Громобой

Anthony Horowitz - Alex Rider 1 - Stormbreaker (v1.0)

Энтони Горовиц (Anthony Horowitz)

Scanned & proofed by unknown.

Converted to HTML, cleaned, re-formatted & proofread by nukie.

Color:

-1-

-2-

-3-

-4-

-5-

-6-

-7-

-8-

-9-

Text Size:

10

-

11

-

12

-

13

-

14

-

15

-

16

-

17

-

18

-

19

-

20

-

21

-

22

-

23

-

24

STORMBREAKER

Alex Rider Book 1

Anthony Horowitz

Table of Contents

FUNERAL VOICES

HEAVEN FOR CARS

ROYAL & GENERAL

SO WHAT DO YOU SAY?

DOUBLE 0 NOTHING

TOYS AREN’T US

PHYSALIA PHYSALIA

LOOKING FOR TROUBLE

NIGHT VISITORS

DEATH IN THE LONG GRASS

DOZMARY MINE

BEHIND THE DOOR

THE SCHOOL BULLY

DEEP WATER

ELEVEN O’CLOCK

TWELVE O’CLOCK

YASSEN

FUNERAL VOICES

^ »

WHEN THE DOORBELL rings at three in the morning, it’s never good news.

Alex Rider was woken by the first chime. His eyes flickered open, but for a moment he stayed completely still in his bed, lying on his back with his head resting on the pillow. He heard a bedroom door open and a creak of wood as somebody went downstairs. The bell rang a second time, and he looked at the alarm clock glowing beside him. There was a rattle as someone slid the security chain off the front door.

He rolled out of bed and walked over to the open window, his bare feet pressing down the carpet pile. The moonlight spilled onto his chest and shoulders. Alex was fourteen, already well built, with the body of an athlete. His hair, cut short apart from two thick strands hanging over his forehead, was fair. His eyes were brown and serious. For a moment he stood silently, half hidden in the shadow, looking out. There was a police car parked outside. From his second-floor window Alex could see the black ID number on the roof and the caps of the two men who were standing in front of the door. The porch light went on and, at the same time, the door opened.

Mrs. Rider?

No. I’m the housekeeper. What is it? What’s happened?

This is the home of Mr. Ian Rider?

Yes.

I wonder if we could come in…

And Alex already knew. He knew from the way the police stood there, awkward and unhappy. But he also knew from the tone of their voices. Funeral voices … that was how he would describe them later. The sort of voices people use when they come to tell you that someone close to you has died.

He went to his door and opened it. He could hear the two policemen talking down in the hall, but only some of the words reached him.