Indelibly Marked part 7/8

[dawnebeth]

Indelibly Marked
By
Dawnwind

Part seven of eight

Sweet, blessed oxygen flooded his lungs, and he couldn't hold back a single sob of relief.
He lay quietly, sucking in air, grateful that Daniels had rolled away and was dozing on the bed next to him.

With all four limbs locked to the bed, there was nothing else Doyle could do. Once he could breathe more easily, he looked around the room, trying to ascertain his location. It was decorated in a rustic style, but beautifully appointed. The old fashioned furniture was all matching dark wood and there were fox hunting paintings on the wall. Unless he missed his guess, they weren't fakes, either- a genuine Heywood Hardy and two Lionel Edwards.

The bed he was lying on was immense, swaged with dark red brocade curtains, and what seemed like acres of Egyptian cotton linens. This was the lodge of a wealthy huntsman, that was for certain.

He recalled Cowley mentioning that Lord Burley was going hunting this weekend.

Another home owned by the Daniels family? But where? Certainly not Burley house, because the quiet was absolute-no sounds of workmen or lorries. Of course-Doyle craned his neck over to the closest window-it was dark out. Still night-time, then. There wouldn't be any labourers after midnight. Good to know he hadn't been unconscious for very long. Just enough time to transport him wherever he was. There wasn't much residual grogginess, either, and although his head still ached, no awful headache like after chloral hydrate or something of that ilk.

The immediate question was, where had Thomson and Mosby gone? Doyle was alone with Daniels, and from the movement on his left, Daniels was awake. Doyle regarded him warily.

"You coming around, sunshine?" he asked as cheerfully as possible, under the circumstances. "No stamina, have you? Here I am ready for another go and you're passed out cold."

Daniels stretched and sat cross-legged on the bed, a lazy smile on his face. He swept a swath of dark hair back into place, completely at ease. "Hold your horses, little Ray, there's more where that came from. You do have a pretty mouth to match that fabulous ass, and I aim to fill up every cavity." He picked up his soft cock and stroked the length, urging it to swell.

The thought of having Daniels' cock in his mouth was revolting, but Doyle kept a straight face. "I'm better with me hands free," he said, returning the smile.

"No doubt." Daniels dabbled his fingers down Doyle's naked chest, lingering on the long scar around his left flank. "But I like to have my prey restrained, caught in my trap, if you will. I've never done one with such…"

He dug his nails into the scarred flesh, causing sharp zigzags of pain through Doyle's torso, tightening his breathing.

"Scars," Daniels continued, "are incredibly arousing."

Doyle grit his teeth, gasping with the flares of pain. "Not for me."

"Which is why it's so absolutely perfect, innit?" Daniels leaned down to lick the length of the pink, puckered skin.

Doyle shivered in spite of his intensions, gooseflesh pebbling his arms and legs. He focused on the biggest cobra decorating Daniels' belly, watching its gold head flicker as Daniels breathed.

"Makes you squirm, gives that little…" Swinging one leg over Doyle's body, Daniels crouched over him. With a triumphant smile, he combined twisting Doyle's nipple with another dig into the most sensitive place on the scar. "Frisson of pain to sweeten the sex." He laughed, low and nasty, rubbing his palm across both nipples, causing them to peak. "Which brings up some interesting developments." He stared pointedly at Doyle's cock, once again at half mast from the nipple stimulation.

"How about a bit of give and take?" Doyle challenged, swallowing tightly, angry at his bodily response. Traitorous cock. In such a undignified position, the last thing he needed was a boner. "Some answers for my questions."

"How about I shut your mouth with this?" Daniels sneered, holding his now fully erect cock against Doyle's bottom lip. "I run the show, git. I have the answers, and I dole them out when it's the bleeding right time." He took Doyle's jaw in one hand, using his fingers to cruelly force Doyle's mouth open.

Doyle clenched his teeth, resisting. He shouldn't, he knew that-it would just cause extra pain, but he truly couldn't submit one more time. "Sss'd off," he hissed.

Daniels managed to prize Doyle's mouth open just enough to push his penis into the gap.

Ready to bite down if Daniels gained another millimetre, Doyle heard the voices first. There was some kind of ruckus outside the bedroom door.

Intent on his goal, Daniels seemed oblivious to the noise. He dug his nails into the fleshy area under Doyle's chin and rocked his hips forward at the same time the door burst open and people spilled into the room.

"Edward!" Lord Burley bellowed. "Stop this instant!"

"We couldn't keep 'im out," Mosby whined.

Eye to eye with the leering cobra, Doyle sunk his teeth into the shaft wedging his mouth open.

Daniels screamed and back-handed him.

His head swimming, Doyle went slack, tasting blood. His or Daniels, he wasn't sure. There was quite a lot of shouting, but he couldn't follow the whole conversation until his brain stopped spinning. The mattress dipped and shifted, increasing his wooziness, when Daniels climbed off. Doyle took an unencumbered breath, various aches and pains chorusing. He hurt-especially his jaw and the brand new tattoo.

Several people were speaking at once. Doyle tried sorting out the voices but they were all talking over each other. He was a trained agent, he was supposed to collect evidence and observe the criminal element.

Thomson was yelling something about, "your fault!"

"I'm bleeding!" Daniels cried out. "Damn you, father and your…"

His blood then.. Doyle spat sideways onto the sheets, the movement increasing the strain on his bound wrists. His ears were ringing but he was getting more of the gist of the shouting.

"…compromised our scheme with your deviant ways," his father announced.

"Fucking ass, you'll pay for this, little Ray," Daniels hissed in Doyle's ear. "Nobody nips at my…"

"Put some clothes on and cover those damned snakes! I've tolerated this…" Lord Burley seemed a loss for words. "These appalling appetites for long enough."

"When they got you what you wanted, eh, Father?" Daniels said gutturally. "As long as I was shaming your political opponents and blackmailing the competition, you were keen to keep the status quo. But when your precious plan to oust the PM is in danger, suddenly I'm a liability. Well, it damned well doesn't work both ways."

"Edward, we have work to do. Serious, important work that requires a clear head," his father said sternly. "Untie this man and put him in with the other one. We may not have much time left if Cowley and his horde descend on our location."

The other one…

His pulse accelerating with excitement, Doyle slitted open his eyes to survey the scene. Eddy had pulled on a purple satin dressing gown and was moodily watching his father while smoking a cigarette.

"We are at the apex of our operation," Lord Burley said, emphasizing his point by holding up a German made pistol.

A Walther PPK, Doyle identified despite his wooziness, and wondered what exactly his Lordship planned to hunt with a semi-automatic handgun.

"What I have worked to achieve for so long is right at my fingertips and I will not have you mucking up everything with your… disgusting depravities," the old man continued.

Thomson and Mosby were standing well out of the way of his Lordship's pistol.

"Ned," Burley said to Thomson. "Free that man and get him downstairs. We still have contingency plans to discuss."

"Not interested in having a go with our Raymond, Father?" Daniels sneered, signalling Thomson not to move.

"You're reprehensible," the older man said, obviously appalled. He secured the pistol in a shoulder holster worn under his gray worsted suit.

"What are you worried about?" Daniels toyed with the leather cuff around Doyle's right wrist, flicking the end of the strap.

Coughing, Doyle turned his head to avoid breathing in the smoke from his captor's cigarette. Ash fell onto the pristine white sheets very close to his cheek.

"The entire plan has gone brilliantly so far, and I've done my part. I expect my pay, in advance," Daniels said.

"You never believed in this cause, son, which makes you weak." Burley narrowed his eyes. "It's all a big game to you, the excesses of youth. You make me regret that we share the same bloodline."

"Why? Because I've followed in your footsteps?" Daniels taunted with a bitter chuckle. "You just confine yourself to the innocent schoolgirls in Soho whilst I prefer blokes. It's still fucking, Father. Now you want to do the same to Margaret bloody Thatcher, and expect me to care when you turn the whole island into an armed fortress."

"You have lost a place in my cabinet," Burley snapped.

"That's the plan, then?" Doyle spoke up. "I was just askin' your son for more specifics, but you appear to be in charge, Lord Burley…"

"You will remain silent!" The old man went for his holstered weapon, but stopped before pulling it free. He eyed the younger generation with barely hidden loathing.

Thomson growled, advancing on the bed. He stopped at a look from Daniels but crossed his arms, the red and black serpent wrapped around his left arm like a malevolent spirit. Mosby hovered equidistant between he and Daniels, a satellite caught between two planets.

Burley adjusted his jacket to hide the holster once more, his back ramrod straight. He peered down his nose at Doyle. "You're nothing but a tool, to lure Cowley out of his lair. Once I've…"

"Not going to work." Doyle glanced around the room. Loonies, the lot of them. Dangerous loonies, but certifiable, all the same. His chances of escaping were plummeting, and he still hadn't found Bodie. "Cowley's smarter'n you. He's already got you in his sights."

Daniels raised a lazy eyebrow, and crushed his cigarette out into an overflowing ashtray. "Ah, ha, pater-mine, what do you say to that? Competition?"

"I've spoken to the old fool." Burley shook his head, snidely superior. "Too fond of his whisky and the old boys club. He pretended interest in my case, but it was only to garner favour. I am acquainted with his sort. Past his prime, clinging to the vestiges of a military career, but unable to succeed because of his handicap." He shook his finger, secure in his ultra-conservative beliefs. "Thinks he holds power because of his bunch of boy scouts, this CI-5. Controlling the vast majority of the weapons on the misapprehension that his lads are the only ones allowed fire power!" He harrumphed, smacking the end of the bed hard enough to jolt Doyle's spread and bound ankles. "This has to end."

"Arm the countryside, and we can oust the labour party members and ignorant immigrants, eh?" Daniels chuffed a laugh. He tightened the sash of his dressing gown around his waist. "If you'll get out, Fa-ther, I was in the middle of…interrogating this CI-5 operative. May have to administer a little…corporeal discipline to show him the error of his ways."

Doyle kept very still, bile rising in his throat. It was one thing to suspect that Daniels had blown his cover, and quite another thing to find out he'd probably known all along. "Your methods are pathetic, Eddy-boy," he said recklessly, not surprised when Thomson slammed a fist into his right side. He choked, pain flaring through his belly, unable to react before a second and third blow landed on his unprotected abdomen.

"Edward! Release this man, I say!" Burley stabbed a tapered finger at the leather cuffs. "No more of this vile torture. You hurt the last boy too badly. The Geneva convention has rules for holding prisoners of war. Exactly why we installed the quarters below. You, Summerset, release this man!"

"I-I can't, s-sir," Mosby replied, without his usual giggles. "Eddy's got the key for the cuffs, doesn't he?"

Summerset? Doyle moaned, hanging onto consciousness by a thread. The name whirled around in his brain. At last, something to take back to CI-5 research that they didn't already know. Official files listed no first name for Mosby, just the initials S. E.

"We will defend our castle against the miscreants!" His Lordship ranted. "Once Cowley's band of merry men show up, he'll get a taste of my mettle! I must prepare. The three of you will join me in the war room," Burley added, going for the door. "That is not a request." He strode out, slamming the heavy oak door.

Doyle's vision was on the fuzzy side, but that wasn't a major deterrent. He glared at the three men surrounding his bed and didn't like the odds one bit. He could have taken them on if he'd even had one limb free-there were all sorts of karate and judo moves he could utilize that only required a single kick or chop.

If wishes were horses….

"He's all primed now," Daniels sighed. He ran one hand down Doyle's belly, lingering on the long scar curving around his left flank. "This one can take much more than the last one could. Should be fun."

Doyle's skin crawled at the touch, his stomach roiling with nausea. He worked up a wad of spittle in his mouth.

"So very pretty, especially surrounded by the new bruises. You do such good work, Ned," Daniels murmured.

"Only for you, Eddy," Thomson whispered, slipping one hand into the pocket of the purple satin robe. "My gift to you. But your father is right, now's not the time."

At least one of them had a lick of sense.

"He bit me," Daniels said, sounding all the more creepy for his soft, almost delighted tone.

"Later, Eddy, later, when we have hours to play with him." Thomson fetched the key out of Daniels' robe pocket and dropped it onto Doyle's bare chest.

Daniels looked sulky and aroused again, sucking on his bottom lip. "Make a lovely dangle for a nipple piercing, wouldn't it?" He pinched down on Doyle's right nipple, twisting the nub tightly.

"Always did like to play with needles." Thomson grinned wickedly. "I have the supplies downstairs."

Panting, Doyle only just managed to keep from crying out when Daniels rotated the other nipple in the opposite direction. "Keep it up, Eddy," he got out, baring his teeth. "I want to charge you with everything in the book from aggravated injury to one of Her Majesty's civil servants to illegal weapons trafficking…"

"That's why I keep my solicitors on retainer." Daniels released his grip and Doyle gasped as sensation came flooding back to his abused chest.

"Eddy," Thomson said very slowly. "We need to take him to the basement until later."

"Later…" Mosby echoed, reaching out to touch Daniels' sleeve. "After your father goes to sleep?"

"Sensible as always, aren't you, Ned?" Daniels turned away from his prisoner, to Doyle's relief. Ignoring Mosby's entreaty, he caught Thomson around the waist and pulled him in close. Thomson put both hands on Daniels' cheeks, kissing him forcefully. "It's always better after you have your…way with them, anyway, Ned," Daniels whispered, pulling Thomson's shirt out of his waistband to caress his lower back. "Release him, Mose, and lock him downstairs."

Blinking to focus, Doyle caught the flash of irritation on Mosby's usually jovial face. He'd seen Thomson give him the same jealous glance earlier in the night. Definitely something to remember.

Mosby plucked up the key from off Doyle's chest, holding it clenched in one hand, watching the other two kiss. After a long minute, he inserted the key into the padlock on the leather cuff on Doyle's wrist.

His fingers were almost completely numb. Doyle let his hand drop limply on the bed, waiting out the pins and needles phase while Mosby moved to the far end to unlock his foot. With his whole right side free, he could roll over, grab the prat and get him into a hammerlock.

Wiggling his fingers, Doyle rejoiced when his right foot slipped out of the ankle cuff. He tracked Mosby's trek around the bed, waiting for his chance.

"I wouldn't do it, if I were you," Daniels whispered, shoving a pistol barrel into Doyle's right ear. "Thinking all sorts of nasty little tricks, weren't you, Little Ray?"

"Too right, love." Doyle pulled the mask of his streetwise youth firmly in place to hide the fear that rose fast and dark, threatening to drown him. "Can't pull nothing over your eyes, I can see that." He held very still, the metal barrel pressed hard against his skull. It hurt, which was good because it gave him something to concentrate on besides the fact that he had just been assaulted.

"Never." Daniels ground the pistol into Doyle's ear one last time before pulling it away. "Mose? You finished with the locks?"

"Yeah, he's free." Mosby let the leather cuff fall and closed both hands around Doyle's left one, as if helping to bring back some circulation again.

"Then get up and walk," Daniels ordered brusquely.

"Where's my clothes?" Doyle asked belligerently, fisting his left hand, the metal key Mosby had just passed to him cutting into his half-numb palm. He sat up slowly and used his right hand to rub some sensation back into his feet, keeping an eye on Thomson. Rod Lebeouff had been right, Eddy liked the violence, but Thomson was the one dishing it out.

"Come and get them." Thomson flexed a sardonic grin. He waggled tattooed fingers at a pile of clothing on the floor. "You'll need to walk on your own, mate."

"Ta, all the same." Doyle stood, regretting it almost immediately. The beating on top of whatever mickey they'd slipped in his beer left him unsteady and trembling like a leaf. He wasn't about to give the three of them any more leverage than they already had. Straightening his spine, he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from showing the slightest sign of weakness. A single involuntary shudder slipped past his tightly held control, but he walked across the thick Persian carpet under his own power, head held high.

"The view's quite remarkable from this angle, Little Ray." Daniels chuckled from behind him. "Should keep you bare-arsed all day long."

"Eddy?" Mosby asked, sounding plaintive. "When…"

"Take him down, Thomson, we'll be with the old man, watching him play at toy soldiers," Daniels said with contempt, brushing past Doyle to get to the door first. "There's no chance of that old fart Cowley finding us here, the house is far off all the maps. Father'll take the damning paperwork to Parliament and all the assorted big wigs within a day or so. Once they see what CI-5 and their lot has been up to, we'll all be living like kings."

Mosby giggled, glancing over his shoulder at Doyle, something confused and unhappy in his eyes. "We'll be living like kings," he mimicked his leader and followed Daniels down the hall to the left.

The effort it took to bend down and pick up his t-shirt and jeans left Doyle panting with exertion. Moving carefully, he pulled his jeans up over his naked bum, feeling like he was donning a piece of armour to protect his soft underbelly. He jammed his left fist into his trouser pocket, finally loosening his hold on the little treasure. It took some doing to unbend his cramped fingers.

He had to lean against the wall to raise his arms high enough to pull the shirt over his head, very aware of Thomson's amused scrutiny the entire time.

Bloody hell. He hurt all over. No one had ever mentioned that a tattoo stung like road burn. Of course, who had he ever actually spoken to about tattooing?

"Took you long enough," Thomson said, clasping Doyle's arm to lead him to the right. "This way."

Doyle got a quick glimpse of the rest of the place-a hunting lodge, as he'd surmised . There were mounted animal heads in the main foyer, including a few species not found on the island of Britain. The high, mahogany beamed ceiling held an elegant gold chandelier that threw triangles of light and shadow through the wide space between two hallways. It was too dark to see outdoors, but Doyle did spy a telephone. Good. If there was one, there might be an extension somewhere else.

"His Lordship's round the bend, you know that?" Doyle said, trying to pull his arm free of Thomson's grasp but the other man was taller and hadn't just been worked over by a couple of pros.

"Keep your gob shut, haven't I told you before?" Thomson gave him a shake that nearly destroyed Doyle's hard-won balance.

"Can't get a bead on you, Ned," Doyle went on. In for a penny, in for a pound-he'd probably get another few bruises for his impertinence, but that was nothing new. "You've got a head for business, I can tell, but you're hanging about with this lot of daft gentry. You could..."

Thomson slammed Doyle into the wall. Keeping him there with one stiff arm, the malevolent serpent on his forearm seemed to be flicking its forked tongue at Doyle. "Not your concern, my son. Nobody has authority over the likes of me, get it? I know just what it takes to…" He smiled craftily. "Motivate Eddy. He enjoys watching me-and I'm going to enjoy breaking every bone in your scrawny little body." He pushed his thumb into the fleshy area just under the jaw hard enough that Doyle saw spots in front of his eyes.

The fear curled around Doyle's spine, holding him fast. He felt the phantom blows from ten years before, heard the taunt and insults and the hands shoving him against the wall, slamming his face into the brick… He could not let them win. "Bugger off," he growled, ramming his head into Thomson's chin.

Thomson roared with anger and cramped his fingers around Doyle's throat again. "That's enough of you, rozzer."

Doyle got both hands around Thomson's wrist, clawing at the fingers cutting off his windpipe.

"Ned!" Lord Burley's autocratic voice floated down the corridor. "We are awaiting your arrival. Leave him be!"

"Last minute reprieve," Thomson hissed in Doyle's ear, loosening his grip.

Doyle heaved in a gulp of air, peripherally aware that Thomson was pulling open a door.

"Down you go." Thomson shoved him down a staircase.

Unable to break his fall, Doyle tumbled head over heels, bouncing off the sharp edge of half a dozen risers before he landed in a heap on the floor. He lurched to his hands and knees, dazed but ready to fight.

There was no one to attack. He heard the door slam above him and sat up more slowly, still sucking in good, breathable air into his starving lungs. He was in another corridor. It was dark, but not pitch black, and he could see the wall a few feet away. The passageway went back to the left, obviously directly under the part of the house with the bedroom Doyle had been in and Lord Burley's war room. About ten feet away was a door opened just a crack but enough to show that there was light in the next chamber.

Standing, he trembled and cursed, unable to fight his own vulnerability any longer. The prospect that Bodie might be imprisoned down here somewhere kept him irrevocably moving forward.

Pushing open the door, Doyle took stock of the place, recalling Lord Burley mention the Geneva convention's regulations for keeping prisoners of war. It was as if he had replicated a World War two concentration camp in the basement of his hunting lodge. There were three tiers of bunk beds lining the right side of the room and a plank table with benches on the left. An apple core and the remains of a sandwich lay on the table.

"Took you long enough," a voice said dryly.

"Bodie," Doyle croaked on an exhale, swinging around to finally see Bodie shackled to the last set of bunks. "You didn't have to climb in his car!" he said, anger surging through him, giving him enough energy to run to his partner. Bodie was covered in cuts and bruises. One blue eye was puffy and ringed with yellow/green shading. "Bloody great fool you are! Not enough sense to…" He dropped to his knees, not sure whether to cry or laugh. Maybe a little of both.

"Oy," Bodie said, reaching out to run his hand across Doyle's hair and pull him in.

Doyle clung to him for half a moment, listening to Bodie's heart just long enough to release some of his pent up fear.

"What the hell?" Bodie ran his fingers lightly over the thickened outline of the snake tattoo as if reading Braille. "Wouldn't it have been easier to take a bite of the apple, Adam?" he asked, his usual dark humour masking whatever else he thought.

Taking his cue from Bodie-stiff upper lip and all that-Doyle met his eyes straight on. "I already knew right from wrong. I wasn't tempted, but the devil took his due."

Bodie frowned and jangled the chain around his ankle. "I've learned a thing or two about temptation, and a little about retribution." He held up the Bible. "The only way to pass the time in this damned place."

"You reading Genesis?" Doyle barked a laugh and it felt good. He was absurdly happy, which seemed incredibly daft since they were both locked in a subterranean prison with no way out. Still, everything was better with Bodie by his side.

"What day is it?" Bodie asked, watching from underneath his lashes.

"Just going on Saturday, unless I was out longer than I thought." Doyle carefully touched Bodie's damaged eye and his hand trembled. To hide the shakes, he shoved it into his pocket to get the key. With any luck, the restraints all used a universal lock and he would have Bodie out in no time.

"Ray," Bodie said, his voice so gentle and loving that Doyle was nearly unhinged. "What did Daniels do?'

"Insisted on a bit of body art before I was privy to the club secrets, didn't he?" Doyle used his anger to bury every stray weak emotion. "It's nothing, Bodie."

"Raymond," Bodie started again but Doyle rammed the key into the padlock on the ankle cuff.

The key turned easily, with a small click when the locking mechanism separated. Doyle pried apart the two edges of the ankle cuff, remembering all too clearly how good it felt to have the shackles off. And he'd only been bound for a few hours. "You been locked up here since Wednesday?"

"No." Bodie chuffed a laugh, standing up to stamp his right foot. There was a raw, reddened patch all the way around his ankle. "That's great. I could move between the bed and the table and the little loo over to the side but… freedom is vastly under rated." He aimed a kick at the leather cuff. "Once I realized Henrik bloody Janssen had my number, it was too late by half. We'd stopped just off the M4, and Daniels was waiting for us. He's got a Maserati…"

"I've seen it." Doyle nodded absently, examining the room more closely for escape routes. There were narrow windows up near the ceiling on the opposite wall from the bunk beds, but at this time of night, it was impossible to see out. From their position, the windows were probably just above ground level and hidden by shrubbery or plantings around the edge of the building. Maybe he could move one of the beds or the table underneath the windows? "Keep talking, did Daniels bring you directly here?"

"Nope, after we…" Bodie massaged a bruise on his jaw with a grimace. "Had a bit of a tussle, he gave me princely accommodations in the boot of his car. Stayed there quite a while, but eventually we drove past a construction site…"

"What?" Doyle swung around, staring at Bodie. "Heavy machinery, lorries, that sort of thing?"

"I was trussed up like a Christmas goose in the boot, so I couldn’t see out," Bodie said, his brows slanting down, obviously aware he'd piqued Doyle's interest. "Why?"

"Burley House is being renovated." Doyle examined the base of bunks, but like the table and benches, the legs were bolted to the cement floor. "Which means, you may have driven past Burley House to get here-and this hunting lodge is on the grounds."

"Or we went past the site of a new block of flats," Bodie put in. "In Middlesex."

"You're no help. What escape plan have you come up with since?" Doyle grimaced, feeling surly. "Windows too high and too narrow to climb out of, furniture all unmovable and door locked at the top of the landing."

"Answered yourself, didn't you?" Bodie grinned fiendishly. "Lord Burley is the driving force. He sounds an absolute nutter but he's devious and surprisingly cunning. Bully boy Thomson played like a Nazi interrogator with me as the captured British pilot, but I had nothing they wanted to know. And because they'd got me locked up, apparently Burley's using my name to implicate Cowley with illegal gun running and a host of other unmentionables."

"Yeah, sussed that out. Cowley met with Burley, saw through the old horse quickly enough," Doyle sighed, sitting on the bunk. That was a mistake, fatigue and pain weighed him down and he wasn't sure he could get up again. He ached in places he didn't want to think about. "But we didn't know where you were to come fetch you."

"Old George didn't attach a tracking beacon to your buttonhole like a war orphan sent off to the countryside?"

"I…left without ID, R/T, all of it," Doyle confessed.

"Have I taught you nothing? What kind of ex-copper are you?" Bodie threw his arms up in consternation.

Ignoring his partner's outburst, Doyle stared down at the leather cuff at his feet. He picked it up, examining the fine workmanship. Probably hand stitched. If he could get the metal pin out of the buckle housing, it might work as a screwdriver-or a lever. The stitching on the cuff was double thick but the pin did have a bit of wiggle room. He moved it experimentally back and forth.

"I tried that, but locked on my ankle, it wouldn't come off the buckle." Bodie crouched down. "Reckon you can get it out now?" He steadied himself by putting one hand on Doyle's thigh.

Doyle nearly jumped out of his skin and dropped the cuff. "Fuck, Bodie!" he exploded, trembling again, weird tendrils of fear curling through his chest.

"Nobody else here but a couple of rats," Bodie said, backing off, both hands raised. "What happened up there, Ray?"

"I told you. Nothing, Bodie." Doyle clenched his fists, ready to do battle. But not with Bodie. He felt like he was juggling far too many balls and one of them was going to fall. "Do you listen?"

"Quite often, even to what you don't say." Bodie placed both hands under Doyle's, rubbing slow, soothing circles on his wrists. "Got marks on your wrists-not quite like the lovely circlet on my ankle, but enough to show you were cuffed, too. You move as if someone took a cricket bat to your kidneys and startle like zombies are rising from their graves…"

"Don't start that again." Doyle rolled his eyes. "Let me just work on this buckle. It'll give us a kind of weapon, anyway."

"Did you see any other weapons-- guns up there?" Bodie asked, apparently dropping the more probing line of questions. "Daniels had a Browning."

His adrenaline-rush abating, Doyle visualized the handgun he'd felt more than seen grinding into his ear. "Yeah, and his father was waving a Walther PPK. Plus, we know they sold Janssen a shit-load of Kalashnikovs and rocket launchers. Could be they stashed a few for home use, as well." He managed to get the buckle housing looser, but the stitching was proving troublesome.

"Daniels is a right bounder, tossing his father's title around," Bodie said conversationally. "Thomson was the one throwing the punches, but Daniels was spewing filth. He had his eye on you."

Doyle kept his head down, working the buckle pin in and out.

"Did he…force you, Ray?" Bodie asked with infinite tenderness, leaning against the bed support.

"What the hell do you want, details?" Doyle shouted, bounding to his feet to get as far from Bodie as he could. Unfortunately, the room wasn't very big. He stood with one hip against the plank table, feeling the sharp edge dig into his flesh. "You want a play by play-every sordid move, do you?"

"I just don't want you to…" Bodie raised his chin, not backing down, facing this with both eyes open. "Bottle it up, lose part of yourself…"

"I wasn't some naff kid like the …first time. I knew what I was doin', Bodie." Doyle bit down on the two syllables of his partner's name, so that the second one sounded like a curse. "I knew straight from the moment Daniels laid eyes on me what he wanted, and I was going give it to him, because he was my…only way back to you."

"Ray."

"I didn't…" Doyle ran both hands through his hair with agitation, the shakes returning. "I was willing to give what I had to find out where they took you, Bodie." He extended his right arm, the red and black serpent shocking against his skin-almost as if it was erupting out of his body. "This is my payment, if you will. My reminder. But it was never, ever for Eddy bloody Daniels, because I already had your mark on me. Have had for years."

"You dumb fool." Bodie latched onto his newly tattooed arm and drew Doyle to him. He folded his arms around Doyle, rocking him gently.

Doyle lay his cheek on his partner's shoulder, letting himself grieve all that had happened.

"Actually," Doyle said into Bodie's neck. "Knowing you-having been with you made things a great deal easier. I'd had it up the arse not half a week earlier." If he said any more, he was going to start crying, and that was not about to happen.

"Thank you, Ray," Bodie whispered. "You were all I thought about down here." He pressed a kiss onto Doyle's forehead and then, when Doyle turned his face, onto his mouth.

His cut lip stinging, Doyle hung onto the kiss, feeling renewed. "We've got to get out of here, talk to Cowley," he said quietly against Bodie's lush mouth.

part eight