Surprisingly, Bodie and Doyle found themselves on the wrong side of a fire fight. They had radioed for backup, and they were sure that it was on its way, but it was too little too late. The agents heard the mental bugle of retreat. They shuffled back towards their car, Doyle slightly ahead and moving towards the driver's side. He heard a grunt and a thud behind him. He glanced back briefly. His gun was empty but he was still on alert and could at least look threatening. Bodie was on the ground and struggling to get up; struggling to stay conscious. Doyle turned back.
"For God sake keep going," Bodie gasped, wanting his daft partner to save his own skin and leave him behind.
There was no way in the world though that Doyle was going to leave his comrade. He snatched up Bodie's gun – he wasn't sure if there were any bullets left in it – and grabbed friend's collar. In his anxiety to get his partner into the back of the car, he let go of his casualty, and opened the back door with such ferocity that it smashed into Bodie's head.
"Christ mate, I'm sorry."
But he got no response as his friend had lapsed into unconsciousness – either from his initial injury or from concussion. Doyle saw the opposition sensing victory and heading towards them. He fired at the nearest body in the hope that there was something significant 'up the spout'. Fortunately there was, and Doyle didn't miss. The man's cronies held back at seeing their leader crumple to the ground. It was the few moments that Doyle needed to stuff Bodie into the car and get into the driving seat. Anger overtook logic and he ran the car straight down the throat of the opposition – even though they were still armed and dangerous. Fortunately for Doyle the gang were more concerned in saving their own skins and avoiding getting run over than taking pot shots at the car. Doyle slammed his foot down on the accelerator and headed for sanctuary, anger still burning. The villains regrouped quickly and scrambled into their car and headed off after the disappearing CI5 agents. Doyle glanced in his rear-view mirror and saw that he had company. He also noted that his friend was still unconscious in the back. A shot to the rear of Doyle's car focused his attention. He knew all the tricks of his trade and soon lost the opposition.
The gang had second-guessed Doyle's destination though and, as he headed towards the General Hospital, he saw their car heading in the opposite direction on the same road. Doyle swore and swerved off down a side street, the gang in hot pursuit. He again managed to elude them through his expert driving. He snatched up the radio and rapidly explained his position to base. He said that making for the hospital was no-go for the moment at least and that he would head for safe house 12. He arrived there after no more than ten minutes or so of switchbacks and double backs. He parked up at the side of the house out of sight. He dragged his unconscious friend over his shoulder, made short work of picking the back door lock and into the house. He dumped Bodie unceremoniously onto the couch in the living room, and left him there for the moment. He then got back in the car, reversed back down the drive quietly, and found the woodyard that he was aiming for. He got out quickly and picked the simple padlock that secured the premises and drove his car in there. He made his way back out on foot, closing the gate and snapping the padlock back in place. He was only just in time as the felons' car sailed past, looking for the CI5 vehicle. The opposition seemed to know that Doyle was in the area. They wouldn't find the car, but they had certainly found the right general spot. Doyle tried his R/T and just got static in return. That had him bothered, but not too alarmed – for now. It was how the baddies were homing in that got him worried.
Doyle jogged back towards the safe house, trying to keep to the shadows without making himself look too conspicuous or suspicious. He turned his collar up against the growing cold and stuffed his hands in his pockets. It was then that the fingers of his left hand touched something hard and metallic. At first he thought it was an unspent bullet. He fished it out as he walked and turned it over in his hand. It was a homing device. How the hell had it got there? No wonder they knew where he was. As he walked briskly – the back of his mind still focused on his friend back at the safe house needing urgent attention – he quickly reviewed the day's events. He thought back to their briefing at HQ that morning, then the meeting in the pub as they thrashed out their strategy. It had been a hot day and Doyle recalled taking off his jacket. He remembered to his embarrassment – and Bodie's ribbing – having to go back for it. Then it had all kicked off. Yes, someone must have been in the pub while they were chatting and had planted the bug then. Doyle checked himself to see if there was anything else planted there. As he ran his fingers around his jacket collar a bus sailed past. He was tempted to get on it, but he wasn't too far from the safe house now. But the bus had given him an idea. He ducked down a side street and onto another main road. Fortunately he hadn't long to wait for a bus to come along. He jumped on it quickly and sat down. As the conductor approached him Doyle asked if this was the right route to Chelsea. The conductor, quite naturally, had thought this tourist well out of his depth and told him that Chelsea was miles away and he was better getting the Tube. Doyle made appropriate disappointed noises and got off – conveniently leaving the homing device lodged into the passenger seat. Doyle smiled as he jumped off and headed back in the direction of the safe house again. The baddies would have an interesting time following their particular bug that evening!
Satisfied that he was no longer being followed Doyle quickly made his way back to the safe house and slipped quietly into the back kitchen - where he found his mate slumped across the lino. He was instantly at Bodie's side. He was relieved to find a pulse and Bodie groaning into consciousness. 'Idiot' Doyle thought to himself. Bodie was rapidly regaining his senses and got himself awkwardly and painfully to a sitting position on the floor.
"Trust you to make for the fridge!"
"I was aiming for the back door," he countered huffily.
Doyle grinned and helped his mate back onto the couch. He then frisked him for any bugs just in case. All clear. He went back to retrieve the first aid kit. He brought with him a damp floor cloth - all that he could find quickly - to wipe away the blood covering his friend's face. He'd deal with the bloody trail from couch to kitchen later - maybe.
Next job was to find out just how much Bodie was hurting. It didn't take a moment to find the sodden hole in Bodie's shirt near his right collarbone. Doyle looked for an exit wound and found a jagged hole high in the shoulder blade. He'd lost a lot of blood but Doyle did what he could with limited supplies. While he was dealing with the more concerning task of plugging bullet holes, he let Bodie pretty himself up.
"Gone right through," was Doyle's diagnosis as he applied dressings and bandages, putting Bodie's arm in an improvised sling.
"Don't know which is worse - my arm or my head. God, it hurts." Bodie had finished awkwardly scrubbing the blood off his face.
"You hit the ground hard, mate. Went down like a sack of spuds," Doyle lied.
"Alright, don't go on." Bodie continued exploring his temple. "Size of a ruddy duck egg."
"I said your head needs shrinking!" Doyle applied more dressings and bandages to the wound, quietly anxious about his patient who was beginning to lose consciousness again.
With the goons, hopefully, out of the area their jammer was no longer blocking the R/T. A relieved Doyle quickly brought Base up to date with his afternoon and had to wait for what seemed like an eternity before a van arrived – Bones the Butcher was emblazoned on the side. Where did Cowley find these vehicles?! Two agents, whom Doyle recognised, emerged from the cab in their 'Bones' overalls, complete with clipboard. Cowley thought of everything.
"I'm asking you the way to Timbuktu," Agent 1.7 told Doyle when he answered the door in double quick time.
Doyle took up the cue and stepped outside, pointing back down the road. The 'butchers' made a charade, for the sake of the neighbours and any other watchers, of shaking their heads in frustration. They headed back to their van and backed it into the drive, ready to turn round and go back from whence they came. Conveniently the engine stalled, giving Doyle enough time to stuff their casualty unseen in the back. Doyle quietly closed the side door of the house again, joining Bodie in the van. He knocked on the cab divider to say that they were both in position, and the agents drove off smartly. Professional cleaners would be round soon to clean the blood off the carpet and furniture.
…
Cowley met his agents at the hospital where a stretcher was waiting to take the casualty to theatre. The 'butchers' were quickly dismissed by Cowley, leaving Doyle alone in the car park with his boss. Without prompting, Doyle briefly told Cowley of his afternoon. They then adjourned to the canteen to await developments. Doyle shivered as he cupped a mug of hot, sweet tea. He hadn't realised how cold he was. Cowley quietly got up and came back with a few rounds of toast. Doyle looked shyly at his boss, who smiled softly as Doyle reached out.
Having got his agent fed and relaxed, Cowley got down to basics. "So, if you were bugged in the pub, it was likely that we were overheard. That's probably why you two blundered into an ambush."
Somehow Doyle thought he was to blame for his carelessness but said nothing, chewing the delaying tactics and swallowing his anger at the 'blundering' point of Cowley's analysis.
"I've stood down the rest of the operation for now. No point in putting our agents at further risk. We'll have to resume the second half later."
Doyle felt rebuked under Cowley's harsh tone. "Sorry," he managed.
"Och, well," was all the Controller was prepared to say - leaving his agent to interpret that as he might - and he got up to leave.
Doyle followed and they grilled the medical staff for news. There being none, Doyle was left cooling his heels at the hospital while Cowley limped off to find other agents to kick in the pants. A botched operation was always a possibility, but it never went down well with an organised Cowley after weeks of preparation. Agents would have to take cover for a while yet.