Read Online Stormbreaker by Anthony Horowitz - Free Book Online Page A

T shirt and jeans. He was in his late twenties with light, close-cropped hair, a smooth face, the body of a dance The photograph was slightly blurred. It had been Zen from a distance, possibly with a hidden camera. “I want you to look at this,” she said.
    “I'm looking.”
    “His name is Yassen Gregorovich. He was born in Russia, but he now works for many countries. Iraq has employed him. Also Serbia, Libya, and China.”
    “What does he do?” Alex asked.
    “He's a contract killer, Alex. We believe it was he who killed Ian Rider.”
    There was a long pause. Alex had almost managed to persuade himself that this whole business was just some sort of crazy adventure ... a game. But looking at the cold face with its blank, hooded eyes, he felt something stirring inside him and knew it was fear. He remembered his uncle's car, shattered by bullets. A man like this, a contract killer, would do the same to him. He wouldn't even blink.
    “This photograph was taken six months ago, in Cuba,” Mrs. Jones was saying. “It may have been a coincidence, but Herod Sayle was there at the same time. The two of them may have met. And there is something else.” She paused. “Rider used a code in the last message he sent. A single letter. Y.”
    “Y for Yassen.”
    “He must have seen Yassen somewhere in Port Tallon. He wanted us to know. . . ”
    “Why are you telling me this now?” Alex asked. His mouth had gone dry.
    “Because if you see him, if Yassen is anywhere near Sayle Enterprises, I want you to contact us at once.”
    “And then?”
    “We'll pull you out. It doesn't matter how old you are, Alex. If Yassen finds out you're working for us, he'll kill you too.”
    She took the photograph back. Alex stood up.
    “You'll leave here tomorrow morning at eight o'clock,” Mrs. Jones said. “Be careful, Alex. And good luck.”
    Alex walked across the hangar, his footsteps echoing. Behind him, Mrs. Jones unwrapped a peppermint and slipped it into her mouth. Her breath always smelled faintly of mint. As head of Special Operations, how many men had she sent to their deaths? Ian Rider and maybe dozens more. Perhaps it was easier for her if her breath was sweet.
    There was a movement ahead of him and he saw that the parachutists had gotten back from their jump. They were walking toward him out of the darkness with Wolf and the other men from K Unit right at the front. Alex tried to step around them, but he found Wolf blocking his way.
    “You're leaving,” Wolf said. Somehow he must have heard that Alex's training was over.
    “Yes.”
    There was a long pause. “What happened on the plane . . .” he began.
    “Forget it, Wolf,” Alex said. “Nothing happened. You jumped and I didn't. That's all.”
    Wolf held out a hard. “I want you to know ... I was wrong about you. You're all right. And maybe ... one day it would be good to work with you.”
    “You never know,” Alex said.
    They shook.
    “Good luck, Cub.”
    “Good-bye, Wolf.”
    Alex walked out into the night.

PHYSALIA PHYSALIA
    THE SILVER GRAY Mercedes S600 cruised down the freeway, traveling south. Alex was sitting in the front passenger seat with so much soft leather around him that he could barely hear the 389 horsepower, 6-liter engine that was carrying him toward the Sayle complex near Port Tallon, Cornwall. At eighty miles per hour, the engine was only idling. But Alex could feel the power of the car. One hundred thousand pounds worth of German engineering. One touch from the unsmiling chauffeur and the Mercedes would leap forward. This was a car that sneered at speed limits.
    Alex had been collected that morning from a converted church in Hampstead, North London. This was where Felix Lester lived. When the driver had arrived, Alex had been waiting with his luggage, and there was even a woman he had never met before-an M16 operativekissing him, telling him to brush his teeth, waving goodbye. As far as the driver was concerned, Alex was Felix. That morning Alex