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przedTitle: The Persistence of Memory, Part 1
Author: P.R. Zed
Fandom: Pros
Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Note: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
partners4life, for Sweet Charity, March 2008. She asked for a fandom cliché, so I took the opportunity to use a cliché I hadn't used before. (No, I'm not going to tell you which one. Where would the fun in that be?) Thanks to ancastar for stellar beta duties. Oh, and it's cut into two parts, due to extreme plotiness.
Doyle sat back in his chair, took a sip of watered down beer and examined the motley mixture of locals and late season tourists inhabiting the Riverside Hotel's pub. The locals had been giving him unfriendly looks since he arrived two days ago, and the tourists, particularly an older couple from Slough, God help them, seemed to want to get far too friendly. Doyle closed his eyes and wished he were somewhere else. London, preferably. Christ, the Outer Hebrides might even be more fun than Pwllheli.
Fucking Cowley, sending him to Wales at the end of October. And for what? To chase down rumours that a former IRA bomber had set up house here? Hardly seemed worth it. Connor McGowan had disappeared years ago, when Doyle had been only a junior CI5 agent, and taken a tidy sum from the IRA war chest, if rumours were to be believed. Doyle thought it more likely his former comrades had topped him than that he'd buggered off to northern Wales. But his was not to question why…
It might almost have been tolerable, if Bodie'd been here with him. They could have moaned and whinged together, taken the piss out of the locals and downed a few pints at the end of the day. But Cowley hadn't even allowed him that much comfort. He'd sent Bodie to the other side of the country, to East Anglia, to chase down a similar, equally unlikely rumour.
Cowley had a lot to answer for, sticking him here without his partner. Not that he'd seen much of Bodie anyway, in the past few weeks. Cowley'd had them working different ends of things for a while now. The joy of being senior agents, he reckoned, but it was beginning to pale. He was starting to miss Bodie, damn it. He'd got used to seeing more of him than he did of his birds, not that he'd bothered to pull many birds of late. It was like losing a limb, not having Bodie beside him.
And that didn't bear thinking on.
Doyle shook his head and downed the last of his pint. Nothing wrong with missing Bodie. Was his best mate, after all. Nothing at all unusual about missing your best mate.
Nothing at all unusual about it, unless you wished he were more than your best mate, a traitorous voice whispered in his ear.
Fuck.
Not worth thinking on, that. No good would come of it.
He stood and picked up his jacket. Time to make an early night of it. One more day of poking around for stray IRA bombers and he could head back to London. Tell Cowley it had all been for naught. Tell him to stick his next solo assignment up his arse. Go out with Bodie and get pissed. Pull a couple of birds. Forget about any unnatural feelings he'd been having about his partner.
Or forget about pulling the birds and treat himself to a few of those unnatural feelings, the whispered voice said.
Doyle shrugged into his jacket and wondered when it was he'd lost his mind.
He was nodding goodbye to the bartender, a nice enough bloke for a Welshman, when movement at the door caught his eye. He turned automatically, and his jaw nearly hit the floor.
Entering the pub, shaking the rain off his coat, was Gav Logan. Not the IRA member he'd been sent to look for, but a far bigger catch. Logan was a bullyboy, an enforcer, and an ugly big man into the bargain. Rumour attached him to a number of killings in Belfast, but no one had ever got enough evidence to arrest him, let alone convict him. He and Bodie had questioned the bastard once or twice, but never got anything useful out of him. And here he was, in the same Pwllheli pub as Doyle.
It was a bloody odd coincidence.
Doyle began to wonder if Cowley'd been right about McGowan being here. Would make sense, if Logan had been sent to teach McGowan a lesson for disappearing.
But it wasn't McGowan in this pub. It was Logan, and Doyle suddenly had double cause to wish Bodie were here. Be nice to have backup if he was going to take in a villain who was likely to be tooled up and not fussy about shooting innocent bystanders.
No way he could confront Logan in the pub. End up with some dead civilians that way, wouldn't he. No, softly, softly was the way to work this one.
Hoping not to attract Logan's attention, he pulled up the collar of his coat and made for the door, keeping his face turned away from Logan as much as possible. He got out the door without Logan seeing him, and made it to his car without getting too wet. He settled into the driver's seat, zipped his jacket up to his nose and cursed Gav Logan for arriving in Pwllheli on a cold, miserable, rainy evening. At this rate, he'd die of hypothermia before Logan emerged from the pub.
For an interminable amount of time, Doyle kept his eyes firmly on the Riverside's front door, wishing the whole time that Bodie was here, whingeing about the cold, grumbling about the IRA and generally helping the time go more quickly. Barring Bodie's sunny presence, he wished his fucking R/T had enough range that he could inform London about Logan. Or that he could trust the local plods to assist. But the R/T wouldn't reach from here to Swansea, let alone London, and asking the local constabulary to help trap an IRA gunman would be like asking a grade school teacher to catch a man-eating tiger. You'd end up with nothing in the end but a very dead teacher and a very full tiger.
So he sat in the cold, watching punters enter and leave the pub, the light streaming from the pub's windows a constant reminder of the warmth inside. He was only too happy to see Logan emerge from the pub two hours after he'd gone in. Doyle pulled his hands out of his pockets and got ready to turn the car key as Logan wandered over to his own car and got in. Doyle waited a decent interval after Logan pulled away, then followed, hoping his pursuit wasn't too obvious, and that he didn't lose his prey.
Logan took the A road that led northwest to the other side of the Lleyn peninsula. Doyle gave thanks as the rain finally eased up and stopped. They passed a few other cars on the road, so Doyle reckoned his presence wouldn't look too suspicious. But then Logan swung onto a B road, then a strip of narrow tarmac, and finally a bumpy, dirt road that was barely more than a cow path, and Doyle feared he'd been rumbled. He pulled over to the side of the road and got out of the car, watching Logan's taillights disappear in the distance.
He slammed the door and kicked at the gravel at his feet. Bloody bad situation to be in. No one knew his location and here he was, chasing after an Irish nutter who probably knew there was someone on his tail. Not for the first time, he wondered why the fuck he was doing this job. Still, there wasn't anyone else around to do it…
Doyle locked up the car, pulled his gun out of his holster and began walking in the direction Logan had taken. The moon was new, just a thin crescent, and cast only enough light to keep him from tripping over his own feet. Each step was like taking a step into the void, and more than once he cursed himself for a fool and nearly turned back. But duty kept him going, duty and Bodie's voice, chiding him for being afraid of the dark like a big baby.
He'd been walking for perhaps five minutes, though it was hard to judge time in this dark abyss, when he thought he heard something besides the crunch of gravel beneath his feet and his own breath in his lungs. He stopped and held his breath, listening for signs of Logan. Ahead, he heard the muted roar of the surf and could barely make out the dim glistening water of Canaerfon Bay. Two small buildings loomed on his right, the toilets for the campsite he'd passed the signs for a few miles back, the place deserted now that the weather had turned cold.
He released his breath and continued walking, passing one structure as he kept his eyes and ears open. He was coming up on the second when another sound stopped him. He was close enough to the building that he could feel it against the sleeve of his coat. He put out a hand to steady himself, and the cold of the rough wood seeped into his fingertips.
He didn't hold his breath this time, could hear it sounding steadily in his ears as he strained to suss out what it was that had alerted him this time. Then there was a rush of movement behind him and it was too late.
He was slammed face first into the side of the building, his gun arm twisted behind him, his attacker's other arm digging brutally into his neck. His gun was taken away, thrown far into the darkness, and then the other man pried Doyle's wallet out of his back pocket, before flipping him around and driving a fist firmly into his gut.
"Who have we here?" Logan said, as Doyle doubled over and struggled to breath. A torch was flicked on and looking up, Doyle could see the smirk on Logan's face. Logan tucked his gun in his waistband and quickly flipped through the wallet till he found Doyle's ID. Another smirk and he tossed away the wallet and trained the gun firmly on Doyle. "Ray Doyle. I thought I recognized a CI5 rat at the pub."
"You're the only rodent I see, Logan," Doyle gasped out. Logan rewarded him with a staggering blow, this time to the side of his head. Doyle dropped to his knees. He could feel the damp of the ground seeping through his jeans as he shook his head, trying desperately to retain a hold on consciousness.
"You want to be more polite to a man who holds your life in his hands."
Doyle kept his mouth shut and looked down, searching for a way out of this and wishing even more that Bodie were here with him. Then it'd be Logan looking down the end of Bodie's gun.
"The only question is, why are you here?"
"Oh, you know, Gav. Taking in the sights, enjoying a bit of sun." Which was a laugh, the way it'd been pissing down rain the last three days. For his insolence, Logan cuffed him across the head, lighter this time, though still hard enough that Doyle saw stars.
"Don't piss about." Logan shone the torch in his face, making Doyle's eyes water. "What are you doing in Wales?"
"Looking for you."
"Nah, don't believe that. You looked a bit surprised to see me, there in the pub. And I don't think your boss'd send you after me without that great lummox of a partner of yours."
"How do you know Bodie's not here?"
"Me with a gun on you? He'd have come in mob-handed by now."
"He's a patient man." Doyle knew he had nothing to lose and everything to gain by keeping Logan wondering about whether Bodie was here.
"That must be a different Bodie." Logan laughed unkindly, but Doyle did notice that his eyes flicked slightly off to the left. "And you still haven't told me why you're here. Unless you're after the same prey as me." The dim light from the torch gave Logan's smile a nasty cast.
"And what prey would that be?" Keep Logan talking, Doyle reckoned, and maybe he'd find a way out of here.
"Connor McGowan," Logan said. "Friend of mine from way back. Took something of ours, and I've come to collect it. You must have heard of him?"
"Nah," Doyle said, keeping his expression neutral. "Must be a small fish. Not like you Gav."
"I wonder..." Logan said, his eyes narrowing as he examined Doyle closely. Doyle glared back at him. "But not that much." Logan thumbed back the hammer on his gun. Doyle tensed, realizing he had mere moments to live unless he came up with something fast. "They didn't send me here to kill you, but I bet I'll get a commendation for doing it."
Logan raised his gun, and Doyle acted. "Bodie!" he screamed, looking off to his right. As he'd hoped, Logan followed his eyes, looking to his left and allowing his aim to drift slightly. Hoping his body didn't betray him, Doyle sprang to his feet and ran at Logan, hitting out at his gun hand. Logan recovered from his surprise quickly, too quickly, and struggled with Doyle for possession of the gun.
It wasn't nearly a fair fight. Logan outweighed him by at least three stone, most of it muscle. At the best of times, Doyle would've been hard-pressed to defeat him. But this was not the best of times. He still felt like his brain had been scrambled from the blows he'd taken, and Christ knew where his own gun was. If he stayed here, in Logan's grasp, he knew he'd go down in mere seconds. And Logan wasn't going to give him another chance. There was only one thing to do.
Raising a knee, Doyle caught Logan in the goolies. Not a direct blow, not enough to put him down, but enough that he cursed and stumbled and let go of Doyle's jacket, if not of his gun.
Doyle ran.
He ran out into the darkness, towards the sea and away from the nutter with the gun. He heard Logan scream out his name, and then heard the shots, but the darkness was his ally. Shots came close, but nothing hit him. He began to hope.
If he could stay away from Logan, put some distance between them, maybe even get to a house with a phone, then maybe he could survive this cock up. Maybe he'd live to share the story with Bodie over a pint in his local. Maybe...
Maybe not. Because looming in front of him was a cliff's edge that was closer than he'd expected. He skidded to a halt, turning toward Logan and twisting one foot underneath him just as another shot rang out and this time the bullet didn't rip past him but slammed into his shoulder.
And then he was stumbling, and falling, his arms windmilling as he went over the cliff's edge, as he fell through darkness toward the roaring surf below. Impact with earth and rock drove the breath out of his lungs, drove more pain into his body. Then shadow closed over and around him, eradicating even the faint glimmer of the stars and the thin glow of the slivered moon, eradicating all traces of Ray Doyle, and leaving only an insensible and broken shell.
Bodie bounded up the HQ stairs two at a time, for once not put out that the bloody lift was out of order for the fifth time this month. After too many hours stuck in traffic on the way back from Ipswich--Ipswich, for Christ's sake--he just wanted to move. And if that meant running up three flights of stairs, so be it.
The building was even more deserted than usual, his footsteps echoed in the hall undisturbed by any other sound. Like a bloody ghost town, he thought, passing empty office after empty office. Finally, he heard a murmuring coming from the rest room, and made for it. With any luck, Doyle'd be there. They could share stories about the pointless fucking assignments the Cow had sent them on. Bodie had plans that involved skiving off early and heading for the nearest pub, Doyle firmly in tow. After the bloody boring week he'd had, Bodie reckoned he was owed at least a night at the pub with his best mate.
And maybe, just maybe, this was the night he'd finally do it. Wrap an arm around Doyle's shoulder with more than matey good cheer. Drag Doyle back to his flat. Push him against a wall see if he ended up on his arse or with Doyle in his bed. Worth the risk, that, having Doyle naked in his bed. Worth so very much, if only he found the courage to try.
He smiled as he reached the door of the rest room. Poking his head inside he found not Doyle, but Murphy and Jax.
"'Lo Murph. Jax."
Murphy started at his voice and looked at Bodie with surprise.
"You back?"
"Yeah. Finally. Last time I let Cowley send me to Ipswich. Boring doesn't cover it." Murphy didn't rib him and Jax gave Murph a look that he should have known was completely wrong. But Bodie was tired and bored and he didn't realize till later that Jax's expression was equal parts sympathy and pity, and all of it directed at him. "Either of you seen Doyle?"
"Doyle?" Jax looked surprised, as if Bodie'd asked him if he'd seen the bloody Loch Ness monster.
"Yeah, you know. Curly-haired bloke, likes to call himself my partner. Doyle?" Neither Murphy nor Jax answered. Jax bit his lip, and Murphy looked down at the ground. "Listen, any of this sound familiar to you?"
Murphy finally looked up, though he wouldn't meet Bodie's gaze. "Cowley hasn't talked to you?"
"No he hasn't talked to me," Bodie said, frustrated that his colleagues were behaving like right prats and still not realizing how odd it was. "I just got in. Thought I'd track down Doyle first before I sought out our lord and master to tell him he sent me on a wild goose chase."
"You should talk to Cowley, Bodie." Jax's voice was gentle, the sort of voice Bodie'd heard him use to break bad news to people. To wives and girlfriends. To partners…
Bodie felt sick, felt wrong, felt as if his skin had suddenly become two sizes too small.
"What the fuck is going on?" He let anger overpower the fear travelling up and down his spine and coiling around his diaphragm, making breathing impossible.
"Cowley should tell you," Murphy said.
"Tell me what?"
"Bodie!" Bodie turned and Cowley appeared behind him at the door. Their boss looked as if storm clouds had taken up permanent residence over his head. "My office, Bodie."
"What's going on?" Bodie planted his feet firmly on the ground and his hands on his hips, determined not to move till someone told him what the bleeding hell was going on.
"My office, laddie. Now." Determined as he was, Cowley was clearly more determined. Clenching his jaw, Bodie brushed by Cowley and headed to his office.
Cowley closed the door behind them and went straight to his drinks cabinet. Never a good sign, Bodie thought as he took a tumbler of amber liquid from the Cow and slung himself in a seat across from him.
"What did Murphy say to you?" Cowley said.
"Nothing. Just asked if I'd talked to you. What the hell is going on? Sir." The last word was added at the last minute and automatically.
"Doyle's disappeared."
"What?" Bodie felt as if the world had shifted under his feet, leaving him reeling.
"He was due back yesterday, but never made it. And he'd missed two call-ins before that. We asked the local police to check in on him yesterday afternoon. He hadn't slept at his B&B the night before. He was last seen at a pub that night, but no one remembers anything unusual happening there."
"Doyle's been out of contact before. Gets to following up a lead and forgets the time."
"That's not all, Bodie. A local farmer found his car this morning, abandoned on a dirt road. The police retrieved his wallet not far away, at a campsite that's closed for the season."
"Christ," Bodie said, looking down at the now empty glass in his hand.
"And there's one more thing." There was an odd catch in Cowley's voice that made Bodie look up. "The campsite where his wallet was found is right next to a cliff."
"No," Bodie said, shaking his head, not wanting to hear the rest.
"If someone got the drop on Doyle, as it appears they did, they could have thrown him over the edge. His body would have been washed out to sea. We might never know…"
"No." The word emerged from Bodie as an explosion, an angry flare of denial. "Not Doyle. That couldn't happen to Doyle."
"It could, laddie. It could happen to any of us."
"I'm going up there."
"Of course. But not on your own. I've had one agent disappear, I'll not lose another for lack of backup."
"Murphy and Jax?" Bodie suddenly could see why the two agents had been waiting in the rest room, why they'd asked if he'd seen Cowley.
Cowley nodded. "They'll do the driving. You're to check into the same B&B as Doyle was staying at. Find out what happened. Find Doyle."
"Don't worry, sir. We'll find him." Bodie stood and headed for the door. "I'll bring him back, if it's the last thing I do."
He marched down the corridor, long strides eating up the distance to the rest room, trying not to think about the worst case scenario: finding Doyle dead. Or even worse than that: never finding him at all.
No, they'd find him, whole and alive and kicking. And when Bodie found him, got him alone, he'd wrap his arms around the annoying, infuriating bugger and never let him go.
The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows and forcing the man inside the small cottage to flick the lights on before he resumed filling the kettle.
Brian Reynolds had lived on the Lleyn Peninsula for five years. Five years during which he'd sought only to live a quiet life, no excitement, no adventure, and with as little attention paid to him as possible. And he'd succeeded, until yesterday morning, when a walk with his dog had turned up more than the usual birds and sheep. When he'd followed Banshee's barking to peer over a cliff and found a man, bruised, bloody and unconscious, sprawled on a ledge nearly fifteen feet below.
He should have walked away, forgotten what he'd seen. Or, if conscience had pricked him, informed the police of his discovery. Anonymously. What he should not have done was clamber down the cliff side and check the young man for signs of life. He should not have strained his fifty-odd year old body wrestling the scrawny but surprisingly solid man to the top of the cliff on a path fit more for mountain goats that human beings. He should not have left him with Banshee while he ran back to the cottage for his old Rover. Should not have taken him home, should not have called Denny to take a look at him, should not have sworn Denny to secrecy.
Should not have an unconscious young man with a bullet wound in his shoulder and no identification taking up space in his guest bedroom.
He wasn't entirely sure why he'd done it. Empathy, perhaps? God only knew he'd had his own trials, been wounded and alone and beset by enemies. It was why he'd settled down here. Sick of the fighting, sick of the blood, sick of not knowing who to trust.
Here he was just that nice Mr. Reynolds from Dublin. His Welsh neighbours tolerated his Irishness and thanked Christ he wasn't English. And no one knew who he really was, no one but Denny, who'd escaped Ireland himself to set up a country practice here. Denny, who'd helped him out more than once in Belfast when he'd needed patching up. Who'd found him this cottage when he'd needed, once and for all, to get away from the insanity of Belfast.
Denny'd pulled the bullet out of his guest, dressed the wound, checked him for other injuries and told Brian to keep an eye on him and that he'd be back once a day to check on his patient. He hadn't said anything else, but his eyes had spoken volumes. Told Brian he was a fool to risk his own skin for a curly-haired stranger.
Brian had only shrugged, told Denny he'd call if the man woke up. Or got worse. Then sent him on his way.
He heard a sound and turned his head to see Banshee scurrying towards him, his nails ticking on the wooden floor. Brian had never had a dog before, had never wanted one, but Banshee had turned up not long after he'd moved here. He was big and black and shaggy, lab mixed with God knew what else, and he'd howled outside like his namesake until Brian had finally relented and let him in for the night. And the next night. And before he knew it, he was owned by one very possessive dog.
Banshee was very proprietary, very protective, and he didn't trust easily. He was another reason that Brian hadn't been able to leave the young man on the ledge to either his fate or the authorities. Most people, Banshee'd growl at or worse, but not this man. He'd sat on the cliff, standing guard over his unconscious charge, refusing to be shifted until Brian returned with the car.
Banshee didn't like many people and trusted even fewer--Brian reckoned he'd ended up howling outside his cottage because he'd either been abused or abandoned or both--so the fact that he'd taken on the unconscious man as his personal charge was the best reference the man could have had.
"Well, boy," Brian said to the dog. "What do you want now? Found another stray for me to take in?"
Banshee gave him a mournful look, whimpered and butted against his leg, pushing him out of the kitchen.
"Is our visitor awake?"
Banshee bumped against him once more and whined in a way that yet again made Brian think the dog was an old soul trapped in an animal's body. A soul that understood every word he said.
"C'mon, then." He reached down and scratched Banshee's ears as he began walking down the hall. "Let's go hear what our visitor has to say."
Who was it, Ray?
He woke slowly, drifting up through layers of darkness and fog, through shouting and the cracks of explosions. Through pain.
Well, then, the next time, you can be the monkey on a string…
He was nearly there, nearly awake, nearly knew who he was, knew where he was. He grasped at the knowledge, tried to hold fast to it.
Bodie!
And then it was gone, all gone, like mist blown away by a crisp morning breeze.
"Do you think he's awake, Banshee?"
The voice intruded on his dreams, jarring him fully awake, and making him gasp as a burning pain lanced into his right shoulder.
"Easy, son." A hand pushed him gently back onto the bed where he found himself lying. He opened his eyes and found himself looking at an older man, fifty or more. His expression was concerned yet friendly looking, his eyes and mouth surrounded by laugh lines, his hair going grey in a fatherly way. "You're safe."
"Where am I?"
"In my cottage. My name's Brian, and this is Banshee." He looked down and found a black beast of a dog licking his hand. "Don't mind him, he doesn't bite."
He scratched the nearest ear and was rewarded with a wagging tail.
"How did I get here?" He struggled to sit up, more slowly this time. His host, Brian, hoisted him gently by his good shoulder and then propped him up with pillows before taking a seat at his side.
"I found you a few miles from here. Or rather, Banshee did. You'd fallen from a cliff."
"Fallen?" He struggled to remember a fall, a cliff. Anything.
"Yes." Brian's eyes narrowed slightly and he looked at his shoulder. "And you'd been shot."
He winced, realizing now why his shoulder felt as if it were on fire.
"Do you remember what happened?"
"No." He shook his head, then realized what a bad idea that was as a wave of dizziness overcame him. "I don't…"
"Do you remember what you were doing there?"
He shook his head again, more carefully this time. "I can't remember."
"That's all right, son." Brian patted his arm. "I'm sure it'll come to you. Is there anyone I can call? Let them know you're all right?"
"No," he said. "You don't understand." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, fighting against the panic that was beginning to overwhelm him, to swamp him like a dinghy caught in a north Atlantic gale. "I don't remember anything."
The drive to Wales was six hours of unremitting boredom and constant anxiety.
With Murphy and Jax taking turns at the wheel, Bodie had nothing to do, nothing to keep his mind off what might have happened to Doyle. He occupied himself with reading the file Cowley had given him. It was the same file Doyle had been given, outlining the career of Connor McGowan, IRA bomber and all round bastard. He was the bloke Doyle had been looking for. McGowan had disappeared years ago and not been heard from since. Bodie wasn't sure why Cowley had devoted any agents, let alone Doyle, to follow up a slim lead that the man might have been seen on the Lleyn Peninsula, possibly around Pwllheli. But then, Cowley always did like to have his T's crossed and his I's dotted. Probably hated the fact that McGowan's file was still open.
There was little enough in the file. A picture that, from the look of it, was likely ten years old. A list of known associates, most of them in gaol or dead. A description of the bombings McGowan was thought to have engineered, including his last: the school bus. The bus had been nearing the end of its run, but there had been five children remaining. All of them and the driver had been killed. Bodie spent no time looking at those pictures. He'd seen enough horrors in his own time in Ulster.
The sun was setting as they crossed the border into Wales, so rather than strain his eyes in the fading light, Bodie threw the file on the seat beside him. Leaning his head back against the seat, he closed his eyes and tried to clear his thoughts, to exist in the moment, like Shusai was always encouraging him to do.
He couldn't, of course.
Doyle's face kept springing to his mind. Doyle laughing with him; Doyle laughing at him; Doyle snarling in rage after a nasty op; Doyle looking smug after beating his score on the shooting range.
Doyle, his face gone grey, bleeding out on the floor of his flat. Doyle, connected to too many tubes and wires, letting a machine breathe for him.
He didn't want to go through that again. He'd only survived it the first time by putting Doyle out of his mind and doing his duty, doing what he had to, and not stopping until Mayli Kuolo was dead and Ray Doyle was very much back in the land of the living.
Doyle'd survive this time, as well. He had to.
As if he could read his colleague's thoughts, Jax chose that moment to turn around. Bodie opened his eyes at the sound of rustling and found Jax staring at him. "We'll find him," Jax said, though to Bodie's ear there was more hope than conviction behind the words.
"We bloody well better," was the only response Bodie could make.
It was dark when they arrived in Pwllheli, driving straight to the B&B where Doyle had been staying. The owner, a retired widow named Maggie Call, was considerate and anxious, concerned both about her missing guest and the impact it might have on her trade. Bodie left it to Murphy to reassure her, claimed the key for Doyle's room and ascended a narrow staircase.
He opened the door with trepidation, as if he was entering the scene of a crime, but the room he found was utterly ordinary. There was a bed, with a flowered spread, a wardrobe that had seen better days, a small desk with tea making supplies, and a hideous armchair in the corner. The only sign of Doyle's occupancy was the suitcase sitting in the middle of the bed. He took two steps in and stopped, concentrating on the details of the room, looking for some sign of what might have happened to Doyle, where he might be.
There was a clattering behind him and he turned to find Mrs. Call leading Murph and Jax up the stairs.
"I thought he might have skipped out on me, your Mr. Doyle. Except that didn't make any sense, since he'd paid for three nights up front." She pointed at the suitcase. "He left that, all packed up, in the wardrobe. I didn't touch it except to put it on the bed. Was that all right?" She looked worriedly at Bodie, but he was already moving toward the mute piece of luggage.
"That's fine, Mrs. Call," Murphy said. "We'll let you know if we need anything more from you."
"You do that." She wiped her hands on her dress in what was clearly a nervous gesture. "I hope you find your friend," she said before disappearing back down the stairs.
Without a backward glance at his colleagues, Bodie snapped open the suitcase and started to carefully sort through its contents. There was absolutely nothing unusual, and nothing seemed to be missing, except Doyle's gun, which he should have had with him anyway. Sighing, he repacked the case and snapped it shut once again.
"Anything?" Jax asked.
"Nothing." Bodie slung the case into the corner and sat on the bed himself. " Not a bloody sausage."
"Be nice if he'd left us a note," Murph said. "Off to visit the IRA stronghold in Aberdaron. Be back soon."
"Or even Don't trust Mrs. Call. She is not all she seems," Jax added.
"I'm sure they'd laugh the IRA out of Aberdaron, and Mrs. Call is exactly what she seems," Bodie said, fatigue seeping into his bones. "Doyle's gone, and fuck knows where he's got to."
"C'mon, Bodie," Murphy said. "Let's go down to the pub and get a pint. Put it all in perspective."
"'M not in the mood, Murph."
"It's the last place Doyle was seen," Jax reminded him. "And the regulars should all be there by now. We can have a pint and start asking a few pointed questions."
Bodie stood, feeling if not energized, then at least like he had a purpose.
"C'mon, then, you two. What's keeping you?" He headed for the door, leaving Murphy and Jax to catch him up.
"I bloody hope we find Doyle soon," he heard Jax say quietly to Murphy. "'Cause I'm going to slap Bodie, if I have to work with him for long."
His second waking was easier.
There were no nightmare images, no screaming, no explosions. Only the return of the pain in his head and shoulder, the ache of countless bruises, and the return of the knowledge that he had no idea who he was.
He opened his eyes and found himself in a small but pleasant bedroom, plain white curtains on the windows, plain whitewashed walls surrounding him.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he pushed himself up with his good arm. His head swam slightly, but his headache was already receding into the distance.
There was a whining sound from the floor, and he started, his flight or fight instinct coming on full, until a mournful-looking dog's head appeared on the blanket beside him.
"Guess I didn't dream you, did I boy," he said, patting the large black head. The dog gave him several enthusiastic licks in return, until Doyle pushed him away.
"Sorry about Banshee," a stranger's voice said. "Gets a bit too excited sometimes." He looked up to see the man from last night--at least he hoped it was only last night--looking down at him. "Come here, Banshee." The dog looked at him reluctantly, then at his master, but he finally moved away from the bed.
"You're name's...Brian?" He frowned as he struggled to remember the night's conversation, mixed as it was with half formed images of violence and fear.
"That's right." The man scratched the ears of the dog. "Have you remembered your name yet?" The question was asked lightly.
"No," he said, shaking his head. "Not my name, not where I come from. Nothing." He bit his lip and wondered if this was what it was like to lose your mind.
"It's early days yet," Brian said cheerfully. "And that's quite a bump on your head. I'm sure it'll all come back to you soon enough."
"There hasn't been anyone asking about me?" He tried desperately to think of a way to break the mystery of his identity. "The police haven't said anything?"
"The police..." Brian started, before cutting himself off. "I haven't exactly told the police you're here." He looked somehow both sheepish and unapologetic.
"Why not?"
"Better if I show you." He disappeared from the room for a minute before returning with a tangle of leather and webbing dangling from one finger. "You were wearing this when I found you."
"A holster?"
"A holster," Brian confirmed. "Minus the gun, I might add."
"I still don't understand," he said, struggling to comprehend what difference it could possibly make whether he was wearing a holster, knowing somehow that wearing it was second nature to him.
"Then let me explain." Brian sat down in the ladder back chair beside the bed. "Most fine, upstanding citizens don't go around carrying guns. Not in Wales. Not even in London, unless things have changed a lot since the last time I was there. And they don't turn up with bullet holes in them either. And it's not just that new wound. You've got a few other scars that are fairly impressive as well."
"I could be police," he said, grasping at the easiest explanation, the one that felt almost right.
"If a policeman went missing, it'd be all over the news. There hasn't been a word of any such thing."
He frowned. "You think I'm a villain?" That didn't seem right at all, but then where did those images of violence and destruction in his head come from?
"That's a bit harsh." In spite of the seriousness of their conversation, Brian smiled. "Let's just say that you may not quite be on the side of the angels."
"If you think that, then why didn't you report me?"
"Well, there's Banshee there, for a start." Brian nodded at the dog, who took the opportunity to jump up on the bed and lie down at his feet.
"Banshee?"
"He likes you. Good judge of character, is Banshee."
"You haven't taken me in on a dog's opinion?" Brian seemed normal enough, not the sort of eccentric given to accepting the opinion of beasts.
"Don't knock this dog, boy-o. He's sussed out more than one scoundrel in his day. But no, Banshee's good opinion wasn't everything." His face lost its smile and became suddenly serious. "Let's just say, I know we all sometimes have to do things we're not proud of. Doesn't mean we should hang for them."
"I find it hard to believe you've done things you're not proud of."
"You didn't know me back in the day." He shook his head and then shrugged. "But that's years ago. Another lifetime. No use dwelling on it." He stood and shooed Banshee off the bed. "You ready for some breakfast? You hardly ate a bite last night."
"I wasn't up to eating then." He'd nearly heaved up the little soup and sandwich he'd tried to eat last night. "But I'm better now. Could stand a little tea and toast."
"Tea and toast it shall be, boy-o." He moved to the door and then stopped abruptly. "I can't keep calling you boy-o. You need a name."
"Why don't you pick one out?" He shrugged. "It doesn't make a difference to me."
"Hmmm." Brian gave him a considering look. "How about Mike? Had a cousin named Mike. Not a bad sort and you look a bit like him."
He nodded. Mike was as good a name as any.
"Fine, Mike. The bathroom's down the hall, if you want to wash up. I've left some clothes down there that should fit you. Denny left them last night. He's got a son about your size."
"Denny?"
"He's the one who patched you up. And don't you worry, he's as discreet as I am."
"He Irish too?"
"All the best people are," Brian said with a laugh. "Present company excepted."
Doyle smiled as Brian headed for the kitchen, his head not being up to full laughter at the moment. As he stood, he had a brief flash, a moment of panic and fear, the sounds of sirens in his ears, the stink of a hospital in his nostrils. Bodie, you half-Irish son of a bitch, what'd you want to go and do that for? He put one hand on the wall to steady himself, and wondered if Bodie was the dark-haired man he kept seeing, and just what Bodie had done to make him so mad.
It was after dark when Bodie entered the Riverside's pub, Murphy and Jax behind him. In no mood to face the bar himself, he sought out an empty seat in the corner, trusting that Murph'd get him a pint.
It had been a long day. They'd spent it poking around Pwllheli and the immediate area, retracing Doyle's steps. And they'd turned up nothing. No trace of Doyle, no hint of what had happened to him. They hadn't even found any sign of McGowan, the reason that Doyle was here in the first place, though one or two of the locals had made an odd face when they'd been shown the bomber's picture.
Bodie could see the loss of hope in Murphy and Jax's eyes. He could tell what they were thinking. That Doyle had been taken by surprise on that cliff, by person or persons unknown. That he'd been overpowered. That he'd been tossed over the edge and into the sea. That they'd never find the body.
But Bodie refused to believe that. Doyle was too mean to die that way. Too mean to die at all. Not before... Christ, Bodie stopped himself before he went bloody soft. Doyle was alive, and they'd find him, and that's all there was to it.
He looked up as Murphy arrived with his pint. Taking the glass, he downed a long, satisfying swallow.
"Either of you have any brilliant ideas?" Murph said. "Because I'm fresh out."
"We keep looking," Bodie said with grim-faced determination. "We scour every inch of the peninsula until we find Doyle. And if that doesn't work, we start in on the rest of Wales."
"That'll take forever," Murph said. "I thought Doyle was the PC Plod of the team." Bodie met Murph's attempt at humour with a steely glare. "Christ, you're not kidding, are you?" Murphy's eyes widened.
"No, I'm bloody not."
"Before we search all of Wales," Jax broke in, "what do you say to trying this lot again?" He nodded at the pub-goers surrounding them.
"They didn't know anything last night, Jax."
"Someone might not have been here last night, Murph. Or might have remembered something since. Worth a chance, eh Bodie?" Jax looked to him for affirmation.
Bodie nodded, willing to do anything if it would find them Doyle. "Worth any chance."
"C'mon, then," Murphy said, resigned. "Let's spread out and work our magic."
Bodie took another sip of his pint for luck, and then rose and began chatting with the customers, the locals and a few stray tourists. As they had last night, most remembered talking to Doyle, even the older couple from Slough, up here visiting their daughter, but none remembered seeing him leave the pub that night.
Sighing, Bodie made another trip back to the bar. If it was going to be another futile night, at least he could do it with another pint inside him.
"Did you fellows say you're with the police, then?" the bartender asked him as he pulled Bodie's pint.
"We didn't say," Bodie said, letting his gaze sweep the crowd for anyone he hadn't talked to. "But we're CI5."
"CI5? Sort of like MI5?"
"Sort of." Bodie turned back to the man. "But don't let my boss hear you say that. We like to think we're a better sort of service."
"I can understand that." He passed Bodie his pint and Bodie passed him a fiver. The man got his change but then held onto it rather than turning it over. "Only I've just sort of remembered something. From the night your friend disappeared."
Abruptly, Bodie turned his full attention on the man.
"What is it?"
"This Irish bloke turned up that night. Think it was after your friend left. Unpleasant sort. No one wanted to talk to him. Had a few pints, made a nuisance of himself and finally left."
"Why didn't you mention that before?"
"It was after your friend left, so I didn’t think it was important."
"Everything's important." Bodie reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the picture of McGowan. "Is this him?"
"No. Nothing like. This man was big. Taller than you, and broad in the shoulders. Ugly as sin, as well."
"Any idea where he went, after he left?"
"No. It was late, so he must have been staying somewhere close. But not in Pwllheli. I'd have heard if anyone like that was staying in town."
"Thanks, mate." He gestured at the change, still clutched in the bartender's hand. "Why don't you keep that." He'd pay a lot more than a fiver for information that led to Doyle, and this might just.
He pulled Murphy away from the elderly matron who'd cornered him and waved Jax over to an empty booth.
"What's up?" Jax asked.
"The bartender's remembered something. An Irishman came into the pub after Doyle left."
"Was it McGowan?"
"No. He said this bloke was big and ugly. Ring any bells?"
"Christ," Murphy said, his thoughts clearly going in the same direction as Bodie's had.
"Fill me in, why don't you?" Jax said.
"You're thinking it's Gav Logan, aren't you?" Murphy asked him.
"Who's Gav Logan?" Jax looked from Murphy to Bodie.
"He's an IRA enforcer," Murphy said. "One of the nastiest. We ran him in last year while you were on that undercover op in Liverpool."
"And Doyle and I interrogated him," Bodie said. "Fucking hell."
"If he saw Doyle…" Murphy said.
"Or Doyle saw him," Jax added.
"Fucking hell," Bodie repeated, his mind shutting down at the possibility of Gav Logan getting his hands on Doyle. The bastard was a complete sadist. If he had rumbled Doyle…Christ. Being tossed into the Irish Sea would be a pleasure compared to some of the things Logan had done to his victims.
"It might not be Logan," Murphy said, putting a hand on Bodie's shoulder. "And he mightn't have seen Doyle."
"I hope you're right," Bodie said, taking a deep breath. "I hope to fuck you're right."
On to Part 2
Author: P.R. Zed
Fandom: Pros
Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Note: Written for
partners4life, for Sweet Charity, March 2008. She asked for a fandom cliché, so I took the opportunity to use a cliché I hadn't used before. (No, I'm not going to tell you which one. Where would the fun in that be?) Thanks to ancastar for stellar beta duties. Oh, and it's cut into two parts, due to extreme plotiness.Doyle sat back in his chair, took a sip of watered down beer and examined the motley mixture of locals and late season tourists inhabiting the Riverside Hotel's pub. The locals had been giving him unfriendly looks since he arrived two days ago, and the tourists, particularly an older couple from Slough, God help them, seemed to want to get far too friendly. Doyle closed his eyes and wished he were somewhere else. London, preferably. Christ, the Outer Hebrides might even be more fun than Pwllheli.
Fucking Cowley, sending him to Wales at the end of October. And for what? To chase down rumours that a former IRA bomber had set up house here? Hardly seemed worth it. Connor McGowan had disappeared years ago, when Doyle had been only a junior CI5 agent, and taken a tidy sum from the IRA war chest, if rumours were to be believed. Doyle thought it more likely his former comrades had topped him than that he'd buggered off to northern Wales. But his was not to question why…
It might almost have been tolerable, if Bodie'd been here with him. They could have moaned and whinged together, taken the piss out of the locals and downed a few pints at the end of the day. But Cowley hadn't even allowed him that much comfort. He'd sent Bodie to the other side of the country, to East Anglia, to chase down a similar, equally unlikely rumour.
Cowley had a lot to answer for, sticking him here without his partner. Not that he'd seen much of Bodie anyway, in the past few weeks. Cowley'd had them working different ends of things for a while now. The joy of being senior agents, he reckoned, but it was beginning to pale. He was starting to miss Bodie, damn it. He'd got used to seeing more of him than he did of his birds, not that he'd bothered to pull many birds of late. It was like losing a limb, not having Bodie beside him.
And that didn't bear thinking on.
Doyle shook his head and downed the last of his pint. Nothing wrong with missing Bodie. Was his best mate, after all. Nothing at all unusual about missing your best mate.
Nothing at all unusual about it, unless you wished he were more than your best mate, a traitorous voice whispered in his ear.
Fuck.
Not worth thinking on, that. No good would come of it.
He stood and picked up his jacket. Time to make an early night of it. One more day of poking around for stray IRA bombers and he could head back to London. Tell Cowley it had all been for naught. Tell him to stick his next solo assignment up his arse. Go out with Bodie and get pissed. Pull a couple of birds. Forget about any unnatural feelings he'd been having about his partner.
Or forget about pulling the birds and treat himself to a few of those unnatural feelings, the whispered voice said.
Doyle shrugged into his jacket and wondered when it was he'd lost his mind.
He was nodding goodbye to the bartender, a nice enough bloke for a Welshman, when movement at the door caught his eye. He turned automatically, and his jaw nearly hit the floor.
Entering the pub, shaking the rain off his coat, was Gav Logan. Not the IRA member he'd been sent to look for, but a far bigger catch. Logan was a bullyboy, an enforcer, and an ugly big man into the bargain. Rumour attached him to a number of killings in Belfast, but no one had ever got enough evidence to arrest him, let alone convict him. He and Bodie had questioned the bastard once or twice, but never got anything useful out of him. And here he was, in the same Pwllheli pub as Doyle.
It was a bloody odd coincidence.
Doyle began to wonder if Cowley'd been right about McGowan being here. Would make sense, if Logan had been sent to teach McGowan a lesson for disappearing.
But it wasn't McGowan in this pub. It was Logan, and Doyle suddenly had double cause to wish Bodie were here. Be nice to have backup if he was going to take in a villain who was likely to be tooled up and not fussy about shooting innocent bystanders.
No way he could confront Logan in the pub. End up with some dead civilians that way, wouldn't he. No, softly, softly was the way to work this one.
Hoping not to attract Logan's attention, he pulled up the collar of his coat and made for the door, keeping his face turned away from Logan as much as possible. He got out the door without Logan seeing him, and made it to his car without getting too wet. He settled into the driver's seat, zipped his jacket up to his nose and cursed Gav Logan for arriving in Pwllheli on a cold, miserable, rainy evening. At this rate, he'd die of hypothermia before Logan emerged from the pub.
For an interminable amount of time, Doyle kept his eyes firmly on the Riverside's front door, wishing the whole time that Bodie was here, whingeing about the cold, grumbling about the IRA and generally helping the time go more quickly. Barring Bodie's sunny presence, he wished his fucking R/T had enough range that he could inform London about Logan. Or that he could trust the local plods to assist. But the R/T wouldn't reach from here to Swansea, let alone London, and asking the local constabulary to help trap an IRA gunman would be like asking a grade school teacher to catch a man-eating tiger. You'd end up with nothing in the end but a very dead teacher and a very full tiger.
So he sat in the cold, watching punters enter and leave the pub, the light streaming from the pub's windows a constant reminder of the warmth inside. He was only too happy to see Logan emerge from the pub two hours after he'd gone in. Doyle pulled his hands out of his pockets and got ready to turn the car key as Logan wandered over to his own car and got in. Doyle waited a decent interval after Logan pulled away, then followed, hoping his pursuit wasn't too obvious, and that he didn't lose his prey.
Logan took the A road that led northwest to the other side of the Lleyn peninsula. Doyle gave thanks as the rain finally eased up and stopped. They passed a few other cars on the road, so Doyle reckoned his presence wouldn't look too suspicious. But then Logan swung onto a B road, then a strip of narrow tarmac, and finally a bumpy, dirt road that was barely more than a cow path, and Doyle feared he'd been rumbled. He pulled over to the side of the road and got out of the car, watching Logan's taillights disappear in the distance.
He slammed the door and kicked at the gravel at his feet. Bloody bad situation to be in. No one knew his location and here he was, chasing after an Irish nutter who probably knew there was someone on his tail. Not for the first time, he wondered why the fuck he was doing this job. Still, there wasn't anyone else around to do it…
Doyle locked up the car, pulled his gun out of his holster and began walking in the direction Logan had taken. The moon was new, just a thin crescent, and cast only enough light to keep him from tripping over his own feet. Each step was like taking a step into the void, and more than once he cursed himself for a fool and nearly turned back. But duty kept him going, duty and Bodie's voice, chiding him for being afraid of the dark like a big baby.
He'd been walking for perhaps five minutes, though it was hard to judge time in this dark abyss, when he thought he heard something besides the crunch of gravel beneath his feet and his own breath in his lungs. He stopped and held his breath, listening for signs of Logan. Ahead, he heard the muted roar of the surf and could barely make out the dim glistening water of Canaerfon Bay. Two small buildings loomed on his right, the toilets for the campsite he'd passed the signs for a few miles back, the place deserted now that the weather had turned cold.
He released his breath and continued walking, passing one structure as he kept his eyes and ears open. He was coming up on the second when another sound stopped him. He was close enough to the building that he could feel it against the sleeve of his coat. He put out a hand to steady himself, and the cold of the rough wood seeped into his fingertips.
He didn't hold his breath this time, could hear it sounding steadily in his ears as he strained to suss out what it was that had alerted him this time. Then there was a rush of movement behind him and it was too late.
He was slammed face first into the side of the building, his gun arm twisted behind him, his attacker's other arm digging brutally into his neck. His gun was taken away, thrown far into the darkness, and then the other man pried Doyle's wallet out of his back pocket, before flipping him around and driving a fist firmly into his gut.
"Who have we here?" Logan said, as Doyle doubled over and struggled to breath. A torch was flicked on and looking up, Doyle could see the smirk on Logan's face. Logan tucked his gun in his waistband and quickly flipped through the wallet till he found Doyle's ID. Another smirk and he tossed away the wallet and trained the gun firmly on Doyle. "Ray Doyle. I thought I recognized a CI5 rat at the pub."
"You're the only rodent I see, Logan," Doyle gasped out. Logan rewarded him with a staggering blow, this time to the side of his head. Doyle dropped to his knees. He could feel the damp of the ground seeping through his jeans as he shook his head, trying desperately to retain a hold on consciousness.
"You want to be more polite to a man who holds your life in his hands."
Doyle kept his mouth shut and looked down, searching for a way out of this and wishing even more that Bodie were here with him. Then it'd be Logan looking down the end of Bodie's gun.
"The only question is, why are you here?"
"Oh, you know, Gav. Taking in the sights, enjoying a bit of sun." Which was a laugh, the way it'd been pissing down rain the last three days. For his insolence, Logan cuffed him across the head, lighter this time, though still hard enough that Doyle saw stars.
"Don't piss about." Logan shone the torch in his face, making Doyle's eyes water. "What are you doing in Wales?"
"Looking for you."
"Nah, don't believe that. You looked a bit surprised to see me, there in the pub. And I don't think your boss'd send you after me without that great lummox of a partner of yours."
"How do you know Bodie's not here?"
"Me with a gun on you? He'd have come in mob-handed by now."
"He's a patient man." Doyle knew he had nothing to lose and everything to gain by keeping Logan wondering about whether Bodie was here.
"That must be a different Bodie." Logan laughed unkindly, but Doyle did notice that his eyes flicked slightly off to the left. "And you still haven't told me why you're here. Unless you're after the same prey as me." The dim light from the torch gave Logan's smile a nasty cast.
"And what prey would that be?" Keep Logan talking, Doyle reckoned, and maybe he'd find a way out of here.
"Connor McGowan," Logan said. "Friend of mine from way back. Took something of ours, and I've come to collect it. You must have heard of him?"
"Nah," Doyle said, keeping his expression neutral. "Must be a small fish. Not like you Gav."
"I wonder..." Logan said, his eyes narrowing as he examined Doyle closely. Doyle glared back at him. "But not that much." Logan thumbed back the hammer on his gun. Doyle tensed, realizing he had mere moments to live unless he came up with something fast. "They didn't send me here to kill you, but I bet I'll get a commendation for doing it."
Logan raised his gun, and Doyle acted. "Bodie!" he screamed, looking off to his right. As he'd hoped, Logan followed his eyes, looking to his left and allowing his aim to drift slightly. Hoping his body didn't betray him, Doyle sprang to his feet and ran at Logan, hitting out at his gun hand. Logan recovered from his surprise quickly, too quickly, and struggled with Doyle for possession of the gun.
It wasn't nearly a fair fight. Logan outweighed him by at least three stone, most of it muscle. At the best of times, Doyle would've been hard-pressed to defeat him. But this was not the best of times. He still felt like his brain had been scrambled from the blows he'd taken, and Christ knew where his own gun was. If he stayed here, in Logan's grasp, he knew he'd go down in mere seconds. And Logan wasn't going to give him another chance. There was only one thing to do.
Raising a knee, Doyle caught Logan in the goolies. Not a direct blow, not enough to put him down, but enough that he cursed and stumbled and let go of Doyle's jacket, if not of his gun.
Doyle ran.
He ran out into the darkness, towards the sea and away from the nutter with the gun. He heard Logan scream out his name, and then heard the shots, but the darkness was his ally. Shots came close, but nothing hit him. He began to hope.
If he could stay away from Logan, put some distance between them, maybe even get to a house with a phone, then maybe he could survive this cock up. Maybe he'd live to share the story with Bodie over a pint in his local. Maybe...
Maybe not. Because looming in front of him was a cliff's edge that was closer than he'd expected. He skidded to a halt, turning toward Logan and twisting one foot underneath him just as another shot rang out and this time the bullet didn't rip past him but slammed into his shoulder.
And then he was stumbling, and falling, his arms windmilling as he went over the cliff's edge, as he fell through darkness toward the roaring surf below. Impact with earth and rock drove the breath out of his lungs, drove more pain into his body. Then shadow closed over and around him, eradicating even the faint glimmer of the stars and the thin glow of the slivered moon, eradicating all traces of Ray Doyle, and leaving only an insensible and broken shell.
Bodie bounded up the HQ stairs two at a time, for once not put out that the bloody lift was out of order for the fifth time this month. After too many hours stuck in traffic on the way back from Ipswich--Ipswich, for Christ's sake--he just wanted to move. And if that meant running up three flights of stairs, so be it.
The building was even more deserted than usual, his footsteps echoed in the hall undisturbed by any other sound. Like a bloody ghost town, he thought, passing empty office after empty office. Finally, he heard a murmuring coming from the rest room, and made for it. With any luck, Doyle'd be there. They could share stories about the pointless fucking assignments the Cow had sent them on. Bodie had plans that involved skiving off early and heading for the nearest pub, Doyle firmly in tow. After the bloody boring week he'd had, Bodie reckoned he was owed at least a night at the pub with his best mate.
And maybe, just maybe, this was the night he'd finally do it. Wrap an arm around Doyle's shoulder with more than matey good cheer. Drag Doyle back to his flat. Push him against a wall see if he ended up on his arse or with Doyle in his bed. Worth the risk, that, having Doyle naked in his bed. Worth so very much, if only he found the courage to try.
He smiled as he reached the door of the rest room. Poking his head inside he found not Doyle, but Murphy and Jax.
"'Lo Murph. Jax."
Murphy started at his voice and looked at Bodie with surprise.
"You back?"
"Yeah. Finally. Last time I let Cowley send me to Ipswich. Boring doesn't cover it." Murphy didn't rib him and Jax gave Murph a look that he should have known was completely wrong. But Bodie was tired and bored and he didn't realize till later that Jax's expression was equal parts sympathy and pity, and all of it directed at him. "Either of you seen Doyle?"
"Doyle?" Jax looked surprised, as if Bodie'd asked him if he'd seen the bloody Loch Ness monster.
"Yeah, you know. Curly-haired bloke, likes to call himself my partner. Doyle?" Neither Murphy nor Jax answered. Jax bit his lip, and Murphy looked down at the ground. "Listen, any of this sound familiar to you?"
Murphy finally looked up, though he wouldn't meet Bodie's gaze. "Cowley hasn't talked to you?"
"No he hasn't talked to me," Bodie said, frustrated that his colleagues were behaving like right prats and still not realizing how odd it was. "I just got in. Thought I'd track down Doyle first before I sought out our lord and master to tell him he sent me on a wild goose chase."
"You should talk to Cowley, Bodie." Jax's voice was gentle, the sort of voice Bodie'd heard him use to break bad news to people. To wives and girlfriends. To partners…
Bodie felt sick, felt wrong, felt as if his skin had suddenly become two sizes too small.
"What the fuck is going on?" He let anger overpower the fear travelling up and down his spine and coiling around his diaphragm, making breathing impossible.
"Cowley should tell you," Murphy said.
"Tell me what?"
"Bodie!" Bodie turned and Cowley appeared behind him at the door. Their boss looked as if storm clouds had taken up permanent residence over his head. "My office, Bodie."
"What's going on?" Bodie planted his feet firmly on the ground and his hands on his hips, determined not to move till someone told him what the bleeding hell was going on.
"My office, laddie. Now." Determined as he was, Cowley was clearly more determined. Clenching his jaw, Bodie brushed by Cowley and headed to his office.
Cowley closed the door behind them and went straight to his drinks cabinet. Never a good sign, Bodie thought as he took a tumbler of amber liquid from the Cow and slung himself in a seat across from him.
"What did Murphy say to you?" Cowley said.
"Nothing. Just asked if I'd talked to you. What the hell is going on? Sir." The last word was added at the last minute and automatically.
"Doyle's disappeared."
"What?" Bodie felt as if the world had shifted under his feet, leaving him reeling.
"He was due back yesterday, but never made it. And he'd missed two call-ins before that. We asked the local police to check in on him yesterday afternoon. He hadn't slept at his B&B the night before. He was last seen at a pub that night, but no one remembers anything unusual happening there."
"Doyle's been out of contact before. Gets to following up a lead and forgets the time."
"That's not all, Bodie. A local farmer found his car this morning, abandoned on a dirt road. The police retrieved his wallet not far away, at a campsite that's closed for the season."
"Christ," Bodie said, looking down at the now empty glass in his hand.
"And there's one more thing." There was an odd catch in Cowley's voice that made Bodie look up. "The campsite where his wallet was found is right next to a cliff."
"No," Bodie said, shaking his head, not wanting to hear the rest.
"If someone got the drop on Doyle, as it appears they did, they could have thrown him over the edge. His body would have been washed out to sea. We might never know…"
"No." The word emerged from Bodie as an explosion, an angry flare of denial. "Not Doyle. That couldn't happen to Doyle."
"It could, laddie. It could happen to any of us."
"I'm going up there."
"Of course. But not on your own. I've had one agent disappear, I'll not lose another for lack of backup."
"Murphy and Jax?" Bodie suddenly could see why the two agents had been waiting in the rest room, why they'd asked if he'd seen Cowley.
Cowley nodded. "They'll do the driving. You're to check into the same B&B as Doyle was staying at. Find out what happened. Find Doyle."
"Don't worry, sir. We'll find him." Bodie stood and headed for the door. "I'll bring him back, if it's the last thing I do."
He marched down the corridor, long strides eating up the distance to the rest room, trying not to think about the worst case scenario: finding Doyle dead. Or even worse than that: never finding him at all.
No, they'd find him, whole and alive and kicking. And when Bodie found him, got him alone, he'd wrap his arms around the annoying, infuriating bugger and never let him go.
The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows and forcing the man inside the small cottage to flick the lights on before he resumed filling the kettle.
Brian Reynolds had lived on the Lleyn Peninsula for five years. Five years during which he'd sought only to live a quiet life, no excitement, no adventure, and with as little attention paid to him as possible. And he'd succeeded, until yesterday morning, when a walk with his dog had turned up more than the usual birds and sheep. When he'd followed Banshee's barking to peer over a cliff and found a man, bruised, bloody and unconscious, sprawled on a ledge nearly fifteen feet below.
He should have walked away, forgotten what he'd seen. Or, if conscience had pricked him, informed the police of his discovery. Anonymously. What he should not have done was clamber down the cliff side and check the young man for signs of life. He should not have strained his fifty-odd year old body wrestling the scrawny but surprisingly solid man to the top of the cliff on a path fit more for mountain goats that human beings. He should not have left him with Banshee while he ran back to the cottage for his old Rover. Should not have taken him home, should not have called Denny to take a look at him, should not have sworn Denny to secrecy.
Should not have an unconscious young man with a bullet wound in his shoulder and no identification taking up space in his guest bedroom.
He wasn't entirely sure why he'd done it. Empathy, perhaps? God only knew he'd had his own trials, been wounded and alone and beset by enemies. It was why he'd settled down here. Sick of the fighting, sick of the blood, sick of not knowing who to trust.
Here he was just that nice Mr. Reynolds from Dublin. His Welsh neighbours tolerated his Irishness and thanked Christ he wasn't English. And no one knew who he really was, no one but Denny, who'd escaped Ireland himself to set up a country practice here. Denny, who'd helped him out more than once in Belfast when he'd needed patching up. Who'd found him this cottage when he'd needed, once and for all, to get away from the insanity of Belfast.
Denny'd pulled the bullet out of his guest, dressed the wound, checked him for other injuries and told Brian to keep an eye on him and that he'd be back once a day to check on his patient. He hadn't said anything else, but his eyes had spoken volumes. Told Brian he was a fool to risk his own skin for a curly-haired stranger.
Brian had only shrugged, told Denny he'd call if the man woke up. Or got worse. Then sent him on his way.
He heard a sound and turned his head to see Banshee scurrying towards him, his nails ticking on the wooden floor. Brian had never had a dog before, had never wanted one, but Banshee had turned up not long after he'd moved here. He was big and black and shaggy, lab mixed with God knew what else, and he'd howled outside like his namesake until Brian had finally relented and let him in for the night. And the next night. And before he knew it, he was owned by one very possessive dog.
Banshee was very proprietary, very protective, and he didn't trust easily. He was another reason that Brian hadn't been able to leave the young man on the ledge to either his fate or the authorities. Most people, Banshee'd growl at or worse, but not this man. He'd sat on the cliff, standing guard over his unconscious charge, refusing to be shifted until Brian returned with the car.
Banshee didn't like many people and trusted even fewer--Brian reckoned he'd ended up howling outside his cottage because he'd either been abused or abandoned or both--so the fact that he'd taken on the unconscious man as his personal charge was the best reference the man could have had.
"Well, boy," Brian said to the dog. "What do you want now? Found another stray for me to take in?"
Banshee gave him a mournful look, whimpered and butted against his leg, pushing him out of the kitchen.
"Is our visitor awake?"
Banshee bumped against him once more and whined in a way that yet again made Brian think the dog was an old soul trapped in an animal's body. A soul that understood every word he said.
"C'mon, then." He reached down and scratched Banshee's ears as he began walking down the hall. "Let's go hear what our visitor has to say."
Who was it, Ray?
He woke slowly, drifting up through layers of darkness and fog, through shouting and the cracks of explosions. Through pain.
Well, then, the next time, you can be the monkey on a string…
He was nearly there, nearly awake, nearly knew who he was, knew where he was. He grasped at the knowledge, tried to hold fast to it.
Bodie!
And then it was gone, all gone, like mist blown away by a crisp morning breeze.
"Do you think he's awake, Banshee?"
The voice intruded on his dreams, jarring him fully awake, and making him gasp as a burning pain lanced into his right shoulder.
"Easy, son." A hand pushed him gently back onto the bed where he found himself lying. He opened his eyes and found himself looking at an older man, fifty or more. His expression was concerned yet friendly looking, his eyes and mouth surrounded by laugh lines, his hair going grey in a fatherly way. "You're safe."
"Where am I?"
"In my cottage. My name's Brian, and this is Banshee." He looked down and found a black beast of a dog licking his hand. "Don't mind him, he doesn't bite."
He scratched the nearest ear and was rewarded with a wagging tail.
"How did I get here?" He struggled to sit up, more slowly this time. His host, Brian, hoisted him gently by his good shoulder and then propped him up with pillows before taking a seat at his side.
"I found you a few miles from here. Or rather, Banshee did. You'd fallen from a cliff."
"Fallen?" He struggled to remember a fall, a cliff. Anything.
"Yes." Brian's eyes narrowed slightly and he looked at his shoulder. "And you'd been shot."
He winced, realizing now why his shoulder felt as if it were on fire.
"Do you remember what happened?"
"No." He shook his head, then realized what a bad idea that was as a wave of dizziness overcame him. "I don't…"
"Do you remember what you were doing there?"
He shook his head again, more carefully this time. "I can't remember."
"That's all right, son." Brian patted his arm. "I'm sure it'll come to you. Is there anyone I can call? Let them know you're all right?"
"No," he said. "You don't understand." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, fighting against the panic that was beginning to overwhelm him, to swamp him like a dinghy caught in a north Atlantic gale. "I don't remember anything."
The drive to Wales was six hours of unremitting boredom and constant anxiety.
With Murphy and Jax taking turns at the wheel, Bodie had nothing to do, nothing to keep his mind off what might have happened to Doyle. He occupied himself with reading the file Cowley had given him. It was the same file Doyle had been given, outlining the career of Connor McGowan, IRA bomber and all round bastard. He was the bloke Doyle had been looking for. McGowan had disappeared years ago and not been heard from since. Bodie wasn't sure why Cowley had devoted any agents, let alone Doyle, to follow up a slim lead that the man might have been seen on the Lleyn Peninsula, possibly around Pwllheli. But then, Cowley always did like to have his T's crossed and his I's dotted. Probably hated the fact that McGowan's file was still open.
There was little enough in the file. A picture that, from the look of it, was likely ten years old. A list of known associates, most of them in gaol or dead. A description of the bombings McGowan was thought to have engineered, including his last: the school bus. The bus had been nearing the end of its run, but there had been five children remaining. All of them and the driver had been killed. Bodie spent no time looking at those pictures. He'd seen enough horrors in his own time in Ulster.
The sun was setting as they crossed the border into Wales, so rather than strain his eyes in the fading light, Bodie threw the file on the seat beside him. Leaning his head back against the seat, he closed his eyes and tried to clear his thoughts, to exist in the moment, like Shusai was always encouraging him to do.
He couldn't, of course.
Doyle's face kept springing to his mind. Doyle laughing with him; Doyle laughing at him; Doyle snarling in rage after a nasty op; Doyle looking smug after beating his score on the shooting range.
Doyle, his face gone grey, bleeding out on the floor of his flat. Doyle, connected to too many tubes and wires, letting a machine breathe for him.
He didn't want to go through that again. He'd only survived it the first time by putting Doyle out of his mind and doing his duty, doing what he had to, and not stopping until Mayli Kuolo was dead and Ray Doyle was very much back in the land of the living.
Doyle'd survive this time, as well. He had to.
As if he could read his colleague's thoughts, Jax chose that moment to turn around. Bodie opened his eyes at the sound of rustling and found Jax staring at him. "We'll find him," Jax said, though to Bodie's ear there was more hope than conviction behind the words.
"We bloody well better," was the only response Bodie could make.
It was dark when they arrived in Pwllheli, driving straight to the B&B where Doyle had been staying. The owner, a retired widow named Maggie Call, was considerate and anxious, concerned both about her missing guest and the impact it might have on her trade. Bodie left it to Murphy to reassure her, claimed the key for Doyle's room and ascended a narrow staircase.
He opened the door with trepidation, as if he was entering the scene of a crime, but the room he found was utterly ordinary. There was a bed, with a flowered spread, a wardrobe that had seen better days, a small desk with tea making supplies, and a hideous armchair in the corner. The only sign of Doyle's occupancy was the suitcase sitting in the middle of the bed. He took two steps in and stopped, concentrating on the details of the room, looking for some sign of what might have happened to Doyle, where he might be.
There was a clattering behind him and he turned to find Mrs. Call leading Murph and Jax up the stairs.
"I thought he might have skipped out on me, your Mr. Doyle. Except that didn't make any sense, since he'd paid for three nights up front." She pointed at the suitcase. "He left that, all packed up, in the wardrobe. I didn't touch it except to put it on the bed. Was that all right?" She looked worriedly at Bodie, but he was already moving toward the mute piece of luggage.
"That's fine, Mrs. Call," Murphy said. "We'll let you know if we need anything more from you."
"You do that." She wiped her hands on her dress in what was clearly a nervous gesture. "I hope you find your friend," she said before disappearing back down the stairs.
Without a backward glance at his colleagues, Bodie snapped open the suitcase and started to carefully sort through its contents. There was absolutely nothing unusual, and nothing seemed to be missing, except Doyle's gun, which he should have had with him anyway. Sighing, he repacked the case and snapped it shut once again.
"Anything?" Jax asked.
"Nothing." Bodie slung the case into the corner and sat on the bed himself. " Not a bloody sausage."
"Be nice if he'd left us a note," Murph said. "Off to visit the IRA stronghold in Aberdaron. Be back soon."
"Or even Don't trust Mrs. Call. She is not all she seems," Jax added.
"I'm sure they'd laugh the IRA out of Aberdaron, and Mrs. Call is exactly what she seems," Bodie said, fatigue seeping into his bones. "Doyle's gone, and fuck knows where he's got to."
"C'mon, Bodie," Murphy said. "Let's go down to the pub and get a pint. Put it all in perspective."
"'M not in the mood, Murph."
"It's the last place Doyle was seen," Jax reminded him. "And the regulars should all be there by now. We can have a pint and start asking a few pointed questions."
Bodie stood, feeling if not energized, then at least like he had a purpose.
"C'mon, then, you two. What's keeping you?" He headed for the door, leaving Murphy and Jax to catch him up.
"I bloody hope we find Doyle soon," he heard Jax say quietly to Murphy. "'Cause I'm going to slap Bodie, if I have to work with him for long."
His second waking was easier.
There were no nightmare images, no screaming, no explosions. Only the return of the pain in his head and shoulder, the ache of countless bruises, and the return of the knowledge that he had no idea who he was.
He opened his eyes and found himself in a small but pleasant bedroom, plain white curtains on the windows, plain whitewashed walls surrounding him.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he pushed himself up with his good arm. His head swam slightly, but his headache was already receding into the distance.
There was a whining sound from the floor, and he started, his flight or fight instinct coming on full, until a mournful-looking dog's head appeared on the blanket beside him.
"Guess I didn't dream you, did I boy," he said, patting the large black head. The dog gave him several enthusiastic licks in return, until Doyle pushed him away.
"Sorry about Banshee," a stranger's voice said. "Gets a bit too excited sometimes." He looked up to see the man from last night--at least he hoped it was only last night--looking down at him. "Come here, Banshee." The dog looked at him reluctantly, then at his master, but he finally moved away from the bed.
"You're name's...Brian?" He frowned as he struggled to remember the night's conversation, mixed as it was with half formed images of violence and fear.
"That's right." The man scratched the ears of the dog. "Have you remembered your name yet?" The question was asked lightly.
"No," he said, shaking his head. "Not my name, not where I come from. Nothing." He bit his lip and wondered if this was what it was like to lose your mind.
"It's early days yet," Brian said cheerfully. "And that's quite a bump on your head. I'm sure it'll all come back to you soon enough."
"There hasn't been anyone asking about me?" He tried desperately to think of a way to break the mystery of his identity. "The police haven't said anything?"
"The police..." Brian started, before cutting himself off. "I haven't exactly told the police you're here." He looked somehow both sheepish and unapologetic.
"Why not?"
"Better if I show you." He disappeared from the room for a minute before returning with a tangle of leather and webbing dangling from one finger. "You were wearing this when I found you."
"A holster?"
"A holster," Brian confirmed. "Minus the gun, I might add."
"I still don't understand," he said, struggling to comprehend what difference it could possibly make whether he was wearing a holster, knowing somehow that wearing it was second nature to him.
"Then let me explain." Brian sat down in the ladder back chair beside the bed. "Most fine, upstanding citizens don't go around carrying guns. Not in Wales. Not even in London, unless things have changed a lot since the last time I was there. And they don't turn up with bullet holes in them either. And it's not just that new wound. You've got a few other scars that are fairly impressive as well."
"I could be police," he said, grasping at the easiest explanation, the one that felt almost right.
"If a policeman went missing, it'd be all over the news. There hasn't been a word of any such thing."
He frowned. "You think I'm a villain?" That didn't seem right at all, but then where did those images of violence and destruction in his head come from?
"That's a bit harsh." In spite of the seriousness of their conversation, Brian smiled. "Let's just say that you may not quite be on the side of the angels."
"If you think that, then why didn't you report me?"
"Well, there's Banshee there, for a start." Brian nodded at the dog, who took the opportunity to jump up on the bed and lie down at his feet.
"Banshee?"
"He likes you. Good judge of character, is Banshee."
"You haven't taken me in on a dog's opinion?" Brian seemed normal enough, not the sort of eccentric given to accepting the opinion of beasts.
"Don't knock this dog, boy-o. He's sussed out more than one scoundrel in his day. But no, Banshee's good opinion wasn't everything." His face lost its smile and became suddenly serious. "Let's just say, I know we all sometimes have to do things we're not proud of. Doesn't mean we should hang for them."
"I find it hard to believe you've done things you're not proud of."
"You didn't know me back in the day." He shook his head and then shrugged. "But that's years ago. Another lifetime. No use dwelling on it." He stood and shooed Banshee off the bed. "You ready for some breakfast? You hardly ate a bite last night."
"I wasn't up to eating then." He'd nearly heaved up the little soup and sandwich he'd tried to eat last night. "But I'm better now. Could stand a little tea and toast."
"Tea and toast it shall be, boy-o." He moved to the door and then stopped abruptly. "I can't keep calling you boy-o. You need a name."
"Why don't you pick one out?" He shrugged. "It doesn't make a difference to me."
"Hmmm." Brian gave him a considering look. "How about Mike? Had a cousin named Mike. Not a bad sort and you look a bit like him."
He nodded. Mike was as good a name as any.
"Fine, Mike. The bathroom's down the hall, if you want to wash up. I've left some clothes down there that should fit you. Denny left them last night. He's got a son about your size."
"Denny?"
"He's the one who patched you up. And don't you worry, he's as discreet as I am."
"He Irish too?"
"All the best people are," Brian said with a laugh. "Present company excepted."
Doyle smiled as Brian headed for the kitchen, his head not being up to full laughter at the moment. As he stood, he had a brief flash, a moment of panic and fear, the sounds of sirens in his ears, the stink of a hospital in his nostrils. Bodie, you half-Irish son of a bitch, what'd you want to go and do that for? He put one hand on the wall to steady himself, and wondered if Bodie was the dark-haired man he kept seeing, and just what Bodie had done to make him so mad.
It was after dark when Bodie entered the Riverside's pub, Murphy and Jax behind him. In no mood to face the bar himself, he sought out an empty seat in the corner, trusting that Murph'd get him a pint.
It had been a long day. They'd spent it poking around Pwllheli and the immediate area, retracing Doyle's steps. And they'd turned up nothing. No trace of Doyle, no hint of what had happened to him. They hadn't even found any sign of McGowan, the reason that Doyle was here in the first place, though one or two of the locals had made an odd face when they'd been shown the bomber's picture.
Bodie could see the loss of hope in Murphy and Jax's eyes. He could tell what they were thinking. That Doyle had been taken by surprise on that cliff, by person or persons unknown. That he'd been overpowered. That he'd been tossed over the edge and into the sea. That they'd never find the body.
But Bodie refused to believe that. Doyle was too mean to die that way. Too mean to die at all. Not before... Christ, Bodie stopped himself before he went bloody soft. Doyle was alive, and they'd find him, and that's all there was to it.
He looked up as Murphy arrived with his pint. Taking the glass, he downed a long, satisfying swallow.
"Either of you have any brilliant ideas?" Murph said. "Because I'm fresh out."
"We keep looking," Bodie said with grim-faced determination. "We scour every inch of the peninsula until we find Doyle. And if that doesn't work, we start in on the rest of Wales."
"That'll take forever," Murph said. "I thought Doyle was the PC Plod of the team." Bodie met Murph's attempt at humour with a steely glare. "Christ, you're not kidding, are you?" Murphy's eyes widened.
"No, I'm bloody not."
"Before we search all of Wales," Jax broke in, "what do you say to trying this lot again?" He nodded at the pub-goers surrounding them.
"They didn't know anything last night, Jax."
"Someone might not have been here last night, Murph. Or might have remembered something since. Worth a chance, eh Bodie?" Jax looked to him for affirmation.
Bodie nodded, willing to do anything if it would find them Doyle. "Worth any chance."
"C'mon, then," Murphy said, resigned. "Let's spread out and work our magic."
Bodie took another sip of his pint for luck, and then rose and began chatting with the customers, the locals and a few stray tourists. As they had last night, most remembered talking to Doyle, even the older couple from Slough, up here visiting their daughter, but none remembered seeing him leave the pub that night.
Sighing, Bodie made another trip back to the bar. If it was going to be another futile night, at least he could do it with another pint inside him.
"Did you fellows say you're with the police, then?" the bartender asked him as he pulled Bodie's pint.
"We didn't say," Bodie said, letting his gaze sweep the crowd for anyone he hadn't talked to. "But we're CI5."
"CI5? Sort of like MI5?"
"Sort of." Bodie turned back to the man. "But don't let my boss hear you say that. We like to think we're a better sort of service."
"I can understand that." He passed Bodie his pint and Bodie passed him a fiver. The man got his change but then held onto it rather than turning it over. "Only I've just sort of remembered something. From the night your friend disappeared."
Abruptly, Bodie turned his full attention on the man.
"What is it?"
"This Irish bloke turned up that night. Think it was after your friend left. Unpleasant sort. No one wanted to talk to him. Had a few pints, made a nuisance of himself and finally left."
"Why didn't you mention that before?"
"It was after your friend left, so I didn’t think it was important."
"Everything's important." Bodie reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the picture of McGowan. "Is this him?"
"No. Nothing like. This man was big. Taller than you, and broad in the shoulders. Ugly as sin, as well."
"Any idea where he went, after he left?"
"No. It was late, so he must have been staying somewhere close. But not in Pwllheli. I'd have heard if anyone like that was staying in town."
"Thanks, mate." He gestured at the change, still clutched in the bartender's hand. "Why don't you keep that." He'd pay a lot more than a fiver for information that led to Doyle, and this might just.
He pulled Murphy away from the elderly matron who'd cornered him and waved Jax over to an empty booth.
"What's up?" Jax asked.
"The bartender's remembered something. An Irishman came into the pub after Doyle left."
"Was it McGowan?"
"No. He said this bloke was big and ugly. Ring any bells?"
"Christ," Murphy said, his thoughts clearly going in the same direction as Bodie's had.
"Fill me in, why don't you?" Jax said.
"You're thinking it's Gav Logan, aren't you?" Murphy asked him.
"Who's Gav Logan?" Jax looked from Murphy to Bodie.
"He's an IRA enforcer," Murphy said. "One of the nastiest. We ran him in last year while you were on that undercover op in Liverpool."
"And Doyle and I interrogated him," Bodie said. "Fucking hell."
"If he saw Doyle…" Murphy said.
"Or Doyle saw him," Jax added.
"Fucking hell," Bodie repeated, his mind shutting down at the possibility of Gav Logan getting his hands on Doyle. The bastard was a complete sadist. If he had rumbled Doyle…Christ. Being tossed into the Irish Sea would be a pleasure compared to some of the things Logan had done to his victims.
"It might not be Logan," Murphy said, putting a hand on Bodie's shoulder. "And he mightn't have seen Doyle."
"I hope you're right," Bodie said, taking a deep breath. "I hope to fuck you're right."
On to Part 2
