Indelibly Marked part 2/8

[dawnebeth]

Indelibly Marked
By
Dawnwind

Part two of eight

Murphy left after two Newcastles, since he had to be up early to plant the bug, dressed in a scruffy uniform under the pretense that he was at the Swan to inspect some electrical circuit.

Doyle knew that he shouldn't, but he drowned his indignation in drink, consuming far too many in the course of the evening. He thought that Bodie was matching him, pint for pint, but Bodie managed to stay sober whilst he was beginning to wobble by eleven p.m.

"Let's toddle on home," Bodie said in his ear.

The din in the pub was atrocious, some Irish heavy metal band pounding out an atonal version of Stairway to Heaven on the drums and electric guitar. Doyle winced when the amplifier squealed. He squinted at his partner through the haze of cigarette smoke from the fellow on their left and thought he'd never seen him look better. Bodie radiated bonhomie, and yet still kept a certain dark edge, no matter how jovial or silly he acted. His years as a mercenary had honed his reaction times and his ability to read a man in an instant.

"I've been a nutter." Doyle stood, only wobbling a little bit. "You'll do fine with Janssen."

"You doubted that?" Bodie's left eyebrow tilted higher than usual.

"I doubted Janssen."

"You always have to see the glass half empty, don't you?"

"Not tonight." Doyle gave him a tight smile. "I drank 'em all down." The way to the front door was clogged with fans of the band all dancing wildly to the so-called music. Most of them obviously couldn't recognize a decent tune if they heard one.

"Impressive, taking on all those lagers and not giving up until they were all dead soldiers." Bodie elbowed past a couple of girls in punk attire; pink hair standing straight up like the coifs of psychedelic American Indians, safety pins through their ears and ripped stockings under mini skirts.

"Sod off, granddad." One of the girls raised two fingers in a stiff salute.

"Your majesty." Bodie bowed with one hand over his belly. "I didn't recognize you in that kit."

"Bodie!" Doyle dragged on his arm to get him through the throng of gyrating teens. How had they suddenly turned into the older generation? He remembered the Beatles and Rolling Stones with a sudden pang, and gratefully inhaled the foggy night air when they made it out of the pub. "It's all changed, hasn't it?"

"Not entirely." Bodie scooped his arm around Doyle's waist, pulling him close.

They were just outside the busy establishment, and it didn't seem like the safest place to linger, but Doyle couldn't quite manage a reason why they should move along. He wanted Bodie with such fierce desire. Wanted him naked, smooth and warm and alive against his skin, right now.

"Doyle?" Bodie whispered.

"Yeah." Doyle ducked his head, miserable, tired, and very drunk.

"Capri's around the corner, in the car park."

"You'll have to drive."

"I can, you know." Bodie laughed, keeping him on his feet as they meandered down the sidewalk. "Learned how when I was still in my school uni."

Doyle eyed him, skeptically. The fresh air was clearing out his head. "I'm not as drunk as you think I am. I could drive."

"You're mental." Bodie stopped in front of the car, his laughing face such a compelling sight that Doyle did kiss him right out in the open then. Just once, a quick, furtive thing, but satisfying.

"Save the rest for my flat," Bodie whispered, longing in his voice.

Doyle could feel the jut of Bodie's erection against his leg. He forced himself to take a step back and walk resolutely around the car to the passenger door with an odd feeling that this was the last time he might ever do so.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They made it inside the flat just, stripping their clothes off as they went. Doyle gasped when Bodie grabbed him and turned him against the wall. He struggled, pushing back but Bodie was having none of that. Roughly shoving Doyle into the wainscoting, Bodie clasped both his wrists to keep him there and yanked Doyle's trousers down past his thighs.

"You're mine tonight, eh?" Bodie whispered, panting, holding him with feral strength. He had never taken off his black leather driving gloves. Doyle could feel the soft, pliant leather against his skin. "It's my turn." Bodie insisted. "You need to be taken down a peg."

Doyle nodded, scraping his cheek against the uneven surface of the old-fashioned wall paper. He'd wanted to take the lead, but there would be time to switch around later.

"Yeah?" Bodie goaded him, using one knee to widen Doyle's stance. "You with me?"

"Fool," Doyle said, dry-mouthed, and squirmed just to feel Bodie's knee dig into his groin.

Bodie kissed Doyle at the nape of his neck, pushing the longish curls away to nuzzle him there and then run his tongue down Doyle's spine to his arse.

Doyle closed his eyes, submitting, feeling the irrational anger and jealousy melt under his partner's attentions. Sometimes, he needed it hard and fast; brutal. Bodie was the only one he'd ever abide such treatment from. If anyone else had done him like that, he'd have slugged them right in the face and then left. But with Bodie, the boundaries dropped away as if they never were.

His heart sped up when Bodie's tongue dipped into his hole. "N-not yet…" Doyle managed before Bodie growled low and deep in his throat.

"You're pushing your luck, my son," Bodie squashed him flat, smashing Doyle's erection up into his belly where it throbbed in time with his pulse. "You move and I'll bind your wrists with my tie."

Doyle barked a laugh, trying to kick back with his legs but his jeans were around his ankles, effectively hobbling him. Bodie drove one leather-gloved hand into the small of his back, not hard enough to stun, but a good deterrent to movement.

"You weren't wearing a tie today," Doyle said, picturing the black polo neck and black trousers Bodie had worn.

"I come prepared for any eventuality," Bodie crooned, just this side of nasty. "In case we went to tea at the Cow's club…" He reached down and extricated the tie from one jacket pocket. Humming a raunchy song, he quickly wound it around Doyle's wrists. Loosely enough that Doyle could easily have gotten free, if he'd wanted to.

He didn't.

"Boy scout," Doyle taunted over his shoulder, surrendering to the lust and drive that he'd needed so badly before. His whole body felt hot, on fire, as if Bodie's touch would cause sparks to fly. "What else've you got?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Bodie chuckled, soothing the bruise he'd made with a gentle caress to Doyle's derriere.

His hand came away and Doyle missed the contact. He could feel Bodie moving behind him and resisted the urge to peek. He'd been told to stay still. For once, he followed orders, too tired of fighting every command he had ever been given. A drawer opened and closed, and the sound of some sort of tube being mashed.

Bodie thrust a lubricated finger into Doyle's anus up to the knuckle in one smooth move. Doyle sucked in air, feeling like he'd been skewered on a spit. It didn't hurt-he was far too used to anal penetration, but the sudden assault left him wanting the real thing.

"Been a long time," Bodie commented, removing his leather-gloved finger. He cupped Doyle's butt cheeks, spreading them gently. "You really are such a tempting little git…" Bodie centred himself on his target and shoved.

Feeling the blunt, insistent push of Bodie's cock, Doyle relaxed, accepting the intruder with ease. As always, once Bodie had sheathed himself fully, Doyle was sure he could feel that long shaft up into his chest. His interior muscles twitched and burned, but it was more than good, it was incredible.

"This what you want, Raymond?" Bodie panted, thrusting deeper with each word.

"Yeah," Doyle admitted, his mouth dry, his body aching with desire.

Doyle slammed into the molded paneling on the wall hard enough to leave bruises on his hipbones. He closed his eyes, unresisting, taking Bodie in with a welcome heart. He tried to heave backward, maybe loosen the bonds on his wrists so that he could fist his own cock into completion. Bodie gave him a little shake, biting him on the back of the neck like a tomcat just as he came with a roar.

"You remember this, damn, you!" Doyle shouted, finally freeing his arms to reach back and hold Bodie in place. "You remember this tomorrow, and you'd better return afterwards."

"How could I forget?" Bodie wrapped both arms around Doyle, still trapped inside him.

They didn't move for a long time.

"You never came," Bodie said softly, disengaging himself.

Doyle groaned, from his body releasing Bodie or his own aching balls, he wasn't sure. "No," he said tiredly, turning so that they both could see his hard erection. He'd go off like a rocket if he touched himself now. "Wanted your mouth. Nothin' else."

"All you had to do was ask." Bodie smiled sweetly. He looked debauched; wearing black driving gloves and nothing else. With his hair all tousled and sweaty, he could have been the centrefold model in a woman's magazine.

Kneeling, Bodie bowed his head submissively, waiting until Doyle angled himself into Bodie's open mouth.

Heat, warm and wet as the tropics, enveloped Doyle. He dropped his head back against the wall, barely supporting his own weight. He and Bodie were joined, a single unit, each giving the other strength.

Bodie took his time, pampering and teasing Doyle's cock at the same time. He swirled his tongue, spiraling around the length until Doyle was sure he would explode. He was surprised he hadn't climaxed the moment Bodie closed his talented lips over the crown, but he was enjoying the sublime treatment so completely that it was a pleasure to hold off. His thighs trembled and he kept trying to catch his breath, but it was no use. Doyle's scrotum tightened, his cock swelling even bigger in the confines of Bodie's mouth.

Closing his eyes, Doyle orgasmed, emptying himself into his lover. Bodie made a strangled noise and pulled off with a crooked grin.

Doyle wanted to preserve that memory of him forever, tattoo it on his brain like a talisman.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning was hectic, starting with a mild argument over priorities before Doyle had even poured milk over his Weetabix. He stared at Bodie standing at the cooker with a spatula in his hand and bit the inside of his cheek. What the bloody hell were they fighting about?

"It's not…" Doyle started, considering how to explain his position. "Murph's there for you, but I…"

"Green eyed monster, you are," Bodie said with arch impatience, poking at his fried egg.

"It's not jealousy!" Doyle exploded, pushing his dish away so violently that the Weetabix scattered across the counter. "You're walking into a trap, you know that, don't you?"

"Doyle, it's just another job." Bodie rescued his egg from the pan before it burned to a crisp and placed it squarely on a crumpet, adding slice of tomato for a breakfast sandwich. He took a large bite, dripping tomato juice down his naked chest. "To scope out this bloke. Nothing out of the ordinary. You're imagining things that aren't real, Mr. Carroll."

"Think I'm falling down a rabbit hole, do you?" Doyle shoved both feet into his trainers and did up the laces fast, seething, although he didn't know why. He just ached inside. Anger, fear and yes-a small portion of jealousy were all mixed up together. "Just be careful not to imbibe anything labeled 'drink me' at the Swan."

"Go for a run, it'll do you good," Bodie said, finishing his breakfast. "Blow the bats out of your belfry."

"Sod off," Doyle said loudly. "Just don't leave before I come back."

"I won't," Bodie called over his shoulder, going into the bathroom.

But he did.

Doyle found the note when he returned, feeling oddly rested for having run ten kilometres. An envelope that Bodie must have fished out of the rubbish bin was stuck to the wall above the telephone with cello tape. All it said was, 'Cowley called me in early for a briefing. Be back here at 4.00.'

Doyle crumpled up the envelope and pitched it across the floor where it rolled under the telly. Damn fool. He had a mind to go over to The Swan and stroll in, order a perry, just to keep an eye on Bodie.

But he knew he wouldn't.

Couldn't, really. It would jeopardize Bodie on a mission, and undermine their trust in one another. Not to mention that Cowley would have his guts for garters. He had to sit this one out with dignity. His job was to suss out this Daniels, and that was what he was going to do. He didn't have to tell The Cow that he was going out in the field instead of sitting behind a desk and reading old arrest warrants.

Tidying up the kitchen took longer than usual, what with Weetabix all over the counter, and a few on the floor that Doyle naturally stepped on. He took out a bit of his anger on the skillet, scouring away all signs of Bodie's cholesterol laden brekker. Only then did he allow himself to shower, standing under the spray with a heavy heart. Jeans and a t-shirt were the uniform of the day. His usual, but also exactly what was needed to lull Daniels and his lot into thinking that Doyle was just some ordinary bloke, out of work and on the dole, looking for something livelier.

Doyle stood naked in front of the mirror and examined himself critically. Except for the bruises and marks Bodie had left on his body, he looked fit enough for the squad. He'd lost some muscle and tone during his convalescence but lots of exercise and training with that sadist Macklin had improved things all round. He felt like he was in top shape. But apparently not enough to satisfy the review board, damn them.

He pressed his fingers against the edge of the scar that curved along his left flank to the back, like the tail of a cat wrapped around his ribs. It didn't hurt any longer, but it retained the afterimage of pain. He still wanted to flinch away from contact anywhere along the path of the surgeon's scalpel, even when Bodie touched him there. It wasn't just the memory of pain that held him fast, more the idea that someone could be that destructive, that vindictive, and just leave him to die.

He'd been shot before. Been beaten up, knifed and blown up, but this last injury had left more of an indelible impression, and not because he had such very visible scars. He hated feeling so damned vulnerable. The memory of lying there, unable to move, drowning in his own blood, swamped him at the worst times. He had to let go of the fear or he really would be worthless on the A-squad.

With a growl, Doyle yanked on his yellow shirt and stuffed both legs into his jeans. He hadn't even noticed until he had the beaded cowboy belt buckled that he'd selected Bodie's favourite jeans, the ones with the patch just over his arse. Bodie always walked slightly behind him when he was wearing these. Had said that he couldn't take his eyes off the darker blue denim plastered on Doyle's backside.

Picking up his razor, Doyle reconsidered shaving. Cowley liked his men smooth-cheeked and well groomed, but the shaggier look was better for an undercover op. Doyle grinned fiendishly at his reflection, scratching at his scruffy chin. Sod shaving. He shook his mop of hair, releasing a flurry of water droplets, and left without running a comb through the thicket.

Grabbing his jacket, Doyle picked up his R/T, trying to decide whether to take it along, or not. Regulations said have it on him at all times, so he could be contacted. Regulations were meant to be broken. After all, he hadn't shaved-and he wasn't telling anyone where he was going so Cowley wouldn't get up his nose about the unauthorized reconnoiter.

"4.5?" the R/T squawked, Bodie hailing him.

"Well! Decided to stay in touch after all?" Doyle snarked, thumbing the talk button on his way out of his flat.

"Listen, I had no choice!" Bodie said fast. "Cowley was in a lather this morning. If we want to convince Janssen I'm the real deal, then we need a load of guns. Enough to look like I've got merchandise to sell, or he'll go with this Daniels lad."

Doyle stopped cold, his heart rate speeding up. "You weren't doing that this morning, were you?"

"No."

Doyle heard the low drone of the car engine across the radio waves. Bodie was obviously driving. Probably on his way to the meet. Always wise to get there before the appointed hour to scope out the place and be on the alert for sneak attack.

"But Father wants me to be ready in case Janssen insists on visiting the guns straight away," Bodie added. "We checked a few AK-47s, some Kalashnikovs and some small armaments out of lock-up, and appointed McCabe in charge of setting up an out of the way warehouse as a clearing house. Got plans this morning, Sunshine?"

"No more than usual," Doyle answered, not quite sure why he didn't own up about his plan to infiltrate Daniels' territory. "Still checking out the riff-raff."

"Going to be out of range soon," Bodie said. "I'll see you this afternoon, then?"

There was a long pause, but Doyle knew Bodie hadn't clicked off yet. He thought about telling his partner to be careful, or something daft like that. Kept rejecting various versions of the same idiotic warnings when Bodie spoke again.

"Doyle, what are you wearing?"

Cross all over again, but amused just the same, Doyle said, "Lost your chance to find out, didn't you?"

"Aw, don't be like that," Bodie wheedled. "Jeans, then?"

"Could be." Doyle hauled up the garage door and stood looking at his motorbike.

"Yellow t-shirt, and that leather jacket with the stripes, innit it?"

How did he know so precisely? Smiling in spite of himself, Doyle shook his head and dug into the cycle panniers for leather riding chaps to put on over his jeans. "You may have psychic powers, my lad, but you're still at the Swan, and I am driving out right now, so you lose."

Bodie gave a dirty little chuckle. "See you this afternoon, sunshine."

"Is that a promise?" Doyle asked before clicking off. He wheeled his motorbike out and swung one leg over the seat. Switching the throttle on, he roared down Lillian Court to Fitzroy Street.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Daniels and his cohorts hung out in a pub called The Highwaymen, which was so apropos that Doyle had to loiter in the lane for a moment to prevent amused smirking while entering. The interior was dark and smoky, with a vague scent of weed under the overpowering aroma of heavy Gallic cigarettes and those vile Turkish smokes. Doyle wrinkled his nose, glad of the distraction because it put him in a foul mood. Despite the fact that it was only just past opening time, the place was full of men.

He sauntered up to the bar. "Brown ale," he grunted.

The barman, a thick necked lout with a grizzly chin and no hair at all on the top of his knobby head, nodded. He pulled down a handle marked Newcastle, pouring foamy brown ale into a glass and slid it over to Doyle.

Sipping his beer, Doyle slouched against the bar, casually scanning the crowd. Sure enough, he spotted Daniels at a table on the left, sitting with three other men. S. Mosby and E. Thomson, he recited silently, but he didn't know which was which because there'd been no photographs of the lads in CI-5's files. The third one was a mystery. Daniels had a few more associates, but those were the most current names available.

One of the three was a fair haired boy with a bent nose and a shiner who didn't look older than 18. He stood warily, arguing with Daniels.

Doyle took a drink, and carried his glass around the bar until he was within earshot of Daniels' group. He picked at a bowl of pretzels as if that had been his destination all along. He'd never been much fond of pretzels. They were far too salty. He gulped his beer after eating only two, watching the drama over the rim of his glass.

"I can't!" the boy said desperately. "Me mum…"

"Still sucking from your mummy's titty!" A round faced git with crooked teeth giggled.

"Shut up, Mosby," Daniels snapped. "Our Rod has a decision to make, doesn't he?" He looked around the table, staring down each one of them. The blond boy, Rod, blanched and fidgeted. Mosby sucked up more beer, barely meeting Daniels' eye, and a third man with long straight brown hair raised his chin, looking back at Daniels in defiance.

At the last moment, he backed down, obviously accepting his place in the pecking order. "Either you get it…" The man pointed a finger at Rod. He had letters tattooed over each knuckle, but Doyle couldn't read what they said.

At least he knew which were Mosby and Thomson now. The third one might be Rodney Lebeouff, if he remembered the names correctly.

"Or you're out." Daniels shrugged as if it made no difference to him. "I can't abide a fence sitter, Roddy-love. You want in on the money and the birds, you have to pay the piper, first." His voice was light, airy, but there was an aura of malevolence to him that made even Doyle uncomfortable.

Pretending to accidentally spill the pretzels on the floor, Doyle used the manoeuvre to look more closely at the group. He knelt to pick up the bowl.

Daniels smiled lewdly and leered at Rod. "You're pretty enough for once or twice, Rod, but I have me standards."

Rod blushed, putting a hand on his black eye. "I have to go, we're up to Oxford this weekend, to…"

"Want me to provide a little more persuasion?" the brunet asked pleasantly, his oddly pale eyes opaque in the dim light.

"Best let him go then, Thomson." Daniels shook his head.

Rod sagged, relief written all over his face.

"But, mark my words," Daniels said so softly that Doyle nearly missed the threat, "I hear you've been flapping your gob about, you'll wish you'd paid."

"Honest, Eddy, I'd never!" Rod stammered, backing away. "I'll be gone, at any rate. Off to school. I…"

"Get stuffed," Thomson said mildly and Rod fled, the door to the pub slamming behind him.

"Another one?" the barman asked Doyle, drawing his attention back to his drink.

"Yeah." Ray handed over the pretzel bowl. "Fell on the floor."

"Hell of a thing," the barman said with a raised eyebrow. "Jumped off the bar, did it?"
He poured another glass of beer and inclined his head over at the table where Daniels was now conferring softly with Mosby and Thomson. "I'd steer clear of that lot, if I were you."

"Bad seeds?" Doyle asked, enjoying the deep, rich taste of the beer this time. He'd drunk the last one too fast.

"Waste of a table." The barman shrugged, and abruptly turned his back to fetch a new bowl of snacks.

Doyle turned just in time to see Thomson coming toward him. He was about Bodie's size, maybe slightly taller, with a powerful chest and looked like he used his height to intimidate.

"Bern!" Thomson yelled, smacking the bar rail. "More all around!" He glanced sideways at Doyle, sneering. "You're new."

Bracing his elbows on the bar behind him, Doyle met his eyes nonchalantly. "You know everyone who comes in here?"

"I make it my business to."

"It's my business to go where I like, then, unless you have a job for me, mate," Doyle said, raising his glass. Taking another sip of his beer, he saw Daniels appraising him as if Doyle was a high-priced bauble at Sotheby's, and he was about to put in a bid. The look in the man's cold eyes sent a shiver down Doyle's spine, but he didn't let it show.

"Haven't you heard?" Thomson jeered. "The old lady PM ain't got jobs for us working sods."

"The rich get rich and the poor get poorer," Doyle agreed. "But I haven't exactly had my name on a legitimate payroll in years. Not where I put in my hand. Worked as an independent artist, if you get my meaning."

"Sorry, old son." Thomson showed the first glimmer of a sense of humour. He screwed a finger in his ear. "Can't hear you."

Doyle saw the letter F tattooed at the base of his left index finger. E, A and R were inscribed on the other three fingers. Fear.

Lovely.

Thomson collected three drinks, carrying them over to Daniels. Placing them on the table, he traded glances with Daniels and then looked back at Doyle. "Maybe my hearing will improve if you're back another day. Never know."

He had an in. Doyle kept his satisfaction to himself. "Never know," he repeated and raised his glass in a toast. Daniels watched with hooded eyes, but Mosby giggled and held up his new glass in response.

He finished his beer facing the bar, only catching glimpses of Daniels' group in a fancy mirror on the wall that advertised Martini and Rossi. The letters partially obscured his view, and he really learned nothing else new. After a respectable ten minutes, he sauntered out, slowly, very aware that Daniels watched his arse the whole way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Doyle spent the afternoon in the research centre of CI-5, learning all he could on Edward Daniels' father Phillip James Daniels, the Second, also known as the current Lord Burley. In his photographs, Lord Burley had a long slender face, graying dark hair, and was always dressed impeccably. He was the son of the late Exchequer Lord Burley who had run Britain's economic and finance ministry the year a baby Raymond Doyle was born. The Daniels clan had oodles of money, the bulk of it inherited, and several residences, both in England and on the continent. The main house was Burley, the family estate in Cuddesdon, Oxfordshire county. There was also a flat in Kensington, plus a small country home in the Lake Country, and villas on the Mediterranean in both France and Italy.

Doyle whistled soundlessly between his teeth, making a few notations on a pad.

A very well connected family, indeed, although it didn’t appear that young Edward was his father's fair-haired boy. Tatler Magazine's annual Little Black book which compiled a list of the most eligible aristocrats, heirs and nearly royals under thirty, counted Phillip James Daniels, the Third, a dour faced bloke who didn't have any of his younger brother's dark magnetism, as a rising star. He was the one all the Sloan Street rangers were vying for. At twenty-five, he was a graduate of Oxford, although the text didn't specify which college, and was destined to follow his father and grandfather into politics. Tatler neglected to say anything on the younger male Daniels, Edward. There was also a sister called Lavender, already married to a junior solicitor. Apparently mum had succumbed to cancer some years before.

Doyle had gleaned far more about Edward from his snitches. However, Lord Burley wasn't just an advocate for arming British households with semi-automatics and the odd hand grenade in case of attack from un-named undesirables. His Tory leanings had garnered him much political clout from the conservative older generations. He was apparently very close to cutting Edward off from the family because Edward's criminal activities didn't jibe with his father's respectable public face. Who knew if young Eddy had learned his deviant ways at his father's knee, but Doyle suspected that Italian rape charges and meeting with gun runners were just the tip of Edward's iceberg. He'd learned to go with his gut instinct back when he was patrolling the streets in a Panda. After seeing Daniels in the pub, his gut had punched him hard with a single word: psychopath.

Which made things very dicey indeed. Doyle didn't consider himself any sort of expert on people with psychological disorders, and he'd certainly dealt with some nasty, dangerous criminals in his time. But a man who was possibly a sadist, without a single drop of moral or ethical conscience, was another thing entirely. He wasn't sure he even wanted to get near Daniels again, much less go after him. If he had to continue to pursue this angle, he certainly would not step aside because of his own squeamishness. Especially since the whole reason he'd been sidelined on this oppo was that Macklin and Cowley considered him too weak to take on the task.

About to doze off over his micro-film reader, Doyle rewound the last spool and deposited it in the return bin. He needed a bracing cup of tea and some food. To his surprise, it was half past four. He'd been tucked up in research for three hours, ever since he returned from the Highwayman pub. Surely Bodie must have got back from meeting with Janssen by now.

The break room was deserted, although the electric kettle was still hot, and Doyle made himself a cup of tea with lots of milk. Some kind person, probably Lily, one of the junior clerks, had left out a box of plain digestives. Taking one, Doyle hitched one hip up on the edge of the table and had his afternoon tea in comfortable silence. He was eager to hear what Bodie had learned, and what the next step in the case was against Janssen. Since the arms dealer had never seen him, maybe Doyle would be able to join his partner when he brought Janssen to check out the weapons at the warehouse.

With renewed spirit, Doyle rinsed out his cup, ready to go find Bodie. He stepped out the door and nearly collided with Murphy, who jumped back in alarm, his face pale.

"Hell, Murph!" Doyle cried, holding out a warning hand. "Watch where you're going. Second time this week we've nearly collided."

"I came looking for you, didn't I?" Murphy said irritably. He shoved his fringe on his forehead, glancing around. "Have you heard from Bodie?"

An icy chill went down Doyle's spine. "What's happened?" he demanded, ready to slam Murphy up against a wall and interrogate him on every second that had passed since Doyle spoke with Bodie that morning.

Murphy took a deep breath which did nothing to decrease Doyle's foreboding. Murphy wouldn't be reluctant to speak if Bodie was sharing a wee dram with Cowley in the old man's office.

"What?"

"He met Janssen at the Swan, just as expected," Murphy started, speaking too fast as if he wanted to get the whole explanation over with as quickly as possible. "And they talked for a short time, but then Janssen wanted to see the guns immediately. I mean, McCabe'd only just got them stowed away in a warehouse in East Croyden…"

"Murphy," Doyle ground out through clenched teeth. "What the bloody hell went on?"

"We lost them." Murphy sagged against the same wall Doyle had wanted to throw him against only moments before. "Him and Bodie got into a nice Jaguar-black, latest model, very posh. But that meant we lost audio from the transmitter which was under the table at the pub. I didn't worry-had Anson parked over one street ready to tail him-but we thought he'd only be following Janssen, not the both of them."

"Did they make it to the warehouse?" Doyle asked, sure he knew the answer. Bodie had been snatched. His cover was blown to hell. He was possibly dead already, pitched off the side of some lonely road on the way to East Croyden.

"No." Murphy didn't pretty up his reply.

The single word hovered between them, stark and alone-like Bodie, Doyle thought, and wondered if he'd gone a bit bonkers in the last few moments. This was the embodiment of all his fears-that he'd recover his own health just in time to lose Bodie. He could still feel where Bodie had bitten him on the back of the neck. Doyle rubbed his right shoulder, lingering on the raw bite, welcoming the blossom of pain when he pressed down on the wound.

He was not about to accept that Bodie was gone. Not yet. Not ever. Doyle closed his eyes, picturing the scene at the Swan; could see Bodie so clearly, as if he'd been right beside his partner the entire time.

Janssen must have pushed to go inspect the guns immediately. Bodie would have stalled, using all his charm to propose a later meet when the Squad could arrange for more agents to be eyes and ears. Obviously, Janssen had threatened to pull out-maybe become angry and insistent before Bodie agreed, and they'd both walked over to the car park to the Jaguar Murphy so admired. Then they'd driven away, only to be lost in the snarl of London city traffic.

Part three