It's about time Traff made a reappearance, but this time he's the one needing the help.

Disclaimer - I don't own them and I dn't make money from them...only lots of wonderful friends who share an interest in hurting them...just a little bit!

Chapter 1 – 2 weeks ago

The dark, curly haired man came back to consciousness quickly, body stiffening as his mind told him he was once again awake. On immediate alert for the flakes that'd jumped him in the street close to his apartment he tensed automatically, feeling the pains begin across his chest and arm. For a moment his eyes remained closed, his brain telling him it would be crazy to alert anyone to the fact he was awake, and his other senses quested around him for signs of life or danger. Every fibre of his being told him to remain still and quiet. Every word of his training told him to pretend to be asleep until he could assess the situation fully.

His hearing told him that he definitely wasn't in or near his apartment any more. There was a myriad of sounds around him. Voices, hushed and low, murmured conversations that didn't concern him. In the distance the mechanical beeping of some kind of machine rang insistently and the metallic clang of trolleys rolling across hard tiled floors added to the muted cacophony. His sense of smell registered antiseptic and canned, bland air conditioning, the temperature neither too warm nor too cold and the taste in his mouth told him he'd been drugged. His lips refused to glide over his teeth properly and his tongue felt as though someone had covered it in sandpaper, his throat sore and dry. Nasal cannula invaded his nostrils and irritated his top lip and he could feel the dull ache that came from a needle in the back of his right hand. He recognised the signs. He'd had some kind of surgical procedure, most likely to remove the bullet. OK, he seemed to be safe. Time to wake up.

Emerald green eyes opened slowly from beneath thick, dark eyelashes that any make up advertising guru would have paid millions for the use of and attempted to look around. But the bright light above him hurt and he hissed softly, trying to raise his right hand to shield his eyes from the harsh glare. Something held his hand down and for one awful, terror stricken moment he panicked. Oh my God, they still had him! They'd taken him somewhere! They'd restrained him in some way. He started to struggle weakly and a female voice penetrated his terror and the soothing tones attempted to calm him.

'Major…..Major Trafford…..Tom try to stay calm, you're in the hospital. Ssssh, don't fight us, just let the drugs do the work huh?' A soft hand rested on his forehead and carded fingers through his hair, gentling him and piercing his fears so that they dissipated and popped like a soap bubble. He turned his head and with difficulty focussed on the uniformed nurse at his side, relief flooding through his veins. He honestly thought that for a moment he was back in his neighbourhood with the four attackers still pointing their guns at him and he sighed in relief.

'Where am I?' he asked in a rasping voice that indicated he'd been out for some time.

'At the base hospital. You're safe Tom, try not to worry. You were lucky your neighbour found you outside your apartment and phoned it in. The ambulance picked you up, saw the uniform and your tags and brought you here. You lost a fair amount of blood, but we're dealing with that and you've had surgery to remove the bullet from your shoulder. What do you remember?'

'There were four….I saw 'em….they had guns. They shouted, I tried to fight 'em off and……boom. I tried to get home. Must've passed out……shit!' he whispered, the memories intensifying the pains.

'I'm sorry Major. I shouldn't have asked, it's too early. Just try to rest. You're safe. We have armed guards on the door. You're gonna be fine'.

Traff listened to the calm voice and basked for a moment in the warmth and the feeling of security. It had been a tough few months, but it was nearing an end.

'How long?'

'You were brought in last evening. You've been unconscious for about 15 hours, but we have you stabilised now. The doctor is on his way to see you with Colonel Whitehead. They have more answers for you. Just try to relax. We've given you pain meds, so you'll probably just want to sleep' the nurse advised.

'Don't wanna sleep. Wanna get outa here' Traff gasped as he tried to move to get out of the bed. The woman grinned at him and put a restraining hand on his arm.

'And I thought you'd want me for my body Tom. I'm hurt you want to leave so soon, but it doesn't surprise me, you always were the world's worst patient. Lie back. I know moving is gonna hurt so let that be a lesson to you Major. Look, your CO is here now. Ring if you need anything'. The nurse pushed the call button into his hand and left as two men walked over to his bed.

Now that he was awake, Traff looked around as much as he could do from his horizontal position. He was in a large single bedded room decorated with white walls and a single picture of a countryside scene above a small chest of drawers. A large window allowed the morning light to flood in and was partially shielded by a plain green blind. Typical army hospital room, but at least his rank allowed him the luxury of privacy. He tried to sit up a little in the bed, but his left arm and shoulder were heavily bandaged and the movement did nothing other than cause a knife like stabbing pain in his wound. Two drip bags hung from the stand by the bed, one with a bag of scarlet blood, another with some clear fluid. Fortunately there was no other machinery and for that he was thankful. From bitter experience he knew the more machinery around the bed, the longer he'd have to stay put.

The doctor came to stand at the side of his bed while his CO, Colonel Whitehead remained hovering at the foot. Whitehead and Traff were close having worked as part of the same unit for at least 9 years. As close as a CO and his soldier could be and Traff knew the big ginger haired man hated sickness or anything to do with hospitals - they made him nervous and edgy. The burly guy looked distinctly uncomfortable and grasped his cap in front of him, screwing it round and round as he looked at the drip, the oxygen and then back at this friend. Traff smiled weakly at him and then turned his attention to the medic at his side.

The doctor checked his charts, pulled the dressings away from the wound to peer at it and then checked Traff's pulse.

'You're a lucky man Major' he finally concluded. 'If the bullet had been two inches lower, we'd have been planning a funeral right now'.

'Don't feel particularly lucky' Traff grunted. 'When can I leave Sir? I got stuff to do'.

'You won't be getting out of bed any time soon. And after that…..Colonel Whitehead will be talking to you about that. We've given you two units of blood and there's another pint of the good stuff on its way. And I've removed the bullet. A nice neat .22, so that scar won't be particularly impressive, I'm sorry to say. But it'll sit nicely with the others I'm sure' the doctor grinned at the "in" joke – chicks always went for scars and soldiers liked to collect them, however minor. 'Unless there's anything of pressing urgency that you want to ask, I'll leave you in the company of Colonel Whitehead. He has news for you' the medic turned to the Colonel. 'Don't tire him Matt, or I'll have your guts for garters. He has a lot of healing to do'.

Whitehead grinned at the departing back and then hooked a chair up to the side of the bed and sat down.

'How're ya doin'?' he asked.

'I just woke up with a shoulder full of hole. How d'ya think I feel? I want to get outa here and nail those flakes Matt. I need to. They think they can intimidate me like this, but they won't stop me'.

'I know, and in your position I'd feel the same way, but you're not Superman Traff. You aint goin' nowhere other than to a safe house till the trial. We need to keep you safe and we can't do it here. It's too open, too public. We need somewhere away from everything. Somewhere defensible, where you can….'

'See 'em coming. Yeah, I know the drill, but I don't want 'em thinking I'm on the run Matt. I'm gonna nail those bastards if it's the last thing I do'.

'I know. They um….they left this pinned to your shirt' the Colonel said quietly, smoothing out a crumpled, blood stained piece of paper and holding it out for Traff to read. The thick black lettering was neat and uniform, as though it had been stencilled.

WE DIDN'T MISS

THIS IS A WARNING

DON'T GIVE EVIDENCE IF YOU VALUE YOUR LIFE

THE NEXT TIME WILL BE FOR REAL

'Charmin' turn of phrase they got' Traff grunted. 'But they don't know me as well as they think. It'll take more'n that to stop me. I'm givin' evidence whatever they think'.

'And you will, but you'll never make it to the trial if we don't do somethin' to protect you. Just let us get you to a safe house and give you some protection'.

'They're watching us all the time, they must be to take me when they did. How're ya gonna get me protection huh? I'm no shrinkin' violet. I don't need to hide behind anyone'. Traff's voice rose in anger, but at the same time the blazing emerald eyes showed pain and there was a distinct hitch in the voice. The soldier was tiring fast and Whitehead saw the signs.

'Would it help if I could get ya someone you know and trust? Someone who was used to keeping witnesses safe? Someone who knew the score' he asked.

'Like who?' Traff battled to keep awake, but his eyelids felt like lead and a deep ache had started up in his shoulder so that he gritted his teeth against it, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he tried desperately to control it. Shit he hated this. He hated not being in control over his own life and he hated even more the fact that he had to rely on someone else for his safety. That was his job, surely. He was the career soldier. He was the one who had the country's safety as his number one concern. His country shouldn't have to worry about him. Damn.

As if from a distance, he heard Whitehead's voice telling him to relax and take it easy and next, the nurse's voice was back. He felt a bee sting scratch on his upper arm and then the warm, fuzzy, slightly disconcerting feeling of the morphine taking effect, making him dizzy and sending him away to pain free oblivion for a while, whilst others dealt with his business.

Colonel Matt Whitehead watched as his friend succumbed to the mind clouding, soporific effects of the drug. Slowly Traff's eyes closed and his body relaxed against the mattress. This sucked. He hated seeing the usually vital man injured like this. And for what? It wasn't as though Traff had been on some dangerous mission in a foreign country. This injury seemed so pointless, and yet…..

Whitehead waited a little while longer until he was sure Traff was well and truly asleep, and then tiptoed from the room, returning the salute the two armed guards at the door flipped him. The sentries went back to their duties, rifles resting across their knees as they sat either side of the doorway. As the nurse and Whitehead left the room, a third soldier entered and took up a seat by the window. Looking back, Whitehead assured himself that for the time being the handsome soldier was safe. Jamming his cap back onto his head, he walked purposefully back to his office across the other side of the base and into the snug room. As he passed his secretary sitting at her desk, he put a piece of paper in front of her.

'Get me that number and then hold any calls' he grunted as he went into his room. He heard her busy herself with the telephone and a moment later his own handset rang. Picking up, he heard the familiar voice at the other end of the phone.

'Captain Dobey' he said carefully. 'It's Colonel Whitehead over at the 8th Battalion. I wonder if we might talk.'