Agent 21 by Chris Ryan

terminal hanging on the wall. It switched on immediately and at the top right-hand corner he saw the date.
    22 April.
    A year to the day since his parents had died.
    The months of training had been so intense that Zak had barely thought about them. Not properly, though they were always there in the back of his mind. Now he sat on the edge of his bed and stared into the middle distance, feeling empty.
    The door opened. Zak looked over his shoulder to see Gabs standing there. She was wearing her usual black clothes and her large blue eyes were wide. ‘I thought you might be up early today, sweetie.’
    Zak looked away, embarrassed that he could feel tears in his eyes.
    ‘Raf and I were talking,’ she continued. ‘We thought maybe you could take the day off.’
    Zak looked through the window of his room. The early morning light was dreary and he could tell it would be a cold, unwelcoming day. But he also knew that sitting here in his room wasn’t the best way to get his head in order. He stood up. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want a day off. Let’s get to work.’
    They spent the morning on emergency First Aid, practising cardiopulmonary resuscitation techniques, before moving on to modern languages and finishing up on the firing range in the basement. By evening he was exhausted. He ate a quick supper and went to bed early. The sooner this day was over, he decided, the better.
    It was a noise that woke him. At least, he thought it was. Zak’s eyes pinged open, and even though he stayed lying on his back, his senses were keen. He held his breath, eliminating the sound of his breathing from his senses. The moon shone through his window, casting long shadows inside the room.
    Zak strained his ears. There was nothing. Just a thick blanket of silence.
    The silence didn’t last for long.
    When they came, it was hard and fast. There was an icy shattering as the panes of the window burst inwards and a figure fast-roped in, followed by two others. For a moment, Zak was paralysed with terror; but then he moved quickly. He rolled from the opposite side of his bed and instantly made for the door – his only available exit point. They were too fast for him, though. All three men were dressed in black and had balaclavas over their heads. The frontrunner grabbed him and forced one arm behind his back.
    Zak felt drained with panic. ‘
Raf!
’ he yelled. ‘
Gabs! Help!
’ All of a sudden the sound of roaring engines filled his ears; a bright spotlight shone in through the broken window. His attacker pulled out a gun – a matt-black Glock 17 – and pressed it to Zak’s head.
    Zak barely dared breathe.
    ‘Say another word,’ the man said, his voice muffled by the balaclava, ‘and it’ll be your last.’
    That was enough for Zak. He felt his legs go weak, and it was all he could do to stand up.
    Another of the masked men approached him. He was carrying some sort of harness which he pulled over Zak’s head and secured around the back. The guy with the Glock pushed him towards the window and reached out, pulling in a long rope with a metal link at the end. He clipped this link to the harness and put the gun against Zak’s head again.
    ‘Jump,’ he said.
    Zak felt his stomach go. He peered out of the window. The noise was deafening here, the light blinding, but he could sense what was out there – a helicopter, hovering about twenty metres above the height of his window.
    ‘I won’t tell you again.’ The man pushed Zak right up against the broken glass. He was rough, and he meant it.
    Zak didn’t have a choice. He climbed up onto theedge of the window frame, took a deep breath and stepped out. He felt his stomach go as he fell three or four metres; but then there was a jolt that winded him and sent him spinning round in the air. Instinctively he grabbed the rope above him, but by this time he could feel himself being winched up. In less than twenty seconds somebody inside the chopper – masked and anonymous just like