A/N: Officiality over, this is my first xXx fanfic. It's been in the pipeline for a while, but I only have the one Muse, who is a paranoid schizophrenic with MPD, since I leant Derek, my other muse, to a friend of mine, and he preferred her place. Oh well, you can't have it all.
To those of you who avidly read my stuff, more character self insertion, more humour, and more oblique references that only Blake will get follow. Any way, on with the show.
The CIA agent was on the floor, blood pouring from a gaping chest wound, before he knew what had hit him. He was the fifth agent they'd lost, but that did nothing to ease his mind as rough hands ran through his pockets, stealing his wallet, taking back the information the agent had stolen from the fortified headquarters of a rebel group that had no name.
The world went black. Mercifully, the agent was unconscious when the axe severed his head from his body.
Augustus Gibbons, CIA, was annoyed. Extremely annoyed. He'd been trying to contact Xander Cage for over an hour now, but the guy either wasn't home, or was ignoring the phone. Cage was the best the CIA had, but his attitude towards the Agency was the same as his attitude towards life. Cage was a risk taker, and stunt puller. Just last week, Gibbons had seen a new video up on the underground website Xander pulled stunts for. This time, it was some state governor trying to bring so-called Big Brother laws in to place who had been the target, his car stolen and driven off a cliff, a lot like the trick Xander had pulled before he'd been recruited by the CIA.
Now, though, Gibbons needed Xander to know about Spain. The CIA had lost five trained agents to a group there, and he needed Xander on the case. Not just Xander though. Another search of the criminal justice system had brought up another name, perfect for the situation. A youth, little more than a boy, named Alexander Rashka Keller Jonathan Rider. Rashka, for short.
Gibbons looked at the file in front of him again, as Xander's phone rang again and again. Definitely perfect.
Finally, an answer.
"Xander, it's Gibbons."
"Scar-face, I already told you not to call me. Ever."
"Yeah, well, I got a problem, X."
"You rang to tell me what I already know?"
"Nice. But you also have a problem. Grand theft auto, again."
"Gimme a break, Gibbons. The guy was asking for it."
"We have a problem, Xander. Can you be at the Speedway Show in California tomorrow, 10 am? I want to show you somebody."
"You know what, if you told me not to be there, I'd already be on the train."
"Don't play games with me, X. I can still screw you over.
"I'll be there. You'll know when I get there, you always do."
Xander hung up. Gibbons smiled.
The kid on the Kawasaki ZXR was good, Xander had to give him that, as he waited for Gibbons to show up. No helmet, meaning Xander could see his buzz-cut jet black hair and his clear, piercing blue eyes. Still young though, but very skilled. Shit, the kid was pulling motorcycle tricks that Xander and his crew only dreamed of. Hell, if Scar-face didn't show, Xander would offer the kid a job being filmed for the website. Get himself a break from Jay.
"I see you already found our mark," Augustus said from behind Xander.
"We're gonna kill him?" Xander asked, suspiciously.
"Hell no, X. We're gonna recruit him."
"Recruit him? You mean we're gonna let him kill himself? He can't be more than a year out of high school."
Xander kept his voice hushed so the pair didn't attract attention from the crowd, who were avidly watching the boy match tricks with an older biker.
"He's a lot like you, X. Streetwise, reckless and, most importantly, expendable. A street rat. Totally deniable."
"Nice to know you care."
"I'm sure you'll like him. But he has to pass through selection first. SAS selection."
"Limeys? Waddaya wanna involve them in this shit for?"
"SAS selection is tougher than CIA selection. I want you to go too. Keep an eye on him, help him out. Army training is easier to pin to a country. You get SAS training, you add it to your valuable street smarts, the pair of you are merely newly selected soldiers ready to celebrate with a week in the sunny climes of Espanol before heading home to Blighty with a tan and a mission."
"So what have I got to do?"
"Nothing. Toby's gonna KO him with one of those darts you like so much. Next time you see him, you'll be in the aisle seat next to his window seat, on the plane to England."
Gibbons passed Xander a boarding pass and airline ticket.
"Toby will meet you out there when you pass through training. I'll contact you every night, if you can get Rashka to sneak you out of the barracks."
"The kid on the bike. I'll inform him of his lack of choice in the matter when he wakes up. See you in Spain, Xander."
With that, Gibbons walked off.
Alexander Rashka Keller Jonathan Rider woke up with a pounding headache. A glance at his watch told him it was 24 hours since he'd last looked at his watch. The fact that he was still in his leathers meant he'd been accosted at the Speedway. The fact that he still had his watch meant he'd not been robbed.
He raised his head and looked around, finding himself in a diner. Not too busy either. A suit in one corner, reading the paper and sipping what looked like a glass of orange juice. A guy who looked like he was hunting out of season sat three stools down from where Alex sat at the counter. Another suit, a black guy with a disfiguring scar to the left side of his face, who calmly sipped from his cup as Alex's eyes fell on him. The waitress behind the counter. Four more customers, an old-looking couple and their grown up kids.
Well, he'd woken up in stranger places, that was for sure.
The waitress looked at him, offering him the jug of coffee in her hand. He shook his head, and said, coarsely, too soft for anyone to hear the trace of Irish in his voice, his mouth dry, "A bottle of cola, please. And a glass of ice water."
The waitress complied, and Rashka took a gulp of water. "How did I get here? I was at the Speedway Show." Again, the trace of Irish was barely perceptible, but Gibbons picked up on it.
"Couple of guys brought you in, ten minutes ago. Gave me ten bucks to look after you."
Alex twisted his head to look outside. His bike wasn't there. He frowned, snarling a little, and stood to leave. Which was when hunter boy pointed a gun at him.
"Freeze!" Hunter boy yelled.
Alex froze. He had a gun pointed at him, his brain told him, best he do as he was told. His body, on the other hand, once it caught up, figured his brain was cuckoo and kicked the gun out of the guy's hand, catching it himself and flicking off the safety catch. "Never point a gun at a biker. Or a Provo's son, for that matter."
The gun was suddenly pointed at the scar-faced guy in the corner, who was clapping. "You did much better than the last guy we pulled in here."
"Nice to know," Rashka commented sarcastically. "Where's my bike?"
Scar-face smiled, apparently a rarity for him.
"It's safe," came the answer.
"Then you'd best get it here quick, 'cos I've got places to be."
"I know, Master Rider," Scar-face said. "You're going back to Sandhurst."