Indelibly Marked by Dawnwind
Title: Indelibly Marked
Author name: Dawnwind dawnebeth
Artist name: cloudless_9193
Genre: Slash
Characters/Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Word count: 45,913 words
Warnings: bondage, non-consensual sex
Summary: Doyle is frantic after Bodie disappears on an undercover operation. To discover Bodie's whereabouts, Doyle joins the criminal band of aristocrat Edward Daniels, a group whose members are all tattooed with the image of a black and red snake running down their arm. Will Doyle find Bodie before Daniels' inner circle discovers his deception?
Written for the ci5_boxoftricks Big Bang
Posted in eight parts
Notes: Big hugs to everyone on the ci5_boxoftricks for this wonderful opportunity to stretch my Professionals wings and write my first really long Doyle and Bodie story. Many thanks to my friend Suzanne who edited this even though she is not a Pros fan. Much love to sc_fossil who sent praise and support when I got a case of the "this is all drek." Applause to Cloudless_9193 for her lovely book cover poster.
cover art
http://cloudless-9193.livejournal.com/39240.html
E-reader files (right click link to download)
Part one of eight
Doyle watched the black ink tracing over his skin, completely detached from the proceedings. He barely felt the burr of the needle imbedding the design into his flesh, the dark line curving up and over his bicep. If this is what he had to do to keep Bodie safe, so be it. He'd tattoo his face like a Maori native to get the information-he just couldn't let on why he was doing so.
Maintaining the cold, neutral expression that he'd worn for the last few days, Doyle raised his eyes to the four men witnessing his initiation. The tattoo artist didn't count, he was only there to do the work, someone who would be paid well to keep his eyes and ears closed. The other three were men were on a completely different level; cruel, heartless and violent.
All three wore identical black and red serpents on their arms, the symbol of their brotherhood.
"What's next?" Doyle asked boldly. "Out for a pint to let the ink dry?"
"He's funny." Mosby snickered, showing his crooked teeth.
"He's cocky," Daniels said, his flat brown eyes flicking from the snake forming on Doyle's arm down to his groin and back again. There was no trace of emotion on his face but Doyle felt a wave of malevolence from the man, the one who had grabbed Bodie four days earlier. Doyle just had to find his partner before he was killed. If he wasn't dead already.
"And I don't like cocky," Daniels added.
"You prefer surly?" Doyle let his impotent rage consume all the other feelings for Bodie that buffeted his sanity. This was not the time to be weak. Anger kept him on edge.
"I prefer obedient and quiet," Daniels countered, blatantly looking down at Doyle's groin again. The corners of his mouth turned up very slightly when he raised his eyes. There was not an iota of amusement in his smile. "You want in, Doyle, you play by the rules."
"Colour inside the lines, eh?" Doyle stared back into Daniels' dark eyes, unwilling to ever back down. This was a battle he was determined to win. He ignored the constant whine from the tattoo gun, the needle vibrating across his skin, leaving behind an indelible mark.
Daniels barked a laugh and Mosby, the prat, chuckled in echo. Thomson leaned against a wall of display tattoo designs, obviously annoyed at having to hang about.
"Just what me mum always told me," Mosby said, in his irritating, eager-to-please voice. His dark blue eyes were round like a small child's. "It's harder than it oughta be…"
"Shut up, Mosby," Daniels said softly. He didn't have to flaunt his power; Doyle had seen the way the others kowtowed to him. The question was where he had Bodie stashed, and how to get the information out of him.
"Oy," Doyle said to get the attention off himself. The needle bit hard into the tender underside of his arm. That he felt. His detachment was slipping, a chink in his armour he couldn't afford. "No skin off my teeth if you lot take off." He deliberately turned away from Daniels, watching the blond haired tattoo artist delicately etch individual snakeskin scales. "This'll take a long time?"
The tattoo artist shrugged. "Takes as long as it needs to," he answered philosophically and stopped to change needles, lighting a hand-rolled fag at the same time. The long ribbon of smoke wafted into Doyle's face. Marijuana.
The scent reminded him of the joints Bodie had smoked when he was undercover a few years back-why the hell did every single thing make him think of the Scouse bastard? He wanted to blame Bodie. Wanted to blame anybody else for his own inability to keep Bodie safe.
Ultimately, the blame could be put squarely on Cowley's feet. He was in charge, and had assigned them the bloody obbo. When had they ever been able to say no and mean it? Because Doyle had seen in Bodie's eyes that he wanted to back out. Had read it in every line of his body.
"Hell, Mick, get a move on, we ain't got all day," Thomson groused, resettling his butt on a narrow shelf holding a rainbow array of inks.
"You learn to draw on skin in the last day, berk?" Mick blew out another cloud of pungent smoke and poured red ink into a small well. "Takes a bit o'time to make something ye'd want to keep permanent-like." He squinted at Doyle, the cigarette hanging off his bottom lip. "You don't seem the type."
"Just joined up," Doyle said, apprehension doing bad things to his guts. He was very aware of the suspicious vibes coming from his three companions. It took every ounce of his stamina to regain a small measure of his hard-won ennui. "Too right, less talk, more sketching."
"Ingrates, all of ye." Mick fitted the needle into his tattoo gun and powered it up again. "Hate doing this with a fucking audience."
"We stay," Daniels insisted. "Until you finish the damned thing." He flashed the malevolent smile again, and chucked Doyle under the chin as if he were a lad in short pants. "Besides," he almost purred, which sent a freezing chill down Doyle's spine. "I like watching pretty things."
"Then turn on the telly and feast your eyes on… Shoestring," Doyle said the first TV programme that came to mind, twisting away from Daniels' hand.
"Hold still!" Mick protested. "Unless you want red spots on this snake."
"That Dorian Godwin is quite the looker," Doyle said, keeping his arm steady. He couldn't ignore the sharp ache anymore. The narrow black outlines hadn't been bad, but once Mick started in on the shading, it felt like his skin was being rubbed raw with sandpaper.
"I don't watch…" Daniels started.
"He's keen on Trevor Eve," Mosby said conspiratorially.
Daniels whipped around, smashing Mosby across the face with a backhanded blow. His eyes wide with surprise, Mosby took it with admirable restraint. He didn't cry out or flinch, even when blood dripped from his damaged nose.
"Damn." Mick jerked his hand at the violence, sending an agonizing jolt up Doyle's arm.
Doyle hissed in shock; it was like being stabbed with a scalpel.
Lowering his head, Mick turned off the gun to change needles. "I can fix that."
"You mind your tongue, my lad," Daniels said, standing very close to his victim. "Or there'll be more."
Mosby nodded slowly, using the heel of one hand to wipe some of the gore from his face. Thomson never moved, watching the scene with the wary superiority of an older sibling who knew when to keep silent.
Doyle clenched his jaw. The sudden pain had been mercifully brief. He didn't dare intercede on Mosby's behalf. Partially because the guy was a total idiot, but more importantly because he needed to protect his own back. Until he traced Bodie's steps and found his lost lamb, he was on his own. Even Cowley didn't know how far out on a limb Doyle had gone.
"Fucked up, didja, Mick?" Thomson asked with just a hint of malice, as if he liked provoking the tattoo artist.
Doyle looked down at his emerging snake. Instead of perfectly coloured red scales, there was a splotch of crimson across its back like a spreading bloodstain.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"You rang, sir?" Bodie asked with a smirk, walking into George Cowley's office.
Doyle crowded in beside him, laughing when Bodie's trailing hand goosed him on the arse. They'd had a grand morning, arguing good-naturedly about what to eat for breakfast since neither had enough in their larders to feed a dormouse. They'd finally settled on a small café with sufficient choices for both their appetites. Bodie had feasted on a full brekker complete with eggs, a grilled tomato, toast plus bacon and sausage. Doyle had eaten a more sedate meal of muesli, yoghurt and bananas.
"Come in, come in," Cowley said, sounding grouchy. "You're late."
"London traffic." Bodie shrugged.
Doyle bobbed his head in agreement. There wasn't much more to add.
"That's a defense, not an excuse." Cowley peered at Bodie through his coke-bottle glasses as if examining a rare species of CI-5 agent under a microscope. "You already knew there would be traffic, you should adjust accordingly."
"Can't predict a lorry overturning on the embankment," Doyle put in.
"Apparently not." Cowley scowled, flipping open a manila envelope.
"You have an assignment for us?" Bodie claimed the chair in front of Cowley's desk and smoothed his indigo silk tie. Obviously preening, he shot the cuffs of his brand new dark blue suit jacket with bit of a gloat.
Doyle indulged in a single admiring glance at his partner. Bodie looked good in the duds he'd bought at the tailor shop the day before. A long-deserved rise in pay had finally been granted, which had increased their pay cheques by a fair percentage. Doyle was of the private opinion that Cowley was quietly trying to appease the two of them. He had been just as frightened as Bodie when Doyle was shot in his own home. Doyle had seen more than concern in Cowley's eyes when he was in the hospital, there had been uncertainty, as well. Uncertainty that he would bounce back from this assault. Their nice new digs, as well as the extra guineas in their pocket might be seen as simple compensation, but Doyle knew better. Cowley cared for his two favourite agents deeply. There was more than just a common garden-variety employer/employee relationship going on between the three of them.
"The home office has become very concerned," Cowley began, the Scottish burr of the R in 'very' more pronounced than usual. "That a man allegedly out of South Africa has been seen in Britain recently."
"Caught those South African passports going through customs?" Bodie made a tsk-tsk with his tongue, his left eyebrow canted more than usual.
"Shocking." Doyle laughed, going with Bodie's mocking tone. "Where are their manners?"
"And what's that to do with us?" Bodie finished.
Cowley leveled his headmaster gaze at them, and Doyle straightened up into a proper listening pose. He felt like he was back in primary school.
"You, Bodie, have ties to South Africa," Cowley said.
"Krivas?" Bodie sat up, the joking attitude gone. "In the past, sir."
"Since you had contact with him not five years ago, I hardly think so." Cowley shuffled through the papers from the manila envelope and came up with a photograph of a young man with shaggy dark hair and the long Hapsburg jaw. He passed it over, consulting a report. "This is Edward Daniels, the youngest son of Lord Burley. Considered a n'ere-do-well by his family, he's considerably more dangerous than that. Interpol has their eye on him for the rape of a young Italian, as well as possible smuggling connections."
Doyle could see Daniels' arrest form on the desk and read the charges, upside down. Not a nice fellow at all.
"He's been in and out of the courts all of his life due to drugs, aggressive behavior and one count of aggravated assault, but never actually served time. Agents at the airport saw Henrik Janssen, a South African who is on the international wanted list for gun trafficking, and followed him. They caught these two together, which raised alarm bells." Cowley passed over another photo. Daniels sat at a small table, bending forward to talk to a thin man with a neat mustache and sunglasses. "He met with Henrik Janssen in a café just outside of Heathrow. Janssen is a known arms dealer from Johannesburg." Cowley shook his head, his disgust with people who perpetuated guerrilla warfare and illegal gun sales well known. "However, we are not sure why. Up until now, Daniels was a bully boy, and while he may have been involved in the selling of drugs, organized arms dealing was not his bailiwick."
"I take it you want us to get in contact with this Janssen and find out what he's after?" Bodie said lightly, but Doyle could hear the tension starting to build.
"Just you, Bodie," Cowley confirmed.
"Because I used to run with Krivas and that lot?" Bodie stood, his dander up. "Isn't that stereotyping? Sir." He gave the honorific an insolent turn.
"It's the economical and best use of available resources," Cowley responded blandly, the desk light reflecting in his spectacles made him look sinister and unapproachable.
"Why just Bodie?" Doyle demanded, a fire burning in his belly. He wasn't keen on the idea of Bodie going to meet an arms dealer solo. It was not only dangerous, but fool-hardy.
"You're still on limited duty, Doyle. You can dig into Janssen's and Daniels backgrounds, ferret out their intentions, find out more about associates, whilst 6.2 works with 3.7 on this operation."
"The bloody hell he will!" Bodie and Doyle said over each other.
Bodie stopped, giving Doyle the floor. "I've been cleared by the doctors and the draconian physiotherapists!" Doyle shouted, leaning angrily against Cowley's desk. "You know that full well!" He'd have said more but he felt the sharp kick of Bodie's right shoe against the back of his calf.
"Bodie knows Janssen's world far better than an ex-police officer," Cowley said with a tight patience, as if he'd rather not have to give any explanation at all. "The names of his former contacts give him an acceptance. You, Doyle, will certainly be a vital part of the assignment, just not on the front lines."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but Doyle knows the names of me former mates from the time with Krivas." Bodie grabbed Doyle's arm, hauling him back to the chair he'd vacated. "I could coach him in any odd bit of gossip needed to get by in a pinch."
"In a pinch?" Cowley shook his head, taking off his glasses with a frown. "You both are well aware that considerably more is necessary when under cover, so I will assume you're just defending him because you don't care to work separately here."
"Never comes out too well," Doyle said out of the corner of his mouth, crossing his arms defiantly over his chest and leaning back in the chair. He'd rather sleep on a bed of nails than send Bodie out alone. Murph was a good man, one of the best, but he wasn't Bodie's other half--his true partner in all things.
"I take it then, Doyle, that I will not have to bring up the scores from your workouts with Macklin from two weeks ago," Cowley said quietly.
"Dirty pool, sir," Bodie retorted with a guarded glance at Doyle.
It was indeed. Although Doyle had sweated through every single exercise the physiotherapists had thrown at him and could still run laps around Bodie in a two man race, he couldn't deny that being shot in the lung had cost him stamina, strength and wind. As if on cue, the tight skin of the largest scar that ran around his left flank tingled. Doyle resisted the urge to reach around and rub his back. The irony was that he was in far better shape than the average Londoner, yet not fully able to back up his partner in the way he once could.
Gritting his teeth, Doyle took the humiliation like a man. "What exactly is Bodie to do, then?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That was almost a week ago. Doyle flexed his sore arm while Mick took time to refill his tattoo gun again, and thought back to the last few times he'd seen Bodie before he disappeared. He could almost taste the tea he'd drunk while they were in the break room after meeting with Cowley. Doyle had been on a tear, venting his frustration and railing against his own inadequacies until Bodie shoved a Bath bun in his mouth and told him to stop abusing the crockery.
Doyle almost smiled, even though the sight of the nearly completed serpent slithering down his arm chilled him. What the hell had he gotten himself into? And would it save Bodie? As angry as Doyle had been at Cowley for sending Bodie out without his partner, Cowley's wrath at what Doyle had done would be ten times worse. He'd be demoted to typing Parliament stats into the computers in the CI-5 basement for the rest of the century. Bodie would laugh at that one.
If only.
Bugger. Thinking about Bodie made him weak when he couldn't afford to be. Feeling tears pricking his eyelids, Doyle blinked and tightened his resolve.
"You'll need to take off your shirt so I can get around the top of your arm," Mick reminded him, decanting a deeper red ink for shadowing.
"And freeze my willy off?" Doyle retorted, mad at himself for wallowing in thoughts of Bodie. "It's a bleeding ice lolly stand in here."
Daniels had been flipping through a catalogue of tattoo art. "Turn on the electric fire, Mosby," he drawled, watching with hungry eyes as Doyle skimmed out of his tee.
Thomson flicked a glance at his boss, a slight flush coloring his cheeks. Doyle read jealousy and impotent anger in the look. Something useful to store away for the future.
He settled back against the old-fashioned dentist chair, extending his arm again, very aware of Daniel's scrutiny.
"You ready, mate?" Mick asked, the needle poised a bare millimetre above Doyle's flesh.
"Finish the sodding thing," Doyle ground out. It was just skin. He looked away from the dark line trailing from Mick's needle and met Daniels' equally dark eyes. There were times where he seemed to see right through Doyle, as if he could ferret out Doyle's secrets. Which was a very scary thought, indeed.
Daniels crimped his mouth up in a sinister imitation of a smile that sent a rush of adrenaline through Doyle's belly. He had met a fair number of criminals in his day, but few were as inherently unsettling as Edward Daniels. No doubt, his arrest jacket hadn't contained half of the crimes he'd committed, although this phase of insisting that his cohorts prove their loyalty with a tattoo was new. It was very clear that he wanted to control all those around him.
"What's this, then?" Daniels extended a long slender finger, not quite touching the scar that curved around Doyle's ribcage. "Looks fresh."
Damn- memories washed over Doyle like waves pulling him under the surf.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Bodie…" Doyle whispered against the pillow, but his partner continued his methodical mapping of the scars on Doyle's back.
"This one." Bodie bestowed a kiss that tingled along the damaged nerves, sending zaps of almost pain up Doyle's spine and down to his groin. "I put my hand on this one, felt your heart thuddin' in me palm, blood all over."
"It's past now." Doyle shifted over, trapping Bodie's hand. "That's all in the past. Are we going to relive it every bloody time we…"
"Move forward, you mean?" Bodie drew his hand along Doyle's side, following the length of the scar around to the swell of his chest muscle. "Well enough for you, old son. You didn't see the damage."
"Felt it, didn't I?" Doyle pulled away, sitting up so he was out of range of Bodie's searching fingers. He didn't want to remember that afternoon, with the pain, blood and desolation. He'd lain on his own carpet, barely there and yet so afraid that he'd die alone. He didn't completely let go of consciousness until Bodie arrived to efficiently supervise the rescue. But every time Bodie poked and prodded at the healing wounds, he seemed to let loose all the emotions Doyle had bottled up. As if Doyle's muscles were holding onto the one thing he didn't like to give in to-fear.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sharp jab of the tattoo needle inserting colour into Doyle's flesh brought him back to the present. The damned marijuana in the air must be the reason he kept daydreaming. Doyle looked directly at Daniels, putting every bit of his own aggression into the stare.
Daniels had a secretive, malevolent smirk on his face and he tapped his finger squarely on Doyle's scar. "I see why you didn't want to take your shirt off the other day. You been shot, cock?"
"What gave it away? The sodding placard on me breastbone?" Doyle countered, shoving the fear well back into a dark place in his brain, to be hopefully forgotten.
"He seen the marks on your back," Mosby snickered.
"Hard to miss," Daniels said lazily, but there was something akin to lust burning in his eyes. Pain or violence turned him on. "When'd it happen?"
"Had a dust-up with some of my mates." Doyle set his jaw. The insistent whine of the tattoo gun was wearing on his patience. "Just after Guy Fawkes. Spent some time in hospital, now I'm out. What's it to you?"
"You didn't tell me, is all. I like to know more about my…associates," Daniels said smoothly. "You've only been around a short time, and yet you have some agenda of your own." He stared openly at Doyle's chest before shifting his focus to Mick putting the finishing touches on the snake. "Not many'll go…all the way t'get in tight with me. Takes guts, just like gettin' shot."
"You want my full medical history?" Doyle asked, very grateful when Mick shut down the power on his equipment and brushed off his hands. "Broke an arm once and broke at least ten ribs in me life. On the whole, getting a tattoo's a stroll in the park."
"This done, then?" Thomson spoke up, brazenly interrupting whatever Daniels was about to say. "We going to the house or eating first? I'm bloody starved."
Daniels wrinkled his nose as if smelling something foul, but a second later, his face was smooth and open. "We've got a new lamb in the fold, boys. I think our Raymond will set us up with a few pints and rashers of bacon."
"With what?" Doyle handed Mick a ten pound note and a couple of pound coins. There was literally nothing left in his pockets. He'd left his flat without CI-5 ID or much money because he was supposed to be an out of work penman. The art classes he'd once taken made forgery a good cover story.
"Thought you could just fiddle up a couple of guineas," Daniels goaded, holding out his pale green t-shirt. Mosby giggled again.
"No ink, no plates, no bleeding printing press," Doyle said mildly, plucking the shirt from Daniels' fingers. For one moment, it seemed like Daniels wasn't going to let go, but then he opened his fingers, his eyes darting challenges. Doyle read them loud and clear-you play my way, or you don't play at all.
"This better not be Monopoly money!" Mick stared at the note in his hand. He held the tenner up to the light, peering at the Queen's regal face.
"Nicked it from the royal treasury, didn't I?" Doyle dropped the very last pound coin into Mick's hand. "It's one hundred percent, never fear. And there's no profit in making coin, too labour intensive. Thanks for the art."
"Be gone with the lot of you," Mick said sourly.
Out on the street, Doyle pulled up his collar against the wet. It had been spitting all day, miserable, drizzling weather that pulled down his spirits even lower. Where was Bodie? Was he dead in a ditch? Or hurting somewhere, cold and damp?
"I want a fried egg butty," Mosby declared, pointing down the lane at a pub called World's End.
Doyle was in a foul enough mood to wonder if that could be the literal truth. If this was the end of the world, he wasn't about to go easily.
"You ain't got a sous, then you'll owe me, won't you, Doyle?" Daniels said sweetly. The twisted smile on his face proved that was exactly how he liked to keep the balance of power.
"Reckon I'll have to sing for my supper then." Doyle pushed on past Thomson, heading for the bright windows of the pub.
"You start warbling like Adam Ant, I'll break your scrawny neck." Thomson flipped a rude gesture at Doyle and punched his fists into his jacket pockets.
Two lagers and a plate of Hunter's Chicken later, Doyle sat back, warily studying his companions. He'd never quite figured out how the three of them got together and but he could now undeniably link Daniels, Janssen, and Bodie. Daniels was dangerous, a true sociopath who kept those around him under his thumb. He liked to completely dominate and control those around him, starting with Mosby, his lapdog.
Thomson was a harder nut to crack. Doyle hadn't discerned the reason Thomson was there except possibly as muscle. He had a serpent on his left arm, and worked as Daniels' right hand man, but there was more to it than mere loyalty. Mosby submitted because that was his nature, but Thomson's connection was something far darker and kinkier. He craved pure violence. Daniels had a few other followers, but only those he handpicked for his inner circle wore the red snake on one arm.
"Get our Raymond another one, Mosby," Daniels said. "Can't let him go wanting."
"No more for me, thanks." Doyle flattened his hand over his glass. The residual marijuana in the tattoo shop must have affected him more than he realized because he was drunker than usual was after only two beers.
"Can't refuse him," Thomson murmured, spreading his fingers flat on the table. The letters F-E-A-R tattooed above his left hand knuckles seemed overly visible.
Doyle was boxed into the booth with Daniels on one side and Thomson on the other. The only way out was to crawl under the table, and he wasn't about to turn tail and run.
"Scotch?" Mosby asked, popping up from where ever he had been. He held up a bottle and his round face looked even stupider than usual.
"This is a special occasion." Daniels drained the last of his Guinness. "A good malt whisky for all of us, to welcome our new colleague."
Doyle closed his eyes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He watched Bodie lift a small glass of Glenlivet to the light. His partner turned the glass and the tawny liquor glowed like a piece of Danish amber. Bodie took a sip, savoring the strong flavour and toasted their boss. Cowley raised his glass and downed the entire contents with a satisfied sigh.
"Got the call this morning, sir," Bodie continued. "Janssen has agreed to meet me. The intel was correct, he was at the Edwardian Hotel. Rang him up, used Cusack's name as an opening gambit and advanced across the board in no time at all. Ol' Cusack may be retired…"
Doyle chuckled. The gun dealer had sung that song every single time they'd ever gone to see him, but always had the exact weapon needed right on hand, nonetheless.
"Good, good." Cowley nodded, pouring more whisky for himself.
Finishing his own, Doyle knew better than to ask for more. It was Cowley's bottle, he controlled the portions, just as he controlled everything else at CI-5.
"When and where?" Cowley demanded.
"Murphy's already put in a request for a bug and the meeting is set up for the Swan Inn off Fulham Road in Chelsea on the 'morrow. Doyle'n and me've been there for a reconnoiter." Bodie smiled at his partner, "There's two ways in and out, a quiet street corner, but not secluded, and space for the van to park adjacent, close enough for Murph to get a good listen in."
"Do you have a more specific grasp of Janssen's agenda?" Cowley swung around to Doyle, the force of his attention like a physical weight.
"Yeah…" Doyle touched the tip of his tongue to the roof of his mouth, putting his facts in order. "Went round to some old snitches who gave me the names of Edward Daniels' mates. He'd a weird bloke, all right. Wants to get out of his own play yard and start hobnobbing with the big boys. Which is apparently why he met up with Janssen."
"He has connections to guns?" Bodie asked, licking his lips after finishing his drink. He knew better than to ask for seconds, too.
"No," Cowley said grimly. He smacked his palm on the desk, causing papers to flutter. "How could I have been so blind? Lord Burley."
"His father." Bodie sat up straighter. "Of course! Lord Burley is chairing a committee in Parliament on gun regulations in Britain."
"He's not exactly silent about it, either," Doyle agreed, leaning on hip on the étagère.
"The man's been all over the Times and BBC lately expounding on the American constitution," Cowley growled. "Life, liberty and…"
"The right to bear arms." Bodie crossed his arms with a slight frown. "By which, he does not mean a rifle for fox hunting. He wants the local constabulary to carry Uzis and Kalashnikovs."
"Good luck with that!" Doyle would have chuckled if it weren't for the fact that they were already half there. Gone were the days when he had walked a beat with nothing but a nightstick. Most local police didn't carry a gun, but all public buildings were now guarded by soldiers armed with semi-automatic weapons. The last time he'd been to the Victoria and Albert museum, he'd nearly been pat searched. "Mrs. Thatcher will never stand for that."
"Doesn't stop Lord Burley from shouting his opinion from the rooftops," Cowley said.
"He's arrogant and pompous, with just the right dash of eccentric aristocracy to lull most people into complacency," Bodie observed soberly. "He's on the telly often enough, the public will just chuckle over their morning cuppa and roll their eyes, then he'll find the right loophole, and huzzah-suddenly, the new law's gone through Parliament and Britain will forge ahead of the US in shooting deaths."
Cowley looked like he'd tasted something sour. "And, no doubt, if his Lordship expects to have any success in the changing precedent, then he will have already approached gun exporters, manufacturers and dealers to have facts and figures easily on hand, if requested."
"So, his son would have no difficulty ferreting out the names and places, even if he's never actually spoken to the sellers," Bodie said. "Which puts me in good stead. I just have to convince Janssen that this Daniels is a poseur without any stock on hand, and that I've got the goods."
"Yes, that should work." Cowley removed his glasses, peering through the lenses as if he needed to clean them. "The main question is how we reel Janssen in without coercion or entrapment?"
"Can be done, sir." Bodie gave a little Gallic shrug.
Pure hubris, Doyle thought. Bodie didn't want for self-esteem, that was for certain. Equally as certain, Doyle was jealous. He hated admitting that, but it was true. He yearned for the days when he and Bodie were out there, side by side, united against the enemy. Instead, he was sitting in the office, looking up intel that Betty could have done, probably far better.
"Doyle?" Cowley had apparently decided his lenses passed muster. He put them back on, reassuming the look of a wise old owl. "I take it you have reservations?"
"You're already more than aware of them, old man." Doyle shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. He didn't feel like getting into the whole disagreement again. It was like a Monty Python skit, anyway. He could argue until he was blue in the face, but Cowley wouldn't participate fully. His single 'no' was all there was to it.
"Sounds like our Raymond needs a little lie down," Bodie said with just a hint of teasing.
"Oh, shove off!" Doyle pointed one finger at his partner. "I don't need it from you, too!"
But Bodie's eyes said that he did, and Doyle felt that want, right there in Cowley's office.
Bodie flashed him a smile that held part triumph and a smidgen of sympathy. "It's just that now that Doyle is back on the squad, we're more….accustomed to working together. Isn't that right, Ray?"
"I will continue looking into Daniels' background," Doyle said sourly, wishing that they weren't in Cowley's office so that he could raise two stiff fingers under Bodie's nose. "Though many of his juvenile records are sealed, he's been a right bastard and gotten out of some situations purely on his father's name."
"That happens far too often." Cowley nodded. "Keep me informed, 3.7."
"Ah, to have aristocracy in the family-privilege and influence right at one's fingertips," Bodie drawled in a plumy voice. "Getting back to what you said earlier, what makes Daniels weird? In your considered opinion."
"Word is that he frequents places catering to kinky pleasures," Doyle explained, leaning against Bodie's chair. "And keeps a scrum of mates around him, never goes anywhere without them."
"How's that any different than any other bully boy?" Bodie tipped his head back to look up at him.
"To prove their loyalty, they all got tattooed." Doyle put out his right arm, laying it on the back of Bodie's chair, which aligned his forearm alongside Bodie's cheek. "With a large dragon or a serpent of some kind."
"Hmm." Cowley wrote that down on sheet attached to the picture of Daniels and Janssen. "You have this on good authority?" he asked as if not actually expecting an answer. Doyle nodded while Cowley peered at the photograph. "He has on a padded jacket, so any skin art is not visible."
"Makes it easy to identify a fellow in the morgue," Bodie said, his usual black humour on display. He turned his head slightly, accidentally or on purpose brushing against Doyle's bare wrist. "I prefer unblemished skin myself."
A lazy warmth rose up from Doyle's groin, spiraling around his spine. Quite inappropriate in the work place. He chuckled low and deep, and moved his arm away. Bodie echoed his laugh, his blue eyes flashing sparks.
"Few women have tattoos," Cowley said quite out of the blue. "But I do recall a bonny lassie called Mary MacDhougal who had the Loch Ness monster tattooed…" He broke off, looking flustered, and gathered the scattered reports he'd been reading back into the file. "If that's all, then we all know what is to be done. And you two can get to work."
"I'm quite interested in this Miss MacDhougal," Bodie said with all innocence, as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.
"3.7.," Cowley said archly, and Bodie straightened up like the good soldier that he had been. "4.5, I'd like a photo of that tattoo, if at all possible, and anything else you dig up on this Daniels. May not pay off for this case, but it could be important, none the less."
"All information is important," Doyle intoned with just the right amount of sarcasm. Bodie smirked and hauled him out of Cowley's office.
"What's got your knickers in a twist?" Bodie nudged Doyle with the point of his elbow. "No use stewing about it. Not the first time one of us has had to sit out an obbo…"
"And what usually happens?" Doyle growled, the little buzz of lust completely gone. "I can handle sitting on the sidelines, what I won't abide is you…" He shook his head violently, the fear rising up in his chest like a rampaging beast. Maybe it was his own recent brush with death or some morbid premonition, but he really didn't want Bodie meeting Janssen at the Swan.
"Doyle." Bodie grabbed his arm. Doyle swung around so fast he would have slugged Bodie but for the appearance of Murphy just out of the elevator. As it was, Doyle slammed his fist into the wall millimetres from his partner's ear. The shockwave reverberated up his arm, jamming his shoulder back.
"Bugger!" Doyle gasped, pain zipping through the scars on his chest and back as if they were telephone lines.
"Bodie!" Murphy propelling himself in between them, shoving Doyle away. "Why'd he…?"
"Didn't put a mark on this handsome face," Bodie said sardonically, eyeing Doyle. "Hurt yourself, did you?"
"Yeah." Doyle cradled his throbbing arm against his body, trying to breathe through the pain.
"Either aim better next time or count to ten before you explode." Bodie cocked an eyebrow at him, looking for all the world like he was about to laugh.
"What started this?" Murphy asked, obviously bewildered.
"He's troubled, poor laddie," Bodie said in a fair approximation of Cowley's brogue. "Needs exercise and some lubrication…"
"I'm not some wild horse about to kick down his stall," Doyle countered, able to see some of the humour in the situation. He probably looked the fool.
Bodie peered at a smudge on the wall. "I'll refrain from comment to avoid a repeat performance." He threw a companionable arm around Murphy's shoulder. "Have you obtained the bug, my good man?"
"Got it, and will install it tomorrow morning before you meet with Janssen." Murphy glanced at Doyle. "You coming to the pub with us?"
For a moment, Doyle was confused-or thought that Murphy was, until he realized the invitation was for right that moment and not the next morning. "Not thirsty," he muttered.
"Well, I am, and where I go, you go." Bodie reeled him in, giving him a stare that said plainly, stay with me.
"Then you're paying," Doyle said, joining them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part two
Author name: Dawnwind dawnebeth
Artist name: cloudless_9193
Genre: Slash
Characters/Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Word count: 45,913 words
Warnings: bondage, non-consensual sex
Summary: Doyle is frantic after Bodie disappears on an undercover operation. To discover Bodie's whereabouts, Doyle joins the criminal band of aristocrat Edward Daniels, a group whose members are all tattooed with the image of a black and red snake running down their arm. Will Doyle find Bodie before Daniels' inner circle discovers his deception?
Written for the ci5_boxoftricks Big Bang
Posted in eight parts
Notes: Big hugs to everyone on the ci5_boxoftricks for this wonderful opportunity to stretch my Professionals wings and write my first really long Doyle and Bodie story. Many thanks to my friend Suzanne who edited this even though she is not a Pros fan. Much love to sc_fossil who sent praise and support when I got a case of the "this is all drek." Applause to Cloudless_9193 for her lovely book cover poster.
cover art
http://cloudless-9193.livejournal.com/39240.html
E-reader files (right click link to download)
Part one of eight
Doyle watched the black ink tracing over his skin, completely detached from the proceedings. He barely felt the burr of the needle imbedding the design into his flesh, the dark line curving up and over his bicep. If this is what he had to do to keep Bodie safe, so be it. He'd tattoo his face like a Maori native to get the information-he just couldn't let on why he was doing so.
Maintaining the cold, neutral expression that he'd worn for the last few days, Doyle raised his eyes to the four men witnessing his initiation. The tattoo artist didn't count, he was only there to do the work, someone who would be paid well to keep his eyes and ears closed. The other three were men were on a completely different level; cruel, heartless and violent.
All three wore identical black and red serpents on their arms, the symbol of their brotherhood.
"What's next?" Doyle asked boldly. "Out for a pint to let the ink dry?"
"He's funny." Mosby snickered, showing his crooked teeth.
"He's cocky," Daniels said, his flat brown eyes flicking from the snake forming on Doyle's arm down to his groin and back again. There was no trace of emotion on his face but Doyle felt a wave of malevolence from the man, the one who had grabbed Bodie four days earlier. Doyle just had to find his partner before he was killed. If he wasn't dead already.
"And I don't like cocky," Daniels added.
"You prefer surly?" Doyle let his impotent rage consume all the other feelings for Bodie that buffeted his sanity. This was not the time to be weak. Anger kept him on edge.
"I prefer obedient and quiet," Daniels countered, blatantly looking down at Doyle's groin again. The corners of his mouth turned up very slightly when he raised his eyes. There was not an iota of amusement in his smile. "You want in, Doyle, you play by the rules."
"Colour inside the lines, eh?" Doyle stared back into Daniels' dark eyes, unwilling to ever back down. This was a battle he was determined to win. He ignored the constant whine from the tattoo gun, the needle vibrating across his skin, leaving behind an indelible mark.
Daniels barked a laugh and Mosby, the prat, chuckled in echo. Thomson leaned against a wall of display tattoo designs, obviously annoyed at having to hang about.
"Just what me mum always told me," Mosby said, in his irritating, eager-to-please voice. His dark blue eyes were round like a small child's. "It's harder than it oughta be…"
"Shut up, Mosby," Daniels said softly. He didn't have to flaunt his power; Doyle had seen the way the others kowtowed to him. The question was where he had Bodie stashed, and how to get the information out of him.
"Oy," Doyle said to get the attention off himself. The needle bit hard into the tender underside of his arm. That he felt. His detachment was slipping, a chink in his armour he couldn't afford. "No skin off my teeth if you lot take off." He deliberately turned away from Daniels, watching the blond haired tattoo artist delicately etch individual snakeskin scales. "This'll take a long time?"
The tattoo artist shrugged. "Takes as long as it needs to," he answered philosophically and stopped to change needles, lighting a hand-rolled fag at the same time. The long ribbon of smoke wafted into Doyle's face. Marijuana.
The scent reminded him of the joints Bodie had smoked when he was undercover a few years back-why the hell did every single thing make him think of the Scouse bastard? He wanted to blame Bodie. Wanted to blame anybody else for his own inability to keep Bodie safe.
Ultimately, the blame could be put squarely on Cowley's feet. He was in charge, and had assigned them the bloody obbo. When had they ever been able to say no and mean it? Because Doyle had seen in Bodie's eyes that he wanted to back out. Had read it in every line of his body.
"Hell, Mick, get a move on, we ain't got all day," Thomson groused, resettling his butt on a narrow shelf holding a rainbow array of inks.
"You learn to draw on skin in the last day, berk?" Mick blew out another cloud of pungent smoke and poured red ink into a small well. "Takes a bit o'time to make something ye'd want to keep permanent-like." He squinted at Doyle, the cigarette hanging off his bottom lip. "You don't seem the type."
"Just joined up," Doyle said, apprehension doing bad things to his guts. He was very aware of the suspicious vibes coming from his three companions. It took every ounce of his stamina to regain a small measure of his hard-won ennui. "Too right, less talk, more sketching."
"Ingrates, all of ye." Mick fitted the needle into his tattoo gun and powered it up again. "Hate doing this with a fucking audience."
"We stay," Daniels insisted. "Until you finish the damned thing." He flashed the malevolent smile again, and chucked Doyle under the chin as if he were a lad in short pants. "Besides," he almost purred, which sent a freezing chill down Doyle's spine. "I like watching pretty things."
"Then turn on the telly and feast your eyes on… Shoestring," Doyle said the first TV programme that came to mind, twisting away from Daniels' hand.
"Hold still!" Mick protested. "Unless you want red spots on this snake."
"That Dorian Godwin is quite the looker," Doyle said, keeping his arm steady. He couldn't ignore the sharp ache anymore. The narrow black outlines hadn't been bad, but once Mick started in on the shading, it felt like his skin was being rubbed raw with sandpaper.
"I don't watch…" Daniels started.
"He's keen on Trevor Eve," Mosby said conspiratorially.
Daniels whipped around, smashing Mosby across the face with a backhanded blow. His eyes wide with surprise, Mosby took it with admirable restraint. He didn't cry out or flinch, even when blood dripped from his damaged nose.
"Damn." Mick jerked his hand at the violence, sending an agonizing jolt up Doyle's arm.
Doyle hissed in shock; it was like being stabbed with a scalpel.
Lowering his head, Mick turned off the gun to change needles. "I can fix that."
"You mind your tongue, my lad," Daniels said, standing very close to his victim. "Or there'll be more."
Mosby nodded slowly, using the heel of one hand to wipe some of the gore from his face. Thomson never moved, watching the scene with the wary superiority of an older sibling who knew when to keep silent.
Doyle clenched his jaw. The sudden pain had been mercifully brief. He didn't dare intercede on Mosby's behalf. Partially because the guy was a total idiot, but more importantly because he needed to protect his own back. Until he traced Bodie's steps and found his lost lamb, he was on his own. Even Cowley didn't know how far out on a limb Doyle had gone.
"Fucked up, didja, Mick?" Thomson asked with just a hint of malice, as if he liked provoking the tattoo artist.
Doyle looked down at his emerging snake. Instead of perfectly coloured red scales, there was a splotch of crimson across its back like a spreading bloodstain.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"You rang, sir?" Bodie asked with a smirk, walking into George Cowley's office.
Doyle crowded in beside him, laughing when Bodie's trailing hand goosed him on the arse. They'd had a grand morning, arguing good-naturedly about what to eat for breakfast since neither had enough in their larders to feed a dormouse. They'd finally settled on a small café with sufficient choices for both their appetites. Bodie had feasted on a full brekker complete with eggs, a grilled tomato, toast plus bacon and sausage. Doyle had eaten a more sedate meal of muesli, yoghurt and bananas.
"Come in, come in," Cowley said, sounding grouchy. "You're late."
"London traffic." Bodie shrugged.
Doyle bobbed his head in agreement. There wasn't much more to add.
"That's a defense, not an excuse." Cowley peered at Bodie through his coke-bottle glasses as if examining a rare species of CI-5 agent under a microscope. "You already knew there would be traffic, you should adjust accordingly."
"Can't predict a lorry overturning on the embankment," Doyle put in.
"Apparently not." Cowley scowled, flipping open a manila envelope.
"You have an assignment for us?" Bodie claimed the chair in front of Cowley's desk and smoothed his indigo silk tie. Obviously preening, he shot the cuffs of his brand new dark blue suit jacket with bit of a gloat.
Doyle indulged in a single admiring glance at his partner. Bodie looked good in the duds he'd bought at the tailor shop the day before. A long-deserved rise in pay had finally been granted, which had increased their pay cheques by a fair percentage. Doyle was of the private opinion that Cowley was quietly trying to appease the two of them. He had been just as frightened as Bodie when Doyle was shot in his own home. Doyle had seen more than concern in Cowley's eyes when he was in the hospital, there had been uncertainty, as well. Uncertainty that he would bounce back from this assault. Their nice new digs, as well as the extra guineas in their pocket might be seen as simple compensation, but Doyle knew better. Cowley cared for his two favourite agents deeply. There was more than just a common garden-variety employer/employee relationship going on between the three of them.
"The home office has become very concerned," Cowley began, the Scottish burr of the R in 'very' more pronounced than usual. "That a man allegedly out of South Africa has been seen in Britain recently."
"Caught those South African passports going through customs?" Bodie made a tsk-tsk with his tongue, his left eyebrow canted more than usual.
"Shocking." Doyle laughed, going with Bodie's mocking tone. "Where are their manners?"
"And what's that to do with us?" Bodie finished.
Cowley leveled his headmaster gaze at them, and Doyle straightened up into a proper listening pose. He felt like he was back in primary school.
"You, Bodie, have ties to South Africa," Cowley said.
"Krivas?" Bodie sat up, the joking attitude gone. "In the past, sir."
"Since you had contact with him not five years ago, I hardly think so." Cowley shuffled through the papers from the manila envelope and came up with a photograph of a young man with shaggy dark hair and the long Hapsburg jaw. He passed it over, consulting a report. "This is Edward Daniels, the youngest son of Lord Burley. Considered a n'ere-do-well by his family, he's considerably more dangerous than that. Interpol has their eye on him for the rape of a young Italian, as well as possible smuggling connections."
Doyle could see Daniels' arrest form on the desk and read the charges, upside down. Not a nice fellow at all.
"He's been in and out of the courts all of his life due to drugs, aggressive behavior and one count of aggravated assault, but never actually served time. Agents at the airport saw Henrik Janssen, a South African who is on the international wanted list for gun trafficking, and followed him. They caught these two together, which raised alarm bells." Cowley passed over another photo. Daniels sat at a small table, bending forward to talk to a thin man with a neat mustache and sunglasses. "He met with Henrik Janssen in a café just outside of Heathrow. Janssen is a known arms dealer from Johannesburg." Cowley shook his head, his disgust with people who perpetuated guerrilla warfare and illegal gun sales well known. "However, we are not sure why. Up until now, Daniels was a bully boy, and while he may have been involved in the selling of drugs, organized arms dealing was not his bailiwick."
"I take it you want us to get in contact with this Janssen and find out what he's after?" Bodie said lightly, but Doyle could hear the tension starting to build.
"Just you, Bodie," Cowley confirmed.
"Because I used to run with Krivas and that lot?" Bodie stood, his dander up. "Isn't that stereotyping? Sir." He gave the honorific an insolent turn.
"It's the economical and best use of available resources," Cowley responded blandly, the desk light reflecting in his spectacles made him look sinister and unapproachable.
"Why just Bodie?" Doyle demanded, a fire burning in his belly. He wasn't keen on the idea of Bodie going to meet an arms dealer solo. It was not only dangerous, but fool-hardy.
"You're still on limited duty, Doyle. You can dig into Janssen's and Daniels backgrounds, ferret out their intentions, find out more about associates, whilst 6.2 works with 3.7 on this operation."
"The bloody hell he will!" Bodie and Doyle said over each other.
Bodie stopped, giving Doyle the floor. "I've been cleared by the doctors and the draconian physiotherapists!" Doyle shouted, leaning angrily against Cowley's desk. "You know that full well!" He'd have said more but he felt the sharp kick of Bodie's right shoe against the back of his calf.
"Bodie knows Janssen's world far better than an ex-police officer," Cowley said with a tight patience, as if he'd rather not have to give any explanation at all. "The names of his former contacts give him an acceptance. You, Doyle, will certainly be a vital part of the assignment, just not on the front lines."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but Doyle knows the names of me former mates from the time with Krivas." Bodie grabbed Doyle's arm, hauling him back to the chair he'd vacated. "I could coach him in any odd bit of gossip needed to get by in a pinch."
"In a pinch?" Cowley shook his head, taking off his glasses with a frown. "You both are well aware that considerably more is necessary when under cover, so I will assume you're just defending him because you don't care to work separately here."
"Never comes out too well," Doyle said out of the corner of his mouth, crossing his arms defiantly over his chest and leaning back in the chair. He'd rather sleep on a bed of nails than send Bodie out alone. Murph was a good man, one of the best, but he wasn't Bodie's other half--his true partner in all things.
"I take it then, Doyle, that I will not have to bring up the scores from your workouts with Macklin from two weeks ago," Cowley said quietly.
"Dirty pool, sir," Bodie retorted with a guarded glance at Doyle.
It was indeed. Although Doyle had sweated through every single exercise the physiotherapists had thrown at him and could still run laps around Bodie in a two man race, he couldn't deny that being shot in the lung had cost him stamina, strength and wind. As if on cue, the tight skin of the largest scar that ran around his left flank tingled. Doyle resisted the urge to reach around and rub his back. The irony was that he was in far better shape than the average Londoner, yet not fully able to back up his partner in the way he once could.
Gritting his teeth, Doyle took the humiliation like a man. "What exactly is Bodie to do, then?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That was almost a week ago. Doyle flexed his sore arm while Mick took time to refill his tattoo gun again, and thought back to the last few times he'd seen Bodie before he disappeared. He could almost taste the tea he'd drunk while they were in the break room after meeting with Cowley. Doyle had been on a tear, venting his frustration and railing against his own inadequacies until Bodie shoved a Bath bun in his mouth and told him to stop abusing the crockery.
Doyle almost smiled, even though the sight of the nearly completed serpent slithering down his arm chilled him. What the hell had he gotten himself into? And would it save Bodie? As angry as Doyle had been at Cowley for sending Bodie out without his partner, Cowley's wrath at what Doyle had done would be ten times worse. He'd be demoted to typing Parliament stats into the computers in the CI-5 basement for the rest of the century. Bodie would laugh at that one.
If only.
Bugger. Thinking about Bodie made him weak when he couldn't afford to be. Feeling tears pricking his eyelids, Doyle blinked and tightened his resolve.
"You'll need to take off your shirt so I can get around the top of your arm," Mick reminded him, decanting a deeper red ink for shadowing.
"And freeze my willy off?" Doyle retorted, mad at himself for wallowing in thoughts of Bodie. "It's a bleeding ice lolly stand in here."
Daniels had been flipping through a catalogue of tattoo art. "Turn on the electric fire, Mosby," he drawled, watching with hungry eyes as Doyle skimmed out of his tee.
Thomson flicked a glance at his boss, a slight flush coloring his cheeks. Doyle read jealousy and impotent anger in the look. Something useful to store away for the future.
He settled back against the old-fashioned dentist chair, extending his arm again, very aware of Daniel's scrutiny.
"You ready, mate?" Mick asked, the needle poised a bare millimetre above Doyle's flesh.
"Finish the sodding thing," Doyle ground out. It was just skin. He looked away from the dark line trailing from Mick's needle and met Daniels' equally dark eyes. There were times where he seemed to see right through Doyle, as if he could ferret out Doyle's secrets. Which was a very scary thought, indeed.
Daniels crimped his mouth up in a sinister imitation of a smile that sent a rush of adrenaline through Doyle's belly. He had met a fair number of criminals in his day, but few were as inherently unsettling as Edward Daniels. No doubt, his arrest jacket hadn't contained half of the crimes he'd committed, although this phase of insisting that his cohorts prove their loyalty with a tattoo was new. It was very clear that he wanted to control all those around him.
"What's this, then?" Daniels extended a long slender finger, not quite touching the scar that curved around Doyle's ribcage. "Looks fresh."
Damn- memories washed over Doyle like waves pulling him under the surf.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Bodie…" Doyle whispered against the pillow, but his partner continued his methodical mapping of the scars on Doyle's back.
"This one." Bodie bestowed a kiss that tingled along the damaged nerves, sending zaps of almost pain up Doyle's spine and down to his groin. "I put my hand on this one, felt your heart thuddin' in me palm, blood all over."
"It's past now." Doyle shifted over, trapping Bodie's hand. "That's all in the past. Are we going to relive it every bloody time we…"
"Move forward, you mean?" Bodie drew his hand along Doyle's side, following the length of the scar around to the swell of his chest muscle. "Well enough for you, old son. You didn't see the damage."
"Felt it, didn't I?" Doyle pulled away, sitting up so he was out of range of Bodie's searching fingers. He didn't want to remember that afternoon, with the pain, blood and desolation. He'd lain on his own carpet, barely there and yet so afraid that he'd die alone. He didn't completely let go of consciousness until Bodie arrived to efficiently supervise the rescue. But every time Bodie poked and prodded at the healing wounds, he seemed to let loose all the emotions Doyle had bottled up. As if Doyle's muscles were holding onto the one thing he didn't like to give in to-fear.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sharp jab of the tattoo needle inserting colour into Doyle's flesh brought him back to the present. The damned marijuana in the air must be the reason he kept daydreaming. Doyle looked directly at Daniels, putting every bit of his own aggression into the stare.
Daniels had a secretive, malevolent smirk on his face and he tapped his finger squarely on Doyle's scar. "I see why you didn't want to take your shirt off the other day. You been shot, cock?"
"What gave it away? The sodding placard on me breastbone?" Doyle countered, shoving the fear well back into a dark place in his brain, to be hopefully forgotten.
"He seen the marks on your back," Mosby snickered.
"Hard to miss," Daniels said lazily, but there was something akin to lust burning in his eyes. Pain or violence turned him on. "When'd it happen?"
"Had a dust-up with some of my mates." Doyle set his jaw. The insistent whine of the tattoo gun was wearing on his patience. "Just after Guy Fawkes. Spent some time in hospital, now I'm out. What's it to you?"
"You didn't tell me, is all. I like to know more about my…associates," Daniels said smoothly. "You've only been around a short time, and yet you have some agenda of your own." He stared openly at Doyle's chest before shifting his focus to Mick putting the finishing touches on the snake. "Not many'll go…all the way t'get in tight with me. Takes guts, just like gettin' shot."
"You want my full medical history?" Doyle asked, very grateful when Mick shut down the power on his equipment and brushed off his hands. "Broke an arm once and broke at least ten ribs in me life. On the whole, getting a tattoo's a stroll in the park."
"This done, then?" Thomson spoke up, brazenly interrupting whatever Daniels was about to say. "We going to the house or eating first? I'm bloody starved."
Daniels wrinkled his nose as if smelling something foul, but a second later, his face was smooth and open. "We've got a new lamb in the fold, boys. I think our Raymond will set us up with a few pints and rashers of bacon."
"With what?" Doyle handed Mick a ten pound note and a couple of pound coins. There was literally nothing left in his pockets. He'd left his flat without CI-5 ID or much money because he was supposed to be an out of work penman. The art classes he'd once taken made forgery a good cover story.
"Thought you could just fiddle up a couple of guineas," Daniels goaded, holding out his pale green t-shirt. Mosby giggled again.
"No ink, no plates, no bleeding printing press," Doyle said mildly, plucking the shirt from Daniels' fingers. For one moment, it seemed like Daniels wasn't going to let go, but then he opened his fingers, his eyes darting challenges. Doyle read them loud and clear-you play my way, or you don't play at all.
"This better not be Monopoly money!" Mick stared at the note in his hand. He held the tenner up to the light, peering at the Queen's regal face.
"Nicked it from the royal treasury, didn't I?" Doyle dropped the very last pound coin into Mick's hand. "It's one hundred percent, never fear. And there's no profit in making coin, too labour intensive. Thanks for the art."
"Be gone with the lot of you," Mick said sourly.
Out on the street, Doyle pulled up his collar against the wet. It had been spitting all day, miserable, drizzling weather that pulled down his spirits even lower. Where was Bodie? Was he dead in a ditch? Or hurting somewhere, cold and damp?
"I want a fried egg butty," Mosby declared, pointing down the lane at a pub called World's End.
Doyle was in a foul enough mood to wonder if that could be the literal truth. If this was the end of the world, he wasn't about to go easily.
"You ain't got a sous, then you'll owe me, won't you, Doyle?" Daniels said sweetly. The twisted smile on his face proved that was exactly how he liked to keep the balance of power.
"Reckon I'll have to sing for my supper then." Doyle pushed on past Thomson, heading for the bright windows of the pub.
"You start warbling like Adam Ant, I'll break your scrawny neck." Thomson flipped a rude gesture at Doyle and punched his fists into his jacket pockets.
Two lagers and a plate of Hunter's Chicken later, Doyle sat back, warily studying his companions. He'd never quite figured out how the three of them got together and but he could now undeniably link Daniels, Janssen, and Bodie. Daniels was dangerous, a true sociopath who kept those around him under his thumb. He liked to completely dominate and control those around him, starting with Mosby, his lapdog.
Thomson was a harder nut to crack. Doyle hadn't discerned the reason Thomson was there except possibly as muscle. He had a serpent on his left arm, and worked as Daniels' right hand man, but there was more to it than mere loyalty. Mosby submitted because that was his nature, but Thomson's connection was something far darker and kinkier. He craved pure violence. Daniels had a few other followers, but only those he handpicked for his inner circle wore the red snake on one arm.
"Get our Raymond another one, Mosby," Daniels said. "Can't let him go wanting."
"No more for me, thanks." Doyle flattened his hand over his glass. The residual marijuana in the tattoo shop must have affected him more than he realized because he was drunker than usual was after only two beers.
"Can't refuse him," Thomson murmured, spreading his fingers flat on the table. The letters F-E-A-R tattooed above his left hand knuckles seemed overly visible.
Doyle was boxed into the booth with Daniels on one side and Thomson on the other. The only way out was to crawl under the table, and he wasn't about to turn tail and run.
"Scotch?" Mosby asked, popping up from where ever he had been. He held up a bottle and his round face looked even stupider than usual.
"This is a special occasion." Daniels drained the last of his Guinness. "A good malt whisky for all of us, to welcome our new colleague."
Doyle closed his eyes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He watched Bodie lift a small glass of Glenlivet to the light. His partner turned the glass and the tawny liquor glowed like a piece of Danish amber. Bodie took a sip, savoring the strong flavour and toasted their boss. Cowley raised his glass and downed the entire contents with a satisfied sigh.
"Got the call this morning, sir," Bodie continued. "Janssen has agreed to meet me. The intel was correct, he was at the Edwardian Hotel. Rang him up, used Cusack's name as an opening gambit and advanced across the board in no time at all. Ol' Cusack may be retired…"
Doyle chuckled. The gun dealer had sung that song every single time they'd ever gone to see him, but always had the exact weapon needed right on hand, nonetheless.
"Good, good." Cowley nodded, pouring more whisky for himself.
Finishing his own, Doyle knew better than to ask for more. It was Cowley's bottle, he controlled the portions, just as he controlled everything else at CI-5.
"When and where?" Cowley demanded.
"Murphy's already put in a request for a bug and the meeting is set up for the Swan Inn off Fulham Road in Chelsea on the 'morrow. Doyle'n and me've been there for a reconnoiter." Bodie smiled at his partner, "There's two ways in and out, a quiet street corner, but not secluded, and space for the van to park adjacent, close enough for Murph to get a good listen in."
"Do you have a more specific grasp of Janssen's agenda?" Cowley swung around to Doyle, the force of his attention like a physical weight.
"Yeah…" Doyle touched the tip of his tongue to the roof of his mouth, putting his facts in order. "Went round to some old snitches who gave me the names of Edward Daniels' mates. He'd a weird bloke, all right. Wants to get out of his own play yard and start hobnobbing with the big boys. Which is apparently why he met up with Janssen."
"He has connections to guns?" Bodie asked, licking his lips after finishing his drink. He knew better than to ask for seconds, too.
"No," Cowley said grimly. He smacked his palm on the desk, causing papers to flutter. "How could I have been so blind? Lord Burley."
"His father." Bodie sat up straighter. "Of course! Lord Burley is chairing a committee in Parliament on gun regulations in Britain."
"He's not exactly silent about it, either," Doyle agreed, leaning on hip on the étagère.
"The man's been all over the Times and BBC lately expounding on the American constitution," Cowley growled. "Life, liberty and…"
"The right to bear arms." Bodie crossed his arms with a slight frown. "By which, he does not mean a rifle for fox hunting. He wants the local constabulary to carry Uzis and Kalashnikovs."
"Good luck with that!" Doyle would have chuckled if it weren't for the fact that they were already half there. Gone were the days when he had walked a beat with nothing but a nightstick. Most local police didn't carry a gun, but all public buildings were now guarded by soldiers armed with semi-automatic weapons. The last time he'd been to the Victoria and Albert museum, he'd nearly been pat searched. "Mrs. Thatcher will never stand for that."
"Doesn't stop Lord Burley from shouting his opinion from the rooftops," Cowley said.
"He's arrogant and pompous, with just the right dash of eccentric aristocracy to lull most people into complacency," Bodie observed soberly. "He's on the telly often enough, the public will just chuckle over their morning cuppa and roll their eyes, then he'll find the right loophole, and huzzah-suddenly, the new law's gone through Parliament and Britain will forge ahead of the US in shooting deaths."
Cowley looked like he'd tasted something sour. "And, no doubt, if his Lordship expects to have any success in the changing precedent, then he will have already approached gun exporters, manufacturers and dealers to have facts and figures easily on hand, if requested."
"So, his son would have no difficulty ferreting out the names and places, even if he's never actually spoken to the sellers," Bodie said. "Which puts me in good stead. I just have to convince Janssen that this Daniels is a poseur without any stock on hand, and that I've got the goods."
"Yes, that should work." Cowley removed his glasses, peering through the lenses as if he needed to clean them. "The main question is how we reel Janssen in without coercion or entrapment?"
"Can be done, sir." Bodie gave a little Gallic shrug.
Pure hubris, Doyle thought. Bodie didn't want for self-esteem, that was for certain. Equally as certain, Doyle was jealous. He hated admitting that, but it was true. He yearned for the days when he and Bodie were out there, side by side, united against the enemy. Instead, he was sitting in the office, looking up intel that Betty could have done, probably far better.
"Doyle?" Cowley had apparently decided his lenses passed muster. He put them back on, reassuming the look of a wise old owl. "I take it you have reservations?"
"You're already more than aware of them, old man." Doyle shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. He didn't feel like getting into the whole disagreement again. It was like a Monty Python skit, anyway. He could argue until he was blue in the face, but Cowley wouldn't participate fully. His single 'no' was all there was to it.
"Sounds like our Raymond needs a little lie down," Bodie said with just a hint of teasing.
"Oh, shove off!" Doyle pointed one finger at his partner. "I don't need it from you, too!"
But Bodie's eyes said that he did, and Doyle felt that want, right there in Cowley's office.
Bodie flashed him a smile that held part triumph and a smidgen of sympathy. "It's just that now that Doyle is back on the squad, we're more….accustomed to working together. Isn't that right, Ray?"
"I will continue looking into Daniels' background," Doyle said sourly, wishing that they weren't in Cowley's office so that he could raise two stiff fingers under Bodie's nose. "Though many of his juvenile records are sealed, he's been a right bastard and gotten out of some situations purely on his father's name."
"That happens far too often." Cowley nodded. "Keep me informed, 3.7."
"Ah, to have aristocracy in the family-privilege and influence right at one's fingertips," Bodie drawled in a plumy voice. "Getting back to what you said earlier, what makes Daniels weird? In your considered opinion."
"Word is that he frequents places catering to kinky pleasures," Doyle explained, leaning against Bodie's chair. "And keeps a scrum of mates around him, never goes anywhere without them."
"How's that any different than any other bully boy?" Bodie tipped his head back to look up at him.
"To prove their loyalty, they all got tattooed." Doyle put out his right arm, laying it on the back of Bodie's chair, which aligned his forearm alongside Bodie's cheek. "With a large dragon or a serpent of some kind."
"Hmm." Cowley wrote that down on sheet attached to the picture of Daniels and Janssen. "You have this on good authority?" he asked as if not actually expecting an answer. Doyle nodded while Cowley peered at the photograph. "He has on a padded jacket, so any skin art is not visible."
"Makes it easy to identify a fellow in the morgue," Bodie said, his usual black humour on display. He turned his head slightly, accidentally or on purpose brushing against Doyle's bare wrist. "I prefer unblemished skin myself."
A lazy warmth rose up from Doyle's groin, spiraling around his spine. Quite inappropriate in the work place. He chuckled low and deep, and moved his arm away. Bodie echoed his laugh, his blue eyes flashing sparks.
"Few women have tattoos," Cowley said quite out of the blue. "But I do recall a bonny lassie called Mary MacDhougal who had the Loch Ness monster tattooed…" He broke off, looking flustered, and gathered the scattered reports he'd been reading back into the file. "If that's all, then we all know what is to be done. And you two can get to work."
"I'm quite interested in this Miss MacDhougal," Bodie said with all innocence, as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.
"3.7.," Cowley said archly, and Bodie straightened up like the good soldier that he had been. "4.5, I'd like a photo of that tattoo, if at all possible, and anything else you dig up on this Daniels. May not pay off for this case, but it could be important, none the less."
"All information is important," Doyle intoned with just the right amount of sarcasm. Bodie smirked and hauled him out of Cowley's office.
"What's got your knickers in a twist?" Bodie nudged Doyle with the point of his elbow. "No use stewing about it. Not the first time one of us has had to sit out an obbo…"
"And what usually happens?" Doyle growled, the little buzz of lust completely gone. "I can handle sitting on the sidelines, what I won't abide is you…" He shook his head violently, the fear rising up in his chest like a rampaging beast. Maybe it was his own recent brush with death or some morbid premonition, but he really didn't want Bodie meeting Janssen at the Swan.
"Doyle." Bodie grabbed his arm. Doyle swung around so fast he would have slugged Bodie but for the appearance of Murphy just out of the elevator. As it was, Doyle slammed his fist into the wall millimetres from his partner's ear. The shockwave reverberated up his arm, jamming his shoulder back.
"Bugger!" Doyle gasped, pain zipping through the scars on his chest and back as if they were telephone lines.
"Bodie!" Murphy propelling himself in between them, shoving Doyle away. "Why'd he…?"
"Didn't put a mark on this handsome face," Bodie said sardonically, eyeing Doyle. "Hurt yourself, did you?"
"Yeah." Doyle cradled his throbbing arm against his body, trying to breathe through the pain.
"Either aim better next time or count to ten before you explode." Bodie cocked an eyebrow at him, looking for all the world like he was about to laugh.
"What started this?" Murphy asked, obviously bewildered.
"He's troubled, poor laddie," Bodie said in a fair approximation of Cowley's brogue. "Needs exercise and some lubrication…"
"I'm not some wild horse about to kick down his stall," Doyle countered, able to see some of the humour in the situation. He probably looked the fool.
Bodie peered at a smudge on the wall. "I'll refrain from comment to avoid a repeat performance." He threw a companionable arm around Murphy's shoulder. "Have you obtained the bug, my good man?"
"Got it, and will install it tomorrow morning before you meet with Janssen." Murphy glanced at Doyle. "You coming to the pub with us?"
For a moment, Doyle was confused-or thought that Murphy was, until he realized the invitation was for right that moment and not the next morning. "Not thirsty," he muttered.
"Well, I am, and where I go, you go." Bodie reeled him in, giving him a stare that said plainly, stay with me.
"Then you're paying," Doyle said, joining them.
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Part two