUBA equipment was a simple matter; weapons only marginally more complicated. Ian had already seen the supplies Yassen had somehow procured in the brief time between Helsinki and Venice but he was still reluctantly impressed.

Ian's own mission necessities had ultimately just needed the proper documentation. Yassen had a running mental count of any number of bank accounts and other financial assets, the current state of them, and their availability. To someone who had worked on the financial side of the intelligence world for years and knew what it took to stay hidden and untraceable, that degree of knowledge was impressive no matter how he looked at it.

At the end of the day, Yassen Gregorovich charged an impressive price for his skills but everything he needed was taken from that generous pay. It was another side to freelance work that Ian had never needed to consider.

"It is hardly something SCORPIA teaches or encourages," Yassen said that evening as they went over the final list and checked off the items one by one. "A coddled, ignorant assassin used to having everything done for them is one unlikely to stray or survive independence."

Highly-trained weapons entirely dependent on the creature comforts that SCORPIA provided and expendable if necessary, because there was always another one available, Malagosto ensured that.

"Hunter taught me to survive," he continued. "Not merely operations but in the civilian world. He gave me an identity and a believable past, he introduced me to the contacts I would need, and he vouched for me as I built up my own network and reputation. I worked with him for two years after SCORPIA before he deemed me ready to work independently. Even then, we have always been each other's insurance and have frequently served as a second opinion on potential operations as well."

Yes, Ian could imagine that was effective deterrent, should any client consider avoiding the bill by disposing of the assassin they had hired. The threat of someone just as dangerous with a personal stake, waiting in the shadows to take revenge. And John … hadn't even been just that, those past few years. Hunter had grown beyond merely the skilled assassin and become a brutally competent problem solver for those who could meet his demands. Whatever the client required, without fail.

John had been Hunter on one hand and the family man on the other. He hadn't just trained Yassen, he had given him the best foundation possible: a family. A father and a beloved stepmother and two younger half-siblings. No one had asked any question and why would they, when Hunter and Cossack had been perfectly normal people outside of their job?

Life in Geneva had been comfortable based on everything Ian had found. John had been a successful investor on paper, his income as Hunter supplemented by some profitable and fortunate choices on the stock market – some of them supported by insider knowledge. Helen had been a stay-at-home mother with Matilda, while Alex had been enrolled in an exclusive private school. New money but wealthy enough to belong to the upper class.

Ian doubted they would ever have left if they hadn't been found through sheer bad luck. John and Helen had grown comfortable in their cover, the children had known nothing else and … twenty years down the line, between the passage of time and John's slight plastic surgery, Ian could probably have walked past them on the street and never recognised them.

Alex and Matilda would have grown up among international classmates with influential parents, would have learned nepotism and networking as soon as they could walk, and leveraged those connections into successful lives.

Most likely they would have married rich and taken their spouse's surname with John and Helen's gentle encouragement. A single generation, and any trace of the Rider family history would have been removed from their past. Their parents would never have spoken of it and they would never have known to ask.

That was the world John had brought a half-feral teenage assassin into. That Yassen had learned to fit in so well was a testament to John's training and Yassen's adaptability.

Everything considered, perhaps Ian shouldn't have been surprised when Friday evening found their list complete, from their weapons and all the way up to the old car that would serve as transportation away from Venice.

Ian checked his own SCUBA equipment, unwilling to trust it to anyone else. He wasn't surprised to find that it was in good condition, too. The neon yellow tank would need to be painted black, of course, but that was a minor thing. The scuba fins and drysuit were conveniently black as well, and all a perfect fit for Ian. Whatever else Yassen's contacts might be, they delivered exactly was what requested.

"This is good quality," he admitted, just a little reluctant. As good as anything MI6 would have provided.

Yassen shrugged. "I have managed stranger requests in less time. Money and the right contacts will solve most issues."

The right contacts, unaffiliated with SCORPIA. Ian was well aware that Yassen had been unusually careful in his choice of suppliers, given their target and the political situation in Venice.

"My funds were deposited at Credit Suisse. I got confirmation this morning," Ian said and switched the topic. "I expect MI6 will find a legal loophole and keep the house in London."

It would be useful as a safe-house, at least, and beyond Ian and John's employment, it was not associated with MI6. Blunt and Jones would be well aware that Ian would never risk reclaiming it, and without a death certificate, it could be in legal limbo for years.

The house had been worth a lot of money but Ian had written it off mentally the moment he had left. As for his other assets … well. He had taken his lessons from John and ensured there were several accounts unknown to anyone but himself. He had made decent money, learned to invest them well as part of his cover, and made sure MI6 was only aware of half of it.

Yassen nodded. "I have moved those of Hunter's that I have access to as well. The primary accounts had not been touched, presumably because SCORPIA hasn't cared yet, but they are inaccessible now."

Of course, Ian's assets were hardly impressive compared to the combined fortune of the Rider-Gregorovich household, but life as a gainfully employed intelligence agent also paid significantly less than professional contract killings did. John had undoubtedly had additional accounts that no one but he and Helen could touch, but those would either be accessed when it was all over, should they all come out of it alive, or they would no longer be an issue. Either way, it wasn't Ian's problem.

Outside, the sun had set. The beaten-up car had been parked where it would be needed for a quick escape. The small room, paid for two weeks in advance, was a world away from the opulence of their first accommodation, but offered almost as good of a view of Malagosto. That made up for the sparse furniture and bare walls.

"We wait, then."

The only part of the plan that had yet to fall into place. The timing. The moment to strike.

"We wait," Yassen agreed.

Maybe it would be days. Maybe weeks. Sooner or later, they would have their chance.

However long it took. That was all that mattered now.

Zeljan Kurst had left Venice a week after the explosion, when all available intel and evidence had been thoroughly examined and further steps were better taken in person.

A lesser man would have hidden away. Would have cowered in his fortress, behind an army of security. Zeljan had sent his people hunting and prepared to strike against two of Atlas' Russian bases.

Hunter had confirmed the presence of Atlas' board in Bucharest, but that was only the head of a particularly resilient pest. Cut it off and the rest of the body would still writhe in the filth until every last part of it was crushed.

Zeljan Kurst had a score to settle and he planned to do so with resounding interests. Two bases so far, though if Hunter took much longer to strike, the preliminary plans for the destruction of a third base would fall into place as well.

It would be bloody and violent, and Zeljan planned to be right in the middle of the carnage. It still wouldn't be enough to balance the scales against the audacity that had been an attack on the very heart of SCORPIA, but it would do for a start.

Atlas would be crushed beneath SCORPIA's war machine, ground into pieces as a lesson to anyone else who had ever entertained similar thoughts. There was no smoking gun, no conclusive evidence, but they hardly needed it. The actions of Atlas' board to protect itself spoke loudly enough.

Zeljan's only regret about the situation was that Hunter, against all odds, had lived up to his overly-inflated reputation once more. Had done well enough that SCORPIA could not reasonably have him killed during the operation as an unfortunate casualty. It would take months – possibly years – to recover their full strength and Hunter's reputation would be a priceless addition to that.

But – later, perhaps. The Doctor and Rothman had Hunter's family firmly brought to heel at Malagosto and the oldest of Hunter's two offspring was just about old enough to survive Malagosto's training with the right incentives. A year or two, and they could have a brutally competent child assassin on their hands, suitably brainwashed and broken.

Maybe they could make Hunter the whelp's first target. It was a thought to consider, at least. One for another day.

A sharp knock on the door broke his focus. It was a short list of people who would dare, and the particular sound of it was both familiar and expected.

Ballista stepped into his office without waiting for a response.

"They have brought back prisoners, sir," she reported. "Five of them."

Zeljan got up and Ballista fell into step by his side, easily keeping pace with his long strides.

"Anything useful?" he demanded.

It had been a lucky strike more than anything, mercenary troops spotted beyond the safety of their fortified rat's nest of an Atlas outpost. Most likely, the prisoners were little more than cannon fodder but it paid to make sure.

"Four of them only as an example. The last is a section leader. I put a halt to the interrogation until you could be there in person."

That made at least one person around him with a drop of competence in the middle of the whole disaster. They were dangerous short on those, it seemed.

"Will he speak?"

"With encouragement, I expect," Ballista agreed. "He seemed perfectly willing to leave his men behind while he scurried away."

Excellent. Zeljan doubted he knew anything of real value but it would be just the distraction he needed. The right sort of stress relief.

They stopped in front of the closed door. Zeljan cracked his knuckles and felt the tension in his hands; tightly wound anger and nowhere to aim it.

"Sir," Ballista said and held out a leather sap that had materialised from somewhere in her uniform.

Zeljan accepted it. Tested the weight in his hand and made a considering sound. Heavy, perfectly balanced, and with a braided handle for improved grip. This was no mass-produced tool for law enforcement but something designed with care and attention to detail.

"Lead?" He guessed. The traditional choice for that sort of weapon, and this one was designed with respect for the classics.

"Of course, sir. I've kept it for a special occasion."

And a special occasion it was. Zeljan's grip tightened on the sap and felt the leather handle fit perfectly in his hand. Yes, this would do just fine.

"Excellent."

Ballista opened the door and Zeljan stepped inside. Time to test out his new weapon on their little infestation before he destroyed the rest of the nest.

Atlas' executive board did not reappear on Friday, nor on Saturday. John hadn't expected them to, either. Sure, they had clearly decided that there was more safety in a single, central location that let them meet often to respond to new development than there would be in going to ground in half a dozen different locations, but that didn't make them careless.

One or two meetings in person a week was John's guess. Some things were simply better discussed face to face, without the restrictions of phone calls or internet. Especially now, when they undoubtedly kept a very close eye on any sign at all that SCORPIA was on the move.

They would find nothing in Bucharest. They would probably find it elsewhere, since SCORPIA was chomping at the bit to tear the upstart apart and it was about to become open season on Atlas, but Hunter's operation was essentially a ghost.

No one from his teams moved around the city unless it was necessary for the operation. No one travelled in large groups. No identifying marks, no visible weapons, no suspicious-looking transportation. Nothing that would mark them as possibly military. Nothing that would draw any kind of attention.

SCORPIA had plenty of ex-military mercenaries who would never be able to fulfil even those simple instructions, but Damascus had known the demands of the operation and chosen accordingly.

There were advantages to mercenary units that had prior experience with undercover field work, and Damascus had done a good job with their training, even if it had only been through working together on previous operations.

At least the wait had given John the time needed to recover from the worst of his injuries. Between his doctor-mandated exercises and the chance to let his body heal rather than stress it, John was well enough that he could join in on surveillance duty along with Damascus and the teams. Still sore where surgery had seen to internal injuries, still with the shadows of the deepest of his bruises painted on his skin, but – well enough to not be completely stuck on the sidelines.

From a logistical point of view, John expected that their target would present itself sometime during normal working hours. Nothing too early, probably, as Atlas' board seemed a little too comfortable for that – a little too removed from the occasional necessity of discomfort – and probably not past nightfall, either. Too much activity in the late hours might draw attention to an otherwise unremarkable office building. This meant that while there were always a few of Damascus' people awake, most of them slept at night. So did John and Jaroslav, who both had their own parts to play.

John as the person ultimately in charge of the operation, Jaroslav as the person most trained in how to handle the remote controlled car and the bomb it carried. To drive next to it in another car would leave too many unpredictable variables and make it hard to get a good angle. Instead, he and the bulky controls for the car were both permanently stationed with the primary surveillance team.

Once the target was confirmed, it would take no more than ten minutes to get the car ready. Worst case, it would be enough time to get Jaroslav up and prepare the controls.

It was not the most comfortable situation for any of them, stuck in a mostly-barren, cramped room for days on end, but they had all survived worse and at least it let John practice his Russian.

Sunday noon came and went. The afternoon crept on, marked only by the crawl of the sun across the cold, blue sky. The only hint that circumstances weren't exactly usual was the amount of people in a supposedly-normal office building on a Sunday, but Saturday had been decently busy, too, and that had led nowhere. By three in the afternoon, John was mentally prepared to write off another day – and then Petras stilled by the window.

"Company," he said. "Expensive car and security."

John had grabbed the binoculars next to the hard bed and joined Petras before he could even think about it and -

- There it was. A male figure in expensive-looking clothes, accompanied by obvious security, visible for no more than ten or fifteen seconds before they were both inside the building and out of sight again.

His face hadn't been visible from John's vantage point but perhaps -

"Target unconfirmed. No ID."

Damascus' words in the headset confirmed what John had already expected. The angle had been wrong for a positive ID on the man from their secondary location as well but they wouldn't really need it. Not with the way he had moved, confident and used to being in control. Not if they got the right number of people and some of the others could be reliably identified instead. It would be enough to risk the assumption that they had the full set, then.

Movement by his side alerted him to Jaroslav's presence.

"No positive ID," he said quietly in Russian before the man could ask, "but the arrival looked promising."

John did not move from the window. Neither did Jaroslav or Petras. The seconds dragged on. A minute, then two, as the world carried on outside, the sound of traffic muted by the glass.

A second car, the same dark, expensive, and undoubtedly armoured type as the first, and in the back of John's mind, Hunter's focus sharpened. The discomforts and aches fell away as the figures in the car stepped outside, up the stairs and into the building in a perfect mirror of the first arrival.

John didn't need any confirmation this time. Instincts and experience told him that they had it right.

A second later, his headset came to life again.

"Target Five confirmed."

Designation Target Five: Rousseau, French, forty-six, John's mind supplied. Not a stain on the DGSE's professional honour the way that Duval was, because Rousseau was a legitimate businessman in any way that counted, but still someone who had drawn attention through his place among Atlas' leadership in the past few years.

It wasn't just SCORPIA that had noticed Atlas' sudden expansion, nor the way their less legitimate dealings had become increasingly blatant.

Jaroslav's presence at John's back vanished again and the sound of a duffel bag being opened told him that the man had started to prepare the controller for the car bomb. He wasn't the only one who knew this would be their chance.

Most of their people were already in position, if not on alert. The only real unknown was the skeleton crew that kept an eye on the operation at night.

"Night shift?" John murmured.

"Already awake," Petras said quietly. "They got up an hour ago."

Perfect timing, then. Unfortunate for Atlas, of course, though it wouldn't make a difference to them. If things worked as planned, John would have been able to carry out the attack with a fraction of the people he had available.

If the pattern held – if Atlas was sensible enough not to risk unwanted attention by a sudden influx of activity – the rest would arrive over the course of the next half an hour or so. Enough time to get everyone into position and the car moved as close as possible to the target.

Damascus obviously agreed, because his voice cut through the background noise again as John lowered the binoculars.

"Sir, the car is on stand-by."

It was the sort of initiative that not all of SCORPIA's operatives would approve of but which John had kept up a patient but determined campaign to bring out. For now, that initiative was a small convenience that meant he didn't have to micromanage everything. In an emergency, it could mean the difference between success and death.

"Excellent," he said. "Be ready to move."

The car would remain in its garage until the last possible moment to make sure they wouldn't attract any attention. They still had four targets unaccounted for, after all. With someone already there, it would take no more than a minute or two to get the car out and into position. By John's estimate, they would have at least half an hour to work with, as he doubted Atlas' board would have met for anything less than that, but they wouldn't need it.

The radio fell silent. John found himself slipping into the same patient mindset as he did behind a scope. The same focus on the target above all else. It wasn't something he was used to with people around him, and it had been years since it had been Cossack at his side, but he trusted that for now, his teams had his back. For now, he remained in SCORPIA's good favour.

… In public, anyway.

Six minutes and thirty. Another car, this one with two figures. John doubted anyone on SCORPIA's board would have arrived in the company of someone else – security protocols were too strict, their paranoia too sharp – but Atlas wasn't founded by Cold War spies. They had grown too comfortable to be as cautious as they should be. Unwilling to compromise on transportation or wait too long for the meeting to start.

"Target Four confirmed. Target One unconfirmed but probable."

Target Four was impossible to miss and John would have been able to identify him based on description alone. Grant was tall, fit, and with hair that had gone completely white well before fifty, and he stood out starkly in the small group of dark suits. Target One – Avila – was far more average, enough so that John suspected a touch of plastic surgery to help it along. The sort of target where you wanted high-quality photos and close-up confirmation to be absolutely sure. Even then …

"Agreed," John said. "Target One could be a body double but they'd have no reason for it, not with the rest of them here. Confirmed."

If nothing else, Avila's colleagues would have been able to tell the difference. Three confirmed targets, then, and one increasingly likely one.

Four minutes. Another car. The confirmation followed a few seconds later.

"Target Three confirmed."

One target left. Either Two or Six, depending on the first arrival that they hadn't managed to get a good look at. Almost showtime.

"Team leaders, exfil status?" John asked. He knew the answer – expected it, at least, and trusted that his people had things under control – but needed to hear that things were in place, anyway. Just to be sure.

"Citadel, ready." The answer came almost immediately. Jaroslav and Petras were both with John, with the rest of the team stationed in the same building as them. Riskier in some ways, with their proximity to the target, but easier in others. Their primary concern was surveillance rather than the practical issues.

Crucible, responsible for the secondary location and the car bomb, took a little longer to respond.

"Crucible, ready."

Nothing to do but wait, then. John risked a glance over his shoulder and found Jaroslav as tense as the rest of them, the heavy control system strapped into place in a makeshift harness over his clothes for added stability.

No one spoke. The radio was silent. By John's estimate, at least six or seven people had eyes on the target building now. There would be no one in or out that they didn't see.

Two minutes.

Three.

Someone breathed a soft, impatient curse that John pretended he didn't hear.

Four and -

- One more car pulled up, expensive and familiar.

John's world snapped into focus and Hunter's relentless training took over as his fingers tightened around the binoculars. Six targets and -

- There he was, the last figure they wanted, and he spoke before anyone else could.

"Target Two confirmed."

Features clear in the daylight; security or possible bodyguard by his side, unknown but irrelevant to the operation; cautious but too unconcerned to be aware of the acute danger he was in. Hunter kept an eye on him the entire way up the stairs and until the man had vanished inside the building with his security.

The car drove away. The whole thing had taken maybe twenty seconds but felt like minutes.

Five confirmed targets, one probable. It was as good of a chance as they would get.

Two minutes to prepare the car, another minute to get to the target building. Three minutes at the most. Enough time to get the last of the arrivals away from the ground floor and to wherever the meeting room was located.

John wanted their targets as high up and as close to the centre of the building as possible. Minimise the risk of any miraculous survival. When the building came down, he wanted their targets right at the heart of it.

He could wait a little, just to be sure, but he didn't want to risk it.

Hunter made the call.

"Operation Castle is a go."

Jaroslav moved on instinct, already heading for the door. The countdown had started in his mind the moment Hunter spoke; the mental awareness of the number of steps to the roof, the seconds it would take to prepare the car, the distance to cover from the parking lot and to the target.

Stasik met him in the hallway, gun ready. Neither spoke, just followed the plan they had already practised over and over. Down the hallway, through the door to the staircase in the back, up the single flight of stairs to the roof, force the door open and -

- Step into harsh daylight, in broad view of any sniper who might be watching.

Had it been SCORPIA in Atlas' situation, any step unto the rooftop with a weapon this close to the executive board would have been a death sentence. Atlas, though … days of surveillance had revealed nothing. No security at this distance, no snipers, nothing.

It was still a risk but that was why Stasik was there. Someone at Jaroslav's back that he trusted absolutely, so he would be able to focus on the car instead.

Some operatives would have called it a waste of resources but most operatives would not have chosen this approach in the first place, either. Hunter had understood the desire for support and Jaroslav wasn't surprised. Hunter had worked with Cossack; he would know the value of someone you trusted to watch your back.

They were at the edge of the roof on the sixty seconds mark; enough time for Jaroslav to get a good look at the traffic. It was Sunday, which made his job far easier. A weekday rush hour job was the sort of timing they had all had nightmares about, but traffic now was scarce. Harder to hide in but much easier to navigate.

Down the road, the car appeared at the exit from the parking lot. Stopped. The door opened and someone got out. Reached back inside to get the mannequin into place and for a final check of everything.

Jaroslav focused on the traffic again. Let himself get a sense of the ebb and flow of it, and the rhythm of its movements.

Finally the radio came to life.

"The car is ready. Sentry One, control is yours."

"Sentry One is ready," Jaroslav said in careful English. "Sir?"

Hunter's reply was instant. Had anything looked suspicious or had one of the targets left, that would be the last chance to call off the operation.

"Go."

Under Jaroslav's hands, the car came to life. It was too far away to hear the engine, so he would simply have to trust what he had built.

The controllers responded easily. Jaroslav had ordered more than he needed and used the ones his hands trusted the most. A minute difference, perhaps, but enough to matter in a situation like theirs. There would be no sudden mechanical failure, no lag to cost him a second or two more in reaction time.

He watched the scattered traffic, the regular pauses in the pulse of it, and waited for his chance. He had been prepared to manage the drive in far denser traffic but was glad to avoid it now. They would take any possible chance to lower the risks of failure, especially for an operation with that kind of stakes.

A small truck turned and left a larger than normal break behind, and Jaroslav took his chance.

The car responded as it had during the practice session but it was still a relief to see it move forward and turn, perhaps not as smoothly as a real driver would have managed but more than acceptable for the job it had to do.

The countdown picked back up. The distance to the target, the time until he had to turn, the number of steps and -

- careful of the other drivers, keep to the right lane, compensate for the terrible angle and the distance that meant he had no real way to judge how close he was to the pavement or the other cars.

No one spoke. No one wanted to risk a distraction. To some small part of Jaroslav, a tiny part that wasn't focused on the car far below, it felt like everyone collectively held their breaths.

Fifty.

Forty.

Thirty.

It was a sharp turn, partially obstructed by trees, but it didn't matter. Jaroslav knew he had the timing right, in the way a sniper knew their bullet had hit before it had even reached the target.

Twenty.

Turn.

Account for the lag in response time, the speed of the car, and -

- The small gate intended for regular security didn't even slow it down. The car and its heavy cargo rammed straight through it, twisted the hinges in the process and continued right on. It had been the last obstacle. It was straight ahead now. The low steps offered no protection against an off-road car controlled by someone who had no reason to care about the damage to it. Perhaps if the staircase had been steeper. Perhaps if it had been more than seven steps. As it was, it wouldn't matter.

Security had undoubtedly seen it now, but they would have only seconds to respond and no way to stop it.

Jaroslav tensed as the car hit the stairs. He couldn't feel the tactile feedback but he could see the car shake even at the distance he was at. It was build well enough to handle it, it had been chosen specifically for it, but it didn't help on the tension.

Then it was past and a second later, it slammed through the large windows without slowing down. Jaroslav heard the explosion of glass all the way from the top of their building. It wouldn't go all the way through, the blueprints showed solid walls and elevator shafts in the middle of the building, but they wanted it as close to centre mass as possible.

Jaroslav's fingers scrambled for the cover of the small button in one corner of the controls. Flip it open, press down hard and -

"Count," he spoke in a warning, the first word that had passed through the radio since the order was given.

Three. Two. One.

Deep within the building, more than two hundred kilos of explosives went up in a fireball. With nowhere to go, the sheer force of it pulverized walls and ceilings and continued outwards in a deafening roar of flames.

That close, the shock wave hit at the same time as the wall of sound. Jaroslav stepped back, instinctively held up a hand to protect his eyes and -

- Stasik grabbed his shoulder.

"Jára! We have to go! Now!"

The words were muted and distorted – temporary hearing damage, Jaroslav suspected – but clear enough to understand, and he shook his head even as he lowered his hand, never looking away from their target.

"I need to know!"

Had to see. Had to be sure that his construction had done its job well enough.

Stasik yelled something but the words were swept away in an increasingly loud, ominous rumble. Part of the sound was so deep that it was vibrations more than anything, a tremor beneath their feet, and through the dense cloud of smoke and dust, something moved.

Something deep and primal and terrified told Jaroslav to run but his feet remained rooted to the spot.

With a deep groan of crumbling concrete and twisting metal, the towering building began to lean. Slowly at first, then picking up speed as gravity took over. Seconds, maybe, but it felt like an eternity to Jaroslav.

Then one side of the foundation gave way and the entire building just – crumbled and collapsed in an avalanche of debris. Jaroslav had a moment to realise that outside was the absolute worst place to be now, and then day turned to night as the cloud hit them and the first breath he took triggered a violent coughing fit. It was smoke and dust and fuck knew what else -

- And then someone pulled him away, through the darkness and back into the hallway and slammed the door behind them and -

- Jaroslav could breathe again. Barely. Each breath burned but it was air and his lungs grasped at the fresh source of oxygen like a drowning man.

"Alive?" Stasik asked.

Jaroslav looked up. Stasik's face was grey in the dim lights of the hallway, covered in a fine layer of dust, and Jaroslav doubted he looked any better himself. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak yet without triggering another coughing fit.

Statik nodded back. It was only then that Jaroslav realised someone had been trying to raise him on the radio, too.

"Status?" Urgent, possibly worried, but Jaroslav was in no state to consider anything but his next breath of fresh air.

"Both clear," Stasik responded, voice hoarse but steady. "We got caught up in the debris from the collapse. On our way."

Jaroslav's lungs still burned. His eyes stung. He wondered, absurdly, how many times he would need to shower before the smell and the last bit of the grey layer of dust was gone. But – right now that didn't matter.

What mattered was to follow the exfil plan and then wait for their next orders.

Their operation had succeeded against all odds. It had been worth the extra few seconds on the rooftop to see it through.

Chapter Text

SCORPIA had confirmation of a successful strike three minutes after Griro Tower came down. The detailed report arrived ten minutes past that, barely ahead of the first news report.

A second terrorist attack in Europe, only two weeks after the first one and a magnitude larger at that? Dr Three expected the topic would be covered in extensive details in the days to come. SCORPIA would have no lack of additional material for their own files.

The attack on the target had been filmed, as was standard procedure, but to remain in Bucharest to keep watch on the fallout would be too much of a risk for their assets. It was no matter when they could simply gain whatever they needed later from their contacts within various intelligence agencies, anyway.

No civilian camera had caught the attack and Three suspected anything of Atlas' had been destroyed when the building came down. It hardly made it less satisfactory to watch the news as the footage rolled in.

The attack in Venice had seemed grand at the time. A destructive statement of intent. Now, it was relegated to a toddler's tantrum compared to the images from Bucharest.

They had sent Hunter to make a statement of SCORPIA's displeasure and he had succeeded beyond all expectations. Three would have preferred some survivors to interrogate, certainly, but he could hardly blame Hunter's – artistic flair. That was what had made his reputation, after all.

There would be others, anyway. The attack had only been the first strike in a coordinated attack on Atlas, and Three knew that a number of additional bases and holdings were under assault even as the rubble in Bucharest still burned. He didn't expect survivors from the Bucharest operation or the two bases that Zeljan led the attacks on, but there would be other opportunities.

On the TV, several ambulances waited uselessly by the rubble. The only medical treatment that had been caught by the local news crews so far had been bystanders caught in the collapse. Injuries from fragments and respiratory difficulties, nothing more.

A knock on the office door drew Three's attention from the screen and he put his cup of tea down with nary a sound. An excellent jasmine tea, imported from Fuzhou and suitable for such delightful event as he savoured the developing news story. Malagosto's kitchens stocked tea, certainly, but Three considered that blend far more suitable as a tool for interrogations.

Matteo slipped silently into the office and placed a folder on Three's desk with precise motions, then took a step back again.

"The most recent updates," he spoke quietly in Mandarin. "Mr Kurst's operations have been successful and clean-up is underway. Hunter and his teams have been dispatched to handle the secondary objectives."

To hopefully find the information leak that had cost them so dearly. Atlas' upper echelon of leadership had been eradicated, but their private homes and offices along with any surviving employees in trusted positions would offer the best chance to – find a way to ensure any internal weaknesses were seen to.

Three expected that it had ultimately been Yu or Chase's security measures that fell short of standards when stressed to the point of fracture, but with both men dead, the primary trails had long since gone cold.

Chase had travelled anonymously and with little security – the interrogation of which had ultimately yielded nothing useful – and Yu had kept his personal business strictly separate from SCORPIA. Three had always felt a degree of professional approval for the reputation the man had managed to build up around himself but it came with certain disadvantages, too. By the time SCORPIA's people had been given orders to hunt down Yu's entourage, a large percentage had already made themselves scarce. Even now, several of his closest people remained missing. Unfortunate but expected for people who knew the lengths Winston Yu would go to in order to express his displeasure when someone dared fail him. It would not be unthinkable that the man would have arranged to punish failure of such a magnitude from beyond the grave.

Perhaps it was time to become personally involved himself. To express his own level of displeasure with the injury that had become a constant reminder of the numerous limitations he now faced in his pursuit of scientific perfection.

"Arrange for transportation to the forward operating base," Three said and made his decision. "And impress upon d'Arc that I hope for his sake that the operatives involved in this operation conduct themselves to the standards we expect of the school."

Matteo nodded and left as silently as he had arrived.

Three settled back down and watched as – eleven hundred kilometres and a time zone away – the rubble of Griro Tower still burned.

Yassen had never minded the monotony of the long wait. Not during surveillance, not during the hunt, not when the hours carried on, one day after the other, with no sign of a target. There were plenty in their line of work who did – who wanted the action or the satisfaction and payment of a job well done, and who were willing to cut corners to speed it up – but Yassen appreciated the patience. That was part of what made him so very skilled with a sniper rifle.

He had worried at first that Hunter's brother would be an issue in that regard. That years with MI6 would have ruined his approach to work that was not government sanctioned and supported.

It had been a welcome surprise to find that Ian Rider could be every bit as patient as Yassen himself when needed. That he had been assigned to financial intelligence not as a punishment or a way to keep a potential liability away from more sensitive operations, but because he had thrived with the more subtle challenges it offered.

Their world had narrowed down to a small hotel room with only the most basic of necessities; the sort of situation that could easily have been a nightmare but which had been … surprisingly tolerable, all things considered.

They had the same goal, the same drive to see their mission succeed, and they learned to work around each other. Find routines, despite it all. Food, sleep schedules, switching off surveillance as needed, and – as a constant undercurrent beneath it all, the TV that they never turned off and which ran the international news in an endless loop on a quiet murmur.

It was admittedly old and small, and the reception was mediocre at best, but it still did its job well enough that when the news story from Bucharest broke late that Sunday afternoon, it made both of them stop and pay attention.

The footage made it easy for Yassen to confirm Hunter's hand in the events. There was no evidence, of course – and certainly not on a news channel – but there was a distinct something to the operation that left Yassen with little doubt about it. A certain theatrical touch that had become a mark of Hunter's more infamous operations.

It was also confirmation of what they already knew: SCORPIA would not risk keeping the family together at Malagosto. They still had no idea of Helen's location but Hunter was kept far away from his children, making himself useful to the people that held his family's lives in their hands.

And useful he had been, indeed.

"That's certainly a statement," Ian noted and unknowingly echoed Yassen's own opinion. "SCORPIA must be pleased."

If there was an edge of bitterness to the words, neither mentioned it.

The retaliatory strike was not a surprise, only the timing and location had been uncertain. Bucharest would not have been Yassen's first guess, but SCORPIA had undoubtedly supplied Hunter with all available intel and the man had always lived up to his codename.

"They wished to add Hunter's reputation to their own for a reason," Yassen said. "He is a valuable weapon to flaunt and this will only increase it. An operation such as that would require an artistic touch that most of SCORPIA's operatives would be incapable of. To bring down a building, certainly. To do so without touching the buildings around it and with no collateral damage to speak of? That takes more skill and finesse than SCORPIA would have bothered with."

Or potentially had available to them. There were few operatives of Hunter's calibre active, fewer still who specialised in unusual operations and with such a broad range of experience. Hunter had obviously not been sent to handle it alone, but there was no guarantee that his men, whatever their background, would have been of any use in that sort of planning.

It was a statement, and it was one more bit of evidence that SCORPIA planned to keep the Rider family alive for now. Helen and the children as a leash on Hunter, and Hunter himself for the valuable asset that he was.

It was not a truce that would last in the long term, not with Hunter's history with SCORPIA, but it meant that at least Yassen and Ian could afford to wait for the right time to strike. That was the best they could hope for.

In Bucharest, the last of the fires in the rubble had been put out. The dust had settled grey and heavy on everything, and clean-up would take weeks, if not months.

In Venice, Cossack and Abydikos waited.

Dr Three departed Malagosto in the late evening. D'Arc watched the boat vanish into the darkness and felt like he could breathe for the first time in two weeks.

The doctor had been a regular guest at the island in the past but that had always been for his own pursuits. This time, it had been less visit and more visitation by a spectre of death, and d'Arc considered it a minor miracle that everyone on the island had survived the experience.

For a brief while, they had all felt the ghost of the fate suffered by generations of the sick and unwanted, sent to Malagosto to die. Now, the scythe that awaited was not a plague but the fear of failure. Of not living up to SCORPIA's expectations.

D'Arc had been reasonably sure that the instructors were safe – and so was he himself, having only recently taken over the responsibility for the school – but the students were in a far more unenviable position. Though they did not have to deal with the displeasure and unreasonable expectations of the Board – words that d'Arc would never dare to speak out loud – they dealt with a looming spectre of their own. Beyond the stress of the expectations that came with an elite school such as Malagosto, they also bore the full weight of the draconian restrictions that had been placed on the island during the doctor's visit.

Malagosto never rested, but with the school in lockdown for two weeks – no information, no trips beyond the island, no training exercises, not even the half-day off they were usually permitted on weekends – the restless energy had built up to a point where it was almost a physical thing, draped like a shroud over every class, every meal, every moment of the day. Malagosto's students were weapons of action, not meant to be trapped behind a desk, and the strain showed.

It did nothing good for their students or their focus, much less for the instructors that had to teach in such conditions. Now, finally, d'Arc could do something about it. Remind everyone of the stakes and the students of how much SCORPIA expected from them.

The sentence for complacency was death and d'Arc had not come this far to have everything torn down by the incompetence of his own students. He preferred to be the kind, welcoming principal; the friendly face to the instructors' harsh demands, but clearly it was time for a reminder that kind did not mean forgiving.

He snapped his fingers and his assistant, who had sensibly kept as far away as possible from the doctor, hurried to his side.

"Our students have been allowed to idle for long enough," he said. "Arrange for something practical. Delegate it to Ross and Yermalov, they know where the students are at their weakest."

A guarantee that the students would be pushed past the brink of exhaustion; just the thing to mark a return to the regular curriculum. A reminder of how much they still had left to learn as well. It would be good for all of them.

Malagosto's students were trained to obey without question and like any good hunting dog, they were at their best with clear instructions and a way to win their master's approval.

Helen only risked turning on the TV when Alex and Matilda were both firmly asleep and the island had settled down for the night.

There had been activity earlier – Dr Three's departure, she had been informed, which meant that she was truly on her own now with the sudden responsibilities that had been thrust upon her – but finally it was silent.

She knew something had happened, had caught the broad details of the attack during dinner and in brief, overheard fragments, but nothing more than that. Nothing solid. Nothing beyond SCORPIA's successful retaliation and an enduring lesson to our enemies and -

- That was her husband out there. Somewhere in Europe, presumably far from Bucharest by now, and she knew nothing about any of it. Was he all right? Had he recovered from whatever injuries he had suffered during the attack on Venice? Had he gone into the field still injured because SCORPIA had left him no choice?

A cup of coffee and a list of the extensive curriculum she was now responsible for joined her on the couch. She needed sleep that she didn't have time for and that her body was too anxious to embrace and … this was her reality now. For Alex and Matilda, because they had no one else to protect them.

Half an hour later, she still lingered in front of the TV, her attention split between her lesson plans and the news that had provided nothing she did not already know beyond visuals to go with the descriptions.

The knock on the door was firm but quiet enough not to wake up the children, and Helen forced down the knot of fear in her chest at the sound. Adrenaline mixed with coffee, a sour sort of nausea to go with the frantic beat of her heart, but it would do nothing good to make her guest wait.

She opened the door to reveal Yermalov on the other side of it; an unexpected but not unwelcome visitor given the other options it could have been.

He stepped inside. Glanced at the TV that was still going on the lower level, only a whisper above muted, but neither spoke until the door was closed again. There was no privacy at Malagosto, and certainly not in their room, but SCORPIA had an image to keep up in regards to her presence on the island and she was not going to be the one to ruin the careful illusion.

"Coffee?" she offered quietly.

Yermalov shook his head. "I only wanted to give you an update."

"On the – situation," Helen guessed and didn't dare put voice to her hopes, though she was sure they were obvious, anyway.

"And Hunter," Yermalov agreed. His expression twisted slightly like he had bitten into something sour. "Reporters are useless, and our students are little better. We are too lenient with them if they have time to gossip like old women."

Helen wasn't sure about the lenient part, because Malagosto's expectations were brutal and the workload little better, but Yermalov's standards were also higher than the other instructors'. There was a relentless drive in him to push his students and be satisfied with nothing but perfection.

John would like him, she suspected, if they ever met properly. Would appreciate the desire to see his students survive, even if they learned to hate and fear him in the process. The sort of lessons that they wouldn't appreciate until they were out in the real world, with real consequences, and only Yermalov's relentless repetition and expectations meant that they got it right when it counted and they had only instincts to rely on.

… Would appreciate that despite everything, Yermalov still did what little he could to make Alex and Matilda's situation better. Even knowing the truth of it all.

"The news didn't have much useful information but based on the scale of destruction, it looked like the operation went well," she said.

The complete annihilation of the target building and no obvious collateral damage. SCORPIA didn't care about the latter in any meaningful way, but the lack of it showed a level of planning and precision that would do their reputation well.

"Hunter was successful," Yermalov confirmed. "There were no reported injuries and no direct contact with enemy forces. He has been ordered to continue Operation Castle with his subordinates."

Blunt, direct, but with entire reports of meaning between the lines. John was unharmed – or no more injured than he had already been, at least. He had been in a favourable enough situation that he had been able to successfully plan around any enemy personnel – and the risk that combat would have carried – and he had done well enough that SCORPIA had sent him straight at another target.

Barring accidents, then, SCORPIA intended to let him live. The more successful he was under SCORPIA's banner, the more of a stain it would be on their reputation if he suddenly died, especially this soon after his return to them. For now, he was more valuable alive as Hunter than dead as a lesson, and that was more hope than she had been allowed in weeks.

"Thank you," she said, quiet and sincere, and Yermalov's nod confirmed that he knew exactly how much he had told her in those few sentences.

"The restrictions on the school have been eased," he continued. "A practical exercise has been arranged for the students tomorrow night. Nile will remain with you for the duration of it."

For security and insurance both, Helen was sure. They had nowhere to run, and with two young children depending on her she would never dare try, but SCORPIA had obviously learned their lesson and took no chances.

There was nothing Helen could say to that and so she simply nodded.

With that message delivered, Yermalov left. It was as blunt of a departure as the man himself but Helen was used to that.

It wasn't even particularly unwelcome news. Nile was not bad company and in its own twisted, peculiar way, the combined guard and babysitter job was protection for him as well. Not planned but – not entirely by chance, either.

Yermalov could have chosen any one of the students for the task. If one of them had been unable to guard a housewife and two children on a literal military base, they would never survive to graduate. That he had picked the youngest, who already had the unwanted attention of the executive board … that was not a coincidence.

The man would never admit it, and Helen would never dare ask, but she was almost certain that the decision had been a way to shield Nile, made by someone who knew what faced him beyond Malagosto's relative protection. It would not be enough to lose Rothman's attention but it would buy Nile additional time to find his own footing and learn about the world he was about to step into. Would be enough time to stack the deck just slightly in favour of the child barely into adulthood.

No one at Malagosto was a good person but in a different world with different fates, Helen thought she would have liked to call Yermalov a friend.

It was early afternoon the day after the attack when the apparent stillness of the island was broken.

There had been activity the evening before – the departure of someone important, based on the security present – but the night and morning had passed without anything but the usual low level of activity. Even in normal circumstances, Malagosto kept the students and most of the staff out of sight. It was no surprise that most of what they had seen had been the same section of trees and foliage, painfully familiar after unending days and only sporadically broken by human figures.

And then, suddenly, it wasn't. A small boat settled just south of the island and a figure in SCUBA gear vanished beneath the surface.

"Activity," Ian said, binoculars still focused on the boat. "At the tip of the island, about fifty yards out. One diver. Secondary activity on the shoreline directly by the dive site, one guard adding something to the stone path, possibly a wire."

The whisper of sound as Yassen grabbed his own binoculars and joined him by the window. Across the water, the small boat bopped along with the waves. No one seemed to be in much of a hurry.

"Markers for a SCUBA exercise and most likely a tripwire," Yassen said and lowered his binoculars again. "If conditions remain as they were, parts of the southern canal and the waters around the tip of the island are littered with underwater obstacles. Old wrecks, remnants of furniture and debris from before the island came into SCORPIA's hands. It makes for a suitable challenge for the students. Traps will mimic operational conditions and punish any carelessness."

This late in the afternoon, there was little else it could be but preparation for a night-time exercise. Time and what preparations they could see would give a better idea of what they were about to step into. Additional traps would be inconvenient but ultimately still just meant to test the students – annoying but nothing genuinely dangerous to worry about.

Only the timing made Ian pause. It wasn't what he had expected. They had both been prepared to wait for weeks. This, not even twenty-four after the counter-attack in Bucharest …

"… Risky," Ian noted, "this soon after everything."

"The machinery of Malagosto does not slow. Does not stop." There was no hesitation in Yassen's response. "SCORPIA could not afford it. It needs the operatives Malagosto produces. Have you ever considered the usual profile of its students?"

"Mid-twenties, former military, prior combat experience," Ian rattled off. It was not an unusual list of traits for people in mercenary work. "People with flexible morals who've killed before and won't freeze if someone shoots at them."

"There are exceptions, of course," Yassen agreed. "But that is the average student. Not because they have proven themselves in combat but because they have proven that they can follow orders. Malagosto reinforces that with three months minimum of relentless training, with little time to focus on anything but keeping up, and through it all, through every lesson and exercise, the subtle emphasis remains that success comes from following orders. That SCORPIA knows best. Praised for blind obedience to their mission brief, discouraged from independence. Not all, of course. The best ones, the future elite – SCORPIA values their initiative. But not the rest. They are living weapons, nothing more. And that is the foundation of SCORPIA's success."

Ian could imagine it. His own special forces training had been bad enough, and no one had been waiting to shoot him if he fell short of that endless list of impossible expectations.

If you were kept so busy that there was just not enough time for everything, where failure would mean death – you would take any short-cut you could. There was no time to question the intel they were given, so they had to trust their files were correct and that lesson would be repeated over and over. To do their job and trust SCORPIA to handle the rest.

Not quite indoctrination but close enough. Add in the pay and the convenience of it all, and few would question it once the island released them into the wider world to wreak havoc.

And this was where John had thrived. Where Hunter had thrived, though sometimes Ian wondered how big the difference between those two figures really were when it came down to it.

From a distance, the island looked deceptively peaceful. Like a venomous spider in its nest, lying in wait for its prey.

The unease settled; the unnerving knowledge that they were about to do something that no one else had been foolish enough to try before – and if they had, no one had lived to speak of the failure. In an ideal world, Malagosto and its atrocities would have been taken out in a missile strike years ago. In an ideal world, they would burned everything to the ground, right down to the blood-soaked foundation.

In an ideal world, Ian acknowledged, a lot of things would have happened differently. Maybe he could wish for a SAS squadron and satellite imagery, too, while he was at it.

Across the water, Malagosto continued its preparations. Sheltered in a rundown hotel on the Lido, so did Ian and Yassen.

They had not lingered in Bucharest.

Fifteen minutes after the attack, they were out of the city; by nightfall they had left the country completely.

Damascus was used to complex operations but there was a beat to Hunter's modus operandi that was different from anything else he had worked with.

There was nothing predictable about it, nothing Damascus could put a finger on. Hunter didn't force them relentlessly onwards, didn't make demands that meant too little sleep and too long nights, didn't demand unquestioning obedience.

Despite that, or maybe because of it, there was still something that Damascus had learned to identify as distinctly Hunter.

The ability to stay several steps ahead of everyone else. To make those leaps of intuition that no amount of analysis could have pinned down. To move with a speed that SCORPIA itself would not have been able to match.

They had been given no location, no instructions beyond the most vague order to send a message, and Hunter had still orchestrated it with the skills of a world-class conductor.

One objective successfully achieved and a day of careful, covert travel later, they pressed on.

This time there was no hesitation when Citadel and Crucible joined in as Hunter and Damascus began to plan.

There had been a monastery at Malagosto once. Its massive walls had survived everything the island could throw at it but its once grand paintings were little more than echoes of their past glory, and centuries of misery had settled into the very stones.

Ian had spent a long time memorising everything they knew of the compound. There would be no time for hesitation, and to look like a stranger, unfamiliar with the school? That would be a death sentence if anyone spotted them in the darkness.

Saints and angels had watched over the island once. Now Ian wondered if anyone still watched the atrocities on the island, or if that grim duty had been delegated to spy satellites and undercover agents. There were few other ways to get a closer look at the island, and even now, Ian still wasn't sure they had made the right decision.

There had been nothing else they could do, no other way in, but – the doubt still lingered.

Ian had learned to SCUBA dive at nineteen. It had been a whim with friends at first; young men with money to burn and no real direction in life, but while his friends had dropped it fast, Ian had tried his first wreck dive and never looked back.

Most of his training and experience had been either along the British or French coasts, or in decidedly more tropical waters. The waters of Venice weren't all that different but still, like all bodies of water, it had a personality of its own.

The Bay was shallower than most places Ian had dived in his older years, the traffic heavier, and the currents different. It was also dark; one of only a handful of times Ian had dived at night, and even with night diving training, it was no easy swim ahead of them.

No markers, no line, only the slightest possible light for the compass – none of the things that Ian would normally have relied on for a dive such as this was an option now. Neither was failure, though, and memories of strict Latin tutors surfaced unbidden in his mind; the droning words of a prayer of intercession he could still recite in his sleep.

Ave Maria, gratia plena,

Dominus tecum.

"Second thoughts?" Yassen murmured.

There was no time to linger, not when someone might see them and wonder about the bulky SCUBA gear and the waterproof bags, all in painfully suspicious-looking dark colours with no distinctive markings. Ian answered, anyway.

"And third, and fourth," he admitted. "I'd have preferred another option but …"

He trailed off. Shrugged.

But here they were, anyway.

Ahead of them, the waters of Venice were a dark expanse, lit by stray clusters of city lights. Behind them was a quiet corner of the Lido, sheltered enough to hide their presence.

With a slow breath, Ian stepped into the water and felt his mind snap into the sharp, clear focus of a high-risk operation.

Nile had grown used to his new duties over the weeks. He appreciated his assignment and wouldn't trade it for anything, but it didn't stop him from feeling a pang of … something as the rest of the students vanished into the night for a practical lesson, while he remained behind in what had become the temporary Rider home.

He didn't miss it, not really. Night-time exercises were a study in misery for all that he appreciated the chance to test his new skills in the field. The island nights had been cold and wet over the winter, the ground muddy and the leaves damp. It was more the idea of it he missed. The chance to prove his right to be there and leave a favourable impression to shield him in the future.

Malagosto's silent housekeeper had already been by with additional bed linen and turned the couch into a makeshift bed with a brisk efficiency that would put most of Nile's fellow students to shame. The children were long since asleep, the lights lowered as the evening grew late.

Nile had brought out his homework. Helen had brought out material on her own – notes on resistance to interrogation, based on the glimpse Nile got of it.

Another part of Malagosto that, like the practical exercises, would soon return to normal. Another thing that Nile's assignment had postponed for him. He accepted the necessity of the RTI course but no one looked forward to it, and he wasn't sure if he would have preferred to simply get it over with and not have to wait for the inevitable instead.

Then again, a month ago Dr Three had still been in charge of the RTI training. Perhaps it was better like this. Helen was – kinder. Pragmatic, but without the sadist's edge of the Doctor. She would want him to survive and succeed.

The woman in question glanced over.

"Homework?" she asked quietly.

"Logistics." It wasn't part of the curriculum, either. Someone had deliberately decided to add it to his coursework, and all Nile could do was try to keep up.

"Ah."

It was a sympathetic sound, like she understood the sort of headache that one word could bring. She probably even did. There had been no one to handle logistics for them when Hunter and Cossack worked freelance, and as involved as she had been in their work, she'd probably had a hand in that as well.

It would have been one more skill to support her husband and adopted son. One more skill to help keep her children safe if they had to run.

The thought left an unpleasant feeling in his chest and he looked away before he could be forced to examine it.

He wouldn't begrudge Alex and Matilda that they had a guardian able to protect them at least a little. Once, he would have. Now, older and trained in a way he hadn't been as a child, he knew it was far better to turn his resentment to pampered classmates unaware of their sheltered upbringing than to young children that had already learned the realities of the world not much older than Nile himself had.

Might made right, and strength was survival, and if you weren't strong enough, you either found something else to make yourself valuable or you died. There were no other options. Helen Rider understood that, and so did her children.

Nile let out a slow breath and opened his folder to the first of the worksheets.

Ian's first step onto Malagosto was on the rocky shore on the eastern side of the island. It was little more than a narrow strip of mud and stones but easier and less conspicuous than trying to scale the walls that supported the foundation of the island. It also put them closer to the large bell tower that served as an ever-present waypoint in unfamiliar terrain.

They kept the dry suits on with no time to change, but other things had to be done. Socks, boots, discarding the SCUBA gear where it wouldn't immediately be noticed – in a bag and slipped into the water to sink to the bottom – weapons and the rest of their equipment and -

- Only then, geared up for a tactical assault, did it really sink in what they were about to do. Feel real in a way it hadn't before, in the bright green world of night vision.

The narrow, artificial shore squeezed in between the darkness of the water on one side and the trees on the other could have been any of a hundred different places. Still, something about the island felt distinctly different. There was a sense of foreboding to the place, like they were watched by unseen eyes and the island itself disapproved of their arrival.

To someone like Ian who knew exactly what the place was, the silence felt unnatural and oppressive. Somewhere nearby were the students and security and very likely several of the instructors, and all Ian and Yassen had to counter that was night vision goggles and the sheer audacity to waltz right in and hope they were mistaken for someone who belonged there.

No one was dumb enough to assault Malagosto, much less with only two people. No one would look at them and assume it was an attack rather than two particularly enterprising students trying to prove themselves in a practical setting. That was the only thing they had going for them now.

Yassen gestured silently, familiar with the island, and Ian followed. Their landing spot had brought them close to the tower but there were still several obstacles in their way.

The slippery rocks on the shore gave way to dense bushes and trees. The island was surrounded by a narrow strip of forest that had almost certainly been planted for that exact reason, and by the main buildings decades of nature had been allowed to grow wild to create a natural defence against unwanted attention. Narrow paths controlled any approaches, and the dense wall of plants made it hard for any larger military force to move around without drawing attention. It was doable for the two of them, but a SAS troop or similar … it would get exponentially harder fast.

Fifteen yards past the shore and they hit the fence, deliberately out of sight from curious eyes. It was nothing special and it took only a minute to cut an opening, most of the time spent working around the bushes and branches that had more or less grown to become part of the metal wire. It was meant to stop curious outsiders, nothing more.

The ground was slippery beneath Ian's boots. The heavy smell of decomposing leaves and wet soil clung to everything around them, and it was slow work to make their way through the wall of branches, large and small, that had been entangled in the abundant vines after years left to their own devices. They could have done it faster but not silently. Not unnoticed.

Another painfully slow sixty yards in a large circle to avoid getting too close to the monastery, quiet and careful and unseen. Then the forest abruptly ended, and out of the darkness came the solid wall of the bell tower like it had materialised out of nowhere.

Up close, the structure looked unnervingly unstable. The sensation that the tower wasn't just looming but about to physically topple right on top of them was so strong that Ian had to force himself not to keep glancing upwards for any movement.

Logically, the tower had stood for centuries. SCORPIA had reinforced it and deliberately kept its appearance. It would stand for another few minutes until they triggered the explosives. The reptilian part of Ian's brain that recognised danger on a level he couldn't even explain still insisted that he should absolutely leave right now and no amount of logic could convince it otherwise.

Benedicta tu in mulieribus,

et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus.

Ian took a slow breath. Forced himself to think about Latin grammar until the simmering panic eased. Then he focused on the carefully practised steps of their plan again as Yassen took off his backpack and brought out several blocks of explosives that were placed with quick, efficient motions.

The tower leaned slightly inwards and to the left, away from their current position. Would the angle make it collapse into the monastery, or would the damage from the explosives destroy enough of the foundation that it would collapse into the forest? Ian didn't have the experience to do that calculation on the spot, but either way the distraction would be significant.

Charges set, they vanished in the cover of the forest again. It had been less than three minutes in total out in the open, hopefully brief enough that no one had seen them. There had been no visible cameras but that meant nothing, and neither did the lack of any alarms. For all Ian knew, their operation could have been blown already and they wouldn't know until Malagosto's security forces descended upon their location.

They retraced their path to the fence, then turned and followed the thin strip of forest in a wide arch along the eastern side of the main island.

It was a long detour to reach the student dorms but it was the only way to stay out of sight. The small bit of open space they would need to cross to reach the door would be risky enough; to cross the wide open heart of the island would be suicide.

A hundred yards saw them mostly clear of the imposing walls of the old monastery, at least enough that they had a clear view of anyone who approached them. A hundred and fifty brought them close enough to the small canal that separated the larger main island from the slightly smaller, northern one that they could track any approaches from that direction as well.

Two hundred yards, and their forest cover ran out to be replaced by the fifty yards of open ground that separated them from their target.

The building that housed the student dorms was new but looked as dilapidated as the rest. On one wall, Ian caught the distinct shape of a surveillance camera next to another one that could only be a night vision camera.

It was not a surprise. They had known they would not be able to get to the buildings undetected. The trick was to look like they belonged and Yassen's confident walk as he stepped into the open was the best camouflage they had.

Ian followed his lead with the same easy confidence and with every step he expected the alarms to go off.

Nothing happened. The night remained silent and still, with even the wind no more than a whisper among the leaves.

There had been a time, young and desperate to prove himself, when he would have resented the secondary role. To allow someone else to take the lead, much less someone like Yassen Gregorovich.

Now, he would take every advantage he could get. Stroking his own ego was pointless if it got them all killed.

"Third window on the second floor."

Yassen's voice came clearly through the earpiece and Ian risked a glance upwards.

He was right. Large, dark windows everywhere, except for one. The dorms housed only the students – or had, at least, during John and Yassen's time at the school. That left hopefully only one option for the soft light that escaped along the edges of the curtains.

SCORPIA could have chosen to keep the kids elsewhere but the single lit window made it increasingly likely they had been right. That the dorms had been the best place anyone had for hostages allowed more freedom than most would have been granted.

It was also late, past midnight, and hopefully that meant someone was there with Alex and Matilda. Not John, several countries away, but possibly Helen. Someone able to protect them and make sure they wouldn't be alone in the middle of it all.

They had no idea of the sort of security they would face at the door, and so they had prepared for most things. Worst case, if someone actively watched them, they would have maybe twenty seconds to get inside before it drew unwanted attention. Most likely no one would watch that closely but the risk was there.

The ground beneath their boots turned from uneven grass to concrete. They followed the winding pathway around the corner until it reached to the low stairs to the single entrance. Two steps up gave them their first glimpse of the lock and -

- For the first time since he stepped into the water, Ian felt a small, treacherous flicker of hope.

SCORPIA could have played it safe. Could have decided to throw every bit of security possible at the building, could have decided that a welcoming atmosphere for their hand-picked killers mattered less than the risk an undercover agent would pose.

They hadn't. The student dorms were more fancy hotel than prison and the lock matched that.

Twenty seconds would be enough.

It was past midnight when Helen emptied her cup of coffee. Nile watched as she put the cup down with a soft, tired sound.

The pile of papers on the table was – significant. Less than it had been but still plenty of work. Nile's own homework looked better but it was Malagosto. There was always more to learn.

Helen looked indecisive. Then she got up and began to prepare another pot of coffee with the same gentle, efficient motions Nile had grown used to. A little slower than usual, maybe, but they were both tired.

"You should get to bed," she told him quietly. "Morning classes haven't been cancelled."

The coffee machine that came to life with a particularly sluggish gurgle left no doubt that bedtime for her would not be for several more hours.

For a moment Nile was tempted. The extra sleep would be nice but sometimes, life at Malagosto was also about learning when, where, and how you could cut the corners you needed to keep up because that was the reality of field work sometimes.

Extra sleep now meant more work later. Sometimes, the long nights were worth it.

"They expect all of us to be sleep-deprived wrecks tomorrow," he admitted. "I'll gain nothing by being rested, but I'll be grateful later for the homework I have time to do now."

Helen didn't try to change his mind but just nodded. Another small reminder that she was familiar with their world in a way most civilians weren't. That she understood the pressure everyone at the school was under and the lengths they would all go to if it helped them graduate.

Her husband and adoptive son had done the same, after all.

"Coffee?" she asked instead.

"Please." Nile had never liked the taste of it but it had been a long time since he'd had the luxury to decide such things based on taste.

A second cup joined hers on the counter. Silence settled, surprisingly comfortable as they both took a small, stolen break from work.

The coffee machine, now fully engaged in its task, filled the stillness of the room with admirable enthusiasm.

Nile glanced at his homework and tried to decide if his time was better spent on Ross' diagrams or logistics, and -

- their peaceful little bubble was broken as someone knocked on the door.

They glanced at each other. It was past midnight and the rest of the school was busy. Nile could only think of a few reasons why someone would be outside their door at that time, and none of them were good. It had been made clear that he would remain with the Rider family for the night. If someone had changed their mind, or if it had been their intention all along to deliberately throw him into the middle of the exercise with no warning as a test …

Nile didn't sigh as he got up, but the temptation was there. Based on Helen's sympathetic look, she knew exactly what he was thinking, too.

Well. At least he got some hours to get ahead on his homework.

Ian had questioned the approach when Yassen had suggested it. It was Malagosto, part of SCORPIA's paranoid, beating heart – no one would be stupid enough to simply open their door because someone knocked.

Except, as Yassen had pointed out, they would have little reason not to. Malagosto was also a school, and instructors and staff would drop by often enough with additional material or simply to discuss the student's progress that a visit would raise no concerns. Even in the middle of a situation like the current one, whoever was in the room was unlikely to get suspicious.

Assuming, of course, nothing had changed since Yassen and John's time there.

The hallway in the student building was silent and the light dimmed for the night. There were cameras at either end of the hallway but hopefully no one was watching. The doors were perfectly anonymous, dark wood with only a number to tell them apart, and the design could have belonged in any of a dozen of the nicer hotels Ian had visited over the years.

Three doors down, Yassen stopped. Ian settled on one side of the door, Yassen the other and then, with all the casual confidence in the world, he reached out and knocked.

One second. Two. Three. Four -

Silence. So loud Ian could feel it press against his mind, ears strained to pick up any sound, anything at all.

Sancta Maria, Mater Dei,

ora pro nobis peccatoribus -

Was it the wrong room after all? Had the layout changed? They had no way to know.

- Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen -

There were no sounds, no movement, nothing. If whoever was inside had been in the middle of something on the downstairs level, it could be half a minute or more before they got a response.

- Eighteen. Nineteen. Twen-

The door opened, the glimpse of an unfamiliar figure – male, adult, not Helen – and Yassen moved.

He grabbed the man by the arm and pulled him off-balance in a single, sharp movement – immobilise, not kill – then forced the door open the rest of the way and pushed them both inside; Ian half a step behind with his gun raised.

They didn't want gunshots, the attention that would draw would be a death sentence, but if they had to gain control of the situation, if there were more hostiles inside -

Yassen forced the figure to the ground – young, in Malagosto's student uniform, with no easily accessible weapons, because this was the dorms, this was supposed to be safe -

- Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae -

- And then there was the sound of movement on the stairs, a flash of blonde hair, and Yassen looked up -

- And in the flicker of distraction, the student took his chance and reached for one of Yassen's guns with inhuman reflexes.

Ian responded on instinct alone; knife in hand and already in motion to handle the threat even as Yassen grasped the student's wrist and forced it away in a single sharp, vicious twist and -

- Helen's voice cut through the air.

"Stop!"

- Amen.

Chapter Text

Nile froze from ingrained instincts alone – this is Malagosto and you always follow orders; your obedience is your life and don't make us regret this chance – and, impossibly, so did the two unknown attackers.

For a second, the world stood still.

Nile didn't dare move, barely even dared breathe, nothing that would draw attention back to him. His wrist throbbed; probably sprained, not broken, but useless in a fight. He had lost his one chance to get to a weapon, and it was painfully clear that the slightest wrong move would get him killed.

Then there was movement to the side and Nile's attention shifted to the large bed. Alex had scrambled up against the wall, Matilda pressed behind him, as far away from the door as possible. He was wide awake but – it wasn't fear in his eyes, but impossible, desperate hope.

"Jamie?"

Soft, pleading, but absolutely certain, and Nile's eyes snapped back to the figure that had him pinned.

In dark clothes and masked, it should have been impossible to identify the figure at a glance but there had been no doubt in Alex's voice. This was his brother. Was Cossack. Hunter's student and one of the best killers in the world.

Nile carefully did not tense. Did not move. Did nothing that might draw Cossack's attention back to him with likely lethal results.

The situation had turned abruptly from bad to worse. Even on his own, Cossack would have been a lethal opponent. With backup and the ability to infiltrate Malagosto itself in what was obviously a rescue mission – against that, injured and unarmed, Nile did not care for his odds.

There was no one else in the building, that was the reason he was there in the first place. It would be hours before the rest of the students returned, and Cossack had to know it. He was too skilled not to.

"Get dressed," Cossack said to Alex, the first words Nile had heard from him. "We have little time."

No accent of note, no nationality to pin on him, nothing that could be used to track him down. Everything Malagosto tried to teach them.

A normal child would have asked questions. Alex, pale and grim-faced, just nodded instead. Trained, like all of them had been, though his training had probably been very different from Nile's own childhood curriculum.

The boy scrambled for clothes while Helen did the same for Matilda, the girl tired and confused from the abrupt awakening as she murmured something incoherent into her mother's shoulder.

"I know," Helen murmured back. "But we have to leave, baby. We have to go."

This was not the first time they had been forced to escape with no warning, Nile knew that. This was something trained and tested under live fire. In another place, with less cautious people, such a situation might have provided the chaos and single chance Nile would need to escape. Instead, all he could do was wait for Cossack's next move.

Stay silent, stay still, don't draw attention. Every second he remained alive was another second to find a way out.

His knife remained in its ankle holster, too hard to reach unnoticed. Malagosto's guns were locked away at the shooting range, and Nile had wasted his one chance to grab Cossack's. Physical combat was the last, unwanted resort when one arm was effectively useless.

All Nile could realistically do was play for time and hope another option somehow showed up.

He didn't recognise the second attacker, but that was little surprise. In a black dry suit and with most of his face covered by a mask, there was little to identify him. It was not Hunter, not with the man elsewhere in Europe, and that left no other obvious options. Cossack was not known to work with others.

Alex was dressed by the time Helen had managed to get Matilda into her shoes and a jacket, still in her night clothes. Helen herself took only a few seconds longer to slip on her jacket and find her own shoes. Yermalov would have approved of the efficiency.

"Go with Abydikos," Cossack told her. "I will be right behind you."

It was not a name Nile recognised, but Helen froze in her tracks, Matilda held tightly in her arms. Sharp eyes focused on the man and whatever she was looking for, she apparently found it.

No names, nothing identifying. Just a brisk nod. Then she glanced down at Nile, and whatever he had expected to see in her eyes, empathy wasn't it.

"And Nile?" she asked. There was something deliberate about the way she spoke his name -

- Do not call a target by name, that makes them human, makes it personal -

- And Cossack's grip tightened fractionally, a clear warning to Nile that he knew better than to test.

"Go with Abydikos," he repeated. "We don't have much time. I will be right behind you."

Because Cossack didn't want any witnesses, no one to sound the alarm, and he didn't want the children to watch it. Of course he didn't, and it shouldn't be a surprise – and it wasn't, that was what Nile would have done, dispose of any liability before it could be used against him – but it still made adrenaline surge; bright vivid panic -

- no escape, no way out, he was going to die and he couldn't even fight it, and Malagosto was supposed to make him stronger than that, help him survive -

- and -

- Helen's expression hardened, and she was no longer the harmless civilian but the woman who had taken over the Doctor's lessons.

"Nile is an eighteen-year-old orphan and already marked by Rothman. He had nowhere else to go."

Nile's pulse was the thunder of drums in his ears and his wrist throbbed with every frantic heartbeat, but he hardly even dared breathe with Cossack's focus on Helen instead of him and the words that he could barely make sense of but which sounded impossibly like a defence of him.

"Then it will be a mercy. SCORPIA will kill him for his failure. He would be fortunate if they make it swift."

The words felt like a death sentence and – Cossack was right. Because Nile had been responsible for the Rider family. Mostly to ensure they didn't try anything but now he would be held accountable for their escape. SCORPIA wouldn't care that he was one unarmed student against two trained operatives, because someone had to pay for that failure and he was expendable.

Maybe Cossack was right. At least a knife in skilled hands would be fast. He wouldn't have time to prolong it.

Helen didn't move.

"He watched Alex and Matilda when I couldn't. He protected them and cared for them as much as he was allowed to. When I couldn't be there for them, he was."

Because – well. Nile wasn't sure, in that pain-filled, panicked haze. Because it had been a way to make himself valuable to those on the island that controlled his life and future. Because they didn't belong in that world at their age and neither had Nile. Because Nile was alive because others had taken pity on him and taught him to survive, and those were the lessons he could pass on. Not the polished training they had already been given but the feral drive to survive at any cost.

Abydikos shifted restlessly but he didn't speak, and Cossack's eyes were only on Helen.

"… You want to bring him with us." Statement, not question, and Nile could get nothing from his tone of voice.

The words made no sense but Helen did nothing to refute them.

"Yes." There was nothing in her voice but utter conviction.

"You would trust him? One of Malagosto's loyal weapons?"

"I trusted you," she said softly. "And I've never regretted it a single day."

There was no chance he got out of the room alive now and Nile knew that. He'd heard too much, too many personal things, too much that might be used to target them. Hunter and Cossack had not survived by being careless.

Cossack's attention returned to him with the sharp, assessing gaze of a predator and Nile wasn't sure if the annoyance in that look was better than the cold indifference of before.

He wasn't sure what Cossack was looking for, wasn't sure what was happening, wasn't even sure why. All he could do was lay still on the carpeted floor and count the seconds as they crawled towards – well. Nothing good.

You want to bring him with us.

It made no sense. What would he even do, if he somehow made it off of the island alive? He didn't speak Italian. He didn't look like a local. Venice was SCORPIA territory. He knew no one who wasn't involved with their business, and he was painfully aware of how noticeable he was. All it would do would be to drag out the inevitable, but he supposed they could keep their hands clean, then. Pretend they had somehow shown mercy. That they were better.

It would be kinder to simply kill him, then.

"It would make no difference. Venice is Mrs Rothman's," he said and at least his voice was steady. "I wouldn't even manage to get across the bridge to the mainland."

Don't make it a game. Don't make them hunt me.

He had seen it happen and he didn't want to die like that; hunted for sport by whoever they sent to bring him back.

"Yes, she enjoys the control she wields here," Cossack said and – at least the faint contempt in his voice was not directed at Nile. "The easy access to SCORPIA's future and first pick of those who catch her attention."

Like Nile had, he didn't need to say. Had she taken an interest in Cossack, too? It sounded too personal not to have a history there beyond – beyond the whole hostage situation.

Dangerous thoughts, of course, but what did it matter when he was already dead?

Abydikos shifted again, increasingly restless.

"Wrap this up," he said in posh, rich English. Nile didn't have the experience to tell the difference between one accent and another, but he knew it was someone who had been raised in a very different world than he himself had been. "We're running out of time."

Cossack finally eased his grip. Sharp eyes watched for any reaction from Nile and then he got up and let go completely.

Nile didn't dare move. He didn't know if it was a trap, or a test, or just Cossack engineering the situation to make it self-defence when he inevitably decided to kill him, but he knew better than to play along. Some games were best accepted to please a particularly sadistic superior. Some games were a death sentence. Nile had survived long enough to know the difference.

"You understand the seriousness of the situation," Cossack said. It was not a question.

Their situation or Nile's own. Either, or both. The answer was the same. His wrist throbbed even through the adrenaline, and nothing made sense, but at least that question was simple.

"Yes."

Steady. Even. He would be careful but he would not cower. That much he could do.

"Here are the options, then. You run, they hunt you down and make an example of you for desertion. You stay, they make an example of you for failing. I finish what Abydikos began and it will at least be quick." A pause, like Cossack hoped that he would somehow take one of those options and only continued when Nile didn't speak. "Or you remain with us. We will be out of Italy before dawn, out of SCORPIA's immediate reach by the end of the day. You will have time to decide on a future afterwards."

It was a trap. It had to be. Nile was a threat to them. He could turn on them at any moment. All it would take would be a second to get the attention of one of the guards. It would likely even be enough to turn him from a failure to an example of succeeding against overwhelming odds. Spare his life and see him pushed into a successful career.

And all he would have to do was agree and wait for a chance. Cossack knew this.

It was a trap. He should refuse to play along, tell Cossack to get it over with and -

"… Why?" he found himself asking instead.

Because Helen Rider had decided it? They could be discovered at any moment. Why had they risked the argument in the first place?

"Because nine years ago," Helen said softly, quietly, like she was talking to a skittish animal and he couldn't even muster the anger to be offended, "Hunter took in another assassin not much older than you. Another orphan with no one left and nowhere else to go who had drawn Rothman's unwanted attention."

Cossack.

The man in question didn't move and whatever he thought about the reminder or the comparison with Nile, he didn't let it show.

Had it been like that for Cossack once, too? Nowhere to go, nowhere to run, and a mad risk because the alternative was death? It seemed impossible for one of the best killers in the world to have ever been in a position like that but -

- He hadn't been that much older. The instructors had reminded Nile again and again that he was their youngest student ever, younger than even Cossack, and how much of a privilege it was. How grand of an opportunity. Nile hadn't cared. He had only seen a chance to survive. Had Cossack seen the same?

There was nothing but death left for him at Malagosto now. Even if he ran for the guards the moment he could, Cossack would expect the betrayal and would kill him at the first sign of hesitation.

Nile didn't want to die. If he could get out of Europe, away from SCORPIA's territory – he had been trained. He was no longer just an expendable body that could hold a gun. He had a useful skill set now and he could make his own way.

He had been given another chance. He was not going to turn that down.

"Yes," he agreed. "Thank you."

Manners separate us from the animals, the Countess had told them with bored disdain. Courtesy. Grace. Gratitude. You're not savages, though I suppose I could be forgiven for mistaking some of you for such.

Always be polite to a superior, Nile had learned that lesson young. Be useful. That was how you stayed on their good side. How you survived.

Helen offered him a brief smile, then she was already in motion with one child in her arms and the other kept close. Cossack took a step back and made an impatient gesture.

"Get up. You remain with Abydikos. If you make us doubt your sincerity, I will handle the matter."

As blunt as Yermalov and about as personable but Nile was used to that and just nodded.

He had a sprained wrist and no useful weapon, and Cossack and Abydikos were limited by the pace of Helen and the children. Between them and escape was not only Malagosto and its security but all of Venice and its heavy SCORPIA presence.

Nile would have thought it an impossible operation but he would have said the same about infiltrating the island, too.

He could only hope that Cossack would continue to live up to his towering reputation.

Yassen had never actually considered what his arrival had been like for Helen. He had left SCORPIA in an impulsive need for answers, had found himself on Hunter's doorstep before he could really second-guess his decision, and – after that, things had moved so fast and changed so much that by the time it had all settled, he had been a new addition to the family and the topic had been buried somewhere beneath the entirely new life they had to adapt to.

Was this how she had felt, when Hunter had brought in an assassin barely out of childhood and asked her to trust him? When she had been alone in the house with him, with a baby in her arms and no way to defend herself or Alex if it had been a trap all along?

What had Hunter been thinking when he allowed it in the first place?

Apparently the same as his wife now did, nine years later. A result of repeated exposure to the Rider genes, perhaps, because it certainly wasn't common sense or survival instincts.

Ian kept the student – kept Nile, and of course Malagosto would have tried to repeat the success of Cossack – by his side and carefully angled away from the kids. They both knew the sort of threat he posed to all of them … and so, obviously, did Nile as he was just as careful to keep on the right side of Ian. To not accidentally make himself too dangerous to keep alive.

An unwanted complication but there was nothing to be done about it now. Their goal was to escape, everything else was a secondary concern.

The explosive charges were placed as they left. There was little need to consider their locations when their purpose was mainly distraction and destruction. One was haphazardly hidden behind a door, another shoved under the stairs.

A careful glance outside to confirm they were alone and then the real countdown began.

Infiltrating the island had been one thing; two adult figures that could be mistaken for students in the darkness. Now, with Helen and the kids along, a single look would be enough bring all of Malagosto's security down on their heads.

The centre of the island was too dangerous to cross, and the edge of it was a trade-off between the protection of the narrow forest and the relatively easier but exposed travel along the shore itself.

Alone, the forest had been perfect for their plans. With Alex and Matilda, the terrain would be too difficult to risk.

It was a brief, brisk walk to the treeline. Then the real challenge began.

"We follow the shore on the eastern side to the pier," Yassen said. "Are there any recent addictions to security there?"

They had gathered as much intel as possible during the wait but most of it was still years out of date. The question was mostly aimed at Helen, but it was Nile who responded.

"Surveillance, regular and infrared, primarily aimed at the water. The cameras are recent models. The perimeter is patrolled at irregular intervals along the edge of the forest, but I'm not sure how the practical exercise will influence the schedule. There is a secondary pathway that follows the outer edge of the fence and is disguised to blend into the surroundings. It is off-limits to anyone but security. The boats are kept under guard at all times, though there is a supply boat on a smaller pier on the western side of the island that I'm unsure of the security measures of."

It was the staccato beat of endless Malagosto lessons, of relentless repetition and sharp questions with no warning, and for a moment Yassen had stepped a decade back in time, to when he had attended the school himself.

He had asked a question and Nile, desperate to prove himself valuable, had responded like any operative would around a mercurial superior.

Yassen had been that person once, desperate to impress Hunter. It was not a comparison he cared to be reminded of.

"Mum wasn't allowed outside with us much but security didn't care about Nile," Alex said in an obvious attempt to explain and corroborate what Nile said. Helen clearly wasn't the only one with an unwise attachment to the unwanted addition to their group. "They let us go pretty much anywhere so …"

Alex shrugged.

So we explored everything we could, he didn't need to say because he was both a curious child and trained to look for any advantage he might find in a hostage situation. There had been no way to escape but that hadn't stopped him from exploring the island, anyway.

Nile had clearly done the same. Out of habit or survival instincts, but presumably both. No one ended up at Malagosto as a teenager if they had any acceptable alternatives.

What Nile said matched their own intel. The supply boat had already been considered and dismissed, its schedule too erratic to be a reliable option. Security was as heavy as they had expected. Malagosto had not survived through good fortune and political protection alone.

There were few good options, fewer still that would work with two children. To linger would do nothing to help.

"We follow the pathway, then."

It would offer better stability than the rocky shore, and a sensible amount of caution would give them enough warning if security did their rounds. It was also one of the few places that would be guaranteed to be free of any traps set for unwary students.

He and Ian were both armed. Gunshots were unideal but at least outside, it would be easier to evade the unwanted attention they would bring. Helen needed her hands free to carry Matilda, and Yassen was not about to put that sort of responsibility in Alex's hands. Not if there was any other option.

Nile … had his knife. Yassen would have preferred it if he didn't but realistically it would make no real difference. Malagosto forged living weapons and Nile was no less dangerous for the lack of a knife. An inland taipan was no less deadly for missing a part of its tail, either, but this one was at least intelligent enough to know it would be put down without mercy at the slightest misstep.

Yassen took the lead, most familiar with the terrain. Ian remained at the rear with their unwanted accessory close by. It was as safe as it could be. Of course, their original plan had not accounted for Nile, but Yassen had not survived a decade in such a line of work without being adaptable.

The pathway itself was almost hidden in the dense mass of bushes and plants that separated the shore from the trees but once Yassen knew it was there, it was easier to see. A thin strip of less-dense plant life, kept narrow enough to be mostly hidden by leaves and long grass but with the tell-tale signs of a man-made surface underneath. Not concrete or stone but suspiciously compacted soil, uniform enough to have been done by machine rather than regular use.

"Stay in the middle," Ian told Helen and Alex, voice kept low. "Stay as quiet as possible and be ready to hit the ground immediately."

Familiar instructions to Helen, who had trained emergency scenarios with Hunter often enough before. Slightly less so to Alex, who had been sheltered as much as they could afford, but still nothing new.

Matilda was pressed close to Helen, half asleep again. It was a small blessing.

Yassen did not allow himself to linger on the massive risks they were taking. Not when there was no acceptable alternative. They had been more fortunate than they had dared hope when Helen had been with the kids; now that Rider luck – the devil's luck, Hunter had called it – had to hold for long enough to escape.

The pathway itself was dark, with trees on one side and the water on the other. Yassen and Ian had night vision to guide them; the others were not so lucky. Another thing that would slow them down.

Their footsteps were careful and quiet. Nile was all but a ghost and Yassen recognised the training. For a second, he saw the image of the operative the teenager could one day have become under SCORPIA; the lethal grace and sharp competence wielded like the weapons they were.

Then it was gone and left only the present in its wake. Yassen focused on their surroundings again, trusting Ian to watch their backs.

Following the edge of Malagosto's main island, there were three or four hundred yards between them and the boat they needed. Unideal but not unrealistic. Security was heavy but it was, crucially, also fundamentally an island that had never faced a direct attack and so never had real experience with any vulnerabilities in that security.

The lock on the dorms had confirmed that. SCORPIA had allowed the school's needs to take priority. Yassen and Ian's plan would never have worked with a proper compound but this – this they could manage.

The silence was unnerving; memories of Yassen's own time a hazy mirage as they moved along the shore. From the outside, the island was much as he remembered it. It had been a decade since he last set foot on it but now, in the darkness, it felt like a part of him had never left. Had died, like the long-buried plague victims in the cemetery or Grant, whose grave Yassen had dug himself.

Yassen didn't know what alerted him but something made him stop between one step and the next in the knowledge that they were no longer alone. Instincts or the slightest sound that was somehow wrong among the whisper of the wind in the trees – whatever it was, he knew better than to doubt it.

A hand gesture behind him – company; hide – and a glance to confirm that the others had vanished as much into the tree cover as possible without making enough noise to draw attention. Ian had slipped behind one of the larger bushes, able to keep an eye on the other approach.

If Nile wanted to take his chance and turn on them, this was it. Yassen doubted it, though. To do so within Ian's reach would be a death sentence, and Malagosto's students were nothing if not opportunistic survivors.

Quiet footsteps moved closer. Not the cautious approach of someone who suspected an attack but simply a routine perimeter check.

Malagosto's security was good but fifteen years of relative peace had left it complacent, too.

Yassen struck the moment the target passed him. Armed, in uniform, but his neck was unprotected and that was all Yassen needed. Knife, one strike to the base of the skull and -

- Catch the body as it collapsed and drag it into the undergrowth, mostly out of sight from the path in the darkness.

Yassen removed the small headset from the target. He slipped it on and was greeted by silence. They had struck fast enough to avoid alerting anyone, but it was only a matter of time before someone spoke and expected a response.

It was now a running countdown.

Yassen didn't bother to retrieve the knife. A quick check revealed several on the target that he took instead, along with an extra gun.

"Clear," he said quietly.

For a moment he saw the ghost of Hunter in Helen's expression, the absolute willingness to see every last threat to them dead by any means necessary and without a flicker of remorse, and then it was gone again as she turned to keep Alex and Matilda on the side of her away from the dead body. Yassen would have preferred to shield them from the sight as well but they all knew it was unavoidable. If things went wrong, they would see far worse than that.

The pathway curved to follow the sharp turn of the shore which meant that they were halfway there. It had been added since Yassen's graduation but the layout of the place was familiar. They had run that same route a decade ago, they had just followed the inner edge of the woods instead.

How long was it before the guard was supposed to check in? To return to the security building? Most likely, it was a matter of minutes before someone sounded the alarm.

Every sound put him on high alert, any sign that something had gone wrong. The wind in the trees and the lazy waves against the shore. Their footsteps and Matilda's small, distressed sound before Helen soothed her with low murmurs. The hard ground and dead leaves and broken branches on the narrow trail.

Then the tree cover thinned, the bushes grew scattered and ahead of them the woods opened up to the exposed land that stood between them and the boats.

In his ear, the radio flared to life.

"Report." The voice sounded bored.

Yassen didn't bother to try for a response when he knew he would get it wrong. Silence could be excused with a technical issue. An unauthorised person – well. That was harder to ignore.

"Dávid, report," the voice repeated. Faint annoyance but not worried. Not yet.

Yassen took off the headset and dropped it by the side of the path. It wouldn't do to lead anyone straight to them if the thing was tracked.

"Security just attempted to contact the guard," he said. "We should have another few minutes before someone goes looking."

It was not what Yassen would have preferred but given the numerous worse alternatives they could have faced, he would accept it.

Ian and Yassen had gone through a lot of possible scenarios when they had planned their attack.

The most likely one had been the two of them having to escape with Alex and Matilda, which – with no backup and in need of every advantage they could get – would have meant putting the responsibility for his sister on Alex's young shoulders.

To find Helen with them had been a blessing in more ways than one and meant that now they had more freedom to handle the rest of it.

"Stay low and out of sight," Ian told her quietly. "On our mark, go for the closest boat."

Helen nodded. Her expression was grim but determined, and while she obviously had questions about him, her focus was solely on their escape. It was the woman that Ian remembered but a decade older and harder. Used to this world in a way that no civilian should be. This was Hunter's wife, Ian knew, not the sister-in-law he had danced with at their wedding. And based on Yassen's briefing, she was better trained than most MI6 agents Ian had worked with.

John had always been determined to be able to defend himself against anything. It would make sense he would encourage the same in his wife.

Ian handed her a knife and a gun, just to make sure she had some sort of weapon on her. There was little she could do with Matilda in her arms but she clipped them to her belt, anyway.

A glance at Alex got a second nod, confirmation that he understood as well, and in that moment he looked so much like John had at that age that Ian was back in England, when it was the two of them against the world.

A lot had happened in a decade. Ian only hoped he would get to see the next one pass in person.

That only left the issue of Nile.

Nile, who had followed Yassen's instructions to the letter and stayed by Ian's side, as far away from Helen and the kids as possible. Not harmless, that was the sort of mistake that got people killed, but trying his best to be as little of a threat to them as possible.

The enemy that Helen had refused to let them kill. An eighteen-year-old orphan, she had said. Ian had already joined the army at that age, as had John, and Yassen -

- Yassen had been at Malagosto, too.

Something about that settled dark and heavy in Ian's mind. Was this how Helen had been introduced to Yassen? He didn't know the story but he had somehow – assumed that it had been a decision made together. After careful consideration. Based on her talk with Nile, it looked increasingly likely that he had been very wrong on that account, because there had been a whole layer of meaning there that he didn't have the background to understand.

Helen trusted him. Why, Ian couldn't even begin to fathom, but it didn't change the situation. They needed all the help they could get.

It was doable with two people, but three would make it easier. Would give them a better chance, if they could only trust him.

It wasn't a decision Ian wanted to make, but he did it, anyway. Slid off his duffel bag and pushed the rest of his explosive charges into Nile's arms. That had been most of the weight they had carried around.

"Remote-detonated explosive charges, flip the switch to activate them. The closest boat is our escape; get Helen and the kids there. One charge on the rest of them, doesn't matter where. Any left over, make them count. We will take out as much of the surveillance as possible and block security. You'll have some cover from smoke grenades but it'll be a temporary solution."

To Nile's credit, he didn't hesitate. His grip was a little awkward as he tried to spare his injured wrist but it looked secure enough that he wouldn't drop any. Good enough.

"Yes, sir." Quiet but steady. Good nerves under pressure. That was something, at least.

Ian emptied the rest of the bag. Added several heavy canisters to his belt as well as a second gun, then threw the bag to the side. They wouldn't need it and it would only slow them down. A glance up ahead revealed that Yassen had done the same. Canisters, additional weaponry, and another half-dozen explosive charges that would be split between the two of them.

Armour piercing rounds, for security and any surveillance cameras. Smoke grenades for cover and tear gas for additional defence. Both to be used with care, as none of them had any sort of protection against it – least of all Alex and Matilda – but while the wind direction wasn't optimal, it was … doable. Worth the risk, at least.

Yassen had kept an eye on their surroundings but joined them again as they got the last things settled. Glanced at Nile and the blocks of explosives in his arms but didn't argue, so at least they were on the same page there. Any additional weapon on their side was a useful one.

Three of Yassen's explosive charges joined Ian's supplies. It wouldn't be enough to stop pursuit but it would be enough to buy them the time to escape.

Hopefully.

"The wall by the pier will provide some protection," Yassen said. "If it becomes a threat to remain there, leave with the boat. If necessary, we will make our own way off the island."

There were alternatives, especially for two trained operatives. Not good alternatives, but better than to have Helen and the kids caught in the crossfire.

"Don't make us have to," Helen said, which was as much of an agreement as Ian expected they would get.

And just like that, they were out of time.

It had been a risk to argue for Nile's life. He was young, even younger than Yassen had been, but he was already a trained killer who had lived with Malagosto's relentless brainwashing for a month and a half.

He was also the one who had tried to give Alex and Matilda as much freedom and normality as he could and in a place like SCORPIA, that mattered.

That, more than anything, had made her speak up for Nile but it was the way he followed Yassen and Ian's instructions now, brisk and professional, that proved she had been right.

Matilda clung to Helen's neck, shivering in her arms and sheltered as much as possible by Helen's body. Alex looked pale in the darkness and far older than his years. With both of them depending on her, it was a relief to trust Nile to guide the way while she focused on keeping the two of them safe.

Yassen and Ian vanished into the darkness – Ian, Ian, and she still couldn't wrap her mind around that, that he was there, working with Yassen, with them – and she had to trust they could protect themselves. That Yassen's planning, at least, would not let them down.

She had no idea of what Ian even worked with these days. He was clearly trained and Yassen had trusted him enough to bring him on a direct assault on Malagosto but it had been a decade since she had seen him. A decade since she had heard a word about him.

It had been a clean cut from London and everything they had known. Anything else would have been too much of a risk. There could be nothing to lead back to them. No paper trail, no phone calls, not even careful inquiries through trusted contacts.

And now he was here.

It was something she would have to deal with later. Much, much later. Nile had kept them sheltered by the last, scattered cluster of trees and bushes but even that was about to run out.

They stopped.

On our mark, Ian had said. Helen trusted that they would recognise it, whatever it was.

Nile looked as unsettled as she felt, though he hid it better. For his own sake or theirs, though Helen suspected both. Malagosto did not take kindly to any weakness in its students.

A whistle pierced the night; a low tone that carried on and cut off abruptly, and Nile stilled. If Helen didn't already suspect it was the signal, that would have been the only confirmation she needed.

There was nothing between them and the pier but wide open grounds and – there was no other way. Nothing to do but to trust Yassen and Ian.

They were mere steps out of their cover when the first gunshot sounded. Helen flinched; heard the sharp crack of shattering glass somewhere above and ahead of them – a camera or a window, with the precision she knew from Yassen – and then Malagosto's siren tore through the silence as floodlights turned night to day.

It was a piercing wail that rose and fell in frequency in a slow wave; loud enough to alert everyone on the island and with the sort of sound that unsettled something deep down in the most primitive survival instincts of her mind. The heartbeat of some monstrous machine waking from its slumber.

Helen's instincts told her to run.

Clearly, Nile's did, too.

"Go!" he shouted, all attempts at secrecy done for.

Helen clung to Matilda as she moved as fast as she dared and Nile, three steps ahead, had put himself between Alex and the dark walls of the monastery.

Two more gunshot, the sound of something shattering, and then came the first wave of billowing smoke like a wall behind them.

Past hard ground and short grass, the concrete by the pier and -

- The jump was a risk but the stairs were too far away and the stones offered the shelter they desperately needed.

Nile moved without hesitation, twisted even as he landed to spare his injured wrist the worst of the impact. Alex followed a heartbeat later. Helen's landing was harder with the added weight and curled around Matilda, the impact going straight to her knees despite her best attempt to soften it, and she knew she was going to feel the pain when the adrenaline faded.

The four boats looked identical but their target was the closest to open water; a shorter escape and harder to block. They were all unnervingly exposed, never meant to actually shield someone, but – it would do.

Nile waited only long enough to ensure they were safely on board, then he was gone to carry out his own instructions.

The floor of the cockpit by the seats offered the best shelter from sight and any possible bullets. It wasn't much but it was better than out in the open, and Helen murmured quiet, soothing reassurances to Matilda as she handed her over to Alex.

"It's okay," she whispered and tried not to let the urgency into her voice. "It's okay."

Alex accepted her carefully and held her much like Helen had, arms wrapped around her as small arms clung to his neck.

"Mum -" he began but Helen shook her head.

"Stay down," she said. "I need to start the boat."

Training kicked in and – she'd hated it, how easily Alex followed orders and didn't question it, hated everything they had needed to teach their children that no child should have had to know, had hated it in Geneva and hated it now, but it also meant that she could trust them to stay. To not have to argue when there was no time and that half a minute might make the difference between life and death.

Above them, the haze from the smoke grenades thickened. They were right on the edge of it to Helen's estimate – nothing anyone's respiratory system should be exposed to, much less children, but at the bottom of the boat and away from the worst of it, they were as safe as they could be.

The console was a sleek, elegant thing with the sort of wooden finish that only too much money would bother with, but the instruments and the electronics inside were undoubtedly the same mass-produced things as anything else would be.

Helen checked the immediate surroundings for the key first – people are more stupid than you'd think, John had said, even trained operatives – and when that didn't yield anything, she resolutely grabbed Ian's knife and pried the ignition out to get to the wires.

They were partially sheltered from the increasingly hazy floodlights by the stone wall, but the darkness made it hard to see, and any sort of additional light would bring attention they couldn't afford.

It was different from the cars that John had taught her to hotwire for emergencies, with a simpler set-up, but the principle was the same. It was enough that between those lessons and the light she had available, she got the right wires stripped and ready.

She did not dare test it. Not when the sound might make someone realise what was happening.

The sound of gunshots had picked up; erratic bursts of fire that Helen couldn't pinpoint with any accuracy between the acoustics of the stone walls and Malagosto's buildings, but they were still safe for now.

She did not move from the cockpit. Did not let go of the wires. If the gunshots came too close, if they became a threat -

- Helen didn't have an escape route planned but she could at least get them away from the island. Keep them safe for long enough to meet up with Yassen and Ian again.

Down the pier, Nile was nothing but a silhouette flickering in and out of the shadows as he worked his way through the other three boats. Quick, efficient, and with not a moment wasted. If his sprained wrist slowed him down, she couldn't tell.

Too used to hiding injuries. Too used to usefulness equating life.

The smoke thickened and covered the island in a heavy smell that reminded Helen of fireworks. On one hand, it offered them desperately needed cover. On the other, it blocked their view as well, and along with the combination of floodlights in the darkness, it turned the shadows into monstrous, twisting shapes and made them effectively blind.

She couldn't tell the gunshots apart; had no way to contact Yassen or Ian, not way to know if they were pinned down or about to appear out of the smoke or if they were even still alive.

Behind her, Alex was still pressed close to the ground, Matilda held tightly against him, and if they got out of this, she was never letting go of them again. Never.

Nile reappeared from the haze and jumped back into the boat. Based on the way he never entirely looked away from the edge of the stone wall above them, he was as unsettled by the lack of vision as she was.

"The charges are activated," he said quietly. He didn't even sound winded. "They are hidden well enough that a cursory check will not reveal them."

Which meant that with some luck, no one would have the chance to remove them.

Helen nodded. Opened her mouth and -

- the smoke flared brightly yellow somewhere above them. The explosion came immediately after, loud enough to make her ears ring and it was close, too close for comfort and -

- then came the low rumble, growing stronger by the second.

Nile reacted before she could, pushed her towards Alex and Matilda in the sparse shelter of the seats, and -

- the rumble grew to a roar as something large and heavy collapsed somewhere beyond the wall of smoke.

It was a cacophony to Helen's senses, the gravelly quake of ancient mortar shattering, massive stones slamming against each other and splintering into lethal shards, and her own heartbeat was thunder in her ears as the last rocks came to a rest and ominous silence settled.

"The bell tower," Nile said and he was right, he had to be, because there was nothing else that tall and massive on the island. "That was the bell tower."

Had it landed in the monastery or had it collapsed in another direction? Had it been meant as a diversion used instead as a desperate distraction or had it been planned?

It would buy them time. How much, Helen wasn't sure of, but even if it hadn't managed to cause any significant destruction, it had been an unmistakeable warning. If there was one charge, there could be more, and Malagosto's security knew that now.

Flickers in the haze, someone running in their direction, and Helen felt Nile tense against her; going for the gun in her belt and -

- Then a familiar figure took shape and Helen put a hand on Nile's uninjured arm before he could finish the motion.

"It's Yassen."

Another figure that could only be Ian, both clearing the length of the pier in what was clearly a matter of speed over caution. Behind them, the smoke thickened and seemed to change colour, the darker brown of dust and debris.

Nile moved his hand away again. Helen shifted to pull Matilda into her lap and the distressed sounds turned into full-blown sobs in her arms. To her other side, Alex pressed against her. He didn't speak but she could feel the tremors in his body and hoped that every last person on that island burned for what they had done to her children.

The boat shifted as Yassen and Ian got in. Ian went straight for the console and brought the boat to life in a roar of engine noise and exhaust fumes even as Yassen untied the two ropes that kept them firmly trapped against the pier.

One rope hit the water, then the second, and Yassen turned to Nile in a silent demand for a status.

"All the charges have been set," Nile reported, voice raised to be heard over the noise. "One in each of the other boats, the rest on the pier."

Not enough to stop their pursuers but it would still slow them down. It was obviously good enough for Yassen, since his attention turned back to the pier as Ian pushed the throttle forwards and the full force of the engine came into play.

The smoke behind them thickened and Helen's eyes began to sting as they caught the edges of it. Tear gas, then. The gunshots picked up again – in open water, without the shelter of the stone wall, and all it would take would be a single bullet – and Helen reached for Alex, pressed him and Matilda against the bottom of the boat, as small of a target as possible and -

- The world behind them lit up like the sun, followed by the roar of explosions, so close together they might as well have been one.

The heat bit into Helen's skin, a wall of flame that didn't quite reach them as the remaining boats by the pier went up in a trio of fireballs. Then it was gone and left her cold and near-blinded as her vision desperately tried to adapt to night turned day turned night again.

There had been others; a dozen charges or more set off with no more than half a second of delay, and she scrambled to check on her children. Blind panic was followed by the overwhelming surge of relief as Matilda's cries were still I'm scared and not I'm hurt, and Alex had already pushed himself up to stare at Malagosto in wide-eyed shock. Nile by his side had moved to protect them as well, still shielding Alex where Helen couldn't.

Yassen risked a glance at them. Helen nodded once.

We're fine.

That was all Yassen needed, and he moved to the stern of the boat. If anyone could scramble the resources to go after them in that chaos, he would be ready.

Ian had already turned away from the island and set their course for what could only be the mainland. Nile shifted enough to let Alex sit up completely again and Helen did the same for Matilda, kept close in her arms as she sobbed into her blouse.

There were no gunshots following them, no lights from other boats. Just the roar of the engine as they cut through the water and for the first time, Helen dared to hope.

Above them, the smoke rose upwards and began to blot out the stars.

Behind them, Malagosto burned.

Chapter Text

The bell tower of Malagosto fell two minutes past one in the earliest hours of Tuesday.

The consequences spread like rings in the waters of Venice.

Malagosto had clear, detailed contingency plans for any number of situations, however unlikely. The instructors were expected to memorise all of them.

This meant that when the alarm tore Jet out of heavy sleep, it took only the few seconds needed to recognise the sound before instincts took over.

Check the door, lock, windows. Get dressed. Keep the lights off to avoid attention. Jet strapped her weapons on with brisk, confident movements in the darkness to the dulled sound of gunshots in the distance and the constant awareness of long it had carried on. How many bullets that had been fired on the small island.

Every second increased the probability that it was a large-scale attack. That it wasn't merely a small skirmish and an overreaction from security.

Jet had always believed that the island would be far more likely to be the target of sabotage than an actual military assault. Its location by Venice combined with the uneasy, unspoken agreements with the intelligence world – a targeted strike against their water supply or a strategic explosion would have made far more sense.

Still, the instructions were clear. Remain in their rooms. Do not engage. Security would consider anyone not in uniform a hostile and act accordingly. They were trained to respond and work together in the event of an attack, and any attempt to help would only get in the way of that.

They were simple instructions, easy to follow -

- and then the sharp blast of an explosion spread like a shock-wave across the island.

Jet's rooms were away from the main compound, connected to her greenhouses and with a sprawling view of the lagoon. Even then, despite solid walls and decent distance, the sound was overwhelming. The floor trembled briefly underneath her feet, like a distant earthquake.

Then the rumble began. Muted but growing stronger, the awful grind of stone against stone, and Jet's hand drifted to her gun despite knowing it would do nothing.

The cacophony reached its crescendo in a deafening roar of splintered rock and shattered mortar and -

- It was the bell tower. It had to be. There was nothing else that would make that sound, nothing else that was tall enough.

Stay in your assigned rooms. Do not leave. Do not engage.

Simple instructions but now it felt like a death trap. If someone had taken down the bell tower – if someone had not only attacked the island but brought enough explosives to plan for such a thing and consider it a suitable approach at all – then what would their next target be? How large of a force were they facing? What else did they plan?

The list of who would dare such a thing in the first place was short and none of them were likely to strike with less than overwhelming force.

Jet did not care for her chances against American or Russian special forces.

Right now she was – reasonably safe. There would be nowhere to hide if someone swept the island properly, but the rooms that were connected to the greenhouses were a well-kept secret that the students were not privy to, and she had not turned on any lights that might give away her location. Any attack would focus on the obvious targets. The old monastery, the dorms, and the connecting buildings. The greenhouses would be low priority, which would buy her a little extra time.

Then the world exploded again. Closer this time; not one but a dozen or more near-simultaneous explosions like the beat from a monstrous assault rifle, and Jet's resolve broke.

She crossed the room in a half-run, tore open the door to the greenhouses and was met by devastation beyond the glass. Billowing smoke and flames rose from the monastery and student dorms and cast twisted shadows in the waters of the lagoon and the narrow canal.

Someone had been able to get to the middle of the island unseen to set those charges. Had been right next to the buildings and no one had sounded the alarm until it had been too late. The students were somewhere in the waters off the coast of the island, based on the time, and security was fighting the attackers, and someone would die for this, Jet knew with cold, stark clarity. Assuming, of course, there would be anyone left to hold accountable.

The gunfire had died down. The silence that followed felt ominous and unnatural, like the island was smothered in an invisible blanket. Was that a good sign? A bad? Had the attack been repealed? Had security been overrun?

Jet stepped back inside her rooms and closed the door behind her before anyone had a chance to spot movements where none should have been.

What were her escape options even? Nothing in the contingency plans had covered anything like this. The boats were on the other side of the destruction, if they even remained afloat. She had her own set of SCUBA gear, but that was less than ideal as an escape route and would have been her absolutely last option in any other situation. Now, though …

Before she was forced to make a decision, someone knocked on the door – hard and urgent, but with a familiar rhythm to the sound.

All clear.

Was it true? Was it a trap? Either way, she hardly had many options available to her.

Jet opened the door to find the head of Malagosto's security outside, flanked by one of his men. That was – not what she had expected, and their grim expressions promised nothing good. Delgado, in Jet's experience, was not a man given to overreactions. He had not been put in charge of Malagosto's security through networking and nepotism.

"Ma'am," the man said. "We have lost touch with principal d'Arc. As per contingency plans, command reverts to you."

Jet had been left in charge of Malagosto before. Usually when the principal had business elsewhere but she knew her name was on those emergency plans, too. She just never expected it to be more than a theoretical thing.

"Status?" she asked, in part because she needed to know and in part to buy herself time to decide on a course of action.

"The principal is not in his room. Most likely, he was in his office at the time of the alarm. All access is blocked by rubble."

His office, which was now likely buried under several tons of stone if that was the way the bell tower had fallen, and if one of the secondary explosions had been aimed at that area, too -

- Well. Malagosto needed all available staff to secure the island and if d'Arc still lived, the kindest possible thing she could do was to leave him there. Heads would roll for a security breach of such a magnitude, and the principal would be first in line. Death would at least see him out of Three's grasp.

"The attack appears to have been a hostage rescue carried out by a small team, three people at the most, with the Rider family as their target. All of them escaped, the Riders included. The student that was left to guard them is unaccounted for but appears to have left with them. They escaped by boat and blew up the rest before we could pursue them. I have someone going through the surveillance tapes but most of the cameras were rendered useless by smoke grenades by the pier."

Not even a full-sized strike force but less than a handful of operatives that had somehow managed what should have been impossible. Heads would absolutely roll for that and Delgado knew his precarious situation, too.

Taking charge was a risk, of course, but for now Jet was one of the safest people on the island. Not involved in security or the night-time exercise, and valuable for her experience with running Malagosto when the principal was unavailable. Still, she was not about to risk that security by not living up to her responsibilities.

"Secure the island," she ordered. Her mental list of priorities was already updating itself now that she knew the true situation. "Leave principal d'Arc; we don't have the resources to spare to dig through the rubble. I want all students and staff accounted for, and keep the students isolated if at all possible. If there is any way at all that one of them assisted with inside information, I want them to have no chance to talk and coordinate their explanations. And alert security in Venice; we may still have time to hunt them down."

Personally, Jet doubted it, but at least it would leave on record that her first response was to alert all available assets to the situation rather than attempt to sweep it under the rug. Not that she had any incentive to do so when none of it was her responsibility in the first place, but it didn't hurt with proof.

Delgado gave a brisk nod and left with his companion to carry out her instructions. The continued silence around her felt thunderous, with the fires too far away for the sound to carry and the police boats yet to arrive.

Someone had not just managed to infiltrate Malagosto but also escaped with three high-value hostages, two of them young children. And it could have been worse than that. Had been, almost. Had it had been mere days earlier, with Three still on the island -

- That was not a thought Jet dared linger on. At least like this, the Board would have time to cool down from the initial, incandescent rage that this was bound to spark.

Instead she grabbed her jacket and stepped into the harsh smell of smoke and lingering gunpowder to take charge of the situation in the principal's absence.

At fourteen minutes past one, SCORPIA's security in Venice was officially alerted. By then, they had already tried to raise the island for ten increasingly tense minutes following the explosion that could be heard across the lagoon and the immediate alarm from the security team stationed on the Lido.

The news were grim; the consequences grimmer. No one had wanted to bother Mrs Rothman until they had no choice – or at least had more information and some degree of answers – but now it was unavoidable.

Corvo, roused from his own sleep at the first sign of trouble, knocked on the door to Julia Rothman's opulent suite at nineteen minutes past one. He stepped inside without waiting for an answer, one of the few trusted enough to be allowed such liberties.

Rothman was still in her bed but awake and plainly none too happy about it, and Corvo could hardly blame her.

She did not need to threaten the consequences that would follow, should he have dared to disturb her for anything less than a serious emergency. Everyone in her employ knew better than that.

"Ma'am, Malagosto has been attacked. It was a hostage rescue carried out by a small team, two to three people, of unknown identity. They successfully escaped with Mrs Rider and her children, with their student guard unaccounted for. Security has been alerted on the mainland as well but given that they have a fifteen-minute head start and the team was obviously trained, it is increasingly likely they will not be caught. Multiple explosions were set off to cover their retreat, one of which brought down the bell tower. Principal d'Arc is missing, presumed dead, and professor Binnag is in charge as per contingency plans."

Rothman stilled. Not the frozen image of a deer in front of the hunter, but a viper prepared to strike.

It had been a hellish two weeks for SCORPIA. The organisation still reeled from the attack on the executive board and while Hunter's strike had evened the score, it did not erase that initial failure. Rothman's physical injuries had faded but Corvo knew her temper still balanced on a knife's edge.

There would be no tolerance for failure, and Malagosto had just delivered SCORPIA's second public embarrassment in as many weeks.

Rothman slipped out of bed. Silk bedding pooled around her feet on the ornate rugs as she crossed the room to him, uncaring of her own nudity. In another situation, with another woman, it would have been sensual. From the embodiment of fury that was Julia Rothman, it reminded Corvo of being stalked by a lethal predator.

Corvo did not speak. Did not move. Did not dare look away. There were far more deserving targets out there that wouldn't live to see another sunset, and he had no desire to draw her anger.

"Find them," she spat. "All of them. Alive."

Corvo nodded. Alive for answers or revenge, either way it wasn't his business – or his headache. That would be the responsibility of Venice's security office, as would the consequences when they inevitably failed.

Rothman grabbed her dressing gown.

"Get me as many of the Board as possible on a secure line in fifteen minutes. Delegate it to whoever won't be immediately useful and have them update whatever underlings my colleagues have manning the phones at this time. I want them up-to-date and not have to waste time on that or whatever useless theatrics that would cause. And have transportation for Malagosto on standby. They have an hour to secure the area."

A heartbeat. Corvo hesitated, unsure if more orders would follow. In her current mood -

"Dismissed."

Corvo made himself scarce with the finely-honed skills of a Malagosto graduate in the vicinity of superior looking for a scapegoat.

Alex's eyes stung. The skin around them felt puffy and painful when he touched it, and the world outside the car had a watery sheen to it. Some of it was from the awful smoke on the island. Some of it was just – everything.

The roads were deserted. The world was silent. If the car's clock was right, it was one-thirty. Everyone else was probably asleep.

He was squeezed in between his mum and Nile in the back of the small car that had been waiting for them when they left the boat. Matilda was asleep on them, too exhausted to stay awake. Alex wanted more than anything to just – do the same. Sleep like she did and when he woke up it would all be better and they would all be safe, but there was too much in his brain and everything was too much and too little and too overwhelming all at once.

It smelled like smoke and gunfire and some sharp smell he couldn't recognise, but – they had managed. Had escaped. They just had to stay free now and then find his dad. Somehow.

Jamie drove the car; a familiar, reassuring thing. His mum was a comforting presence by his side. Even Nile was – safe in his own way, now. He had helped them when he didn't need to and Jamie and his mum obviously trusted him enough to bring him along, at least.

Alex glanced at the last figure in the front, unmasked now but completely unknown. Alex could see the similarities in the light that filtered in from the outside, the glimpses of someone that reminded him of his dad, but that was all he knew. A name and an appearance.

Uncle Ian.

Alex hadn't even known he had an uncle. His parents had never talked about family. About grandparents that had died before he was born, sure, but he knew he couldn't trust those stories now, not with everything else his parents had done to keep their covers safe. Never about an uncle. Never someone still alive.

His mum had clearly known him, though, and Jamie, and -

- I'm your father's brother, the man had said when they had arrived on land and the roar of the boat's engines had stopped. Ian Rider. Your uncle.

Alex hadn't asked questions and Ian hadn't offered any explanations. There had been no time, not when they were still so close to SCORPIA.

But – he had an uncle. An uncle who worked – had worked – for MI6 and was good enough that Jamie had let him help, and now he was there with them, and Alex didn't know the politics behind but did know with a sudden, sharp clarity that Ian couldn't go home now.

None of them could.

Helsinki had never been home. They had been about to move but Alex already knew whatever place they had been supposed to leave to wouldn't have been home, either. Geneva had been. He had grown up in Geneva, he'd had friends and known every nook and cranny of their house, had played in the garden and picked cherries from his place on Jamie's shoulders, and -

- They would never be able to go back. Not even to visit.

Alex didn't know what the plan was now; all he knew was that it wouldn't be home, either. A safe-house or a hotel room or – or something else, but not home. Not when they had nothing left. Not when every toy and piece of clothes they'd had was either in Helsinki or left with SCORPIA.

All he had was his family. He wasn't sure Ian even had that. Was there anyone else in Britain for him? Alex doubted it.

And Nile – SCORPIA would kill him for helping them escape and – he had no one else, either, did he?

Alex wiped his eyes. It just made the stinging worse and smeared the tears across his cheeks.

His mum shifted. Put a gentle arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer.

"Get some sleep," she said softly, barely loud enough to be heard over the sounds of the car. "We'll be driving all night."

Outside, fields and houses passed by as they continued down the mostly-deserted road. Alex wasn't even sure what direction they were going in, much less their destination.

Finally he nodded. Closed his eyes and settled against her as the vibrations of the car and the familiar scent of safety lulled him into exhausted sleep.

The last member of the Board connected to the call at one thirty-eight, exactly fifteen minutes after Julia's order. They were all present – or those that remained, at least. Six in all, with Kroll as the oldest among them now.

The attack on them had been an unforgivable strike against the heart of SCORPIA but perhaps, as Julia had come to conclude, it had brought opportunities with it as well. An executive board of such a size had made sense when the organisation was in its infancy and every contract was a hard-won struggle. Now, the necessity of a unanimous decision meant they sometimes moved too slow when speed was of the essence and arguments could take hours to settle.

Perhaps it was better this way. Yu's resources and networks had grown vast and useful, but his attention had increasingly come to focus on his own business. Grendel's age had begun to show – not to a degree that made him a liability, or Julia would have arranged for his retirement herself, but he had grown more cautious and settled. Greene and Chase, while younger, had never reached the same level of influence and power as the rest of them.

A board of six would still be able to control SCORPIA but would also be able to make decisions with far less bothersome bureaucracy to get in the way. If Kroll began to slow them down … well. In another year or two, he would be able to die of old age without damaging their reputation the way it would if he should die soon after the attack.

Kurst, as acting chairman, was the first to speak. Julia was moderately surprised to hear him reasonably calm but likely he had already taken out his initial displeasure on whatever prisoners they had kept around.

She would have preferred a video call for the visual cues but with both Kurst and Three in the field, it was simply not practical.

"If this is the level of competence Malagosto can manage in a crisis, perhaps it is time to destroy the problem at its root and start over elsewhere."

Well. Reasonably calm for Kurst, anyway, though she could hardly blame him. She'd had the same thought. It was bad enough that Nye had grown lax enough to be assassinated by one of his own students. With d'Arc's track record added to that …

"There is no financial reason to remain on the island," she agreed. "D'Arc is still missing, presumed dead, and the damage is enough that it would be reasonable to simply rebuild elsewhere. A new school with a new principal to ensure it lives up to the standards expected of it. The political aspects are more bothersome."

They couldn't be seen as running away and any exit from Venice would have to be handled carefully to avoid such an impression.

"Is the situation under control?" Duval, more impatient than his usual cold indifference.

The frustrations of the situation got to all of them, Julia supposed, though it was a nice reminder that she and the good doctor weren't alone in their dissatisfaction with the state of things.

"Binnag has secured the island. She will serve as interim principal while we decide on Malagosto's future."

Frankly, she should have been promoted after Nye's unfortunate demise, but Julia's esteemed colleagues had argued against a woman in charge of something like Malagosto. It had not been a surprise but still a reminder that sometimes, the only useful man was a dead one, unable to infest her territory with misogynistic ideas.

Perhaps this time Julia would simply use harsher means to ensure that the promotion was approved, generously helped by d'Arc's disaster of a tenure.

"Security has proven less than competent," Julia continued. "The attackers and the Rider family have not been tracked down yet."

And every minute that passed made it likely they would not be. The search area expanded exponentially as they waited, and they were all aware of it, Malagosto's security most of all.

"The attackers?" Kroll asked.

Fifteen additional minutes meant that at least there had been some updates in that regard. Security recordings had been checked. Theories had begun to take form.

"Unknown. One is expected to have been Cossack, based on the abilities and motivation necessary for such an operation. The second has not been identified but based on MI6's burn notice, the theory is that it was Hunter's brother. One student was left to guard the hostages during the diving exercise. He was brought with them and appears to have assisted in their escape under duress. Presumably Cossack has disposed of him elsewhere when his usefulness ran out."

One single student to guard Hunter's family and security that was lax enough to allow two trained operatives to make their way into the heart of the island and successfully escape with three hostages, two of them children. The evidence of d'Arc's incompetence was damning, and the head of security wasn't far behind.

If Kurst and Mikato weren't fantasising in graphic details about exactly how they wanted to murder the people responsible for the whole failure, Julia would take a vow of poverty and join a convent. As it was, she could almost hear the grind of Mikato's teeth as he spoke.

"Then Hunter has become a liability."

Julia could think of a lot of other, less polite terms to use for him, but she supposed 'liability' would do.

"He has served his purpose well enough," Three agreed. "Should his family be retrieved, his children would serve far better for any political needs. He has grown too used to independence to be trusted on a leash."

There was no realistic way to manage the fallout of the situation that would not damage SCORPIA's reputation. With Hunter's offspring available to them, perhaps some cover could be fabricated that their parents had been targeted by Hunter's enemies, but even that would not put SCORPIA's ability to protect its prized assets in a good light.

Assuming, of course, they managed to retrieve them. Julia had her doubts, and certainly with Hunter's little pet project involved.

There was a part of her that wanted Hunter brought back to Venice in chains and on his knees; to take her revenge for every slight and every insult and every bit of unforgivable arrogance out of his still-living flesh and bones, but the slight smell of smoke in the air, carried by the breeze all the way from Malagosto, was a reminder of the sort of dangers that carried.

Every moment they permitted him to live increased the risk that he would find a way to escape. SCORPIA could not tolerate another failure of that magnitude.

"Then we kill him," Kroll said. "He has escaped too many times already. Vermin should be exterminated before they spread disease, not kept alive to toy with."

Julia didn't roll her eyes at the unsubtle dig though she dearly wanted to. That was rich, coming from someone like Kroll who had kept prisoners around to gloat to before. A slow-working poison sounded like an increasingly appealing solution to that problem. It was never too early to plan for a natural death, and certainly not for someone of Kroll's age and stressful position.

Perhaps the good doctor had some suggestions as well. She doubted he had taken the comment any kinder than she had.

"The operative and the military assets?" Duval, practical as ever. It was always easier to rewrite the truth when the witnesses were removed.

"Expendable," she replied. "We used an operative with no connections of importance. The assets approved for his use were all replaceable."

To keep the infection from spreading, should Hunter get his insidious claws into them, but that went without saying. People capable enough to handle the operation but easily removed without raising unnecessary questions or wasting too-valuable skills.

Give the order to dispose of Hunter, then arrange for a debriefing of the survivors. Perhaps they would wonder about the reasons but they would know better than to question a direct order. They had been careful to ensure that any assets approved for Hunter's use showed no unfortunate signs of independent thought and initiative that might be used against them.

A suitably way to clean up the operation. They could work on damage control later.

"Does anyone wish to argue for him?" Kurst's question was rhetorical more than anything, spoken to satisfy the requirements of the acting chairman.

The silence was damning. Whatever arguments any of them might have to keep Hunter alive, they were not enough to outweigh the liability he had become.

"The decision is unanimous, then," Kurst said. "Exterminate the rat, kill all witnesses. We meet again tomorrow at noon."

The call ended. Julia glanced at the time.

It had taken six minutes to decide. What a refreshingly efficient meeting.

It was fifteen minutes to two when Yassen felt safe enough to call the anonymous number.

There was no greeting and he didn't need one. Merely waited for the sound as the voicemail began its recording and spoke the message he had composed during the drive out of Venice.

"John, it's Jason. I visited our old alumni and got into a bit of gambling. I put everything on white and won. Had a blast, cleared the house in the process, and made us a little unpopular, so I plan to lay low for a while in Monaco. Drop by when you get the time, I still owe you four bottles of Chardonnay."

It was as detailed of an update as he dared to give. For now, it would have to be enough.

Damascus' phone rang ten minutes to two. Few knew the number; even fewer would have reason to call it.

He had been fast asleep. It had been almost one before he had managed to get to bed. Even then, exhausted and disoriented and so done it physically ached, Damascus still responded before the third ring and rattled off his codes. The voice at the other end was unfamiliar as expected – male, gruff, with an accent that was impossible to identify with so little to go by – but responded with the right counter-codes.

The phone made a sound as the call was transferred. The voice that took over was male as well but sounded slightly more pleasant.

"Stand by for Mr Kurst's office."

The last haze of sleep was ripped from Damascus' mind in a jolt of adrenaline. The call and the codes had been one thing. He usually got his orders in person from some superior or another, but sometimes updates happened in the field and this wasn't the first time.

It had never come directly from the desk of one of the Board. Even in Venice, even for this operation, the orders had been given to Hunter, not to Damascus himself.

Another click. Another transfer. Another set of codes and counter-codes to follow but this time Damascus had to dig deep in his memory for them. He had memorised all of them as a new graduate because he had to, almost a full page of them in his file and some of them so classified that he had doubted he would ever hear them spoken but -

- Now they were. Sharp and clear in an unfamiliar male voice by someone who had access to the codes that were only ever meant for the Board's use.

"Damascus, code Tarsus, Amarna, Palmyra."

His mouth felt dry, half a dozen disaster scenarios going through his mind, because he had never been in contact with the Board before this operation and to have someone contact him on Zeljan Kurst's authority now, when they had received updated orders only a day before -

- There was no world in which that was good news. None.

"Confirmed," he said. "Knossos and Sais."

"Confirm location: Csepel. Status?"

Well, they hadn't moved since their last status update, so at least that part was easy. Status – what were the important parts that Kurst's office would care about? Why would they even care enough to ask? Damascus was used to analysing logistics but now he found himself scrambling for even that.

"Location confirmed. We have prepared to target a potential source of intel. We expect to be able to strike within twenty-four hours, before the situation destabilise further and we risk the intel being moved. All assets remain field-ready."

That was the important part, wasn't it? Short and efficient.

He felt like a brand new Malagosto graduate on his first job again, on unsteady ground and surrounded by more questions than answers.

"Operation parameters have changed. Hunter has betrayed us. Malagosto has been attacked through intel he provided. He is too dangerous to leave alive. Kill him, secure any evidence, and stand by for additional instructions. A secondary team will be dispatched to take over the operation. Confirm objective."

The words registered but they made no sense. Not Hunter's treason, not when his family was supposedly on Malagosto and he'd had no reason to lie about that. Not the way they were supposed to carry it out – they could simply have been recalled for new orders instead and cornered him elsewhere; there was no reason to risk that order at all when Hunter could easily have slept in the same room and heard every word.

Two weeks ago, Damascus would not have questioned it. Two weeks ago, he would have followed orders without question because -

- That was how they had all been trained. It was not their job to question their orders. Only to see them carried out to the standards that SCORPIA expected from them.

None of it made sense. Years in SCORPIA's employ still meant that Damascus answered before he had the chance to hesitate and invite questions he had no good answers to.

"Yes, sir. Objective confirmed."

The line went dead. Damascus put the phone down with a hand that carefully did not waver.

Snippets of a conversation returned to him, unbidden. Hunter's patient explanations and Damascus' own doubts and -