Ark Angel

of plastic—hung on a metal frame opposite. The corridor dog-legged, then continued past a series of doors and cupboards to another pair of swing doors at the far end.
    Alex knew exactly what he would find in the cupboards. One of the rooms leading off the corridor was a fully equipped gym with cycling machines, dumb-bells, heavy medicine balls and treadmills.
    The cupboards contained more equipment, including chest expanders and rolls of elastic. Each day, the physiotherapist had cut off a length of elastic and given it to Alex to use in simple stretching exercises.
    These had been gentle at first but had become more strenuous, using thicker lengths of elastic, as he healed.
    He opened the first cupboard. He had worked out what he was going to do. The question was the same as before. Had he left himself enough time?

    Forty seconds later, the doors opened and Combat Jacket came in. He was breathing heavily. He was meant to be in command of this operation, and one day he would have to answer for it. Two of his men were lying unconscious upstairs—one of them electrocuted. And what made it worse—what made it unbelievable—

    was that both had been taken out by a kid! They had been told it would be simple. Maybe that was why they had made so many mistakes. Well, he wasn’t going to make any more.
    He crept forward slowly, his fist curled around an ugly, square-nosed handgun. It was an FP9, a single-action pistol manufactured in Hungary, one of dozens coming in illegally from Eastern Europe. There were no lights on in this part of the hospital. The only illumination came from the moonlight streaming in through the windows. He looked to one side and saw the skeleton standing there like something out of a cheap fairground ride. The hollow eye sockets seemed to be staring at him. Warning him? The man looked away in disgust. He wasn’t going to let it give him the creeps.
    He glanced into the two cubicles. The curtains were drawn back and it was obvious the boy wasn’t hiding there. Combat Jacket went past the skeleton and turned the corner. Now he found himself looking down the full length of the corridor. It was very dark but as his eyes adjusted, he made out a shape standing at the far end. He smiled. It was the boy! He seemed to be holding something against his chest. What was it?
    Some sort of ball. Well, this time he’d made a big mistake. He wasn’t going to get a chance to throw it. If he so much as moved, Combat Jacket would shoot him in the leg and then drag him to the car.
    “Drop it!” Combat Jacket commanded.
    Alex Rider let go of the ball.
    It was a medicine ball from the gym. It weighed five kilograms and for a second time, Alex had been afraid he would split his stitches. But what Combat Jacket hadn’t seen was that Alex had also taken a length of elastic out of the cupboard. He had tied it across the corridor, from one door handle to another, and then stretched it all the way back with the medicine ball. The ball was now a missile in an oversized catapult, and when Alex released it, it shot the full length of the corridor as if fired from a cannon.
    Combat Jacket was only faintly aware of the great weight hurtling out of the shadows before it hit him square in the stomach, rocketing him off his feet. The gun flew out of his hand. The breath was punched out of his lungs. His shoulders hit the floor and he slid five metres before crashing into the wall. He just had time to tell himself that this wasn’t Paul Drevin—that this was no ordinary fourteen-year-old boy—
    before he blacked out.

    Steel Watch had just entered the physio department. He heard the crash and turned the corner in combat position, his own weapon ready to fire. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he knew that he had lost the initiative. What should have been a simple snatch had gone horribly wrong. There was a figure sprawled on the floor in front of him, its neck twisted and face drained of colour. A large medicine ball lay near by.
    Steel Watch blinked in disbelief. He saw one of the doors at the end of the corridor swing shut. That told him all he needed to know. He followed.
    Twenty paces ahead of him, Alex was once more making his way downstairs. It seemed the only way to go.
    The stairs led him back to the ground floor, where it had all begun. The reception area was unnaturally silent apart from the soft hum of a refrigerated drinks dispenser. White light spilled over the rows of Coke and Fanta, throwing