Ark Angel (Alex Rider, Band 6) - Softcover

Horowitz, Anthony

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0142407380 ISBN 13: 9780142407387

Verlag: Puffin Books, 2007

Inhaltsangabe

Alex Rider is now an IMDb TV/Amazon Original Series!

Alex Rider is an orphan turned teen superspy who's saving the world one mission at a time—from #1 New York Times bestselling author!

The sniper’s bullet nearly killed him. But Alex Rider managed to survive . . . just in time for more trouble to come his way. When kidnappers attempt to snatch a fellow patient from the exclusive hospital where Alex is recovering, he knows he has to stop him. But the boy he saves is no ordinary patient: He is the son of Nikolai Drevin, one of the richest men in the world. The eccentric billionaire has been targeted by Force Three, a group of eco-terrorists who claim his project Ark Angel—the first luxury hotel in outer space—is a danger to the environment. Soon Alex discovers that Force Three will stop at nothing to destroy Ark Angel, even if it means sending four hundred tons of molten glass and steel hurtling down to Earth and killing millions . . . unless Alex can stop them.


From the author of Magpie Murders and Moriarty.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Anthony Horowitz (anthonyhorowitz.com) is a world-renowned screenwriter for film and television, having received multiple awards. And he is, of course, the author of the #1 New York Times bestselling Alex Rider novels, which have become bestsellers the world over, spawned a major motion picture, and a line of graphic novels. A master of the spy thriller, Anthony is the only writer authorized by both the Arthur Conan Doyle and Ian Fleming Estates to write original Sherlock Holmes and James Bond novels, respectively. Anthony lives with his wife in London, England; they are parents to two grown boys. Follow Anthony on Twitter @AnthonyHorowitz.

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Chapter 2

The nurse was twenty-three years old, blonde, and nervous. This was only her second week at St. Dominic’s, one of London’s most exclusive private hospitals. Rock stars and television celebrities came here, she had been told. There were also VIPs from abroad. VIPs here meant very important patients. Even famous people get sick, and the ones who wanted to recover in five-star comfort chose St. Dominic’s. The surgeons and therapists were world-class. The hospital food was so good that some patients had been known to pretend they were ill so that they could enjoy it for a while longer.That evening, the nurse was making her way down a wide, brightly lit corridor, carrying a tray of medicines. She was wearing a freshly laundered white dress. Her name—d. meacher—was printed on a badge pinned to her uniform. Several of the junior doctors had already placed bets on which of them would persuade her to go out with them first.

She stopped in front of an open door. Room nine.

“Hello,” she said. “I’m Diana Meacher.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting you too,” the boy in room nine replied.

Alex Rider was sitting up in bed, reading a French textbook that he should have been studying at school. He was wearing pajamas that had fallen open at the neck and the nurse could just make out the bandages crisscrossing his chest. He was a very handsome boy, she thought. He had fair hair and serious brown eyes that looked as though they had seen too much. She knew that he was only fourteen, but he looked older. Pain had done that to him. Nurse Meacher had read his medical file and understood what he had been through.

In truth, he should have been dead. Alex Rider had been hit by a bullet fired from a .22 rifle from a distance of almost 250 feet. The sniper had been aiming for his heart—and if the bullet had found its target, Alex would have had no chance of surviving. But nothing is certain—not even murder. A tiny movement had saved his life. As he had come out of MI6’s headquarters on Liverpool Street, he had stepped off the sidewalk, his right foot carrying his body down toward the level of the road. It was at that exact moment that the bullet had hit him, and instead of powering into his heart, it had entered his body half an inch higher, ricocheting off a rib and exiting horizontally under his left arm.

The bullet had missed his vital heart structures, but even so, it had done plenty of damage, tearing through the subclavian artery, which carries blood over the top of the lung and into the arm. This was what Alex had felt when he was hit. As blood had poured out of the severed artery, filling the space between the lung and the thoracic cage, he had found himself unable to breathe. Alex could easily have died from shock or loss of blood. If he had been a man, he almost certainly would have. But the body of a child is different from that of an adult. A young person’s artery will automatically shut itself down if cut—doctors can’t explain how or why—and this will limit the amount of blood lost. Alex was unconscious, but he was still breathing, four minutes later, when the first ambulance arrived.There wasn’t much the paramedics could do: IV fluids, oxygen, and some gentle compression around the bullet’s point of entry. But that was enough. Alex had been rushed to St. Dominic’s, where surgeons had removed the bone fragments and put a graft on the artery. He had been in the operating room two and a half hours.And now he was looking almost as if nothing had happened. As the nurse came into the room, he closed the book and settled back into his pillows. Diana Meacher knew that this was his last night in the hospital. He had been here for ten days and tomorrow he was going home. She also knew that she wasn’t allowed to ask too many questions. It was there in large print on his file:

PATIENT 9/75958 RIDER/ALEX:

SPECIAL STATUS (MISO).

NO UNAUTHORIZED VISITORS. NO PRESS.

REFER ALL INQUIRIES TO DR. HAYWARD.

It was all very strange. She had been told she would meet some interesting people at St. Dominic’s, and she had been required to sign a confidentiality clause before she began work. But she’d never expected anything like this. MISO stood for Military Intelligence: Special Operations. But what was the secret service doing with a teenage boy? How had Alex managed to get himself shot? And why had there been two armed policemen sitting outside his room for the first four days of his stay? Diana tried to push these thoughts out of her mind as she put the tray down. Maybe she should have stuck with the NHS.“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Looking forward to going home?”

“Yes.”

Diana realized she was staring at Alex and turned her attention to the medicines. “Are you in any pain?” she asked. “Can I get you something to help you sleep?”“No, I’m all right.” Alex shook his head and for a moment something flickered in his eyes. The pain in his chest had slowly faded, but he knew it would never leave him completely. He could feel it now, vague and distant, like a bad memory.

“Would you like me to come back later?”

“No, it’s all right, thanks.” He smiled. “I don’t need anyone to tuck me in.”

Diana blushed. “That’s not what I meant,” she said. “But if you need me, I’ll be just down the hall. You can call me anytime.”

“I might do that.”

The nurse picked up her tray and walked out of the room. She left behind the scent of her perfume—heather and spring flowers—in the air. Alex sniffed. It seemed to him that since his injury, his senses had become more acute.

He reached for his French book, then changed his mind. To hell with it, he thought. Irregular verbs could wait. It was his own future that concerned him more.He looked around at the neat, softly lit room that tried hard to pretend it belonged to an expensive hotel rather than a hospital. There was a TV on a table in the corner, operated by a remote control beside the bed. A window looked out over a wide north London street lined with trees. His room was on the second floor, one of about a dozen arranged in a ring around a bright and modern reception area. In the early days after his operation, there had been flowers everywhere, but Alex had asked for them to be taken away. They’d reminded him of a funeral parlor and he had decided he preferred being alive.

But there were still cards. He had received more than twenty and he’d been surprised how many people had heard that he’d been hurt—and how many had sent a card. There had been a dozen from school: one from the head; one from Miss Bedfordshire, the school secretary; and several from his friends. Tom Harris had sent him some photos taken on their trip to Venice and a note:

They told us it’s appendercitis but I bet it isn’t.

Get well soon anyway.

Tom was the only person at Brookland who knew the truth about Alex.

Sabina Pleasure had somehow discovered he was in the hospital and had sent him a card from San Francisco. She was enjoying life in America but missed England, she said. She was hoping to come over for Christmas. Jack Starbright had sent him the biggest card in the room and had followed it up with chocolates, magazines, and energy drinks, visiting him twice a day. There was even a card from the prime minister’s office—although it seemed the prime minister had been too busy to sign it.

And there had been cards from MI6. One from Mrs. Jones, another from Alan Blunt (a printed message with a single word—blunt—signed in green ink as if it were a memorandum, not a get-well card)....

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Puffin Books
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2007
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0142407380
• ISBN 13: 9780142407387
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 352
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar