Archive of Our Own ^beta

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PROLOGUE
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The wind whistles through the trees as I pull my coat closer around me, trying to ward off the worst of the bitter cold. I love walking Jasper in the summer, when the sun's rays make everything seem brighter and more radiant. Anything seems possible in the summer months, but as winter draws near and the leaves begin to fall, the cold seeps through more than my clothes, and even a simple pleasure like walking the dog seems more of an effort.

It's not fair, of course, to deprive him of his walk simply because of my own silly fears, but I will admit that I always take the shorter route now, skirting the edges of the forest rather than wandering through its depths, even at the weekend when I'm not in a rush to get to work.

He seems to enjoy it all the same, racing through the deep piles of leaves that fly up and away as he disturbs them, only to flutter down around us both like brown and gold snowflakes. They crunch under my feet as I trudge through them, moving at a much slower pace than the Retriever running in wide circles around me, and as the wind whips at my hair I bend down and call him to me, fastening the lead back on his collar as he whines slightly in dismay at losing his short-lived freedom.

"Sorry honey," I mutter pointlessly, but his ears perk up slightly as I fuss him before straightening up and turning for home. Though it's a Saturday I'm in a rush to get home out of the cold, planning on curling up on my sofa in front of a roaring fire, bunny slippers on my feet and book in hand before the return of the rain that's been pelting down on us for days now and so I head further into the wood, intent on taking the direct route home even if it does mean moving away from the illusion of safety provided by the now distant sound of cars on the nearby road.

Jasper's a big dog, and I know that he'll protect me should anything happen, but all the same I can't help nestling down inside my coat slightly, glancing nervously around me as I move further away from the main footpath. The weak sunlight fades slightly as the canopy of trees gets thicker above me, blocking out what little of the sun's rays that has been able to break through the younger trees at the edges of the small wood.

I find myself picking up speed even as I chide myself for being daft, shortening Jasper's lead as I reach the darkest part of the forest.

Jasper barks suddenly, making me jump and I scold him as he starts to strain on his lead, pulling me with him for a few seconds before he starts scrabbling under a deep pile of leaves and twigs. The leaves he throws up behind him are decaying in the rain, leaving mud and water clinging to his fur and I realise I'm going to have to bath him when we get home. Finally he emerges triumphant, a burst and deflated plastic ball proudly displayed in his mouth. I can't help but laugh at the daft picture he presents, eyes shining and panting heavily as he returns to me with his treasure.

Reaching down, I take half of the slimy football between my fingers, grimacing slightly at the unpleasant sensation before telling him to let go and he does, sitting down at my feet and watching me intently. Even as I straighten up and throw the ball as far away from us as I can manage into the trees I know what he's going to do, and it comes as no surprise that he belts off after his new toy, the lead expanding with him until there's nothing left to unravel and I'm forced to follow him, picking my way carefully through the fallen branches and tree roots that have worked their way up through the puddle-ridden ground.

"Jasper…" I begin, trailing off in confusion as I see the battered ball lying neglected behind him as he scrabbles around on the ground again, leaves again flying everywhere and yet he's being more gentle now, carefully pawing at something as he starts to bark loudly.

It's only as I get closer to him that I see a dark shape almost completely buried under the leaves and water, and it's that which has caught Jasper's attention. Running up to one end of the strange shape, Jasper starts nuzzling at something that almost looks like…

Oh my god.

It's a body.

Even as my mind is still processing what I'm seeing, I'm running the last few feet over to Jasper, instinctively pulling him away from the body and close to me as I stare down at it in shock.

Matted, blood streaked hair is clearly visible from beneath the leaves, and further down a filthy hand and arm is lying underneath a fallen branch. I drop down to my knees by the crop of hair, jeans sinking unnoticed into the mud as I hesitantly reach out to brush away some of the leaves and take a closer look. Shaking fingers brush slightly against deathly pale skin, and I jerk my hand away at the touch, heart pounding loudly in my ears as I glance wildly around me, expecting whoever dumped the body here to jump out at any moment.

After a few seconds I turn back to the body, having to take a deep breath before forcing myself to reach through the rest of the leaves and try to find a pulse. He has to be dead, surely: from the look of the leaves he must have been here for hours.

His skin is freezing cold and clammy to the touch, and I can feel my stomach churning in protest as I lean closer, pressing harder into the neck and trying not to throw up.

I almost don't notice it but it's there, weak and feeble and unsteady perhaps but he's still alive, and the shock at finding it is almost physical. I stumble back away from him, irrationally expecting him to roll over or open his eyes or something even though it's obvious that he's not going to. From the looks of him he's probably only minutes away from death.

Jasper barks again and I jump violently at the sound, staring mutely at the body for a second before exactly what I'm seeing, exactly what's happening finally hits me and I'm scrambling for my pockets, pulling out my mobile phone with hands that are shaking so badly I can barely dial the numbers.

"Emergency, which service do you require?"

"Amb…ambulance," I stammer, my heart racing as I try to pull my thoughts together to answer her question and give her my mobile number.

Where am I? Oh god, I don't know, I mean I've wandered away from the path…

…come on Jackie, pull it together. I take a deep breath before answering.

"I'm in Picket's Wood. My dog found a body in the woods. Only it's not a body, because he's alive, but he's hurt. He needs help…" My voice trails off as she speaks again.

"Where's Picket's Wood, ma'am?"

"Reigate. It's in Reigate, in Surrey."

"Can you tell me whereabouts in the woods you are?"

I glance helplessly around me for some kind of sign, but there's nothing but trees in every direction.

"I'm not sure. Somewhere towards the east side, near the main road to Banstead."

Having someone on the other end of the phone helps to calm me down, stops me from feeling quite so scared and I lean forward again, brushing some of the leaves away from his body even though I'm too scared to move him in case I do more damage than has already been done.

"The ambulance is on its way, ma'am."

I hang up, staring almost numbly down at the man lying on the ground. I feel like I need to do something to help, something more than just kneeling here and waiting for the ambulance to show up, but I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I never took First Aid lessons of any kind, though I get the feeling that the help he needs goes a long way past the kind of things I could have been taught at school.

In the end I settle for brushing away the rest of the dirt and leaves covering his body, at least then they won't be in the way when the professionals arrive.

Jasper is still sniffing around his body, and as I start to clear away the debris I get a better sense of just how badly hurt he is.

Lying face down on the ground, his face is turned to the side so that at least he's not being suffocated by the puddles of water dotted around from the last rainstorm. His clothes are torn and damp, and as I reach over to his side to pull away the branch covering his arm I feel something solid in the pocket of his coat. Curious, I reach my hand in and pull out a soaked wallet, casting a hesitant glance in his direction before opening it to take a look inside.

There's no money there, only a few credit cards and scraps of paper, but as I open up one of the zipped pockets, I pull out another card, with a photo of what the man must look like when his face isn't covered in blood and bruises. It doesn't look like a driving licence or anything though, and I have to smear away the dirt that has even managed to get through the zip to read the small writing.

CI5.

He must be some kind of policeman.

~*~

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THREE DAYS EARLIER
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"Have you finished your report yet, Mr. Curtis?"

Malone's voice booming from a foot behind me makes me jump, and I catch a brief glimpse of Chris smothering a grin as he carries on with his own reports before I turn to face our illustrious leader.

"Yes, sir." And I have, just about. Three weeks of undercover play acting and smiling sweetly at despicable drug barons are finally over, I'm back to being Sam Curtis again, and the bad guys are in prison. Well, most of them anyway, and the few strays still on the loose will be picked up before too long. All I need to do is sign the report and send it to Malone for approval before I can start to forget about it, so that's close enough.

"Good. Then ready when you are, Mr. Curtis."

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is Malone speak for 'get a move on, Sam.' So I get.

Hopefully this won't take long. Driving Malone around London isn't exactly the most thrilling of assignments; I can't even put my foot down without earning a disapproving frown. Kind of like the one he's displaying now, actually. I haul myself to my feet and grab the car keys as Backup looks up from her computer.

"Sir? Don't forget you have a meeting at three o'clock with Mr. Dawson."

"Yes, thank you Miss Backus. I'm well aware of my commitments for the day." His slightly amused tone belies the bite in his words and Backup nods back, smiling. She doesn't get as bothered by Malone's sarcastic nature as she used to. Instead she's been known to describe him as 'a teddy bear in wolf's clothing', though in her defence she'd had a few at the time.

Personally, I still think that wolf in wolf's clothing is more appropriate, but then she's partly responsible for his everyday schedule, so maybe she's seen a side of him that no-one else has.

Not that any of this idle musing is getting me anywhere, and Malone is still waiting, so I get my jacket and jog over to join him.

"Sorry sir," I begin automatically, and he nods before heading down the corridor.

The short ride to the car park is silent. It's only as we're climbing into the car that Malone speaks.

"First stop is Parliament please, Mr. Curtis. I have a meeting in forty minutes with the Minister."

Driving through central London in the rush hour.

Lovely.

I switch on the engine and put the car into gear, driving sedately out of the car park, through the security check and into the steady flow of traffic.

Malone nods to himself, apparently satisfied with something before pulling a pile of papers out of his briefcase and starting to read.

Still, I guess it's not all bad. As dull as today is going to be, these last few weeks have been manic, and a quiet day or two is always better than getting shot at.

~*~

I have to consciously stop myself from drumming my fingers on the steering wheel for the fifth time in an hour. Cars were meant to be driven, not used as expensive seats in a never-ending traffic jam. Even with all the technology, advance warnings of accidents and my own knowledge of the back streets of London, there are days when you just can't avoid the traffic whatever you do.

It's been an interesting morning so far, actually. As dull as all the parliamentary protocols and snobbery can be, Malone is a maestro at playing the game. A few comments here and there, a well placed whisper in the Minister's ear and it's amazing what previously 'classified' information CI5 suddenly gains access to. Malone's meeting with Dawson this afternoon should be fascinating.

A phone rings, startling me out of my musing and I glance across to Malone as he pulls out his mobile and the ringing stops.

"Yes?" A pause, and a muffled voice saying something that I can't make out before Malone speaks again. "No, this can't wait. I'm on my way." He glances at the clock and I watch him, curious.

With that his phone slams shut and he shifts in his seat, his whole demeanour suddenly sharpening.

"Safe house 4, Mr. Curtis. Put your foot down if you please."

In this traffic? Frowning, I'm trying to think what the quickest way to Finnsbury Park is as I do a u-turn in the middle of the road, ignoring the chorus of car horns around me.

"What about your meeting with Dawson, sir?" It's 2:30 now, if we're going to meet someone else there's no way we'll make it, even with some seriously creative driving.

"Well, Mr. Dawson will have to wait," Malone replies wryly. "One of my informants wants to meet." With that he starts dialling again, calling MI6 and arranging for the meeting to be cancelled.

Meeting informants at a safe house? What happened to security? Since when did we give informants whose loyalties have to be dubious by their very definition details of confidential Safe Houses?

It's on the tip of my tongue to ask Malone that, but I really don't feel like a lecture so I curb my confusion for a while and concentrate on the traffic as we pick up speed. It's odd to think of Malone still having snouts, even though he'd never call them anything so crude. I mean, surely the whole point of being the head of CI5 means that you leave that kind of thing to your agents? And yet, when I think about it, should I ever rise to such dizzying heights of importance I wouldn't consider giving them up either. Inside information is invaluable, there's no way we could hope to do our jobs without it, and that probably makes them even more vital when you're running an organisation such as CI5.

I have the feeling that things are about to get even more fascinating than the meeting with Dawson would have been.

~*~

I park the car just round the corner from the safe house, far enough away that people won't be able to tell we're inside just by driving past and seeing the car, but close enough to the door that it doesn't look too out of place. It's funny, if you'd have asked me fifteen years ago, all this cloak and dagger stuff would have sounded like some teenage James Bond fantasy, but these days I don't even think about it. Checking the locks of my car for tampering, and hiding a spare passport (with a different name, obviously) and cash in my apartment seem as natural and mundane as getting dressed and checking the answer phone.

Sometimes I wonder how on earth I live like this, constantly looking over my shoulder and seeing assassins in every corner, and yet most of the time I wonder how I ever lived without it. Even now, if I ever ended up leaving the Security Services and getting a regular nine-to-five job, I don't think I could switch off these instincts. They're too much a part of who I am, of who Sam Curtis has become.

They're not infallible, though, and I've been too much trouble, been hurt too often over the years to pretend any different. It's a sad state of affairs, but I'm well aware that if someone is determined enough, they'll get you in the end or die trying. In our line of work, you live from day to day, and just hope with the end of each day that you'll be alive at the end of the next one. And if you can say that you've done some good at the end of it, if you've made life better for someone in the public who will hopefully never know you even exist, then all the better.

All very cheerful thoughts to have floating around in your head, but then, I'm not all that surprised. Somehow, I tend to think about these things more when I'm around Malone than I do with Chris, or any of the others. I guess it's because Malone makes the rules, and I'm a little more on my guard, slightly more careful around him simply because he's the boss.

Like today for example. I don't have the slightest clue why we're meeting his informant or how the hell the man has the location of one of CI5's London safe houses, but where Malone goes, I follow. And because I don't know what to expect here, I have to be ready for anything.

The safe house looks exactly like any other house in the street, partially hidden from the street by a hedge that obscures the front view and hides an array of electronic equipment you wouldn't usually find sharing room with the ivy that surrounds it. It's basically well cared for, and certainly not derelict or anything else that would raise the interest of the neighbourhood watch. However, on a closer look you can see the scratches on the windowsills, and the plants in the garden that aren't watered quite often enough to be healthy. Just like number 17, which has dead shrubs in pots by the door and a cracked window pane in the front door.

Even peering through the window wouldn't show anything out of the ordinary. The net curtains obscure most of the rooms from view, but normal furniture and the odd ornament are all anyone would see if they got too close.

Still, the man is the head of CI5, so he must know what he's doing, even if this is a little out of the ordinary even for Malone. He unlocks the door to the house, and as we move inside I ignore common courtesy to go in first, allowing myself a precious extra second to assess any possible danger before he walks in.

Everything looks quiet. There's a fine film of dust on the edges of the skirting board and the table by the door, none of which looks like it's been cleaned for months. I get the impression this place hasn't been used much lately. The house has that slightly musty quality to it as well, a dead giveaway that it doesn't get much fresh air running through it. Not that we can exactly throw open the windows and let the sunshine in unfortunately, as much as I'd love to.

Malone closes the door behind him and moves into the lounge while I make a quick sweep of the house, checking behind doors and cupboards for anything out of the ordinary. A quick trip upstairs reassures me that there really is nothing here, that we're safe for the time being, and I rejoin Malone in the lounge.

Malone is standing in the corner to one side of the window, watching carefully for his informant. "Five minutes," he says, and I frown, slightly confused before he continues. "She said she'd be here in five minutes."

She? Curiouser and curiouser.

"Yes, sir." With that he moves to sit down, still carefully keeping his back to the wall and constantly watching the door and windows for anything suspicious. Another one of the now instinctive habits, I think, as I realise I'm doing the same thing although I remain standing.

Whenever driving or escorting Malone anywhere, each CI5 agent becomes part agent, part bodyguard. Enough people would dearly love to see Malone out of the way simply because of his role within CI5, never mind those with a personal grudge against the man himself like Jason Dane had. Regardless of what we're doing, of the importance of any case we may be investigating, Malone's safety has to come first. He'd go mad if he heard us say that of course, because one of Malone's pet rules, along with 'never get emotionally involved', is that 'no one man is bigger than the organisation'. That's one that the rest of us don't agree with, though the time hasn't yet come when we've had to choose between Malone and the job.

It will come one day, though, and the fall-out from that won't be fun.

Still, I'll worry about that when it happens. Right now there's a figure in the garden, and someone's knocking on the front door as I close the door to the lounge behind me and moving rapidly down the hall to greet her.

I've got one hand on my gun as I open the door, careful to make sure that there's no-one waiting outside apart from the woman that Malone is expecting.

She moves inside as soon as the door is open far enough, the scowl on her face plainly stating her displeasure at having me here.

As soon as the door is closed she sighs loudly and rolls her eyes, straightening up as she lifts her arms out to the side of her and waits to be checked over for weapons. Neither of us has said a word yet, and she watches me with narrowed blue eyes as I run my hands down her body. Admittedly, it would be difficult to hide much in the way of artillery in the tight jeans she's wearing, but I've seen it done before. Guns come remarkably small these days. Not that it even has to be a gun; sometimes information is a much more powerful weapon. In the right hands, a wire or tracking device or even a good memory can cause as much trouble as a bullet between the eyes.

After a thorough search all I've found is some loose change in her pockets and it's obvious that she's clean, so I step back and she raises her eyes, deliberately straightening her jacket.

"Finished now, are you?" she asks, breaking our strangely mutual silence. Her soft Irish accent would be attractive, actually, if I wasn't already suspicious of her motives in being here.

"For now," I reply simply.

"Good. Where's Harry?"

Harry? Filing that little titbit away, I gesture to the closed lounge door and she pushes it open impatiently. 'Harry's' genuine smile as she walks through the door is even more of a surprise. What's going on here?

"Claire!" He greets her warmly and stands up, beginning a handshake that becomes a brief hug as she greets him. I shut the door behind me and lean against it, watching the strange tableau unfold in front of me. She's obviously not the kind of low life informant we normally deal with, but I've never seen Malone acting this genuinely friendly with anyone before. Claire glances towards me as they sit down, amusement flashing across her face. "Who's the suit?" she asks.

"This is Agent Curtis," Malone glances vaguely in my direction during the one-sided introductions before turning back to her. "What's the emergency, Claire?"

"It's Patrick. He knows about me, I'm sure of it."

Claire pulls her blonde hair out of its pony tail and twists the band around nervously in her fingers as she speaks, before twisting her hair quickly back into a rough knot and shoving the band in a pocket.

"What has he said?"

She goes to answer but hesitates, glancing up at me and unconsciously biting her lip. I very much doubt that Malone has met her with any other agents in tow before, because having an informant like this would definitely have reached the office gossip mill by now, albeit with all names and physical features censored for safety. Even our gossip is classified most of the time.

Malone takes the obvious hint and orders me out of the room, politely as ever, and I nod before stepping into the hallway and closing the door quietly behind me. This is definitely a weird one. Informants come in all shapes and sizes, as it were, and I've had my fair share of weird characters on the payroll. Still, however stereotypical it might be, and however much I suppose I should know better by now, I was expecting Malone's informant to be a guy in a suit as opposed to a twenty-something blonde.

The muffled voices leaking through the wooden door are too low for me to work out what is being said, and since I've no intention of listening in at the keyhole, I decide to make myself useful and do another sweep of the house. The tiny voice in my head says that as long as Malone is with the informant I should be there in case she tries something, but Malone himself sent me out of the room, and I know he can take care of himself even if the rules say he shouldn't have to.

The stairs creak quietly as I walk up them, heading for a window where I can check out the garden. The bathroom window is frosted so I walk past it and into the small bedroom at the back of the house. This room is fairly Spartan compared to the rest of the house, with just a bed in one corner, a small table, a lamp and a bookshelf. I bend down and look along the spines of the books, surprised at the range of titles. Anything from Tom Clancy to Sartre, presumably to cater for whoever might wind up under guard here. They seem to have been appreciated though, if the broken spines and well-thumbed pages are anything to go by.

Straightening up again to cross over to the window, my eye catches something on the floor down by the bedside table. Frowning, I step across and crouch down by the bed, picking up the strange object to get a better look.

Wire?

A tiny piece of red and yellow wire, no more than an inch long rests in the palm of my hand, and I stare at it for a second as realisation kicks in and I feel my blood go cold. There's nothing in there that the wire could have come from - no alarm clock, no computer, and the lead from the lamp is white and much thicker than this. Dropping to my knees I start searching, looking frantically around under the bed and behind the meagre furniture even as I pray that I'm wrong.

Surely someone wouldn't be able to get a bomb in here undetected?

"Sir!" I yell, hoping that Malone will hear me from a floor away and behind a closed door.

There's nothing here…where the hell is it?

Then I see it. Right in the far corner under the bed. There's no black box, no flashing numbers giving me a handy countdown, just a tiny piece of ripped up carpet that has obviously been cut away from the grippers beneath the skirting board.

That's all I need to see. I jump to my feet, yelling for Malone again as I reach the hallway. God knows how much time we have left before…

…the world explodes around me.

A blinding flash lights up the hallway, and the shockwave hits a split second before I hear the bang.

The force of the explosion lifts me off my feet and hurls me towards the top of the stairs, and I just manage to make out a muffled scream from somewhere below. Then my head hits the wall as I'm slammed into it, and pain shoots through me as bricks and debris shower down around me.

Barely conscious, I'm dimly aware of my legs giving way, and the floor disappears beneath me as gravity pulls me down the flight of stairs, tumbling like a rag doll.

When I next open my eyes I'm lying in a heap at the foot of the stairs, staring dazedly up at the wreckage of the first floor as the dust slowly starts to settle.

Gasping to get breath back into shocked lungs, I ignore the blurred vision and try to get up. The pain in my head is almost blinding, and red-hot needles shoot through my arm when I try to move. I cough weakly but I can't hear my own voice, and panic sets in for a few seconds before it dawns on me that my eardrums must have burst in the explosion.

I still can't get enough air, and it's a few seconds before I try to move again, still hoping that I've managed to get away with just a few bruises.

Slowly I manage to drag myself to my knees, arm hanging uselessly to one side. As I move I have to fight back nausea when I realise that it's my collarbone that's broken, not my arm as I'd first thought.

"Sir?" I call weakly, hoping that my voice is stronger than it sounds with my hearing nearly gone.

For a few seconds there's silence, and then a second flash appears. The ground trembles beneath me as the lounge wall collapses, knocking me back to the floor and sending plaster and debris raining down on top of me. I cry out in pain as my head hits the floor for a second time, white lightning shooting across my eyes before I finally pass out.

~*~

It doesn't matter how long the operation lasts, or how difficult it is, but somehow writing the report at the end of it always seems to take longer than the case itself. I hate writing reports. In fact, right at this moment if I was given the choice between finishing this or taking Sam's place with Malone at whatever boring meeting he's stuck in, it'd be a close run thing. I mean, how many ways can you find to describe basically the same thing?

Okay, back to the report, otherwise I'll still be writing this when it's time to start the next one.

'…Thanks to his position in Grainger's organisation, Agent Curtis was able to provide us with the final piece of information that we needed to prove that Patrick Grainger was running the smuggling ring. The conclusive proof came in the form of an overheard conversation between Grainger and his associate, during which Grainger was heard planning an upcoming shipment of merchandise…'

Things would be so much easier if I could just state it plainly; that an unknown contact of Malone's alerted us to Grainger's involvement, we investigated, Sam heard when the drugs were coming in, and we set up an ambush and caught Grainger in the act. Three of his thugs got killed, Grainger survived and is now awaiting trial in prison. Simple. But no, Malone says it has to be detailed and dressed up in fancy terminology, which basically means that it takes fifteen words to say something that I could say in three if I wanted to.

Not that my report is going to be any different to Sam's, since at the ambush we went in together. I even joined in some of the undercover work so that I could be Sam's contact, though I only met Grainger once in person before that night at the docks. Still, the rest of the report can't take that much longer to finish. Though it always amazes me just how interesting pretty much everything around you suddenly seems to be when you're trying to concentrate on something dull. Like now, for example. Even Backup's phone ringing is proving to be a fascinating distraction.

Backup's walking back from the printer, nose buried in paperwork as usual, and I'm about to pick up the phone and transfer the call when she suddenly realises her phone is ringing and hurries across to pick it up.

"Ops," she answers briskly, still reading the papers balanced precariously in one hand. "I'm afraid he's not here, sergeant. What's the problem?"

I force myself to ignore her and turn back to the computer, reading back over the last paragraph to try and pick up where I left off.

'Agent Curtis and myself organised a team to intercept the shipment at the London Docks. Agents Backus, Stevens and Williams accompanied us.'

"Chris?"

I glance up to find Backup twisting around in her chair as she replaces the handset and gestures for Spencer to come over. There's a slight frown on her face that catches my attention. "What's wrong, Backup?"

"That was the police. There's been an explosion at safe house 4, they want someone from CI5 over there to check it out."

"A bomb?" I ask, already hitting save and reaching for my jacket.

"Possibly. The police are securing the area, but they want someone from CI5 on the scene."

"I'll go," I reply. This sounds much more interesting than writing reports.

"I'll come with you," Backup agrees, and Spencer nods before frowning slightly.

"There's no-one using that safe house at the moment, is there?"

"No, but get hold of Malone anyway. He should be informed just in case this was deliberate."

Spencer nods again and moves towards the phone as Backup and I leave, throwing a final comment in my direction as we do so.

"Be nice to the police, Chris."

I just grin.

~*~

Traffic is already trailing off slightly as the rush hour draws to a close, and it doesn't take too long to reach Finnsbury Park, all things considered.

The cops have obviously been here for a while, because there is blue and white tape cordoning off Merchant Street at both ends, a bomb squad van parked to one side and panda cars all over the place.

Pulling over just behind the crowd of people milling around behind the tape, (one of whom is in a dressing gown so I'm guessing they've evacuated the surrounding houses), I fold up my sunglasses and shove them in my pocket before climbing out of the car and pushing my way through the crowd in front of Backup.

I go to duck under the tape when a grey haired guy in uniform steps in front of me.

"Sorry sir," he says, frowning. "But the tape is there for a reason."

Someone sniggers from behind me and Backup sighs quietly until I pull out my ID and show it to the cop. "We're CI5," I add, and he immediately straightens up, lifting the tape for us to go under.

"Sorry sir," he repeats. "You wouldn't believe the number of people who ignore the tape to get a closer look at these things. People can be so gruesome - one sniff of a coroner's wagon and we're a bigger crowd pleaser than an Arsenal match on a Saturday afternoon."

I can't help but laugh before the implication of what he's said filters through and I sober quickly.

"Coroner? Someone was killed?"

By this time we've almost reached the house itself, shielded slightly from the road by a high, thick hedge and I can start to see exactly what kind of damage has been done by the explosion. All the windows in the house have shattered, and glass litters the sidewalk beneath our feet. The front door and some of the outside walls have collapsed as well, and from what little I can see the inside of the house doesn't seem to have fared much better.

"I'm afraid so. Several people were injured by flying glass, and there were bodies found in the house itself."

I glance over to Backup and see the same surprise on her face that I know must show on mine. Bodies?

"Maybe whoever set the explosives got caught in the blast," he offers. "I'm afraid we haven't had a chance to identify the bodies yet. We'd barely had time to finish cordoning off the place when The Powers That Be connected the place with CI5 and we were told not to do anything but wait for you to arrive." He looks slightly apologetic at this. "We did call the bomb squad though, and they've checked the place over and didn't find anything else. I know we were told to wait for you, but well, you can never be too careful."

"That's fine, thank you." Backup says with a smile as she pulls out her phone. "We'd better get Edwards and his team out here."

There's a sudden movement at the ruined doorway, and after a few seconds the coroner and an assistant appears wheeling a stretcher with a body bag. I catch Backup's arm, stopping her from connecting the call and pointing out the approaching corpse. "Let's see who's dead first."

Nodding, she flips her phone shut but keeps it in her hand and the three of us walk the final few feet to meet the coroner.

A thirty-something woman with cropped blonde hair, the coroner glances up as we approach, smiling briefly in greeting.

"CI5, I take it?" she asks, and I nod even though it's obvious that her attention is wholly focussed on the bodies.

"I'm Chris Keel, and this is Tina Backus."

"Sarah Field," she replies before glancing down at the body bag between us. "It's a messy one, this. Check this with the bomb squad, but I'd say there were two separate explosions considering the damage to both stories of the house itself. Preliminary evidence seems to suggest that both people were killed immediately, but I wouldn't swear to it just yet. We'll know more once we get them back to the morgue and do some tests. Do you want to take a look before we go?"

"Thanks," I smile back, bending down to pull open the zip at the top of the black bag.

Oh God, no.

There's a gasp from beside me.

I reel back away from the gurney and blink a couple of times in the hope that I'm seeing things, but the image doesn't change. Malone's body is still lying on the stretcher, eyes closed and face streaked with blood and dirt but recognisable all the same.

What the hell is he doing here?

I tear my gaze away from his body to look at Backup in confusion, searching for some explanation to this insanity, for something she knows that I don't, but there's nothing. She's as white as a sheet, and looks as if she's about to keel over. I put a hand out to touch her arm, not sure whether I'm trying to give reassurance or to find it. My touch startles her and she jumps back slightly before meeting my stunned gaze.

Finally Miss Field speaks, eyes flicking between the two of us in confusion. "I'm sorry, did you know this man?"

A shudder runs through me as I automatically glance down at the body…at Malone. His lips are already turning blue, and I have to swallow down a sudden wave of nausea before answering her.

"Yes. This is…he's…Harry Malone. He is…was…the head of CI5."

"Jesus," the cop mutters. "I'm sorry, but shouldn't he have had a bodyguard with him or something?"

"He did," I answer without thinking. "My partner should have been with him."

It's only as Field frowns slightly and glances back at the house that I realise what I've said, and what it means.

Sam.

The second body…it must be Sam.

I feel sick.

I close my eyes and run a hand through my hair, taking a deep breath as I try to take it all in.

He's dead.

I shiver as all the warmth, all the blood drains out of my body, feeling only shock and disbelief at the things happening around me.

"Chris?" Backup's shaking voice filters through the haze and after a few seconds I open my eyes again and glance up at her, feeling strangely distant and disconnected.

This isn't real.

It can't be.

It's the coroner who breaks the awkward silence. "The second body is ready to be transferred - would you mind seeing if you can make a positive identification?"

For an absurd second I feel like laughing before recognising the shock and hysteria for what it is and choking it back down, my throat constricting again before I settle for nodding mutely.

I don't want to be here, don't want to be identifying Malone's body let alone Sam's, but nor do I want anyone else to do it. He's my partner, and it's my responsibility. If it's true, (and while I know it must be I can't quite crush the irrational hope that this is all some kind of appalling misunderstanding), even if it isn't, I'm also well aware that the next few minutes are going to haunt me until the day I die.

Numb, I follow the coroner into the ruin of the house with Backup close on my heels. The damage is appalling - most of the interior wall has collapsed into the small hallway and whatever's left of the floor is completely hidden beneath tonnes of debris.

Staring around me at the devastation, I can't help but imagine what it must have been like to be here when the house exploded, to see the walls crumble and fall as the bombs went off.

I can't help but wonder what Malone felt, what he saw just before he died.

We pick our way carefully into the lounge, and the dust whirling in the air creeps its way into my throat, threatening to choke what little air my body is demanding that I breathe in. It can't be Sam.

Please don't let it be Sam.

Suddenly I'm reminded of something Sam said to me years ago, just a few weeks into our partnership when we were still psyching each other out, still adjusting to each other's style.

"I like the odds. If one of us ends up in a body bag, it's bound to be you."

One tiny spark of emotion, something not swallowed up by the shock that's threatening to overcome me breaks through and I can feel my hands start to shake as the catch in my throat does what the dust couldn't quite manage. Something constricts painfully in my chest and I find myself blinking back sudden tears, trying to get myself back under control while I still can, and before anyone else notices.

I lean briefly against the doorway, pain in my neck making me realise that I've tensed up and I force myself to relax, to take a few deep breaths and send the tears back where they came from.

The crazy thing is, even though it was a harsh thing to say, and Sam apologised for it later that evening, the words stuck in my mind. I am the gung-ho one, the one who rushes in without thinking, and while I never voiced the opinion, I agreed with him. I always thought that if one of us died before the other, then it was going to be me.

I never expected to be the one left behind.

Backup is behind me now, and a hand on my shoulder is enough to make me straighten up and move out of the doorway. I can't fall apart now, no matter what happens.

For the first time I properly take in my surroundings. While three of the outer walls are still almost intact, the furniture has been completely destroyed. Pieces of wood and glass are strewn over every surface, and as the coroner approaches another member of her team I finally see the second body bag, half concealed behind the shell of what was probably once a comfortable armchair. Now it's just a wreck, foam sticking out through the ripped cover and some of the back missing completely.

"Mr Keel?" The coroner's voice startles me, and I look over at Backup, managing a faint, meaningless smile to match hers before turning to Miss Field and taking the final steps over to the bag.

The assistant glances up at me and moves out of the way at a gesture from his boss, and I cross my arms in front of me to try and stop my hands from shaking.

It doesn't work, but I nod at her to open the bag just the same. I unknowingly opened Malone's, but I can't bring myself to do it again.

I don't want to do this at all, can't bring myself to look down and see Sam lying there, see his dead eyes staring up at me. I've had to identify too many loved ones like this in the past; I'm not sure I can cope with adding Sam to that list.

Taking a deep breath, I bite my lip and force myself to stare down at the bag as she opens it.

I don't want to do this…

…The eyes that stare up at me are ice blue, lifeless…

…and framed by long, blond hair.

It's not Sam.

Relief hits me like a physical blow, and I find myself taking a step back towards the ruined wall, towards something I can lean on as my legs threaten to buckle beneath me.

Dimly I can hear Backup shakily telling the coroner that it's not Sam, and she nods before casting a worried glance in my direction that I only vaguely notice. Suddenly the walls, this house and everything in it seem claustrophobic; I have to get out of here.

Without a word I turn and stumble out of the building, blindly seeking the harsh, cold autumn air as the sudden relief threatens to destroy my already tenuous self-control.

The relief is already fading, and other emotions are crowding in to take its place; grief at Malone's death, anger, and above all an almost overwhelming sense of fear at what might have happened to Sam. That wasn't his body, but the last time anyone saw him he was with Malone, and there's no way he would have left without calling in, especially if he knew what had happened.

Not voluntarily, anyway.

Without really thinking I pull my mobile out of my pocket, hitting the speed dial and calling Sam's number in the vain hope that he's going to answer, that Malone sent him off on some dull errand or other and that he's fine, in one piece and has absolutely no idea that anything's happened.

The phone starts ringing.

Backup walks round the corner of the hedge and hurries down the path towards me, moving in close and asking if I'm okay even through the tears that are threatening to slip down her face.

It's still ringing.

We stand together in silence as the ringing continues, and only when the standard, nondescript answer phone message cuts in and begins to play do I give up and shut off the call.

He's not going to answer.

I can feel my own tears threatening and blink them back angrily, glancing over to see the head of the bomb squad leave the van he's been perched on and head in our direction. Whatever's happened, we've got to pull it together if we're going to keep control of the situation without the Bomb Squad, Special Branch or God forbid - MI6 - taking over.

Malone is dead - nobody is taking this investigation away from us.

Taking a deep breath I put the phone back in my pocket and head over to meet him, one hand on Backup's shoulder as she quickly dries away the tears and straightens her shoulders. We can handle this - it's what we're trained for.

I can almost hear Malone's voice in my head. Duty comes first. Fall apart when it's over, take as much time as you need to come to terms with what's happened, but unless you can keep it together at the time, you're going to lose. That's not an option here.

"You in charge here now?" the bomb squad guy asks gruffly, and I nod.

"That's right. Chris Keel, CI5."

"We did a thorough sweep before you arrived, and there aren't any more surprises, so we want to start letting these people back into their homes."

"Fine. We'll have to keep this house cordoned off so our forensics team can move in, but can you go back in first and see if you can come up with any clues as to what kind of devices were used?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Backup moving away and heading over to the policemen still milling around watching the small crowds at either end of the street.

"Right," my companion says. "Just make sure that these people steer clear of the house itself so that we can work."

"No problem," I reply, frowning slightly before adding: "If you find anything else while you're sifting through the house - anything that might have belonged to the v…victims, give me a yell, okay?"

It's a long shot, but maybe there's a clue in the wreckage about what happened to Sam. He can't have just vanished into thin air.

Nodding, the bomb squad guy moves away and starts issuing more orders to his team, and I find myself watching them absently as they pull out equipment and boxes from their van before heading towards the house.

It's the sight of the coroner wheeling the body of the girl out from behind the hedge that gets me moving again, unconsciously straightening my shoulders and heading for Miss Field.

"We're ready to head back to the morgue," she begins, greeting me without preamble and hesitating slightly before adding, "I'm sorry about your boss."

I nod tightly, having to consciously force myself not to react to the reminder. In spite of that my eyes stray briefly to the black bags in the back of the wagon, and I can't quite repress a shudder as the memory of Malone's blackened, blood-stained face flashes in front of my eyes before I can force myself to stay focused. "This is a CI5 investigation now," I begin, almost daring her to protest at what I say next. "You're going to have to leave the bodies here, and we'll get one of our teams to collect them."

She frowns, and her eyes narrows as she looks at me for a few seconds before finally sighing. "Very well. I can understand CI5 wanting in on this. I'll get one of my assistants to bring you the paperwork to sign."

I nod absently, already half turning away from her to search for Backup, mind whirling as I try to work out what has to be done next. Suddenly something occurs to me, and I spin back around, catching her by the arm. She glances up at my face, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Miss Field, it's important that no-one knows who died in that house for the moment. Can I trust you not to…"

She cuts off my query with a half-impatient, half-amused sigh. "That kind of information is always classified, Mr. Keel. Even after an investigation is taken out of my hands."

I nod, and manage a half-smile through my relief. Now all I have to do is make sure that the cop who was with us hasn't told half his friends that the head of CI5 is dead. Looking for him, I'm surprised to find that he's already standing with Backup, who snaps her mobile phone shut as I walk towards her.

"I won't tell anyone," he's reassuring her as I get close enough to hear, and I can't help a slight twinge of relief at realising we're thinking along the same lines.

"Backup," I call out, relieved that my voice carries only the slightest trace of a waver. She nods at him and he moves away, hurrying back to his colleagues, most of whom are leaning idly against their cars now that the crowds have all begun to disperse.

"Edwards is on his way over with a forensics team," Backup says quietly before biting her lip and staring down at her phone with apprehension. "We'd better call Ops," she mutters, fingers hovering over the phone before sighing and meeting my gaze through glistening eyes. "How the hell are we going to tell them, Chris?"

"I don't know," I admit, staring down at my feet and trying to push back the rush of emotion that's threatening to take over, to destroy the cracked front I'm struggling to keep up. For all the bickering we do about him, Malone is…was… the backbone of CI5, the one person that seemed able to hold everything together, no matter what happened. How can we even hope to carry on without him at the helm?

Backup sniffs and raises a shaking hand to her eyes, and it's that which forces me to pull myself together, reaching out to pluck the phone from her hand.

"One thing's for sure," I continue, stubbornly ignoring the catch that's returned to my voice. "We're not telling them over the phone. As soon as Edwards gets here we'll go back to Ops and do it in person. Till then we should just call Spencer and tell him to get anybody who's off-duty to report in and wait for us."

"Don't you think we should tell them as soon as possible?"

"No way," I reply flatly. "And certainly not over a mobile line. I know they're scrambled, but you know as well as I do that MI6 listens in to our transmissions just like we listen in to theirs. As soon as news of Malone's death leaks out, MI6, the CIA, everyone is going to want to get involved in the investigation, not to mention the number of would-be successors to his job that are going to crawl up out of the gutters. If we're not careful, we could lose control of this completely."

"You don't think we're going to be able to keep it a secret, do you?"

"Of course not, not for long. But if we can keep it under wraps long enough to convince the Minister to hand the investigation over to us, then at least we've got a chance of getting whoever did this, and finding Sam in one piece."

Backup nods slowly, and I pull out my own phone and dial Ops before she can change her mind.

"Ops," Spencer's voice echoes tinnily through the speaker.

"Spence, it's Chris."

"Hey Chris. What happened at the safe house? I heard that Edwards is on his way over."

I take a deep breath and try to sound as normal as possible. "Yeah, it looks like someone blew the place up. We need him to go through the wreckage."

"Bit of a mess, is it?"

"Yeah," I mutter. "You could say that. Look Spencer, I need you to get every agent who's not out on undercover assignment into Ops - we've got a situation here."

"A situation? What's happened, Chris?"

"Not over an open line, Spence," I reply, turning uncomfortably away from Backup's anxious scrutiny.

Spencer sounds puzzled, but apparently accepts my refusal and changes tack. "I tried to get hold of Malone but he's not answering. Neither is Sam. I guess they're still caught up with Dawson, but you know what Malone's like about being disturbed when he's in a meeting. Probably doesn't like anyone to know that there might be a problem. Want me to call MI6 direct and try to reach him that…?"

"No!" I interrupt sharply before wincing at the sudden silence at the other end of the phone. Keep it calm, Chris, I mentally scold myself before carrying on. "There's no need."

"But if it's an emergency, Chris…"

I have to take a deep breath to stop from shouting down the phone in frustration and frantically think of something to say to satisfy Spencer for the time being. "Malone already knows about this." The words are out of my mouth before I even realise what I'm saying, and I have to close my eyes as Backup gasps in shock and I wince again, mouthing an apology at her. "Don't worry, Spence, I'll explain when we get back to Ops, just call in everyone who's available, whether they're off-duty or not."

Spence's voice turns serious, and I breathe a sigh of relief as he accepts my explanation. "Alright Chris, I'll start making the calls."

"Thanks." I hang up and look at Backup, who is pale, but doesn't protest at the lie I told Spencer. Nevertheless, I feel obliged to apologise, but she brushes it off, glancing over my shoulder.

"Edwards is here." I follow her gaze and see a familiar white-haired figure climb out of a red Renault. Without a word Backup heads over towards him, muttering as she passes me.

"Lets get this over with."

~*~

What's that noise?

Something's moving near me, a quiet rustle of noise that I can't quite place, but the sound is enough to finally drag me out of the darkness.

For a second I think I'm in the hospital and start looking for the steady, reassuring beep of a heart monitor in the background, but as soon as I try to move my head I know that's not the case.

If I was in hospital, I wouldn't be in this much pain.

Nausea kicks in as I take the final step to full consciousness, and it takes all the strength I have not to just throw up where I lie.

Except, I realise slowly, I'm not lying anywhere, am I? Instead I'm sitting in a seriously uncomfortable wooden chair, and the need to figure out exactly what the hell is going on makes me grit my teeth against the screaming pain in my shoulder and drag my head up from where it's slumped against my chest.

I'm not sure I can manage even that simple task, but the choice is taken out of my hands when fingers suddenly curl themselves into my hair and wrench it the rest of the way.

I swallow down the scream that rises in my throat as the bones in my shoulder grate together in protest, settling for a choked off groan as my eyes fly open in surprise to find a blurred figure standing barely a foot away from me.

I didn't even know anyone else was here.

The hand is still wound around my hair as my eyes adjust to the sudden light and I can finally make out who it belongs to.

Shit.

Eddie Wright. Grainger's right hand man, and one of the few who got away after the ambush at the docks. This is not good.

"Hello Sam," he says quietly, voice obviously dripping with malice even with what little I can hear through shattered eardrums. "Except it's not Sam Owen, is it?"

I say nothing, instead trying to see past him and into the rest of the room. We're in what looks like a storeroom of some kind, boxes piled high on plain wooden shelves and stone walls, the whole atmosphere dark and gloomy.

The only light comes from a small lamp somewhere to my left, and I can't…

"How about Curtis?" Eddie hisses angrily, fingers digging into my chin now, dragging my attention firmly back to him. "That sound more familiar to you, Sam?"

It takes a while before I'm able to process what he's said - nothing seems to be working right and I feel like I'm watching everything happen to somebody else. Finally it dawns on me that I have to get out of here, and I say the first thing that comes into my head. Even before I speak I know this isn't going to work, but it's worth a try.

"Eddie? What's going on?" I only manage a hoarse whisper, shocked at how difficult even that suddenly is. "What are you talking about?"

A slap knocks my head to one side, vision blurring again as a thousand different pains protest at the sudden movement and the nausea threatens again.

"Don't try that with me," he snaps. "I heard Malone tell that bitch your name was Curtis."

What?

The room is still spinning wildly around me, but slowly I'm able to fight my through the fog clouding my head. Then I remember.

The safe house…

Malone…

In an instant everything is terrifyingly clear. I remember the explosion and afterwards, the vague sensation of being moved, being lifted from the hallway as I'd opened my eyes briefly, trying to make some sense of what was happening through the dust and rubble.

Then I'd seen him. Just for a second before I'd succumbed again to the pain and confusion, but it was long enough. I close my eyes again and it's as if I'm back there, seeing it all afresh; the blood and devastation, Malone's sightless eyes staring out at nothing.

The gruesome memory is too much and my stomach rolls again, only this time I can't hold it back and bile and blood rise like a tide, leaving me coughing weakly and shivering in its wake.

"Jesus," Eddie mutters, face twisting in disgust and I struggle to catch my breath before I can again raise my head to look at him.

"What do you want, Eddie?" I ask wearily, not bothering to deny who I am and trying in vain to stop the fear and grief from showing on my face.

Eddie steps in closer and grips the arms of the chair, leaning in menacingly and forcing my to push back against the chair to keep him in focus.

"You're going to tell me where they've taken Grainger," he says, smirking. "Then you're going to help us get him out."

~*~

The drive back to Ops is oppressively silent, both of us lost in our own thoughts. Malone's body is in the safe hands of a shocked and angry Edwards, and it's time to tell the rest of CI5 what's happened.

I still don't know what the hell we're going to say to them, and I'm desperately worried about Sam. Where the hell is he? What's happening to him?

He's not dead yet. He can't be. If he were dead, then whoever snatched him, and I'm positive that someone has, would have just left his body next to Malone's. No, wherever he is, he's still alive…

At least, he was when they took him from the house…

I sigh heavily, and Backup reaches across, placing a gentle hand on my arm.

"We'll find him, Chris."

"Will we?" I ask quietly, turning slowly into the road that leads to the CI5 building.

She doesn't answer.

It's ironic, really. Usually the trip back to HQ through the London traffic is maddeningly slow, whereas today the roads are surprisingly empty and suddenly I'm wishing the journey had taken longer.

The silence lasts until we're safely inside the car park, and it's only once we've climbed out of the car and are heading towards the elevator that Backup breaks it.

"Chris, do you think…" she begins, and as I turn towards her I see the tears threatening again, only this time she can't stop them and they're falling even as she bites her lip and hangs her head in defeat.

My own emotions in turmoil, I pull her into a hug and she leans her head in on my shoulder, shoulders shaking in silent sorrow. I close my eyes and rest my head gently on hers, unable to stop a few tears of my own from falling.

An eternity passes before she starts to pull away, and as I feel her moving I tighten the hug briefly before stepping back, wiping away my own tears and managing a watery smile as she does the same.

"You ready?" I ask gently, and she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before straightening up and nodding. We walk the few feet to the elevator, and as we wait for the door to open I can see that Backup is fully back in control, still pale but her eyes are clear and she's projecting an air of calm around her that I find myself taking comfort from.

"I'll call the Minister once we're finished," she says quietly. "You're right, she needs to hear it from us."

"I'll get Edwards to send us copies of that girl's fingerprints. Maybe we can find out who she was, get a lead on who took Sam."

Then the elevator doors slide silently open, and together we're stepping out into Ops itself.

For a split second everything is normal. We're walking into a room that we've been in a thousand times before, with people we work alongside every day. The phones that are ringing blend in with the usual buzz of chatter and machinery that I stopped noticing a long time ago, but now everything is different.

Is it my imagination, or does the chatter stop when people see us coming? The atmosphere in Ops, usually cheerful and relaxed, a sanctuary where we're protected somehow from the awful things we bear witness to on a daily basis, is suddenly cold and oppressive.

I swallow heavily and resist the urge to glance over at Backup, along with the even stronger urge to turn and run, to find somewhere to hole up in so that I don't have to face this, don't have to deal with the burden of the awful news that we're carrying. My stomach churns as we take the first few, hesitant steps into Ops, dread and my own grief threatening to overwhelm me just when my shaky control absolutely has to hold together.

"Chris!" Spencer calls, standing up from his chair and heading over towards us, open concern on his face. That attracts everyone else's attention and now the chatter really does stop, people watching us uneasily. They must know that something's wrong - agents don't usually send out the call to pull in off-duty colleagues. That particular duty is Malone's and his alone.

"I've just had a call from MI6," Spencer begins, frowning. "Dawson's in a real temper. Apparently Malone cancelled his meeting at the last minute, and he's ranting on about CI5 wasting his time. I've tried everything I can think of, Chris, but I can't track Malone down anywhere."

I sigh heavily and place one hand on Spencer's arm, half in comfort and half to guide him back towards the rest of the gathering crowd. "Yeah, I know."

"You know?" Obviously confused, Spencer looks over at Backup for an explanation, but she says nothing and glances away uncomfortably, instead raising her voice and attracting everyone's attention. Only when all the phone calls have subsided and the only sound in the room is the quiet mutterings of those astute enough to pick up our unease do we speak again.

"I don't know how many of you know about this already," I begin, having to force the words out past a suddenly dry throat that feels like it's closing up, trying to deny the terrible truth that I'm about to reveal. "We were called out to safe house 4 a couple of hours ago - there's been an explosion." The muttering begins again, and I have to raise my voice a little to hold everyone's attention. "There were two bodies found in the wreckage," I continue, having to force myself to carry on but knowing that if I stop now, I won't be able to say it. "It was some kind of bomb. We don't know yet what kind but Edwards has a team there, so he'll find whatever's been left behind."

Except for Sam.

I'm drifting slightly, saying whatever comes to mind other than those three words, than the three most important things that have got to be said, but that now, in this moment, are harder than anything else I've ever had to do.

Malone is dead.

I falter, staring about me at the confused faces of those listening. I'm not sure I can do this.

"One of the bodies was that of a woman. We don't know who she is yet, but Edwards is sending the fingerprints over, so that'll help." Backup takes over for me, the waver back in her voice but she's filling the silence and for that I'll owe her for eternity. Even so, a small part of me wishes that I could bring myself to say it, that I could spare her the pain of being the one to have to say it out loud. "The other…the other…"

Her voice fades away, and I'm standing so close I can see her shoulders start to shake. I step closer still, placing a hand on her back for support. She can't do it, I can see that, and so I take a deep breath, heart pounding in my chest as I force myself to say it, to get it over with.

"The other was…Malone."

Time stands still, and for an insane moment I wonder whether I've actually said it out loud, whether anyone's even heard me. And then Backup bites her lip, someone gasps, and it begins.

~*~

At first glance Ops probably looks the same as it always did - people sitting at desks and drinking coffee while they work, the ever present whir of machinery in the background keeping up the illusion.

It's only when you search beyond the façade that you see the truth. That nothing will ever be the same.

No-one's talking. There's no quiet giggling, no humming, no swapping of jokes or anything that used to make this place so similar to a thousand other drab offices dotted around London.

Rebecca is crying quietly at her desk, the muffled sobs echoing through the almost silent office however much she's trying to hide it.

Backup still looks as pale and shaken as she did when we first saw his body but she's holding up well. Together with Spencer she's been able to secure us a temporary reprieve by convincing the Minister to allow CI5 to operate without a new head for the time being, just like we did when he went on holiday, until suitable steps can be taken to find a replacement. This, of course, is on the understanding that CI5 continue to operate according to our mandate rather than going off on some kind of vengeance kick.

That's fine on paper, of course, but underneath the pervading sense of grief and shock hovering over us all is a menacing determination, and I know damn well that we'll find these bastards, that they'll pay for what they've done regardless of how long we have to search.

Half a dozen of the agents we called in have gone reluctantly back to their previous assignments, enough to convince any outside observers that everything is normal, but the rest of Ops is focused on the safe house, on examining the remains and finding whatever clues we can.

Not that there are very many to find. Whatever there might have been seems to have been destroyed by the explosion itself.

"Yes!"

The sudden exclamation draws everyone's attention before Richards comes running over to where Backup and I are poring over old case reports, trying to find some clue as to who was behind the explosion. It's one hell of a long list.

"We've found a match for the girl's fingerprints," he explains grimly, holding out a crumpled piece of paper. "Her name is Claire Kilburn."

"So who was she?" I ask impatiently. Finally something that could help narrow down the search.

"Well we couldn't find any trace of her even with the name, until I…" he trails off, looking slightly guiltily at Backup before continuing, finishing his sentence in a rush. "…I hacked into Malone's private files and it turns out she was an informant. It's the Grainger case. She used to work for Patrick Grainger."

~*~

Oh God, it hurts.

The pain assails me before I'm even fully aware of it, twisting and tearing until every fibre of my body is screaming at me to pass out again, to fall back into the void so that I can't feel it, so I'm not aware of the damage that has been done…

…so that I don't have to think about what's happened, about the last thing I saw as they dragged me from that house.

Does anyone even know yet?

How long has it been?

Needles tear through shattered ribs and I let out a moan before I remember that I have to stay quiet, mustn't draw attention to myself. But it's too late and the voices begin again, a different one this time but I know its intention just the same.

More questions, more demands that I can't and won't answer, as well as the pain that will inevitably follow. The voices interrupt again.

"You awake yet?"

Yes, but not for long.

It hurts too much already.

~*~

Nothing.

There's nothing here.

Well over twenty-four hours have passed since the explosion, and every effort, every resource at CI5's disposal has turned up exactly *nothing*.

I hurl my car keys onto the table in front of me and slump down into the nearest chair in frustration. We know Grainger is involved, Kilburn's body proves that, but it's like they've all just disappeared into thin air. No sign of Sam, or Wright or any of the men who we didn't catch at the docks, and as far as we can tell no-one's heard from them. We've even taken the risk of raiding some of their homes without success. I've been following down phantom leads and dead ends for hours now, and there's nothing.

It feels like we're chasing ghosts.

"Chris?" Backup looks up from her monitor, hope fading as I just shake my head wearily. She looks at me uneasily, obviously searching for some kind of reassurance but then failing, looking away just like everyone else does.

And that's the difference. Sam's gone missing before, more times than I'd like to remember, but when it happens people are always there, saying that we'll find him, that it'll all be okay. I've said it myself, providing encouragement to others despite the fact that we all know the risks, that sometimes things don't turn out the way we want them to. They're just words, and they don't mean anything, but it helps. A little.

This time nobody says anything, not even the usual platitudes they spout. They can't bring themselves to do it, because Malone is dead, and if that can happen, if the indestructible Malone can fall, then none of us are safe and the empty words are just that.

Empty.

~*~

"We're not going to get anything from him."

The voice, somewhere nearby but I can't open my eyes to see where, pulls me back from the abyss, drags me away from the place where none of this is real, where nothing hurts.

I do what I always do, try again to open my eyes, to assess the situation and find a way out but this time it's too hard and I'm barely able to turn my head. The chair is gone, shattered the last time they got angry and now I'm simply slumped on the floor, aware of little more than the distant voices and the angry pains shooting through every part of my body.

"So what do we do now?"

There's blissful silence for a while, and I can dimly feel myself drifting away before the next sentence filters through and shocks me fully awake, providing an adrenaline rush that for an instant even suppresses the pain.

"We go after his partner."

Chris?

"His partner?"

"Yeah, Simon's been doing some checking - it seems Sam here has a partner in CI5. We'll use Sam as bait, maybe we'll have better luck with him."

No! I try to move, try to do something to stop them - they've taken Malone, they can't have Chris as well - but I can hardly breathe through the pain and even the smallest movement is enough to send the blackness closing in once more.

"What do we do with him?"

"Dump him out in the forest somewhere, he won't last long. I'll make the call."

Footsteps again and then someone gets hold of my shoulders, lifting me from the ground and as their grip presses down on broken bone a scream echoes uselessly in my own head, lacking the breath to reach the outside world as the darkness closes in for good.

~*~

Another day, and still nothing. People are starting to give up what little hope they had as time passes, slowly giving into the grief that had been held at bay, if only slightly, by the thought of finding Sam.

If Malone was here he'd be handing out 'they're on their own' speeches and considering making Sam officially MIA, but in his absence no-one dares raise the subject with me, though I can see that they're thinking about it all the same.

I won't stop looking, even though I know it's hopeless.

Even if there's nowhere left to look.

I'm tired, though. The odd hour snatched here and there hasn't done more than keep me on my feet, barely. The looks Backup keeps sending my way when she thinks I'm not looking are getting more and more frequent, and I can't say I blame her if I look half as bad as I feel.

I'm back in my chair, staring at the computer screen as if Sam will miraculously appear in front of me. People keep silently dropping cups of coffee next to me and yet saying nothing, because there's nothing to say.

We're all grieving for what's happened, for what's still happening, and I have the horrible feeling that things are going to get worse before they get better.

*If* they get better.

The phone rings and I pick it up automatically, not really paying attention.

"Keel."

"Partner to Sam?"

The odd phrase catches my attention as much as the mention of Sam's name. "What?"

"Forgotten him already have you? He'll be so upset." I click my fingers frantically, catching Backup's attention as I reach for a pen and paper and scribble a note. Thankfully she gets my meaning, and seconds later there's a trace on the line.

"Where is he?" I grind out between clenched teeth.

"Here's the deal," the voice continues, ignoring me and I force myself to calm down. Shouting isn't going to help here. "We know that Patrick is in prison, but I'm sure you can pull some strings when there's enough at stake, which believe me there is. Get him out of prison, and then just you and him get in the car and drive."

"Where?" As I'm scribbling down the directions he gives me I can see Backup gesturing for me to keep it going, to string out the conversation long enough for them to get a trace.

"…then turn left into Hereford Road and just keep driving. We'll find you. Don't be late."

As soon as he finishes, I interrupt before he can hang up. "I want to speak to Sam."

"Sorry, no conversation," he retorts bluntly.

"How do I know you'll keep your part of the deal?"

"You don't."

With those two words the line goes dead, and I'm left holding a dead phone.

I place the phone carefully back onto the desk and stand up, slowly picking up my jacket and the scribbled directions before finally turning to face Backup's narrowed eyes.

"I'm going."

"What? Oh Chris, don't be ridiculous."

"I said I'm going, Backup. And I'm going alone."

"And what, exactly, are you going to tell them when they realise you haven't got Grainger with you? They're not just going to feel generous and let Sam go."

She's right, of course, and we both know it. The only way I stand any chance of getting Sam back alive, and even then it'd be unlikely, is if I take Grainger with me, and for an insane moment I'm sorely tempted and say so.

"No," Backup flatly refuses, lips pursed in anger. "There's no way you can hand him back to them."

"This is Sam's life we're talking about!" I yell, my own anger swelling.

"I know that Chris!" she shouts back, running a hand through her hair in frustration. "I want Sam back safely as much as you do, but this isn't just about Sam. Without…without Malone everyone is just waiting for CI5 to fall apart so they can divide up the spoils, and you know it. It's like we've got vultures circling at the door for God's sake! Grainger's arrest was on the front page of every paper in the country - if we let him go to save one of our own we'd be finished! I know it's hard, Chris. But are you really willing to risk the whole of CI5 in the hope that it might help Sam?"

I want to shout back. I want to protest that yes, I'd sacrifice everything to save my partner and that she's heartless for suggesting otherwise, but I can't.

Because yet again, she's right.

We all knew the risks when we signed on, and as clichéd as it sounds, there was always a chance that it would end like this. However much I might hate it, we have to make sure that CI5 survives past Malone's death, whatever the cost.

Even if the cost is Sam's life.

Sighing in despair I resist the urge to sit back down, fighting the exhaustion that's been plaguing me for hours now. "I know we can't release Grainger," I continue quietly, "but I can't just sit here and wait for them to send us Sam's body." I meet Backup's searching gaze, silently willing her to understand. "I don't believe they're going to let him go anymore than you do, but I have to try."

Backup says nothing, and I glance anxiously at the clock as I wait for the next outburst.

Why can't she understand? I rub at my eyes in frustration, fighting back a yawn and Backup finally replies.

"Shit Chris, look at you. You're exhausted, you're not up to going alone." She's raising her voice in concerned frustration and Spencer looks up from his desk, his attention caught by the earnest voices. "You're not up to it. If Malone was here, you know he'd…"

"Well he's not here, is he?" I snap back, my own temper starting to unravel. "He's dead, Backup. Those bastards already killed him, they're not getting Sam as well."

"Alright Chris," she says slowly. "Maybe we can put together some kind of decoy, make them think that you've got Grainger with you long enough to find out where Sam is. Wait here a second."

She moves off to speak to Harley, our resident technical wizard, and I watch them talk for a few minutes, but from their faces it's obvious that the conversation isn't coming up with anything. I can't think of any kind of distraction that would work, either.

~*~

Time passes too quickly, the discussion going round and round in circles with none of us coming up with anything that's likely to work without taking the risk of springing Grainger, which is out of the question. Slowly I realise that if I'm going to meet them at all I need to leave now, and even then I'll be pushing it to get there in time. Backup is still against me going in at all, and Spence agrees with her, but I can't just leave Sam on his own. I grab my keys and leave, walking steadfastly towards the door and hoping that she doesn't notice I've gone before I've left the building. No more delays, no more talking.

Just hold on, Sam.

~*~

It's funny how these things always seem like a good idea at the time. Although, thinking about it, running off to what I know damn well has to be an ambush without CI5 backup was never a good idea, even if I've managed to ignore that fact until now. Not that it makes the slightest difference. Even if I had consciously acknowledged that this is effectively a suicide run before I left Ops, I'd still be here.

CI5's usual methods haven't found Sam, in fact we don't have the slightest idea where Sam is being held - assuming this isn't all some kind of bluff and they've killed him already, which I also know is highly likely.

Either way I have to know for sure, and if running off all gung-ho as Sam would say if he were here is the only way to do that, then so be it. I just have to hope that I can make them believe I'm their ticket to Grainger long enough to find Sam and get us both out safely.

Piece of cake, right?

The directions I was given over the phone have taken me out of London and down into the outer suburbs, where the smog and noise of the city give way to fresh air and woodland, although that air is currently full of mist and drizzle, giving the world outside of the car a strangely eerie, almost desolate feel. I haven't seen another person for miles.

Gradually, the last of the directions sends me left onto a woodland road, and if anything my unease increases. The road has narrowed again until there's only just enough room for one lane, sharp drops on either side of the overgrown verges and any oncoming traffic would be forced to manoeuvre awkwardly into unfriendly passing bays, full of pot holes, and thick with mud and leaves from the recent rain.

Trees overhang the road, gnarled branches blocking out the already fading sunlight while shedding rotting leaves onto the ageing tarmac that squelches under the wheels of the car. It's a perfect place for an ambush, and now that my directions have run out, all I can do is keep driving straight and wait for something to happen.

I don't have to wait long. When it comes, the ambush is textbook perfect and terrifyingly efficient.

The bullet that takes out my front tyre sends the car screaming out of control, the sudden lurching movement registering almost before I'm startled by the loud bang as the tyre explodes. The car careers off to the left and I wrestle desperately with the wheel, trying to regain some kind of grip on the road but it's slick with rain and leaves, and the tyres just slide uselessly over the surface.

I'm dimly aware of a car skidding to a halt a few feet in front of me, and for a second I think I'm going to hit it before one final attempt to avoid the collision puts my car into a spin. Missing the other vehicle by inches, the trees flash around me, merging into a crazy wash of green and brown spinning past the windscreen before the car tips over the edge of the road and into the steep ditch.

There's a screech of metal as the bonnet is crushed by the ground rushing up to meet it, and I get a second to brace myself as the car comes to an abrupt halt, inertia throwing me forward towards the steering wheel. There's another bang, much closer to me this time before a flash of red appears before my eyes as the air bag inflates and stops my head from hitting the wheel.

In spite of the airbag, the impact is still hard enough to hurt and I'm stunned for a while, aware of little more than the sharp pains in my chest and head as the world spins drunkenly around me.

When I next open my eyes everything is white, and it takes long seconds before I realise that I'm enveloped in the air bag and force myself to straighten up, releasing the seat belt and hissing against the pain in my ribs as I reach for my gun, peering out of the mud and rain splattered windscreen to try and see where my attackers are. I've barely pulled the gun free of its holster before the door to my right is wrenched open and hands reach in to drag me out of the car. I'm still dazed, and they manage to pull me almost free of the wreck, feet dragging through the mud streaked edges of the ditch before I can find my footing and pull myself free of their grasp.

I must be more hurt than I thought though, because the world spins again as I try to stand straight and I stagger slightly, thrown off balance even as I kick out at the figure to my right, trying to create some distance between us as he comes after me, cursing angrily. The kick connects, and as the guy falls I try to regain my footing, to see where the next threat is coming from but it doesn't work and I fall as well, stumbling to my knees as the rain pelts down around us.

I manage to get off a shot as they close in again, and another one of them goes down with a scream before the gun is kicked out of my hand, spinning crazily into the ditch before something hard connects with my head and knocks me to the ground. I roll as I land, trying to get back on my feet with one of those smooth rolls that are constantly drummed into us in training but a boot slams into my ribs mid-roll and I cry out in pain, automatically curling in on myself as white hot lightening flashes across already blurring eyes.

Voices above me all fade into one vague noise, and I can't make out what they're saying above the rushing of my own head but the meaning becomes obvious when something heavy lands on top of me, pinning me face down on the ground and slamming my head back into the tarmac for good measure.

Fingers curl into my hair, and I'm dimly aware of someone leaning down close to whisper in my ear, the words echoing crazily through my head but I'm just about able to work out what he's saying.

"Where's Grainger, eh? It looks like neither of us kept our end of the bargain."

It's still a few seconds before his meaning dawns on me, and my heart sinks as I realise that Sam isn't here, even though I always knew the chances of them bringing him along were almost non-existent.

"Where's Sam?" I manage to demand, voice hoarse but whoever it is simply laughs, cuffing the back of my head derisively before shifting his weight slightly to speak to someone out of my very limited line of sight.

"Come on Billy, maybe we'll have better luck with this one."

My breath is still coming in short, uneven bursts, the pain around my ribs threatening to overcome everything else as rain pelts down onto me, soaking my hair and clothes before running in tiny rivers down my face and into my eyes. Shivering with reaction and cold, I start to try and pull myself together, gathering what little is left of my strength in the vain hope that I can still get out of here. Footsteps walk towards me, splashing through the water gathering on the ground around us.

Then there's a gunshot, and in the second it takes me to realise that I'm not the one being shot at, the weight on my back moves sideways and whoever was pinning me down is suddenly gone.

"Chris, move!"

The voice breaks through the last of the stupor, and forcing my hands flat against the ground I drag myself to my knees, shrugging off the rest of the dead man's weight and stumbling away, not quite able to process the sudden commotion of shouts and gunfire breaking out behind me.

Expecting a bullet in the back any moment, the last of my strength gets me to the edge of the road where I half drop, half fall down the steep slope by the car before collapsing against the dirt, head spinning wildly. A few seconds pass as I simply lay there, dazed, pain and exhaustion radiating from every part of my body as the rain beats down like a thousand tiny needles.

Finally the noise from the road above starts to filter through and I drag myself back to my knees, holding on to the edge of the ditch before trying to work out what the hell just happened. There's a body lying in the middle of the road but the rest of Grainger's gang are all pinned down behind their car, which has taken more than its fair share of bullets in its new role as a shield from whoever's doing the shooting.

There's no other car to be seen, but by squinting through the rain I can just about make out flashes of gunfire dotted through the trees near the edge of the road, dark figures using the dense foliage as cover from the bullets that are starting to be returned from Grainger's men.

There's a yell as another one of my attackers collapses, and in the sudden lull of gunfire the same voice I heard before yells out.

"CI5. Drop your weapons!"

Backup.

Thank God. Relief courses through me even as she gets her answer, another hail of bullets that is quickly returned even though it's obvious that this is a stalemate, that from their positions neither group can really do any damage to the other beyond the odd lucky shot. There has to be something I can do to help and I'm heading unsteadily back towards the car, trying to remember what, if anything, might be of some use before I suddenly remember the gun that was knocked down into the ditch earlier in the fight.

A few minutes of frantic searching and I find it, almost completely hidden by rain and mud but I'm praying that it still works as I pick it up from the ground, inching back towards the edge of the ditch and trying to work out the best plan of attack. We can't afford to shoot to kill; these bastards are the only ones who know what's happened to Sam, but two of them are already dead and from what little I was able to see during the fight there aren't that many more who can tell us what we want to know. I desperately want to remind Backup and the others, to make sure they realise exactly what's at stake here but I daren't risk it - if they know that we don't want them dead it'll give them an advantage we just can't afford.

I edge back along the ditch towards their car, trying to get a better vantage point even as I can see the figures in the trees doing the same thing, moving forward and presumably spreading out to surround those huddled behind the now battered Volvo.

Another volley of bullets and there's a muffled curse from the trees that has me looking back in alarm, trying to figure out which of my friends has been hurt, but I'm too far away, can't see clearly through the trees and I know that I'll just have to wait till this is over and hope that it wasn't too serious.

Turning back to the targets I impatiently wipe water out of my eyes, ignoring the faint trace of blood that comes away on my fingers and tightening my grip on the gun, edging forward slightly more until I can see round the edge of the car. There are only two left standing, not three and I take aim at the one closest to me, slightly unnerved by fact that my arm is shaking badly, and I can't manage to hold the gun steady. The blurred vision doesn't help either, but we have got to take one of them down alive and I can't take the risk that I'm the only one who realises it.

As steady as I'm going to get at the moment, I wait until I'm certain I can shoot him in the leg before pulling the trigger, but either my aim was further off than I thought or he moved at the last possible second, because the bullet hits him in the chest and I bite back a curse as he falls. A hail of bullets from the sole survivor comes in my direction and I duck back out of sight just in time, hoping that the guy doesn't think to fire a couple of rounds into the fuel tank of my own car. When I risk another look in their direction he's gone, and I catch a glimpse of a figure running into the woods on the other side of the road as Backup gives chase, yelling to someone else to check on the bodies that now litter the road.

Wincing, I climb back onto the road and follow the fleeing figure, determined not to let him escape. I just about manage to keep up with them, though more by luck than judgement as my sprinting days are certainly over for the time being, and I'm stumbling every few steps as the pain starts up again, protesting at the sudden movement when all I really want to do is curl up somewhere and sleep for a while.

I lose track of the racing figures for a few minutes, the heavy canopy of trees blocking out the last of the light and making it almost impossible to see more than a few feet in front of me. I keep moving though, listening for any noise above the sound of pelting rain that might tell me where they are. Finally I see something, a dark figure even against the shadows from the trees and as my eyes slowly adjust to the darkness and I conceal myself behind a tree, my heart leaps into my mouth.

Our fugitive is crouched behind some kind of fallen tree stump, kneeling on the ground and taking careful aim at Backup, who is moving cautiously through the woodland but obviously hasn't seen him.

"Backup!" I yell, "Drop!"

I bring my arm up, firing repeatedly at the crouched figure as Backup reacts instinctively, dropping to the ground and rolling away to find cover just in time for the bullet to pass an inch over her head. My first few bullets miss, proving painfully just how far below par I am but my shout is enough for him to hesitate and I keep firing until the clip runs out, his body jerking repeatedly when I finally do find my mark.

The hammer clicks down on an empty chamber and suddenly there's quiet all around us, the only sound that of the rain clattering on the leaves as the last echoes of the gunfire die away.

He's dead.

So is Sam, and it's my fault.

The knowledge that I've just killed the last hope we had of finding Sam floors me, and as the adrenaline rush of the chase dies away and my legs finally give way, I fall back against the tree and slide slowly down it, coming to a rest on the ground with my head slumped against my chest, utterly exhausted.

It's over.

"Chris?" A worried voice breaks through the void and suddenly Backup is kneeling at my side, hand tentatively touching mine as if she's not sure that I'm quite all here.

I don't know either.

"How badly hurt are you?" she asks, and I wearily raise my head, not quite looking at her as staring through her, too tired to string together anything coherent.

" 'm fine," I whisper with great effort.

"Well it doesn't look like it to me," she replies softly and I'm suddenly reminded that they probably saw most of the fight concealed from the trees before they were ready to step in.

"Who got hurt?" I suddenly ask, alarmed as I remember the cry that I heard.

"Harley, but it was just a scratch. He's fine, Chris," she reassures me before gently pulling me to my feet, thankfully ignoring the wince as I move. "They'll have got a doctor out here by now, they can take a look at you, as well."

I don't reply and we make it another few, haltering steps before I speak again. "We'll never find him now," I mutter, trying and failing to ignore the wave of grief that wells up at the thought, the same grief I've been running from ever since we found Malone's body.

The sigh that comes from just by my side proves that she's well aware what has just been lost. "It was always a long shot, Chris."

Yep, and the odds were probably made ten times worse when I rushed off without the backup that I should have waited for. I stop suddenly, turning to face her and grasping her arm as if she's about to disappear. "I'm sorry, Backup. I screwed up."

She manages a tentative, watery smile and urges me to keep walking, tightening her grip in shared sympathy. "No you didn't, Chris. Even if you had agreed on us coming along, I doubt it would have made any difference, it was always going to end like this." Her voice falters slightly, and I can feel her taking a deep breath before she continues, making an effort at lightening the mood. "Besides," she smiles, "did you really think we'd just let you run off by yourself without coming along for the ride?"

And that's the stupid thing, because it didn't once occur to me that they'd come after me regardless of what I said. I didn't think at all.

And now, because of my stupidity, I've just lost my partner.

The rain gets harder as we emerge from the trees, and I flinch away from the bright lights - there are two undamaged cars parked here now, and the headlights are throwing strange shadows across the bodies littering the road.

Together we walk over to the car, and as we approach Spencer straightens up from where he's leaning against the door and comes forward to meet us.

"No luck?" Backup shakes her head and he sighs before getting a better look at me and obviously not liking what he sees. Sighing indulgently he opens up the back door and wordlessly gestures for me to climb in, which I'm more than happy to do, sinking into the soft leather with a mixed sigh of relief and despair.

It occurs to me that Spencer is out of place here, usually coordinating things from Ops rather than venturing out into the field, but then these aren't usual times, and I doubt there were that many people left in Ops to choose from.

Usually I'd say something, make some joke about it but I'm too tired, and I lean my head wearily back against the headrest and close my eyes as Backup heads off to find a doctor.

~*~

The voices are hushed, quiet whispers fluttering around my mind and I know they're trying not to wake me, hoping that I've finally succumbed to the sleep the Doc said I so desperately needed.

They're wrong.

I haven't even closed my eyes since Backup and Spencer practically carried me in here, too tired to protest that we had to keep searching and well aware that there's nowhere left to look.

So I stare at the ceiling instead, motionless; it seems like too much effort to move and yet I can't sleep, suffocated by the knowledge that he's gone.

We tried so hard, but in the end we lost them both.

Malone isn't coming back, and while a tiny part of me is still protesting that Sam's body is still missing, that there's still a chance he could be alive, the hollow voice I've not been able to silence since this began knows that we may never find him.

It's not the first time CI5 agents have disappeared without a trace.

It won't be long now - a few days at the most - before the inevitable happens. CI5 will get a new leader, there'll be the usual changes as he or she puts their own stamp on the organisation, and over time this chapter in its life will be boxed away. Slowly, Malone and his beliefs will be forgotten in favour of more immediate concerns, just like we have all but forgotten George Cowley.

Oh, he will always be revered, hailed as a true hero, a name to be dusted off at the boring speeches Malone himself used to loathe as much as any of us, but essentially he'll be forgotten, and so will Sam.

Just another name on the wall of remembrance that wasn't even a proper wall, just a tattered piece of Formica with letters pinned to it before Malone himself decided that a more fitting tribute was in order.

CI5 will change, but I'm not sure I want to change with it.

I'll never be able to forget.

~*~

Time drifts slowly along in the distance as I lay on the makeshift bed, losing myself in memories with snatches of sleep a too brief respite from the realities of the past few days.

I know I should get up and help, am fully aware that I'm not the only one who's lost someone close to them, but I can't bring myself to make the effort.

I'll get up in a minute.

Just one minute more.

Suddenly there's a yell from somewhere outside, and seconds later a muffled clatter of footsteps thud along the floor, getting incessantly louder before the door is thrown open and light floods in, making me squint as I roll over to greet the sudden demands of life.

Backup's standing in the doorway, face flushed from her apparent dash down here but there's a renewed sparkle in her eyes, a sense of urgency that's been missing lately, drowned by the cloud of grief that's been hovering over her.

"They've found him," she exclaims, stepping further into the room as I force myself to sit up and drag my legs over the side of the cot, dread making the movements sluggish and slow.

"Is he…"

She smiles, the first true smile I've seen from anyone since this nightmare began.

I hold my breath, praying that I'm not about to be disappointed yet again.

"He's alive."

It takes a split second to sink in, relief threatening to overwhelm me and then I'm out of the door and heading across Ops, ignoring my own bruises and counting on Backup to follow me.

I need to see him.

~*~

Adrenaline and relief carry me to the hospital on a kind of autopilot, thinking of nothing but the fact that Sam's alive. It's only when I'm inside the building, heading towards his room with the musty, antiseptic smell of the hospital clogging my senses that I start to get nervous.

He's alive, yes, and for that I'm eternally grateful, but from what Backup told me in the car I also know that his survival was down to sheer luck. Luck that they didn't kill him outright, that he survived long enough out in the forest to be found by some woman walking her dog, and again, he's lucky that she found him at all. The thought of what might have happened if she'd taken another path this morning, or simply walked passed him without noticing…

Luck can't last forever.

Turning the corner, Backup reminds me that Sam's room is just ahead and from the hesitation in her voice I can tell that she's as nervous as I am. On impulse I reach down and squeeze her hand briefly, relief obvious on her face when she glances up at me and returns the gesture. Then a doctor comes out of Sam's room, talking quietly with a nurse and the mood turns sombre once more. We both slow down, waiting until he's given instructions before approaching them.

"How is he?" I ask, and we go through the usual rigmarole about next of kin and CI5 before he gets round to answering my question.

"He's been drifting in and out of consciousness ever since he was brought in. I'm afraid your friend is suffering from exposure and hypothermia, and given his broken collarbone and the damage to his chest we're trying to make sure that pneumonia doesn't set in."

"Jesus," I mutter, alarm rising as I hear the true extent of Sam's injuries and the doctor frowns in sympathy before continuing.

"It'll be a slow recovery, certainly, and I know it doesn't sound good, but believe me Mr. Keel, your friend is a very lucky man."

"That doesn't sound very lucky to me."

"On the contrary, another hour outside in these conditions and the prognosis would be very different, I'm afraid. Mr. Curtis was fortunate someone found him when they did."

I glance past the doctor and into the darkened room, trying to get a glimpse of Sam so I can see for myself that he's okay. "Can we see him?"

He nods. "I don't see why not. Don't wake him if he's asleep, and please don't expect him to be too coherent, he's on a strong dose of morphine."

With that he leaves and I walk hesitantly into the room, staring down at the still figure in the bed. Sam's skin is deathly pale beneath a mass of ugly bruising, but that's all I can make out because of the sheets he's covered with, and I pull a chair over to sit beside him, aware of Backup standing behind me.

We sit in silence for a while, just watching, and a surprising sense of calm comes over me as it slowly begins to sink in that Sam is alive, safe, and that's the most important thing. Everything else will fall into place in time.

Sam shifts restlessly then, confusion and pain flitting across his face as he begins to wake up and I reach out and take his hand. Eyes flutter open and he gazes up at nothing before finally turning his head and seeing us.

"You're in hospital, Sam," I reassure him, squeezing his hand as recognition slowly sets in. "It's over."

"Ch…Chris?" It's little more than a whisper, but I can't stop the grin that breaks out at this small sign that Sam is back with us.

"Hey."

He blinks slowly, still trying to make sense of everything and then a shudder goes through him and he looks at me in alarm. "Malone…" his voice falters and my smile disappears.

"I know, Sam," I reply gently. "We found him."

"He's…dead?" I nod and he sighs, eyes drifting shut again as his body pulls him back towards sleep. " 'm tired…" he mutters and I release his hand, leaning forward slightly so he can still hear me.

"Get some rest, Sam. We'll be here when you wake up."

He doesn't answer, already asleep and I lean back in my chair as Backup goes to call Ops and tell them the good news, settling down to stay here until he wakes up again.

This isn't over. Those responsible may all be dead, but the repercussions of Malone's death will irrevocably alter CI5, and in turn all our lives will change. But right now that doesn't matter. We're here, we survived, and whatever happens, we'll face the future together.