Stormbreaker: Chapters 1–3

Alex sighed, fighting against the sense of grief that was suddenly overwhelming.

There were five of them. A lawyer who knew nothing about any will but seemed to have been charged with organizing the funeral. A funeral director who had been recommended by the lawyer. A vicar—tall, elderly—who seemed disappointed that Alex refused to cry. A neighbor from across the road—how did she even know that anyone had died? And finally a man from the bank.

He had the sort of face you forget even while you’re looking at it and had introduced himself as Crawley, from personnel.

Both of them were watching the funeral with the same grim faces.

He could have gone to any of the exclusive private schools around Chelsea, but Ian Rider had decided to send him here.

How could he possibly think about algebra when there were so many other questions churning through his mind?

Two wooden gates hung open, and from the other side of the road, Alex could see a shed with a security window and beyond it the tottering piles of dead and broken cars.

Then the shelves lifted up, toppling the car over and down into a trough.

With the din from the machines, there was no chance that anyone would hear him, but he was still afraid of being seen.

He stopped to catch his breath, drawing a grimy hand across his face.

The front seats, pale gray leather, were strewn with fragments of broken glass and stained with patches of dark brown.

Had they lied deliberately? None of it made sense.

If there hadn’t been a sudden lull, Alex would never have heard the men coming.

The roof buckled and three huge metal fingers tore through the skin of the car like a fork through an eggshell, trailing dust and sunlight. One of the fingers grazed the side of his head...any closer and it would have cracked his skull.

He couldn’t see. He couldn’t move. But his stomach lurched as the car swung in an arc, the metal grinding and the light spinning.

He couldn’t see. He couldn’t move. But his stomach lurched as the car swung in an arc, the metal grinding and the light spinning.

The machine was a Lefort Shear, a slow-motion guillotine.

His hand scrabbled for the door—but, of course, that was useless.

The BMW screamed as two walls of solid steel relentlessly crushed it.

With all his strength, he surged forward.

Alex clambered down the side of the crusher, landing on the one foot that still had a shoe.

His bicycle was where he had left it, leaning against the wall, and gingerly, half hopping, he made for it.

His face, twisted into a hostile frown, was curiously ugly: greasy hair, watery eyes, pale, lifeless skin.

When he had arrived at Brookland School, his gentle looks and accent had quickly brought him to the attention of the school bullies; three hulking sixteen-year-olds.

Worse still, her visa was about to expire. Soon she wouldn’t even be allowed to stay in the country.

The Royal & General occupied a tall, antique-looking building with a Union Jack fluttering from a pole about fifteen floors up.

There was a brass plaque with the name next to the main door and a security camera swiveling slowly over the pavement.

There was a brass plaque with the name next to the main door and a security camera swiveling slowly over the pavement.

The driver was standing uncomfortably, slightly hunched over.

The reception area was quiet and claustrophobic, with a brown marble floor, three elevators to one side, and above the desk, a row of clocks showing the time in every major world city.

But this second machine both looked at him and through him as he stood there, turning him into a pulsating mass of different colors, none of which translated into the cold steel of a hidden gun or knife.

A series of doors were punctuated by brightly colored abstract paintings.

A series of doors were punctuated by brightly colored abstract paintings.

He recognized the oversweet, slightly cloying taste of supermarket cola and wished he’d asked for water.

The pole jutted out of the building exactly halfway between rooms 1504 and 1505.

It was only the sheer brick wall stretching down to the pavement, the cars and buses moving like toys so far below, and the blast of the wind against his face that made it terrifying.

“The boy’s quite mad,” the woman retorted.

He had missed the flagpole by an inch and would have plunged down to the pavement if his hands hadn’t caught hold of the Union Jack itself.

Alex slid the window open and hoisted himself into the second office, which was in many ways a carbon copy of the first.

Growing ever more puzzled, he quickly flicked through the rest of the files, which covered counterterrorism, the movement of uranium across Europe, and interrogation techniques.