Fragments

Chapter 1

Estrov, Russia. 1980.

 

The clouds lay heavy and dark on the horizon, while snow fell in fat, fluffy flakes and settled everywhere. Outside, the world was white and glittered in a million rainbow colours as occasional shafts of sunlight sliced through the clouds. Gleaming drifts of snow were piled against the wall and Yassen could feel the chill through his fingertips as he rested his hand against the other side, while staring aimlessly around the room. The teacher’s voice was just background noise to him as he whispered in rapid Russian to the boy next to him. It was just another school day.

YGYGYGYGYG

A mile and a half away, Yassen’s father was reclining in his chair. His sharp blue eyes scanned the sheaf of paper he was holding and he leant forward suddenly to scribble his signature at the bottom of the page.

As he sat back, his eyes flicked up to rest on the faded black and white photograph of him, his wife and their only son. He smiled as he always did when he thought of Yassen, now a strong, happy, healthy fourteen year old. Still smiling, he bent forward again and returned his attention to the work in front of him.

YGYGYGYGYG

He didn’t see the three white clad figures prowling along the perimeter fence, low against the ground and far apart. The youngest, the most inexperienced, was in the middle, a young man in his early thirties. This was only his third mission, but he was impressing his colleagues already. They both agreed: John Rider was a natural.

The three of them made their way slowly and silently along beside the fence, and then ducked through the hole they had made the night before.

“Twenty minutes,” the eldest man growled. His face was scarred from a knife fight he’d had when he was younger and one eye was pulled down in one corner by the slivery tissue.

“Yes, sir,” John muttered, his army training surfacing briefly as he crawled away, heading towards the further building from them. The bomb in his backpack was unarmed – for now.

Moving quickly, he slid through the snow to the door. His gloved hand was wrapped tight around his gun and he made sure to stay low as he crept into the gleaming corridor. There was no one in sight – the snow had kept all security inside. They were probably watching the monitors of the few CCTV cameras he’d seen dotted around.

His booted feet were silent on the shining tiles and he almost ran along the corridor. The three of them had gone over the schematics again and again and he felt like he knew this building better than he knew his own house, so within a minute he was at the door of the room he needed.

He didn’t even glance at the Russian characters on the sign, pushing it open and slipping inside without a sound. No one in the room looked round. Dressed in white full body suits, they were completely anonymous and apparently had no idea that an assassin had just walked through the door on the other side of the glass.

He stepped quickly to the side and then dropped to his knees. As the men and women worked on the other side, he pulled his backpack off and pulled out the bomb. His hands moved quickly as they darted around the mechanism, making the necessary adjustments, and then finally arming it.

Tension knotted instantly in his stomach, but he pushed it close against the glass divide, checked the timer – 10 minutes - and then darted out of the door. He didn’t bother with stealth on the way out, but he didn’t see anyone and was the first one back to the rendezvous.

Within minutes, though, the other two were beside him, shaking snow from their suits and pulling him to his feet. They raced through the gap in the fence, and then vanished into the forest.

Seven minutes later, John’s bomb went off, followed closely by the others.

YGYGYGYGYG

Yassen heard it, sitting in his classroom, and was among the children who ran out to see what it was. The sky in the distance was black with smoke, billowing thickly into the air like a pillar.

He didn’t know what he was doing, but suddenly he was running. It couldn’t be what he thought it was. It couldn’t be. There were others alongside him, but he ignored them, preferring to concentrate completely on putting one foot in front of the other. It blocked out the other thoughts that were crowding his mind, clamouring for attention.

His lungs were straining and tears dashed from his eyes from the cold, but he kept running along the road, because he could see that the smoke was coming from; the plant. Where his father was. And his mother. He ignored the fresh tears that rose to his piercing, ice blue eyes – his father’s eyes – and sucked in another breath of freezing air, and kept running.

His heart stopped when he reached the brow of the hill and looked down at the carnage the plant had become - blackened rubble, and fingers of twisted metal that reached up to the sky like a dying man’s hand, begging for help that would never come.

And his parents were in there. A ragged cry ripped from his lips as he looked down at it all and he felt his legs buckle, pitching him onto his knees in the freezing slush that coated the road. A few other children came up behind him, and thin wails and screams filled the air, but Yassen remained silent, fighting for control.

Finally, he got uneasily to his feet and took a few hesitant steps forward. His legs remained steady and he made his way slowly down to the fence. His fingers linked through the mesh, and he remembered standing there with his father just days earlier, talking about his job in the plant. It suddenly seemed a lifetime ago.

 His heart pounded painfully against his ribs and he blinked back tears. This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t. A sob of angry denial choked his throat.

 “No!” He spat the word between gritted teeth and let go of the mesh, pushing himself back, away from the vision of Hell before him. Almost unconsciously, his eyes moved along the remnants of the building, coming to rest on the part where his father had worked. It wasn’t even there any more.

 It hit him then.

Sobs shook his body and he sank once again onto his knees, pressing his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to block out the realisation that washed over him, drowning him. His father was dead. There was no way he could be alive. Not after that. And his mother…

 A hoarse animal cry broke from his lips before he could stop it and he wrenched himself to his feet.

 “Hey, get out of here!” Someone yelled at him, racing past. Yassen ignored him, making his way slowly through the devastation. He knew where his mother worked, and he was glad to see the building was nearly intact. He forced his legs to move faster, propelling him over the uneven, smoking earth towards it.

A ragged line of women were stepping blinking into the open air. Some of them were injured, but mostly they were unhurt. But his mother wasn’t there. At that moment, something in his heart died. All the love and compassion in him vanished in an instant, as if it had never existed. They weren’t traits he would ever find again.

 Even when his mother was pulled, bleeding and burnt, from the building, he couldn’t feel anything. And when she was lowered into the frozen ground six months later, he couldn’t cry. Alone and with a heart that was as cold as the ground his parents were now encased in, there was nothing left in Yassen Gregorovich of the happy, popular fourteen year old he had been.

 

Chapter 2

Alicante, Spain. August 1994

 

The sun beat down on the hunched backs of the tourists in the street as they scurried from shadow to shadow. Locals stood in the shade of their stalls, calling out in halting, accented English. Girls sat in the sparse patches of shade that the trees provided, while chattering local women braided their hair into painfully tight plaits, forming delicate, intricate patterns.

 And through it all, Yassen walked. The crowds, tourists and locals alike, parted on either side of him, and then merged seamlessly once he’d passed. He seemed to deflect people, and they automatically moved out of his way without even realising it. He could have been invisible.

 If anyone had noticed him, however, they would have seen a slim young man, with a sleek, lithe body, clothed in a pair of loose jeans and a short-sleeved white t-shirt that showed to perfection the perfectly chiselled muscles of his chest. His hair was blonde and cut close to his head and his skin was pale, despite the bright sunlight. But they would have noticed his eyes most of all. They were pale blue; ice blue. And they were completely cold. Behind them, there was nothing; no glimmer of humour, no spark of anger. They were blank and merciless.

 They probably wouldn’t have noticed the knife strapped to his waist. Or the gun in the holster at his hip. They wouldn’t have noticed the rifle in the bag he carried over his shoulders.

 He moved swiftly through the press of people, ignoring the heat. It was just another factor in this mission, and one that he was prepared for. The building he was heading for loomed out of the heat haze that surrounded him, and he turned towards it abruptly, eyes flashing left and right, checking that he wasn’t being followed. Darting across the busy road, he vanished into the cool interior of the hotel and, his gaze whipping over each of the people in the foyer, sizing them up, he turned quickly.

 An elderly couple came in behind him, swerved around him, and then continued towards the desk, both leaning heavily on walking sticks. Yassen kept a portion of his attention on them for an instant, while his gaze remained fixed on the street outside. But no one followed him in and a moment later he turned round again.

 Moving lightly, he strode the length of the lobby, ignored the lift, and stepped into the stairwell. He climbed quickly, aware of the movement of the rifle in his bag. But he had made sure it was securely packed in, so he wasn’t unduly worried about it. Even so…

 He reached the roof with a few minutes to spare. The heat hit him almost like a physical force as he stepped out into the sunlight again. He paused, brushed a trickle of sweat from his eyes and then continued towards the edge of the roof.

 He wiped his hands on his jeans, hating the feeling of the sticky sweat on his palms, and then pulled the rifle out of his bag. The dulled metal barrel glinted black in the bright sunlight as he assembled the weapon. It was a lightweight rifle – a Beretta RX Storm, handmade for him. It fit exactly into his shoulder. Leaning it against the wall, he dropped to one knee and quickly thumbed three bullets into the magazine. It was less likely to jam if it had more than one round, and this way he had an extra shot if he missed the first time. He snapped the clip into place and stood up, lifting the rifle. He held it with the barrel pointing down and stepped to the edge of the roof to survey the street below.

 He had memorised his target’s face – naturally – and now he scanned the sea of tanned, squinting faces for one that was familiar. He laid the rifle down on the top of the wall and leant over it, his brow furrowed as he tried to find his target in the street below.

 There. A flash of dark hair, marred by three streaks of gold-blonde on the left hand side.

 Yassen could almost feel his vision sharpening as he zeroed in on the man in the street below. He was still about fifty or so yards away, walking along arm-in-arm with a girl of about eighteen. Yassen hardly spared her a glance as he picked up the rifle again.

 It was easy to straighten and pull the butt of the rifle into his shoulder. It sat naturally in his hands and his gaze shifted instantly to the scope. He could see every hair on his target’s head; the lines of sweat in his furrowed brow; his dark, watchful eyes flicking everywhere.

 Yassen stepped closer to the edge of the roof and aimed the rifle.

 Sunlight flashed up the barrel. From the street below, it would have been the merest flicker of light. A tiny glint that vanished almost instantly. But the target saw it. Head turning, he brought a hand round and pushed the girl behind him. His hand plunged into the pocket of his khaki coloured shorts, fumbling for the gun there.

 He didn’t reach it in time.

 The bullet entered his chest right above his heart, ripping through tissue. It passed into his heart, smashing a hole through it, hit a rib, bounced upwards and finally buried itself in his shoulder blade. His hand stopped, halfway through drawing the gun from his pocket, and he staggered. Not breathing, he half turned, feeling his knees buckle, and then he pitched forward onto the pristine pavement and, surrounded by screaming pedestrians, his sobbing girlfriend, and a spreading pool of his own blood, he breathed his last and died.

 When someone had the presence of mind to look round, trying to see where the sniper had been, Yassen was already back at ground level, strolling unconcernedly through a back street a few hundred yards away. The rifle was back in the bag and out of sight. A few hours later, he climbed on the plane that would take him back to the U.K., and Scorpia. To anyone watching, he could have been anything from a businessman, to a father returning home to see his kids. But his eyes were cold and hard, and to anyone trained, his profession would be clear.

 There was no one trained on the plane. No one suspected the tall, good-looking young man reading quietly of the killing in Alicante, which was all anyone could talk about.

 Three hours later, the plane touched down at Heathrow and he got off, following a family with two small children down the steps. His phone rang as soon as he turned it on and he answered it quickly.

 “Yes?”

 “Yassen, can you go to the Chelsea compound? You’ll need to file your report and that’s the nearest place. File name ‘Espana’, ok?”

 “Yes.” He waited for a brief moment to see if there was anything else, and then hung up.

 The drive to Chelsea was quick – there wasn’t too much traffic. It was the summer holidays and those who weren’t at work were on holiday with their children, eager to escape from the fume-laden capital. Yassen paid the taxi driver and pulled his small bag from the back seat of the car. The taxi instantly sped off, the driver grateful to be rid of the slim, silent man with the terrifying eyes.

 Yassen set his bag down on the pavement and stretched in the evening sunlight, his lithe frame bending with cat-like grace. Uttering a soft yawn, he picked up the bag again and then turned and walked lightly up the path of the large red-brick house. He could see the silhouetted shapes of the guards on the roof out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t look up. Moving quickly, he went to the door and knocked lightly. He opened it without waiting for it to be answered, and found himself in a wide entrance hall.

 The house had been a Catholic school until Scorpia had decided that they wanted it for themselves. A wide staircase swept away from the door to the left, scaling the wall, while the other side opened into a spacious corridor, flanked by multiple doors, each one stained oak, reinforced in the centre with titanium plates.

 He stepped forward, pushed the door shut with his heel, and then stopped. Five red dots danced over his chest before settling into one, centred on his heart. He looked up, eyes flashing with something close to anger. He heard the crackle of a radio, but couldn’t make out the words, and then the laser sights dispersed from his chest.
 “Mr. Gregorovich, my apologies.” The voice made him turn and his hand tightened on the gun at his hip as a young woman danced down the stairs, a guilty smile on her face. In her right hand, she carried a rifle. “We didn’t recognise you – it’s been so long since your last visit.” She grinned and tossed her auburn hair over her shoulder.

 “Donna,” Yassen said quietly. He watched her closely as she called one of the guards to come and relieve her of her rifle. She had always fascinated him, not that he let it show. She was just so out of place in this sombre, emotionless building.

 “You’ve come to file a report, I assume?”

 “Yes. An assassination,” he added. The reports were organised in order of what type of job it had been and she quickly pulled out a few pages stapled together.

 “Here. Use the office at the end of the hall on the right to fill it in. I’m afraid we’re short-staffed today, so would you mind dropping it down to the basement yourself? It’s all in alphabetical order,” she called over her shoulder.

 “I’ll do that.” Yassen watched her out of sight, shook his head slowly, trying to clear his thoughts, and then strode out of the office.

 The room Donna had directed him to was large and well furnished with a deep desk chair, mostly hidden behind the ebony desk, covered with dark green leather. The wide window behind the desk overlooked the street beyond, and Yassen knew that the glass was bulletproof.

 He settled into the chair and let the paper fall onto the desk. He picked up a pen and started to write. This was the only part of his job that he didn’t enjoy, but the thrill of the kill was well worth it. He described the kill and the circumstances as briefly as he could, but it was still over half an hour before he set the pen down and leant back in the chair. He flexed his hand, slender fingers forming into a fist before straightening again. He did it a few times, and then stood up. He rolled the paper into a loose scroll in his hand, and walked out of the room.

 He knew the way to the basement and walked swiftly down there, ignoring the few people he passed. They moved aside without a sound anyway, and to Yassen, it was almost like they weren’t there.

 The basement was unlocked, as it always was during the day, and he pushed it open easily. He walked quickly to the ‘E’ section and scanned along the row. His eyes flicked over each folder, reading the name… and then they moved back very slowly to read the last one.

 His heart sped up as he read the name again and again, unable to believe what he was reading. There, large as life, screaming Scorpia’s guilt, was a file that he’d hoped he’d never see. The one labelled ‘Estrov’. The file he was carrying fell to the floor at the same time as the first tear he’d shed in over a decade.

 

Chapter 3

Moscow, Russia. 1981. 8 months later

 

Bitingly cold, the wind whipped around Yassen as he huddled against the wall, his hands thrust deep into his too-thin jacket. Although it was mid-May, winter still held the city in an iron grip and Yassen was crouched in half a foot of snow as he waited, and watched.

His eyes were never still, darting ceaselessly up and down the road. Slightly to his right was a metal door, held shut with a heavy padlock. In his hand he clutched the ice cold key. A movement caught his attention and he got to his feet. A pair of men strode from between curtains of snow. One of them paused for an instant when he saw the slight teenager standing by the door and his hand slid almost instantly into his jacket. Yassen watched the movement carefully. The man’s companion shook his head and walked forward.

“We’re here to see Viper,” he said in English – it was the only language he had in common with Yassen.

“This way.” Yassen forced the words between frozen lips and turned to the door. Slipping the key from his pocket, he unlocked the door and stood aside to allow the two men to walk past him. There was a snap as the guard standing on the inside of the door pushed the magazine into place and stepped into view.

“This way, gentlemen,” he said politely, then he turned to Yassen and his whole demeanour changed. “Get out of it, kid,” he snarled in Russian. He reached out, aiming a cuff at Yassen’s head. It missed – Yassen had darted backwards, out of reach. He tried not to smile as the older man swore at him, pulling the door shut with a heavy clang.

Locking the padlock again, Yassen sank back down into the snow, folding the key into his hand and shoving them back into his jacket. He guessed he had another half hour or so until his watch ended, and then he could treat himself to a cup of soup, which was basically hot water, and then curl up to sleep in some unnoticed corner. Hopefully it would be a few hours before anyone came looking for him for a job.

But after about another ten minutes, there was a metallic hammering sound and he jerked out his frozen stupor to unlock the door again.

“In,” the guard growled.

Yassen’s replacement – a scrawny thirteen year old known only as Nix – was standing behind the guard and Yassen tossed him the key. He fumbled it and it fell with a tinkle onto the concrete. Before Nix could do more than turn his eyes downwards, the guard had dealt him a crushing blow on the side of his head, smashing him down to the floor.

“Pick it up!” He yelled. Nix did so instantly and then scurried out the door, casting a fearful glance back.

“Follow me.” He turned and strode off, Yassen close behind.

“What’s going on?”

“Viper wants to see you.” He didn’t elaborate, but those five words were enough to send Yassen’s heart into his mouth. Viper was one of the few people who could provoke an emotional response in the fifteen-year-old’s heart: pure fear.

After that he didn’t ask any more questions. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answers, and he followed the guard in silence. A group of men walked past, assault rifle slung across their chests. The Mafiya was big business and getting hold of weapons and drugs was never a problem. Yassen had transported drugs often enough. He hadn’t been told what he was delivering, of course, but he had learnt quickly enough what sort of jobs he was given. Mostly it was the kind that no one would expect a teenager to be involved in.

They stopped at the end of the corridor and the guard knocked heavily on one of the many doors.

“Come in.” Viper’s voice was soft and quiet, but carried clearly through the wood.

“In,” the guard repeated, opening the door a fraction and pushing Yassen through the gap. He stumbled slightly on something on the floor and almost fell, but caught himself at the last second, straightened, and looked around.

His eyes picked out the face behind the desk, and the gun lying within arm’s reach of the man at the desk. He noted the comparatively plush décor: leather sofas, panelled walls and a cheap chandelier hung from the ceiling. Compared to what he was used to, to Yassen this was like heaven. The chill was slowly evaporating from his skin and he realised with a sigh of relief that the room was heated. It was the first time he’d been properly warm in over half a year, since he left his home. He stopped the thought dead. He wasn’t going to look back again. He’d made that mistake once and had dissolved into tears, a barb of pain shooting into his cold heart.

“Come in, Yassen,” Viper murmured and Yassen obeyed without thinking about it. The man’s voice was almost hypnotic. “Sit down.” Again, instant obedience.

Yassen settled into the comfortable creamy leather chair, suddenly aware of his grimy clothes and skin. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d washed, and after so long, he was beyond caring.

“Sir,” he said quietly, raising his gaze and looking at the man in front of him fully for the first time.

Gazing curiously at Yassen over the desk, Viper’s dark eyes were intense, but somehow dead at the same time. There was a sort of detachment there that Yassen couldn’t put his finger on. His face was lined, but he couldn’t have been more than forty. Dressed in a dark jacket and trousers, he exuded power and control. Yassen felt awe sidle up to join the list of emotions Viper evoked in him.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“No, sir.” Even as he answered the question, Yassen thought privately that he would like to, one day, be like Viper. In control of his life, beholden to no one, not caring about anyone, because that was just another way of getting hurt.

The job Viper had given him was simple, but dangerous. He was to carry a bag full of knives halfway across the city and leave them next to a certain bin in a certain alleyway. There would be another bag there. It was a simple swap: the knives for the drugs. He knew he’d never see any of the money they made from selling the drugs.

“Do you understand everything you are to do?”

“Yes, sir.” Yassen stood up and, nodding shortly, he turned and walked to the door.

The guard was still stood outside and he caught Yassen by the arm as soon as he stepped into the corridor and, turning him roughly, he shoved him back the way the way they’d come. But instead of going back into the freezing concrete warehouse, they turned down a side passage and then through another door. The chill was starting to seep through Yassen’s jacket again, worse now that he had felt such warmth, and he shivered, tucking his hands back inside.

“You’re doing the knives job, yes?”

“Yes,” Yassen replied, purposefully omitting the expected ‘sir’. The guard shot him a glare, but didn’t comment.

“Here you go then.” A heavy bag landed in his arms and he clutched it close against his chest. Opening it a fraction, he saw the handles glinting dully in the light. The blades were thankfully sheathed. He zipped the bag closed again. Opening his mouth, he turned to thank the guard, but something caught him in the face. He grabbed it and pulled it free. Careful not to let the bag drop, he examined the thick material and realised that it was a coat, much higher quality than the one he wore now.

“For you. Viper’s orders.” With that, the guard turned and strode off, vanishing quickly in the half-light. Resigning himself that he wouldn’t be getting to sleep any time soon, Yassen pulled off his jacket, throwing it aside without a second thought, and pulled on the new one. Warmth enveloped him almost instantly and he pulled it tight around his slight, lean frame. Picking up the bag again, he walked to the door that stood ajar at the far end and squeezed through it. Snow clutched his ankles in freezing fingers, but he ignored it. Stepping past the teenage watchman, huddled against the wall, he started walking.

Malagosto, near Venice.

John Rider sat back on his heels and looked up. Julia Rothman was striding towards him, her hair perfect, her make-up immaculate, and her eyes glittering maliciously.

Forcing a smile onto his lips, John stood up, towering over her. His chest was bare, tanned by hours in the sun and he was all too aware of Julia caressing his honey-gold skin with her eyes.

“Mrs. Rothman, good morning,” he said graciously, stooping and sweeping up his discarded t-shirt.

“John,” she chided, “how many times must I tell you to call me Julia?”

“One more, it seems,” he replied, pulling his t-shirt over his head. He could feel the heat of the Malagosto sun beating down on his shoulders and neck, his close-cropped hair offering him no protection.

“How are they getting on?” Julia asked, coming up to stand beside him as he turned to watch the students toiling in the sand. They were rebuilding a mine and learning how to lay and arm them.

“Not bad. A couple of them would be dead if these were live, but that’s what the exercise is for, isn’t it? To ensure they learn how to it without blowing themselves up.”

“Indeed it is.” She moved imperceptibly neared to him, her smooth tanned skin brushing his arm. John coughed, using it as an excuse to move slightly away from her, putting an inch between them again.

“Sorry,” he apologised, glancing down at her. She was attractive, there was no doubt about that, on the outside at least, but he knew the woman that the beautiful, flawless face masked, and she wasn’t attractive at all. She was cold and merciless, without a drop of compassion. Even without Helen waiting for him at home, he would never have been tempted by Julia Rothman.

But her feelings for him were complicating things now. She wanted him, as one might want a prize or an object, only precious because it was out of reach, and out of bounds. He tried to be subtle about it, but she was becoming more demonstrative and he dreaded the day he’d have to explain that he had every intention of remaining faithful to his wife, even if it jeopardised his career.

He forced his thoughts back to the present and tried to focus on what Julia was saying. Something about recruiting new agents from the Mafiya or something like that. John wasn’t really paying attention. Half his mind was on Helen still, and the other half was concerned with making sure that none of his students made a mistake.

The tiny portion of his mind that was listening to Julia was sceptical. The Mafiya guarded their agents closely and, despite their relatively close relationship, John was sure that they wouldn’t be happy if Scorpia started trying to take their men. But he nodded and made all the appropriate noises to show that he was listening, hardly aware of her voice.

Finally she left him again, kissing him lightly on the cheek before walking through the hot sand, hips swaying seductively. He smiled at how clueless she was about him and turned back to his students.

Moscow, Russia.

The bag cut into his shoulders. His feet was cold and the new jacket seemed suddenly much worse at keeping him warm as the snow changed to sleet.

Yassen pulled the collar up and bent his head down, ignoring the wetness that instantly covered his neck. Cold fingers of water trickled down his back and he shivered.

He had pulled one of the knives out and he clutched it tightly in his hand. The weapon made him feel instantly secure, and he was sure he would be able to defend himself with it. He’d been in enough fights with the other teenage boys that worked for Viper, and even one or two of the girls, though they were few and far between and tended to keep to themselves. Fingers tight on the handle of the knife, he pushed a hand into the coat and pulled a folded piece of paper. The figures on the page were smudged but he could read the instructions easily enough.

It was just a few minutes later when he turned the corner into the alley. Counting quickly, he walked along the narrow strip of concrete, sandwiched between two towering piles of ugly grey concrete. Four… five… six. This one. There was the bag, as promised. He bent and picked it up, switching it for the one he carried over his shoulders. Unclenching his fist with an effort, he dropped the knife he’d removed back into the bag and zipped it shut.

Holding the new bag against his chest, Yassen turned and started to wade back along the alleyway, forcing his way through thigh-deep snow – it was deeper here, the vicious wind had whipped it into drifts that were almost as tall as him. He couldn’t remember a colder, longer winter. But then, he’d never been living on the streets before and he’d never been as cold inside either.

The journey back to the warehouse where Viper waited was long and freezing cold, but passed without incident. Once or twice he thought he heard footsteps, but turning, he couldn’t see anything and continued regardless.

“Let me in,” he growled at Nix. The younger boy glanced up and passed him the key. His fingers were blue with cold and Yassen could see that he was near to unconsciousness. He unlocked the door quickly and tossed the key back. Pausing in the doorway, he briefly considered saying something encouraging to Nix. The Yassen of fifteen months ago – he still couldn’t believe it had been that long – would have done it, but now he just pulled his jacket tighter and turned his back on the boy in the snow.

“Go straight to Viper. You know the way,” the guard ordered, pushing him into the relative warmth of the warehouse and then stepping out into the snow. Yassen started away from the door as quickly as he could, but he still heard Nix’s yell of pain. Mistakes, or even the slightest deviation from the standard procedure were quickly and brutally dealt with. Yassen knew Nix would be lucky to get off with anything less than a broken arm, or leg. Or, once, a broken neck. The memory of that still provoked nightmares in some of the younger ones. It had merely bounced off Yassen’s impenetrable barrier between him and the rest of the world.

His feet walked the length of the corridor while his mind ran in circles. He hated it here, but he couldn’t get away. There wasn’t a chance of reprieve. Once you were part of Viper’s group, you were always a part of Viper’s group, until you died. And if you tried to leave, dying would be something you’d do a lot sooner than expected. Trying to see a way out, he knocked on the door and again heard Viper’s soft, lilting voice inviting him in. He opened the door.

“Ah, Yassen again. Is that the bag?”

“Yes, sir.” He walked forward and placed the bag on the desk. Viper unzipped it carefully and then peered inside. His face split into a grin as he pulled out a handful of small, plastic-wrapped balls of resin, dropping them one by one back into the bag.

“Good job,” he said happily. It was the first emotion Yassen had ever seen on his face. “Now, if you’d leave, I have a meeting in a few minutes.” He looked down at his desk in a clear dismissal and Yassen turned on his heel and left.

 Less then ten minutes later, he drank the last of his thin, watery soup and crawled behind some crates, curling up in the comforting darkness, out of sight and hopefully out of mind. Within minutes, he was asleep, his back pressed against the wall.

 

Chapter 4

London, England. August 1994.

 

He stared at the file for a long second, and then pulled it out, telling himself that he had to be imagining it, that there was no way Scorpia could have been involved. It wasn’t possible.

Sinking to the floor where he stood, he opened it and started reading.

After just a few lines, he closed it again. It was about the so-called accident that had killed his parents. Black anger raced through him, an unstoppable flood of emotion. For a brief, frantic second, he felt a stab of absolute loathing for the people that had trapped him into this life. He thought briefly of the family he’d followed off the plane. If not for his employers, he could have led a life that, been a father, had a wife… been mundane, a small voice added, been average. He knew he would hate a ‘normal’ life.

Feeling that he was making a huge mistake, he re-opened the file at the last page and looked at the signatures of the agents who had carried it out. Two of them had merely printed their names, but the last – at the bottom, so therefore the junior agent – had signed in a graceful, looping hand that was completely illegible, and yet somehow familiar.

The two senior agents were dead, he knew that much. But the fourth… the possibility of getting his revenge on the man who had killed his parents was intoxicating and before he knew it, he was on his feet.

Somewhere in his mind, his training was trying to get a grip on his actions, but for the first time in years, Yassen was allowing himself to be controlled by his emotions and they were all shrieking for revenge. Another tear rolled down his cheek as he walked, and he jerked his head so it fell to the floor. His hand was tight on the file, crumpling the paper, but he didn’t slacken his grip.

By the time he reached the entrance hall again, he was slightly more in control of himself. Not trusting the control to last, he called Donna’s name. His voice echoed through the house, anger clear in his tone.

“Yes? Oh, Yassen, it’s you. I’m a bit busy at the moment, can’t it wait…?” She appeared on the landing as she spoke and looked down at him. Her voice tailed off when he turned his gaze onto her.

“I need to talk to you,” he rasped. She nodded wordlessly and hurried down the stairs to him.

“This way,” she murmured, touching his arm gently.

He snatched it away, almost literally snarling at her. Her expression changed to shock in an instant and she pressed her lips tight together as she led him along the corridor and into yet another room. This one was smaller and modern. Donna gestured to Yassen to sit down. He stayed on his feet, staring down at her.

“You wanted to talk,” she started cautiously. He nodded once. “What about?”

“This.” He threw the file into her lap. “I want to know whose signature that is. The third agent. Who was he?”

Donna spent a few moments scrutinising the graceful handwriting, and then looked up, shrugging.

“I’ve never seen the signature before. Why are you so… keen to find out whose it is?”

In answer, he bent and closed the file, showing her the name on the cover.

“My parents were killed in an accident when I was fourteen. I lived in Estrov. Scorpia killed my parents.” His voice teetered on the edge of breaking, but he kept it in control. Forcing himself to focus on Donna, he watched her face. Disbelief. Sympathy. Anger. They all flashed across her pretty features in a heartbeat, and then she put the mask back in place.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” she murmured. She dropped her gaze to the file in her lap to avoid his eyes. “Ask around if you like, but I don’t think anyone here will be able to help you. This is an old report and most of the people here joined after it was made. Still, you might get lucky. Good luck, Yassen.” He watched as she got to her feet and held out the file.

He hesitated for a long moment, and then snatched it out of her hand.

“Thank you,” he said shortly. The door clicked shut behind him a moment later. Donna sighed and stood up. She hated lying. Moving quickly, she went to the door and ducked out into the corridor. Yassen was nowhere in sight and she hurried to her office to make the call she knew she needed to make.

Meanwhile, Yassen walked quickly up the stairs and along the landing. There was a large, spacious and brightly lit room at the far end, packed full of people. As soon as he stepped through the door, a young man appeared at his elbow.

“Can I help you?” He asked brightly.

“I hope so,” Yassen replied, turning his icy blue eyes on the younger man’s bright, sparkling ones. He visibly quailed.

“What do you need?”

“I want to see the people that have been here since… oh, 1990, I suppose. Anyone who might know whose signature this is.” He passed the file over and watched as the young man read the signature. His face didn’t show anything, no flicker of recognition, and Yassen felt his heart sink.

“I don’t know, but I can get hold of the people who’ve been here since… 1990, wasn’t it?”

Yassen nodded.

“Ok then, if you could sit there, I’ll be back in a minute.” He walked off and Yassen slowly sat down in a chair near the door. He pulled out the gun from the holster at his hip and rested it on his thigh. He bounced the barrel once or twice on his leg and then looked up. Most of the people in the room were staring warily at him, but they all dropped their gazes as soon as he looked at them. He sighed and tapped the gun on his leg again, watching it closely.

“Here.” The voice made him look up. He hadn’t heard him approach, but the young man was back. “They’re in the side office.”

“Thank you.”

Yassen stood up and walked to the door indicated. Inside, four people waited. Three men and a woman. They stood up when Yassen entered.

“I am not going to keep you here long, but do any of you know whose signature this is?” He set the file down on the desk in the centre of the room. Bending over the paper, all four of them made sure their faces were blank. They knew that their lives would be on the line if they gave away that they knew who the signature belonged to.

“No, I’m sorry, but I don’t know who signed it,” the woman said finally. “I mean, it looks familiar, but I can’t remember whose it was. I’m sorry.” She knew she was taking a risk, saying that it looked familiar, but it somehow made it more definite. Yassen seemed to believe her at least, and the other men when they agreed with her.

His eyes flickered along the row of faces, searching. He dropped his gaze.

“Thank you for your time.” He picked up the file and walked out of the room. No one stopped him as he walked through the house, the folder hidden beneath his shirt. They ignored him as he strolled out the door and turned right at the road. He was running almost before he was out of sight.

He knew that the four people in the room had lied to him, but he didn’t know what they’d lied about. Did they know who had killed his family? Or did they not recognise the signature at all? He suspected it was the former.

The late evening sun was still warm as he walked along the road, trying to make sense of what had happened. Something didn’t add up, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He’d missed something… He turned and sat down on a low garden wall. His movements were easy and graceful as he turned the pages, searching…

There! Finally, something to cling on to. A fourth signature. And one that he recognised. It was Julia Rothman’s. Anger surged up inside him again, but he kept it under control.

How could she? He had known her for over ten years, and she’d been lying to him for the whole time. She had organised the deaths of his parents… He wrenched himself to his feet and started walking. His hand was clenched tightly around the file in his hand, and he moved with tense, jerky movements. The contrast between that and his usual fluid pace was striking as he strode back to the house.

He found Donna on the first floor. She was talking to someone and he waited until they’d left before stepping into the corridor and padding silently up to stand behind her.

“Donna.” His voice made her jump and she twisted round to face him.

“Yassen,” she said warily, “I thought you’d left.”

“I did. But I came back. Do you know where Julia is at the moment?” The question caught her by surprise, and Yassen caught the look of panic that passed fleetingly over her face and saw her eyes flick down to the scroll of creased paper he still held.

“Um… In Venice, I think. She’s meeting the other board members at her palace there.” She was telling the truth this time – he could see it in her eyes.

“Thank you.” He paused for a moment and then leant in close to whisper in a low, deadly tone, “And, Donna, do not lie to me again.”

When she looked round, he was gone, but there was a hole in her t-shirt, just above her heart and a small scratch marked the skin there. Feeling suddenly faint, she clutched at the banister. She caught a glimpse of Yassen in the entrance hall. A long, razor sharp blade glinted in his hand.

Outside, he pushed the knife into its sheath again. He knew that he’d been far too close to killing her and it was only his training that had stayed his hand. Leaves fell from the trees around him like golden rain as he walked. The black anger that had fuelled him earlier had abated slightly. Forcing his steps to slow, he concentrated on calming his racing heart and ragged breathing.

Once he felt in control again, he turned his steps back towards the airport. A little over an hour later, he settled once again into an uncomfortable plane seat and sat back. He was too tense to grab a few hours of sleep and he sat awake, staring out at the moonlit clouds that slid past the window.

Venice, Italy. Four hours later.

The journey passed quickly and he was soon speeding through the Venetian night. Somehow word of his arrival had gone ahead of him and there had been a yellow Lamborghini waiting for him, with Scorpia’s compliments, of course. What would once have assuaged some of his anger, now only exacerbated it. Why did they feel the need to know exactly where he was? Why did they have to control everything he did?

Fighting once again with his emotions, he drove through the narrow, twisting streets towards Ca’ Vedova. A footman dressed in an immaculate uniform stepped forward as soon as Yassen pulled up and opened his door.

“Mrs. Rothman is in her study, sir.” Despite his dark, clearly Italian skin, he spoke with a perfect, cultivated English accent. Yassen nodded his acknowledgement and strode past the young man.

Sure enough Julia was sat at her desk, writing in a neat, curling hand on a blank sheet of paper. She folded it away when Yassen walked in and tucked it into one of the many drawers.

“Yassen,” she said graciously, half rising and gesturing towards a chair in front of her desk. Her smile faltered when he remained standing.

“Mrs. Rothman.” His voice was cold and hard.

“What is it that you wanted to discuss with me? Donna said it was urgent.” In answer, he leant forward, pulled the file from inside his jacket, and threw it down onto the desk. It landed with a loud slap. Julia flinched.

“That.” He folded his arms across his chest, his stance challenging.

“You found out, then.” Julia hadn’t even looked at the file. “What do you wan me to say? ‘Sorry’? I won’t apologise, Yassen. We weren’t aware of you at the time and it was just another job.

“If we had to, we’d do it again. If we hadn’t have done it you would never have joined us. You’re too good to waste.”

“So you didn’t think to tell me that you killed my parents?”

“It wasn’t important.”

“It was to me.” He cut his sentence short, aware of the anger bubbling up in him again.

“So long as it didn’t affect your work, we couldn’t see that it was important. It happened, Yassen, no one can bring your parents back to life so let it go,” she said softly, making a feeble attempt at kindness.

“I know that.” Yassen sank into the chair in front of the desk and reached for the file. A flash of panic crossed Julia’s face as he tapped the anonymous signature.

“Who signed that?” He asked.

“Again, it’s not important.”

“Dammit, Julia, tell me!” He slammed a hand down on the desk. He pulled it back with a suppressed gasp – he’d lost control. After everything, he had still lost control.

“Yassen, I’m not refusing to tell you out of some sadistic pleasure, as you seem to think. I’m not telling you because I want to protect you, and your memories,” she touched his hand gently.

“Julia, please don’t lie to me,” he said in a low, desperate voice. “No one has told me the truth about this signature all day. What’s so important that you have to tall everyone to lie to me about it? Whose is it?”

He held her gaze until she dropped her eyes into her lap.

“Let me think about it. I’ll come and find you when I’ve decided. Get some sleep.” She stood up and walked gracefully from the room, her heels clicking on the stone floor.

Yassen stayed where he was for a minute and then got to his feet. He felt drained, as if he’d run a marathon, and his thoughts ran in never-ending circles. Somewhere in his mind, he knew who the signature belonged to. The recognition had solidified into knowledge, but he wouldn’t allow himself to acknowledge it. It was too much. Sighing, he left the room and walked the silent corridors in search of an empty guest room. At the rear of the palace, he found one and fell gratefully into the soft bed. Exhausted, he soon drifted into a fitful sleep.

 

Chapter 5

Moscow, Russia. 1983.

 

Yassen Gregorovich sat cross-legged on the ground, his face titled up to the sky. Sunlight warmed his pale skin. His hands rested on the damp grass, supporting the weight of his upper body. Lean muscles ran the length of his arms, showing his strength, as if surviving three years in the Mafiya wasn’t testament enough.

 His blue eyes reflected the sky above, but they were much colder. Narrow, chiselled lips parted lightly as he breathed in. His chest, covered by a light t-shirt –his jacket lay discarded a few feet away – rose and fell. Well defined muscles showed clearly through the thin material.

 Everything about him was hard, from his merciless expression to the solid muscles that bound his chest. Nothing remained of the boy he had been before the accident that killed his parents. Features that had once dropped only occasionally from a smile now showed nothing, they were a blank, emotionless mask.

 A voice came from behind him, calling his name. He turned and saw one of Viper’s child agents walking towards him across the grass. He was on his feet in an instant, his jacket halfway on.

 “What is it?”

 “Viper wants you to go and see him. Now. He said it’s important.”

 “I’ll be right there.” He was walking towards the warehouse before he’d finished the speaking. The younger boy ran behind him, struggling to keep apace of Yassen’s longer strides. At just over seventeen years old, he was tall and lean, with not an ounce of fat on his body.

 Within minutes, he was knocking at Viper’s door.

 “Come in.” He had learned how to resist Viper’s hypnotic voice and he waited for a couple of seconds.

 “You wanted to see me?”

 “Ah, yes, Yassen. Come in. Close the door.”

 He did as he was told and then settled into the seat opposite Viper.

 “You are, I have to say, Yassen, a brilliant agent. You’re actually too good for our unit.” He paused. “A few days ago we got a message from the organisation Scorpia. They wanted to know if we had any operatives that we would allow to join them, in return for their help if we ever need it. I want to put your name forward, Yassen.”

 “Me? But… why, sir?”

 “Because you’re a good fighter and you have lots of potential. You’d do well in Scorpia.”

 “What sort of thing would they want me to do? The same as I am now?” Viper hesitated before answering.

 “No. They want people they can train as assassins, Yassen.”

 “Killers? They want killers?” Shock registered briefly in his eyes, but it was more from the strangeness of the idea than revulsion. He had seen men die before, too many to count. What difference would it make if he was the one who pulled the trigger, or slit their throats?

 “Yes.” Viper seemed aware of Yassen’s thoughts and didn’t add anything else.

 After a minute or so, Yassen raised his gaze and looked directly at the man across from him. Viper’s face was impassive. Yassen remembered that he had once sat opposite him and decided that he wanted to be like Viper when he was older. And he was. He frowned, slightly disturbed by the striking similarity between him and Viper. That was why he met Viper’s gaze again and said in a strong voice, “I’ll do it.”

 A week later, he stood at Viper’s side as they waited for the door to open. The older man was tense at his side and Yassen realised slowly that Viper – cold, emotionless, terrifying Viper – was scared. Scared of the people that he was going to work for. Right… a knot of nerves forming in his stomach, Yassen turned back to the door just as it opened. A heavy-set man with small muddy-brown eyes, set beneath heavy eyebrows, and thick, unwieldy lips that were almost purple in colour stood before. His face was set in a permanent scowl.

 He growled a few words in quick, heavily accented English. Viper answered after only a brief moment of thought and the ugly man stood aside. He glared at Yassen as he passed.

 “This is the agent you’re giving us?” Yassen caught the words and shot the man a sharp, cold look, like daggers of ice.

 “Yes. He’s skilful and he’s trustworthy.” Viper added something more, but Yassen didn’t understand that he was telling the other man that Viper thought he would make a good assassin.

 “Fine. You can leave now. You don’t need to be here.” It was a clear dismissal and Viper looked faintly bewildered as he clasped Yassen’s hand.

 “Take care and train hard,” he said in Russian. Yassen nodded and watched as the older man turned and strode through the door. It shut behind him with a heavy metallic clang that made Yassen flinch.

 He was alone again.

 No. Not alone. The ugly man suddenly loomed up again and grabbed his arm in one thick-fingered hand. The skin was dry and scarred, but the fingers held Yassen in an iron grip.

 “This way,” the man grunted. Yassen didn’t resist as he was dragged through the building.

 Despite himself, he noted the bright wallpaper and wood panels. These were people with money and they weren’t afraid of showing it, so they had power too.

 A few more strides brought him to a door and he was pushed inside.

“Sit –” this simple command was followed by a string of unintelligible English that Yassen took to mean that someone would be in shortly. A moment later, he was alone in the room.

 He remained seated for a moment, but then stood up and walked slowly around the room. His years on the streets meant that his eyes automatically picked out the two windows opposite the door and he made sure they were unlocked before he did anything else. Only once he was certain he could escape easily did he turn back and start looking properly round the room.

 His feet sank into the thick carpet and he relished the feeling. His eyes moved slowly along the shelves that lined the wall and he saw maps and files and diagrams, all laid out neatly.

 “Are you Yassen Gregorovich?” The voice was female and it sent shivers down Yassen’s spine. He turned quickly.

 Standing before him in a plain but beautifully cut business suit, was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Her eyes were dark and cold, but they glittered with malice. Shining curls of black hair fell to her shoulders, contrasting with the plain suit. The effect was stunning, but Yassen felt instinctively that this woman was dangerous. More so than anyone else he’d ever met.

 “Yes.” It wasn’t until he answered that he realised that she’d addressed him in Russian.

 “My name is Julia Rothman. I’m one of the executive board of Scorpia.” She came forward, her movements fluid and lithe, and held out her hand. Yassen shook it quickly and returned to his seat.

 “So, you want to join us, do you?” He shrugged, nervous and she laughed lightly. “I hope that you’ll make a valuable addition to our force of agents. Viper recommended you as an assassin.” She paused and her eyes were suddenly sharp, searching his face. “Do you think you’re good enough?”

 “No. But I want to learn how to be good enough,” Yassen answered honestly. Julia smiled, clearly pleased with his reply.

 “Good.” She switched effortlessly to English and suddenly Yassen was struggling. “You’ll be moved to Italy within a week, and then you’ll start training. It’ll take about three years, that’s the average for most people, though it differs. You might be faster, or you might be slower. It doesn’t matter. So long as you do it.

 “It will be hard -” Yassen allowed himself a small, ironic smile at that “- but if you make it, you’ll be rich and you’ll have a high position in our organisation.”

 She flashed him another dazzling smile.

 “When do I start?” He asked after a minute.

 “Right away.” Julia stood up and walked to the window. “There’s a training hall at the back of this building. Our best instructors work at Malagosto, but we have a few junior instructors here. They’ll help you build up your general fitness until you’re moved to Italy.

 “One of the instructors will fetch you tomorrow morning for your first day of training. Until then, have a look around and then get some food and have a rest. You’ll need it.” She looked round at him, and then turned to stare out the window again.

 It was a clear dismissal and Yassen didn’t linger. Standing up, he turned and walked out the door.

 Sure enough, there was a young man outside the door. He was a good foot shorter than Yassen, but he had an air of confidence about him that was distinctly unsettling. He gave Yassen a cursory glance over, and then looked away dismissively.

 “This way,” he said in English, though it was accented. A European accent, but Yassen couldn’t place it as he followed him through the huge building.

 “This is your room,” the young man told him coolly, gesturing to the nearest door. “You’re free to wander round the compound, but don’t go outside. The guards will shoot you on sight if they don’t recognise you.” With that, he turned on his heel and stalked away, moving lightly, but with a slight limp.

 Welsh, Yassen thought triumphantly, finally pinpointing his accent.

 He turned and pushed the door open. The room was small and sparsely furnished, with a metal framed bed against the side wall, a desk under the window and a small chest of drawers in the far corner. The floor was bare wooden planks. To Yassen it was almost paradise. After years of sleeping in whatever reasonably-dry, not-too-windy place he could find, having his own room was a godsend. And a bed!

 He dropped the small backpack he’d been given by Viper on the floor by the door and flung himself full-length onto the thin mattress. He could just about feel the wires of the bed frame through it, but he didn’t care. It was a bed. And it was his.

 He lay sprawled on the bed for a while longer before sitting up. The bag by the door drew his attention. He hadn’t been given the opportunity to open it. Viper had pushed it into his arms as they left the warehouse. He opened it now.

 A knife, glinting evilly in the light from the window, fell out. Yassen stared at it in shock for a long moment, and then grabbed it and shoved it back into the bag. Even in that brief instant of contact, he felt the excellent balance and the way the hilt sat perfectly in his grip. Viper had outdone himself.

 He threw a casual glance into the bag and saw another knife and a box of ammunition. Written on the box were the words: Good luck. Use these well. They were followed by the sharp, angular ‘V’ that was Viper’s calling card. He always used the Western character. Yassen felt a swell of gratitude as he closed the bag and shoved it under his bed.

 He spent the remainder of the day wandering aimlessly around the building and the grounds that surrounded it. It was an impressive compound and he found himself full of reluctant admiration for Scorpia. Julia Rothman had scared him; she was just too… cold. She could have a block of ice for a heart. But the few people he met around the compound seemed decent enough. A couple of them stopped to talk to him and he said quite a lot about his life with the Mafiya. He figured it didn’t really matter what he said now, as Scorpia seemed to have allied themselves with his previous employers.

 Later on, as it started to get dark, he returned to his room. Despite the relative luxury, he found it hard to get to sleep. His mind buzzed with excitement and unanswerable questions, but he eventually tired of chasing his thoughts in never ending circles, and forced them away, drifting slowly into sleep.

 

Chapter 6Ca’ Vedova, Venice, Italy. August 1994 

Yassen didn’t wake until the sun was high in the sky; the events of the day before had tired him out and he lay in bed for a long while, watching the shadows move slowly around the room. Julia hadn’t summoned him yet and he was beginning to feel a prickle of impatience. How long did it take?

 What he didn’t know was that while he had been sleeping, she had called each of the remaining members of the executive board and asked what they thought she should tell him. They had all recommended keeping silent about John Rider.

 But something about that didn’t feel right to her. She knew the depth of the bond Yassen had had with John; they were as near to being friends as it was possible to be. And she had seen the look in Yassen’s eyes as he questioned her. This was personal to him and he was not going to let it drop.

 For the first time in her life, Julia Rothman was going against the wishes of the board. Rising gracefully to her feet, she walked to the door.

 “Matthew,” she said softly to one of the young men sat outside her door, “Go and fetch Yassen Gregorovich, please.”

 “Yes, Mrs. Rothman,” he said briskly, jerking to attention and the striding quickly away.

 Julia retreated back into her office and sat behind the desk. Glancing quickly around, she opened a drawer and pulled out a much-folded photograph. She unfolded it with a few deft movements to reveal a picture of John Rider, the man who had caused so much pain and death. And now he was going to cause more pain, although he was long dead. Part of her wanted to crumple the picture in her hand, to obliterate the memory of him, but something stayed her hand.

 She sighed and folded the picture again, taking care not to damage it any more than it already had been – John’s face had been crossed by a large cross of grey paper, where the paper had cracked and softened under the constant folding and unfolding. Just as she closed the drawer, there was a knock at the door and Yassen strode in without waiting for an answer.

 His blue eyes blazed with a mixture of fury and suspicion. Julia had to work to keep her expression blank as he sat opposite her. Neither of them spoke for a long minute. Yassen kept his gaze on Julia’s face and was surprised to notice the tightness there. She was struggling with something.

 “Well?” he said eventually.

 “I’ve spoken to the other members of the board,” Julia said slowly. Yassen felt his stomach clench.

 “What did they say?”

 “They advised me not to tell you who the signature belonged to.”

 “Belonged to? He’s dead?”

 “Yes… I’m not permitted to reveal his name, really. This is important enough that I should have at least a majority vote.” Yassen fought to keep his hands from clenching.

 “But,” Julia continued, “I can see that you’re not going to give up until you get an answer. So I’ll tell you.”

 “You will?”

 “Yes, I will. But,” here she held up a finger to emphasize her point, “I promise you that you won’t like the answer I’m going to give you. It will hurt you an awful lot.”

 “Tell me,” Yassen said after a brief moment. He was sure that he could deal with whatever she was going to say.

 “It was John Rider.” The words came out in a rush, but he heard every one clearly.

 John Rider. Hunter. His friend and mentor had killed his family? That was impossible. It couldn’t be true.

 “Yassen?” Julia’s voice broke through his frantic thoughts and he shook his head quickly and stood up.

 He almost ran from the room. John. It couldn’t be… But Yassen had told John about his family. They had talked it over at length. And all the time he had been sitting opposite the man who was responsible for the whole thing.

 That was why the signature had been familiar. How many times had they been on missions together? How many times had Yassen watched John sign his name in that ridiculous loopy scrawl? It was obvious now he looked at it again. There was the strange shape of the J. Yassen did his own like that, an imitation of John’s style. And the R was at the same slant as it had always been. It had been years since he had last seen it, and now it greeted him like an old friend. No. An old enemy. He had to remind himself of that. John Rider was his parents’ killer. He would never again be the same man in Yassen’s eyes.

 He wasn’t sure how long he walked for. When he looked up it was dark. Stars blinked in the blackness and he envied them their untroubled existence. They were never betrayed and they didn’t feel this burning pain in their chests. They couldn’t taste the bitter flavour of defeat.

 Dropping to his knees on the wet grass he was standing on, he bowed his head. The weight of Julia’s admission suddenly fell on him fully and his thoughts crumbled before the tide of emotion that raged inside him. He hadn’t felt this bad for years, since his father died. Gritting his teeth, he pressed his forehead to his knees and the cry of anguish came out as a snarl.

 How could John have done this to him? Why couldn’t he have told him the truth? Because you would have killed him then, too, some part of him said. He knew it was true. If John was still alive, Yassen would be on his way to kill him for this, and that would have been the same no matter how old he had been. Twenty-eight or eighteen, he wouldn’t think twice about it.

 He eventually forced himself to his feet and started back. It was over an hour before he saw the compound. He had walked a long way while struggling with what Julia had told him.

 She was waiting at the door. Her black hair shone in the light from the hallway and accentuated her dark, captivating eyes.

 “Yassen.” She stood aside as he passed and closed the door behind them. He stopped and looked at her with emotionless eyes.

 “Yes.” His voice was flat. Julia was silent for a while, scrutinising his ace minutely. Finally, she sighed and glanced down at her feet before meeting Yassen’s gaze again.

 “I want to leave,” he said before she could even open her mouth.

 “What?”

 “I want to leave Scorpia. You lied to me ever since I joined and I won’t stay here any more.”

 “Yassen…”

 “No. I trusted you and you’ve lied to me for over ten years, Julia. How am I meant to put up with that?”

 “We can’t lose you, Yassen, you’re the best man we have.”

 “Like you say, there are always others. That’s what you told me when John died, isn’t it?” He stood up.

 “Yassen, you can’t leave. You live to kill, who else would give you that opportunity? Say with us. I admit that we shouldn’t have kept this a secret from you but is it worth throwing away your whole career for?”

 Yassen turned to her angrily.

 “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t even be here with you now. I only have this career because you killed my parents. Do you understand that?” Julia’s eyes flashed with anger and she bristled.

 “You owe us so much…”

 “Living on the streets for years? Losing my parents? Yes, I owe you an awful lot.” He sighed. He could see that Julia wasn’t going to budge on this. “Look, how about you let me take a while off? I need to get my head together…”

 “I know.” Julia turned away, yawning and running her fingers through her hair. “Six months.”

 “What?”

 “I can let you have six months off, but that’s it. Ok?”

 Yassen turned it over in his mind. It was probably the best he was going to get, and a sensible, wily man could hide himself completely in far less than six months.

 “Fine. Six months is… fine.” He nodded brusquely and turned away.

 “Yassen…”

 “Yes?”

 “I want you back in top shape by the time you come back.” He didn’t reply. Walking out of the room, he refused to look back, to meet Julia’s gaze that he could feel burning into his back.

 A few minutes later, after a brief spell of furious packing, he walked out the grand main doors of Ca’ Vedova with a backpack slung over his shoulders. The Lamborghini was still outside, and he didn’t hesitate before getting in. Scorpia owed him.

 The powerful engine roared loudly as he accelerated out of the courtyard.

 He had no intention of going back. This was something that Scorpia couldn’t distract him from. In six months, he could be completely invisible.

 Smiling grimly, he headed north.

 

Chapter 7London, England. October 1994 

Yassen checked the clip of his pistol. It was full. Twenty rounds. He wasn’t even sure why he’d picked it up. He was trying to convince himself that it was only for the comfort of the familiar weight at his hip. Easing the pistol – a Sig Sauer p229 semi-auto – into the holster, he opened the door and started walking.

 Some part of him was desperately trying to persuade him to turn back, to forget all about this. But a larger part of him wanted to at least see the boy, just once. To see if he looked like his father… Yassen tried to recall the name John had used to describe his son, but it escaped him. It had been too long. Nine years, almost exactly.

 After about twenty minutes of walking, Yassen stopped. He took a few deep, calming breaths and closed his eyes briefly. It wasn’t magic, it was just a fiercely held modesty. People looked at him, and forgot almost instantly what he looked like. He was unrecognisable, almost indistinguishable from the fence he leant against. Facing the school.

 He watched impassively as other people joined the few at the gate. He recognised Ian Rider among them, his right arm in a sling and a long graze on his jaw. The MI6 agent looked wary, but Yassen knew that he hadn’t been noticed. There would be a lot more shouting if he had. So he took the opportunity to examine John’s brother properly for the first time. They had met before, briefly, but Yassen had been too distracted to notice much about the man – being shot at does that to someone.

 He had the same easy, wary grace that John had had and his eyes held the same hunted quality as his brother’s. His hair was lighter than John’s had been, though, closer to blonde than brown, and he was lighter in build – his shoulders narrower, his arms not as muscular.

 He was watching the school intently, a small smile on his lips. Yassen watced him for another few minutes, and then returned his own gaze to the main doors.

YGYGYGYGYG

 In one of the few classrooms that wasn’t visible from the gate, a class of nine-year-olds sat gazing at the whiteboard. The same slightly vacant expression was reflected in almost every face. Five minutes until the end of school…

 After what seemed an eternity, the bell rang. Instantly, the classroom came to life again. Children were on their feet before the last note had died away and the teacher called out the day’s homework in vain.

 “See you, Alex!” One boy called out. His friend turned and waved briefly in his direction, before continuing out towards the gate. He ran quickly and easily, with a  grace born of years of Karate lessons.

 His hair was blonde, cut short all over, apart from a couple of longer strands, hanging down over his forehead. His eyes were, unusually for a blonde, deep brown. They flickered over the faces gathered at the gate and settled on one near the edge. His uncle. Alex Rider ran towards him, grinning. His uncle hardly ever came to pick him up – he was always away on some sort of business for the bank.

 Alex hadn’t seen the figure on the other side of the road.

 With one hand clenched around the gun at his hip, hidden under the long jacket he wore, Yassen watched the boy as he ran towards his uncle. The Russian still wasn’t sure why he had come here. To see Alex? To kill him? And Ian Rider was there, too. He could kill them both and vanish without a trace. It wouldn’t be hard to do. Two shots. Everyone would turn to see them fall and Yassen would be gone long before anyone thought to look round to see where the shots had come from.

 The gun was halfway out of his jacket before they came. The memories. John shouting him round and round an agility course. Laughing together before John left on a mission. John saving his life in the Amazon. John helping him to his feet after a fight. John sprawling dead on Albert Bridge.

The pain was almost physical. His grip slackened.

 Alex was laughing at something someone had said. As he did so, his eyes flicked towards Yassen. They were the exact same shade of brown as John’s had been. Alex frowned slightly and let his eyes move on. Yassen let the gun fall back into its holster.

 He couldn’t do it. It wasn’t as easy as he’d tried to make it seem. The boy standing there, suddenly awkward without knowing why, was part of John. And that counted for something. Somehow, even after all that had happened, Yassen couldn’t pull the trigger. It went against every fibre of his being.

 With a last lingering look at Alex, he turned and walked quickly away.

 His hands formed fists and he fought not to turn back. He was torn in two. Half of him wanted to turn back and kill Alex and Ian. The only family the John had had. Like Yassen’s parents had been to him. But the other half forced him to keep walking away. It was comprised of all the good times, the memories that he had shared with John, the lessons he’d learned from the older man.

 He walked back to the flat he was staying in without relaxing his clenched fists, or the tension in his shoulders.

 It was the first time he had aborted a kill, for any reason, and he was disgusted that it had been a purely personal reason. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was on an order, but he hadn’t let his feelings influence his actions for years. It was disconcerting.

 But Alex had just been too much like John. That was what it came down to. The boy was too similar to his father for Yassen to kill him. It would have been like… like killing John. And that repulsed him. Even after everything John had done, he couldn’t even harm his son.

 His blind anger had dissipated over the last two months. It no longer obliterated everything else; Yassen had begun to realise that John hadn’t had a choice. He either did the mission or his own life would be at risk. Scorpia didn’t allow anyone to disobey them and get away with their life. Even the best agent they had would be killed if he failed them without a good reason. And John had been the best, or very close to it. Refusing to do the mission would have been like signing his own death warrant. And why would he have refused in the first place? Yassen though to himself, lying on his back that night. He hadn’t known that the explosion would produce a teenager he would end up working with, training with… becoming friends with.

 And, though he was loathe to admit it, he understood why John had never even hinted at his involvement. Even at seventeen, he had been a vicious and able fighter, perhaps not able to kill, but certainly with enough skill to seriously injure the older man.

 He couldn’t do it. It wasn’t as easy as he’d tried to make it seem. The boy standing there, suddenly awkward without knowing why, was part of John. And that counted for something. Somehow, even after all that had happened, Yassen couldn’t pull the trigger. It went against every fibre of his being.

 With a last lingering look at Alex, he turned and walked quickly away.

 His hands formed fists and he fought with every step not to turn back, to kill them both. He was torn in two. Half of him wanted to turn back and kill Alex and Ian. The only family the John had had. Like Yassen’s parents had been to him. But the other half forced him to keep walking away. It was comprised of all the good times, the memories that he had shared with John, the lessons he’d learned from the older man.

 He walked back to the flat he was staying in without relaxing his clenched fists, or the tension in his shoulders. He opened the door and closed it gently. Only once the heavy door was locked did he allow his self-control to break.

 He tore the holster from under his arm and tossed the gun angrily onto the bed. It was the first time he had aborted a kill, for any reason, and he was disgusted that it had been a purely personal reason. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was on an order, but he hadn’t let his feelings influence his actions for years. It was disconcerting.

 But Alex had just been too much like John. That was what it came down to. The boy was too similar to his father for Yassen to kill him. It would have been like… like killing John. And that repulsed him. Even after everything John had done, he couldn’t even harm his son.

 His blind anger had dissipated over the last two months. It no longer obliterated everything else; Yassen had begun to realise that John hadn’t had a choice. He either did the mission or his own life would be at risk. Scorpia didn’t allow anyone to disobey them and get away with their life. Even the best agent they had would be killed if he failed them without a good reason. And John had been the best, or very close to it. Refusing to do the mission would have been like signing his own death warrant. And why would he have refused in the first place? Yassen though to himself, lying on his back that night. He hadn’t known that the explosion would produce a teenager he would end up working with, training with… becoming friends with.

 And, though he was loathe to admit it, he understood why John had never even hinted at his involvement. Even at seventeen, he had been a vicious and able fighter, perhaps not able to kill, but certainly with enough skill to seriously injure the older man.

 Why did he feel this way? John Rider had killed his parents… had destroyed the life he had known for the first fourteen years of his life. If not for him, Yassen would have been able to lead a normal life. A normal, unremarkable life.

 What had happened had made him who he was. If it wasn’t for John Rider’s actions, he and Yassen would never have met. Yassen wouldn’t have learnt to kill and the huge skill he had would never have been discovered. And he wouldn’t have made so much money.

 But John had killed his parents.

 Yassen groaned and threw himself face down on the bed as his thoughts ran in endless circles. Every time he decided one way or the other, the other side of the argument would raise its head and throw his mind back into turmoil.

And it wasn’t just the memories of John that were giving him trouble. He hated to admit it, but he longed to kill again. Scorpia had given him that opportunity and he wanted it back. Two months was the longest he had gone without a mission since his first. It was hard. Killing made him feel… no, it just made him feel; for a few brief moments he was truly alive. It was almost like a drug. He was impatient for the next hit. It replaced everything else in his life: love, hate, happiness. Nothing else gave him the same feeling of power, of true freedom.

He rolled over onto his back and stared vacantly at the ceiling. His thoughts whirled together, circles within circles within circles. It made him feel slightly sick.

 Closing his eyes, he coached himself expertly into calm and gradually into a deep and thankfully dreamless sleep.

 

Chapter 8London, England. October 1994 

He woke with an amazing sense of calm determination. Somehow, his thoughts had cleared, like muddy water left to settle, and he somehow knew what he wanted.
He wanted to go back to Scorpia.

They had lied to him and manipulated him, but without them, he would have been just another Russian worker, following in his father’s footsteps. And Yassen knew that he would have ended up working in the plant, along with almost everyone else he had known. But in an odd way, by destroying the place, Scorpia had given him chance at a better life. And he had enjoyed it. The money, the travelling, the respect. They weren’t things he would have got, had he stayed in Russia. 

And the killing. He would never have discovered the immense pleasure of the moment when he became one with the gun, or the knife, or even his own hands, and made the movement that would end someone’s life. There was nothing like it.

He had to go back.

“Right,” he said shortly, his tone hard.

He rolled over, got lightly to his feet, and picked up the gun from where it lay beside him. He slid it easily into the holster at his hip, smiling slightly as he felt the familiar weight settle against the top of his thigh.

The iron hard certainty in his soul was back. He had hardly noticed that it was gone, but now it was back, he mourned the two months it had been gone. It was his protection; it kept the part of him that was him isolated and safe, untouched by what he did.

It was amazingly easy for him to adjust to the idea of going back to Scorpia. Only eight weeks earlier, he had been intending to leave for good, but now…it almost felt like he was going home.

Or something close.

Wandering slowly around his flat, he gathered up his things and tossed them into his backpack. Most of the bulk in the bag was weaponry; guns, knives, a Black Widow catapult, and a selection of darts, tipped with various drugs, hidden inside a number of ballpoint pens. All of these were cushioned in a cocoon of clothes and the usual clutter of books and random items.

Yassen closed the door behind him, leaving the keys in the letterbox, and slid into the Lamborghini. He was amazed that it was still in one piece; he hadn’t even really looked at it in the last couple of months. There was a small scratch on the roadside, but it hardly showed in the black paintwork. Yassen rubbed it quickly, but then decided to leave it. Let Scorpia pay for it… not that they wouldn’t anyway.

He felt a small knot of apprehension in his stomach as he started the engine. He hadn’t left in the most inconspicuous way, and Julia was sure to have gotten a lot of grief over telling him about John. She wouldn’t necessarily be happy to see him.

Pull yourself together, he told himself sharply. He pressed his foot to the accelerator and drove out of the road, the Lamborghini’s powerful engine emitting a deafening roar.

He caught the Dover-Calais ferry back to mainland Europe. Flying would have been faster, but he didn’t have the energy or the inclination to dodge the customs officers again. So he got the ferry.

He spent most of the journey on the outside deck, watching the golden glow of the sun sink gradually towards the horizon. The sky was dyed pink and gold, stretching from horizon to horizon. It reflected off the blue-white foam spewing from the back of the boat and shot shards of silver-gold light in every direction.

Yassen leant on the rail and watched the white cliffs shrink and fade over the horizon. He enjoyed being able to just watch the world go by. As the sky faded to navy blue, he went down into the main lounge and snatched half an hour or so of sleep. He didn’t want to have to stop to rest before he got to Venice. It was an eleven-hour drive in the Lamborghini, breaking a few speed limits along the way, and he was eager not to extend it.

The announcement came over the PA system to return to their cars. The lounge came to life instantly, as people stood up and reached for their bags, their children, half-empty bottle of drink, and staggered towards the doors. Yassen watched them all with faint amusement. The sea was choppy and the ferry pitched and rolled in the swells, throwing people from side to side as they tried to stay on their feet.

Yassen moved through them with ease, stepping quickly and lightly in just the right place at just the right time. He could have been walking on flat level ground for all the difference it had made. He reached the stairs long before anyone else and raced easily down them.

The Lamborghini was parked near to the stairwell and only a few seconds after reaching the car deck, he was swinging under the upright door and settling into the driver’s seat. He pulled the door down and waited impatiently for the cars in front to leave.

As soon as he had a clear run, he gunned the engine. Calais was dark, lit only by the streetlamps surrounding the port.

The French roads were almost empty at this time of the morning and Yassen was able to unleash the powerful engine under the bonnet. His hands reflexively tightened and loosened on the steering wheel as he drove and he gradually felt himself relax. Scorpia valued him too highly to harm him… at least, not permanently. He sighed and focused on driving, driving the thought out of his mind.

The journey passed quickly. Within nine and a half hours he was in Italy, the silvery dawn light just starting to caress the clouds in the East. He drove the Lamborghini carefully through the Venetian streets to the Widow’s Palace and pulled up outside.

Although it was only five, the courtyard outside was full of people, servants, sweeping, tidying, bearing platters of food around. They ignored the low-slung black car by the gate – they had their own worries and responsibilities.

Yassen sat and watched them for a long while, lost in thought. He was almost scared. Almost.
He got out of the car and closed the door quietly. He walked straight through the middle of the early buzz of activity and through the main doors. A couple of men with guns were patrolling inside and they swung round when Yassen strode toward them.
“Stop!” One of them cried in Italian. Yassen stopped.

He raised his head slowly and looked each of the men in the eyes.

“Where’s Julia Rothman?”

“She’s… we can’t tell you.”

“Give her a message from me, then. Tell her that Yassen Gregorovich is back.”
At the mention of his name, the two men visibly shrank back and their eyes became fearful. One of the men, the faster moving, took the opportunity to race up the stairs to find Julia. The other was left standing awkwardly at the foot of the stairs, watching Yassen.

The Russian hardly spared him a glance. He turned and walked to the wall, sinking down into a chair set next to the door. Leaning back, he rested his arms along those of the chair. He kept his eyes away from the guard. After years of working for Scorpia, he knew how to make people uneasy, and put them in awe of him.

“Yassen!” Julia cried from the landing. She was wearing a flowing dress; even this early in the day, she looked stunning.

He got to his feet and walked forward.

“You decided to come back, then?” Julia asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“Yes.” Yassen’s curt reply told her than he wasn’t going to explain his reasons. She frowned slightly, but then her face cleared.

“Are you going to stay with us this time?” There was a brief silence. Yassen regarded her impassively and she began to worry that he was going to say that he wasn’t.

“Yes,” he eventually said. Julia relaxed visibly and Yassen smiled internally.

He was back.

 

Chapter 9

Cornwall, England. 2001

 

The road was quiet. Birds sang on the distance, but there was a bubble of scared silence around the blonde man sat on the bonnet of his car. A Semi-automatic assault rifle lay across his legs. It bore no recognisable logo.

The man’s hands moved expertly over the gun as he cleaned and checked it. A pheasant flew over his head, calling loudly. He looked up, revealing a youthful, unlined face. His eyes were a clear, icy blue and they were strangely empty – there was no emotion in them. He looked to be about twenty-eight, but was actually thirty-five.

After a moment, Yassen dropped his eyes back to the gun in his hands.

Minutes stretched into hours. The time came and went, and there was still no sign of his target. Maybe the man had decided to go another way. Yassen stood up on the bonnet, spreading his weight so that the flimsy metal hardly creased, and scanned the road from over the hedge.

There. A silver BMW was streaking through the green, flashing in the rare Cornish sunshine.

Yassen ducked down below the hedge again and slid lightly off the bonnet of the car. He pulled the assault rifle from the roof and lifted it up to his shoulder. He held it tight in against his shoulder and watched the corner, listening to the engine coming closer. The BMW was moving fast. Ian Rider must be driving at about eighty. Accidents happen easily at that sort of speed.

He had been trying to keep the personal aspect out of it, but memories of John Rider suddenly assaulted Yassen’s mind. He hadn’t seen Ian for years, not since that day at the school, but he wondered if he still looked like John.

Yassen gritted his teeth. He could feel the chain of memories coming towards his consciousness, triggered by the recollection of that day at the school. They hit him like a train, knocking the breath out of him and making his mind reel.

The car came round the corner. Yassen pulled the trigger and the gun jerked in his hands as a spray of bullets suddenly filled the air in front of him.

Ian’s eyes widened in surprise as he saw the assassin standing at the corner, a gun in his hands. He swerved. Too late.

The bullets hit the car broadside, stitching rows of holes through the car’s bodywork and the windows. The car hit the hedge, grinding to a halt.

Ian Rider sat in the driver’s seat, blood spreading over his chest. He was still alive when Yassen walked over to him, but only just. His life was rapidly staining the seat. He turned dull, pain-filled eyes onto the assassin. Yassen felt a flicker of respect that there was no fear there, only a sort of resigned weariness.

Yassen closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, Ian looked more like John than ever, or was it just his mind filling in the differences? He felt a flash of grim happiness. This was almost revenge. This man’s brother had killed Yassen’s parents, and now Yassen had killed him. It was a perverse kind of justice, the only kind that either man had ever encountered in his own lives.

Yassen blinked again and Ian’s face was back. The life in him was fading fast – his face was pale and drawn with pain and his eyes were dull. Ian turned his face away from Yassen, tilting his chin to face the sky.

The man gave a final, shuddering sigh and slumped in the seat. Yassen stood beside the car for a long moment, then leant forward and pressed two fingers into the side of Ian’s throat. There was no pulse there. The spy – John’s brother, Alex’s uncle - was dead.

Yassen turned away and walked back to his car. He swung lightly into the driver’s seat and closed the door. He knew that other people would be here within minutes and he had no desire to linger to get arrested. Starting the engine, he accelerated away, taking a circuitous route back to Port Tallon, where he could once again blend seamlessly into Sayle’s factory.

Far behind him, the first police officers and paramedics arrived at the scene. Instantly, they knew that this wasn’t normal and an hour later, the first special-ops crew appeared.

And a few hours later, the bullet-ridden BMW was on it way back up to London and the wheels were in motion that would change Alex Rider’s life forever.

Yassen lay on his back on the bed in his room, his fingers laced behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. It wasn’t revenge, not really, but it had brought him a sense of peace, and that was enough.

In just a few months, his own life would be draining out of his body, but he didn't know that, and for now, he was content. He fell asleep.