Stormbreaker Read Online Free
to be the most lethal in karate. His foot powered into the man's abdomen with such force that the man didn't even have time to cry out. His eyes bulged and his mouth half opened in surprise. Then, with his hand still halfway into his jacket, he crumpled to the ground.
Alex jumped over him, snatched up his bike, and swung himself onto it. In the distance a third man was running toward him. He heard the single word “Stop!” called out. Then there was a crack and a bullet whipped past. Alex gripped the handlebars and pedaled as hard as he could. The bike shot forward, over the rubble and out through the gates. He took one look over his shoulder. Nobody had followed him.
With one shoe on and one shoe off, his clothes in rags, and his body streaked with oil, Alex knew he must look a strange sight. But then he thought back to his last seconds inside the crusher and sighed with relief. He could be looking a lot worse.
ROYAL & GENERAL
THE BANK CALLED the following day.
“This is John Crawley. Do you remember me? Personnel manager at the Royal and General. We were wondering if you could come in.”
“Come in?” Alex was half dressed, already late for school.
“This afternoon. We found some papers of your uncle's. We need to talk to you ... about your own position.”
Was there something faintly threatening in the man's voice? “What time this afternoon?” Alex asked.
“Could you manage half past four? We're on Liverpool Street. We can send a cab-”
“I'll be there,” Alex said. “And I'll take the tube.”
He hung up.
“Who was that?” lack called out of the kitchen. She was cooking breakfast for the two of them, although how long she could remain with Alex was a growing worry. Her wages hadn't been paid. She had only her own money to buy food and pay for the running of the house. Worse still, her visa was about to expire. Soon she wouldn't even be allowed to stay in the country.
“That was the bank.” Alex came into the room, wearing his spare uniform. He hadn't told her what had happened at the junk yard. Jack had enough on her mind. “I'm going there this afternoon,” he said.
“Do you want me to come?”
“No. I'll be fine.”
He came out of Liverpool Street tube station just after four-fifteen that afternoon, still wearing his school clothes: dark blue jacket, gray trousers, striped tie. He found the bank easily enough. 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.
Alex stopped in front of it. For a moment he wondered if he was making a mistake, going in. If the bank had been responsible in some way for Ian Rider's death, it was always possible they had asked him here to arrange his own. But why would anyone from the bank want to kill him? He didn't even have an account there. He went inside.
And in an office on the seventeenth floor, the image on the television monitor flickered and changed as Street Camera #1 smoothly cut across to Reception Cameras #2 and #3. Everything was dark and shadowy inside. A man sitting behind a desk saw Alex come in and pressed a button. Camera #2 zoomed in until Alex's face filled the screen.
“So he came,” the chairman of the bank muttered.
“That's the boy?” The speaker was a middle-aged woman. She had a strange, potato-shaped head and her black hair looked as if it had been cut using a pair of blunt scissors and an upturned bowl. Her eyes were almost as black as her hair. She was dressed in a severe gray suit and was sucking a peppermint. “Are you sure about this, Alan?” she asked.
Alan Blunt nodded. “Oh yes. Quite sure. You know what to do?” This last question was addressed to his driver, who was also in the room.
The driver was standing uncomfortably, slightly hunched over. His face was a chalky white. He had been like that ever since he had
Alex jumped over him, snatched up his bike, and swung himself onto it. In the distance a third man was running toward him. He heard the single word “Stop!” called out. Then there was a crack and a bullet whipped past. Alex gripped the handlebars and pedaled as hard as he could. The bike shot forward, over the rubble and out through the gates. He took one look over his shoulder. Nobody had followed him.
With one shoe on and one shoe off, his clothes in rags, and his body streaked with oil, Alex knew he must look a strange sight. But then he thought back to his last seconds inside the crusher and sighed with relief. He could be looking a lot worse.
ROYAL & GENERAL
THE BANK CALLED the following day.
“This is John Crawley. Do you remember me? Personnel manager at the Royal and General. We were wondering if you could come in.”
“Come in?” Alex was half dressed, already late for school.
“This afternoon. We found some papers of your uncle's. We need to talk to you ... about your own position.”
Was there something faintly threatening in the man's voice? “What time this afternoon?” Alex asked.
“Could you manage half past four? We're on Liverpool Street. We can send a cab-”
“I'll be there,” Alex said. “And I'll take the tube.”
He hung up.
“Who was that?” lack called out of the kitchen. She was cooking breakfast for the two of them, although how long she could remain with Alex was a growing worry. Her wages hadn't been paid. She had only her own money to buy food and pay for the running of the house. Worse still, her visa was about to expire. Soon she wouldn't even be allowed to stay in the country.
“That was the bank.” Alex came into the room, wearing his spare uniform. He hadn't told her what had happened at the junk yard. Jack had enough on her mind. “I'm going there this afternoon,” he said.
“Do you want me to come?”
“No. I'll be fine.”
He came out of Liverpool Street tube station just after four-fifteen that afternoon, still wearing his school clothes: dark blue jacket, gray trousers, striped tie. He found the bank easily enough. 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.
Alex stopped in front of it. For a moment he wondered if he was making a mistake, going in. If the bank had been responsible in some way for Ian Rider's death, it was always possible they had asked him here to arrange his own. But why would anyone from the bank want to kill him? He didn't even have an account there. He went inside.
And in an office on the seventeenth floor, the image on the television monitor flickered and changed as Street Camera #1 smoothly cut across to Reception Cameras #2 and #3. Everything was dark and shadowy inside. A man sitting behind a desk saw Alex come in and pressed a button. Camera #2 zoomed in until Alex's face filled the screen.
“So he came,” the chairman of the bank muttered.
“That's the boy?” The speaker was a middle-aged woman. She had a strange, potato-shaped head and her black hair looked as if it had been cut using a pair of blunt scissors and an upturned bowl. Her eyes were almost as black as her hair. She was dressed in a severe gray suit and was sucking a peppermint. “Are you sure about this, Alan?” she asked.
Alan Blunt nodded. “Oh yes. Quite sure. You know what to do?” This last question was addressed to his driver, who was also in the room.
The driver was standing uncomfortably, slightly hunched over. His face was a chalky white. He had been like that ever since he had
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