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STORMBREAKER. Anthony Horowitz. FUNERAL VOICES., '. WHEN THE DOORBELL rings at three in the morning it s never good news Alex Rider was woken. Stormbreaker (Alex Rider). Home · Stormbreaker (Alex Rider) Author: Anthony Horowitz. downloads Stormbreaker · Read more · Skeleton Key (Alex. Apr 18, Download PDF BOOKS BY ANTHONY HOROWITZ The Devil and His Boy THE ALEX RIDER ADVENTURES: Stormbreaker Point Blank Skeleton STORMBREAKER AN ALEX RIDER ADVENTURE ANTHONY HOROWITZ.
Someone had been to his house in Chelsea. There can be some mix-up to some, but other than that, it also explain things pretty well. He would just do it. Storm Breaker is an exceptional read for anyone interested in action adventure novels and spy stories. He will bemissed. Two floors above,Alan Blunt was still sitting in front of the screen.
There was hardly an uninteresting moment. Almost every minute of the book was full of heart thrashing action and shocking heart stopping uncertainty. There can be some mix-up to some, but other than that, it also explain things pretty well. The plot is outstanding, full of surprising twists and turns, but not as great as the action and the way the book is written. If not at the third chapter, then surely somewhere else in the book!
This is really sensational, easy to read, and hard to put down novel. The quick pace of the story lures the reader on, and the simple use of the language to express the story make it that much easier to read just one more page, and another, and another. However, the simple writing induces full metaphors, cast and settings. And there are a great deal of twists in the story. Even though the pace is driving and the explanations are brilliant, the book could have used a little more discourse.
The dialogue that the writer uses is pretty much ideal, but more of it was needed. Storm breaker is a blend of James Bond, Alias, and a mystery. Good mix-up indeed. He could hearthe two policemen talking down in the hall, but onlysome of the words reached him.
His uncle—IanRider—was dead.
Driving home, his car had been hitby a truck at Old Street roundabout and he had beenkilled almost instantly. Otherwise, he might have had achance. Alex thought of the man who had been his only re-lation for as long as he could remember.
He had neverknown his own parents. They had both died in an-other accident, this one a plane crash, a few weeks af-ter he had been born.
The two of them had al-ways been close. It was almost impossible toimagine that he would never again see the man, hearhis laughter, or twist his arm to get help with his sci-ence homework.
Alex sighed, fighting against the sense of grief thatwas suddenly overwhelming. But what saddened him.
He was a banker. People said Alex looked a littlelike him. Ian Rider was always traveling. A quiet, pri-vate man who liked good wine, classical music, andbooks. He had kepthimself fit, had never smoked, and had dressed ex-pensively. It was only a thumbnail sketch.
She was in her late twenties witha sprawl of red hair and a round, boyish face. JackStarbright was American. Sometimes he wondered what the Jack was short for.
Neither of them suited her and al-though he had once asked, she had never said. Alex nodded. To me. To you. But not today, Alex. It was the only room thatwas always locked—Alex had only been in there threeor four times, and never on his own. When he wasyounger, he had fantasized that there might be some-thing strange up there. But it was merely an office with a desk, a couple offiling cabinets, shelves full of papers and books.
Even so, Alex wanted to goup there now. She nodded. You knowhow careful he was. He always wore his seat belt. Why would the police have lied? He would havepreferred to escape back into normal life, the clang ofthe bell, the crowds of familiar faces, instead of sittinghere, trapped inside the house.
But he had to be therefor the visitors who came throughout the morning andthe rest of the afternoon.
There were five of them. A lawyer who knew noth-ing about any will but seemed to have been chargedwith organizing the funeral. A funeral director whohad been recommended by the lawyer. A vicar—tall,elderly—who seemed disappointed that Alex refusedto cry. A neighbor from across the road—how did sheeven know that anyone had died? And finally a manfrom the bank. Youleave everything to me.
But what else was he to do? Later on shetook him to a Burger King. He was glad to get out ofthe house, but the two of them barely spoke. Alex as-sumed Jack would have to go back to America. So whowould look after him? At fourteen, he was still tooyoung to look after himself. His whole future lookedso uncertain that he preferred not to talk about it.
Hepreferred not to talk at all. And then the day of the funeral arrived and Alexfound himself dressed in a dark jacket and cords,preparing to leave in a black car that had come fromnowhere surrounded by people he had never met. IanRider was buried in Brompton Cemetery on the Ful-ham Road, just in the shadow of the Chelsea soccerfield, and Alex knew where he would have preferred.
Aboutthirty people had turned up, but he hardly recognizedany of them. A grave had been dug close to the lanethat ran the length of the cemetery, and as the ser-vice began, a black Rolls-Royce drew up, the backdoor opened, and a man got out.
Alex watched him ashe walked forward and stopped. Alex shivered. Therewas something about the new arrival that made hisskin crawl. And yet the man was ordinary to look at. Graysuit, gray hair, gray lips, and gray eyes. His face wasexpressionless, the eyes behind the square, gunmetalspectacles, completely empty. Perhaps that was whathad disturbed Alex.
Whoever this man was, he seemedto have less life than anyone in the cemetery. Above orbelow ground. Someone tapped Alex on the shoulder and heturned around to see Mr. Crawley leaning over him. Two more men had come with him, oneof them driving. Both of them were watching the funeral with. Alex looked from them to Bluntand then to the other people who had come to thecemetery. Had they really known Ian Rider? Why hadhe never met any of them before?
And why did he findit so difficult to believe that they really worked for abank? He will bemissed. Hischoice of words struck Alex as odd. Thatmeant he loved his country. But as far as Alex knew,Ian Rider had barely spent any time in it. Certainlyhe had never been one for waving the Union Jack. Helooked around, hoping to find Jack, but saw insteadthat Blunt was making his way toward him, steppingcarefully around the grave.
Up close, his skin was strangelyunreal. It could have been made of plastic. Hewas a good man. You must haveknown that. About things like seat belts. He tappedthe side of his face with a single gray finger. That was when it happened. As Blunt was gettinginto the Rolls-Royce, the driver leaned down to openthe back door and his jacket fell open, revealing astark white shirt underneath.
The man was wearing a leather holster with an auto-matic pistol strapped inside. Realizing what had hap-pened, the driver quickly straightened up and pulledthe jacket across. Blunt had seen it too. He turned. Something very closeto an emotion slithered over his face. Then he got intothe car, the door closed, and he was gone. A gun at a funeral, Alex thought. Whyshould bank managers carry guns?
They slipped away quietly and went home. The carthat had taken them to the funeral was still waiting,but they preferred the open air. At the same moment, the van shot off, the wheelsskidding over the surface of the road. Alex said nothing as Jack unlocked the door andlet them in, but while she went into the kitchen tomake some tea, he quickly looked around the house.
A letter that had been on the hall table now lay on thecarpet. A door that had been half open was now. Somebody had been in the house. He was almost sureof it. The door to the office, which had always, always beenlocked, was now unlocked. Alex opened it and wentin. The room was empty. Ian Rider had gone and sohad everything else. The desk drawers, the closets, theshelves. The bike was a Condor Junior Roadracer, custombuilt for him on his twelfth birthday. He spun past a de-livery van and passed through the school gates.
Hewould be sorry when he grew out of the bike. For twoyears now it had almost been part of him. He double locked it in the shed and went into theyard. He could have goneto any of the exclusive private schools around Chelsea,but Ian Rider had decided to send him here.
He hadsaid it would be more of a challenge. The first period of the day was algebra. When Alex. Donovan,was already chalking up a complicated equation onthe board.
It was hot in the room, the sun streamingin through the floor-to-ceiling windows, put in by ar-chitects who should have known better. As Alex tookhis place near the back, he wondered how he was go-ing to get through the lesson.
How could he possiblythink about algebra when there were so many otherquestions churning through his mind? The gun at the funeral. The way Blunt had lookedat him. The empty office. And the biggest mystery of all,the one detail that refused to go away. The seat belt. But of course he had. Ian Rider had never beenone to give lectures.
He had always said Alex shouldmake up his own mind about things. The more Alex thought aboutit, the less he believed it. A collision in the middle ofthe city. Suddenly he wished he could see the car. Atleast the wreckage would tell him that the accidenthad really happened, that Ian Rider had really diedthat way. Donovan had just asked him some-thing. He quickly scanned the blackboard, taking in thefigures. But actually I was just asking you toopen the window.
Miss Bedfordshire had always had a soft spot for Alex. She knew Alex had lost a relative, but not how. He thought back to the van he had seen out-side his house on the day of the funeral. Of course it might just be a coincidence, but itwas still somewhere to start. He closed the book. Maybe it was hiseyes. Dark and serious, there was something danger-ous there. Then the telephone rang and she forgot himas she went back to work. Thearea was enclosed by a high brick wall topped withbroken glass and razor wire.
Two wooden gates hungopen, and from the other side of the road, Alex couldsee a shed with a security window and beyond it thetottering piles of dead and broken cars. Everythingof any value had been stripped away and only the rust-ing carcasses remained, heaped one on top of theother, waiting to be fed into the crusher. There was a guard sitting in the shed, reading anewspaper.
In the distance a bulldozer coughed intolife, then roared down on a battered Ford Taurus, itsmetal claw smashing through the window to scoop upthe vehicle and carry it away. A telephone rang some-where in the shed and the guard turned around to an-swer it.
That was enough for Alex. Holding his bikeand wheeling it along beside him, he sprinted throughthe gates. He found himself surrounded by dirt and debris.
The smell of diesel was thick in the air and the roar ofthe engines was deafening. Alex watched as a craneswooped down on one of the cars, seized it in a metal-lic grip, and dropped it into a crusher. For a moment.
Then the shelveslifted up, toppling the car over and down into atrough. The operator—sitting in a glass cabin at oneend of the crusher—pressed a button and there wasa great belch of black smoke.
The shelves closed in onthe car like a monster insect folding in its wings. There was a grinding sound as the car was crusheduntil it was no bigger than a rolled-up carpet. Thenthe operator threw a gear and the car was squeezedout, metallic toothpaste being chopped up by a hid-den blade.
The slices tumbled to the ground. Leaving his bike propped against the wall, Alex ranfarther into the yard, crouching down behind thewrecks. With the din from the machines, there was nochance that anyone would hear him, but he was stillafraid of being seen.
He stopped to catch his breath,drawing a grimy hand across his face. His eyes werewatering from the diesel fumes. The air was as filthyas the ground beneath him. He was beginning to regret coming—but then hesaw it. At first glance it lookedabsolutely fine, the metallic silver bodywork not evenscratched.
Certainly there was no way that this carcould have been involved in a fatal collision with a. Alex recognized the license plate. He hur-ried closer and it was now that he saw that the car wasdamaged after all.
Alexmade his way around to the other side. And froze. What hadkilled him was plain to see—even to someone whohad never seen such a thing before.
Alex ran his fingers over the holes. The metal feltcold against his flesh. He opened the door andlooked inside. The front seats, pale gray leather,were strewn with fragments of broken glass andstained with patches of dark brown. He could see everything. But why? Why kill a bank manager? And why hadthe murder been covered up? It was the police whohad delivered the news that night, so they must be partof it. Had they lied deliberately?
None of it madesense. Doit now. Quickly he looked acrossthe steering wheel and out the other side. There weretwo of them, both dressed in loose-fitting overalls. At the fu-neral. One of them was the driver, the man he hadseen with the gun. He was sure of it.
Whoever they were, they were only a few pacesaway from the car, talking in low voices. Another fewsteps and they would be there. Without thinking, Alexthrew himself into the only hiding place available: Using his foot, he hooked the doorand closed it. At the same time, he became aware thatthe machines had started again and he could nolonger hear the men. Ashadow fell across the window as the two men passed.
But then they were gone. He was safe. And then something hit the BMW with such forcethat Alex cried out, his whole body caught in a mas-sive shock wave that tore him away from the steeringwheel and threw him helplessly into the back.
Theroof buckled and three huge metal fingers tore. One of the fingersgrazed the side of his head. Alex yelled as blood trickledover his eye. He tried to move, then was jerked backa second time as the car was yanked off the groundand tilted high up in the air.
But his stom-ach lurched as the car swung in an arc, the metalgrinding and the light spinning. The BMW had beenpicked up by the crane. It was going to be put insidethe crusher.
With him inside. He tried to raise himself up, to wave through thewindows. But the claw of the crane had already flat-tened the roof, pinning his left leg, perhaps evenbreaking it.
He could feel nothing. Even if the workmen werestaring at the BMW, they would never see anythingmoving inside. His short flight across the junkyard ended with abone-shattering crash as the crane deposited the caron the iron shelves of the crusher.
Alex tried to fightback his sickness and despair and think of what to do. Any moment now the operator would send the car. The machinewas a Lefort Shear, a slow-motion guillotine. At thepress of a button, the two wings would close on the carwith a joint pressure of five hundred tons.
The car,with Alex inside it, would be crushed beyond recogni-tion. And the broken metal—and flesh—would thenbe chopped into sections. Nobody would ever knowwhat had happened.
He tried with all his strength to free himself. Butthe roof was too low. His leg was trapped. Then hiswhole world tilted and he felt himself falling into dark-ness. The shelves had lifted. The BMW slid to oneside and fell the few yards into the trough. Alex felt themetalwork collapsing all around him. The back win-dow exploded and glass showered around his head,dust and diesel fumes punching into his nose andeyes. There was hardly any daylight now, but lookingout of the back, he could see the huge steel head ofthe piston that would push what was left of the carthrough the exit hole on the other side.
The engine tone of the Lefort Shear changed asit prepared for the final act.
The metal wings shud-dered. Alex pulled with all his strength and was aston-. It took him perhaps asecond—one precious second—to work out whathad happened. When the car had fallen into thetrough, it had landed on its side. The roof had buck-led again just enough to free him. His hand scrabbledfor the door—but, of course, that was useless. Thedoors were too bent.
They would never open. Theback window! With the glass gone, he could crawlthrough the frame, but only if he moved fast. The wings began to move. The BMW screamedas two walls of solid steel relentlessly crushed it. Moreglass shattered. One of the wheel axles snappedwith the sound of a thunderbolt. Darkness began toclose in. Alex grabbed hold of what was left of the backseat. Ahead of him he could see a single triangle of light,shrinking faster and faster. He could feel the weightof the two walls pressing down on him.
The car wasno longer a car but the fist of some hideous monstersnatching at the insect that Alex had become. With all his strength, he surged forward. Hisshoulders passed through the triangle, out into thelight. Next came his legs, but at the last moment hisshoe caught on a piece of jagged metal. He jerked andthe shoe was pulled off, falling back into the car. Finally,clinging to the black, oily surface of the observationplatform at the back of the crusher, he dragged him-self clear and managed to stand up.
He found himself face-to-face with a man so fatthat he could barely fit into the small cabin of thecrusher. A cig-arette dangled on his lower lip as his mouth fell openand his eyes stared.
What he saw was a boy in the ragsof what had once been a school uniform. A wholesleeve had been torn off and his arm, streaked withblood and oil, hung limply by his side. By the time theoperator had taken this all in, come to his senses, andturned the machine off, the boy had gone.
Alex clambered down the side of the crusher, land-ing on the one foot that still had a shoe. He was awarenow of the pieces of jagged metal lying everywhere. His bicycle was where he had left it, leaning againstthe wall, and gingerly, half hopping, he made for it.
At thesame time a second man ran forward, stopping be-tween Alex and his bike. It was the driver, the man.