Negotiations in a Graveyard
Part One
The day dawned cold and misty. Ray Doyle pulled on his running trainers with an air of resignation and expectation. It was going to be his first proper run since he'd been injured on duty a few weeks ago. A sudden sharp pain knifed through his ribs like… well, like a knife. Sliding his hand under his shirt, Doyle ran his fingers down the raised slash, wincing slightly at the sensitivity of the surrounding tissue. He had been lucky, it had been a deep cut and he'd been left to die in the mire of a back alley covered in bruises from a beating. A passer-by had found him lying there, too hurt to move, and had called an ambulance and done what he could to stanch the bleeding. He'd passed out on the way to the hospital and it had been several hours before he was conscious long enough to give his name and other details. Doyle still remembered Bodie's face when he finally arrived, about half an hour after CI5 was notified of his whereabouts. Angry, worried and pale, he'd looked like he wanted to kill Doyle himself, and had immediately started lecturing him on his disregard for calling backup. Doyle had just shrugged it off – not wanting to start a proper argument – but Bodie had been still seething when he left.
After being kept in for observation for a few days Bodie had driven him home, and then the troubles began.
Bodie had been severely reluctant to let his partner out of his sight, and Doyle – already irritable from the pain and general feeling of being betrayed by someone he trusted – had not responded well to being mollycoddled. At first it had just been some cutting remarks and tense apologies before, a few days ago, Bodie had reignited the argument about backup.
"I don't need a keeper Bodie!"
"I think you do! How many more times do I have to tell you? If you're meeting someone – call. It. In!"
"Like you always do!" Doyle had countered, fury dancing along the edge of his words. Bodie rounded on his partner, glaring at him.
"I'm not the one who ends up in hospital all the time! Jesus, Doyle, do you do it on purpose?"
"Of course not!" Doyle yelled back. "Do think I'm some manic who gets off on pain?"
"Yeah, I'm just waiting for you to start cutting yourself or something." Bodie stepped forwards, "You keep going like this you're going to be no good for CI5, or anything else for that matter, see?" Doyle had made a move and was now crouched over, gripping his ribs, a strained expression on his face. "Where are your pain pills?" He asked, putting his hand on Doyle's shoulder, trying to guide him to the sofa.
"Gerroff Bodie!" Doyle wrenched away from his partner, anger clear in his eyes. "I can get them meself! I don't need your help!"
"Doyle…"
"Just leave me alone, alright? Just get out!" Doyle turned his back.
"Fine!" Bodie yelled. He turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Doyle didn't even turn around or jump at the sound. He waited for a few minutes, listening, before he realised that Bodie wasn't coming back. Well, that was what he wanted, wasn't it?
Doyle's stomach clenched momentarily before he got hold of himself. The few days on his own had been good, and he hadn't missed Bodie's constantly overbearing mothering. Distracting himself from the hurt expression that he'd last seen Bodie with, he glanced out of the window and tried to gauge whether he should take the heavy jumper or the light one.
Doyle jogged through past the masses of graves, his breath puffing out in front of him. He was struggling more than he wanted to admit, he and Bodie would do a five mile run without breaking a sweat, but Doyle was slowly realising that he was going to have to settle for at least two less than that. The fog was still heavy but he was sure it had thinned out a bit in the last thirty minutes. The graveyard sulked in a sullen silence – just like him, he though wryly – and, though the fog made it hard to judge, it seemed completely deserted. For a brief moment Doyle almost wished Bodie was here, but then he remembered why he wasn't and sped up. He could manage on his own, thank you very much. He didn't need someone always watching him like a hawk because they thought he couldn't be trusted to do a task without hurting himself! Damnit, Bodie was a good friend and the best partner he'd ever had, but he could just be such a…
Abruptly Doyle slowed his pace, the end of the sentence completely forgotten. He wasn't sure what it was that had distracted him but his natural curiosity was tugging at his brain. Slowly he turned and surveyed the graves by the path. A sound make his copper senses prick up and he began to pick his way carefully towards it.
Skirting around a large memorial Doyle saw what it was he heard. There was a group of three men bending over something and a very large Rottweiler keeping watch. Doyle tensed slightly when he saw it. He and dogs had never really mixed – especially ones that looked like they could tear you apart in one bite. The hairs on Doyle's neck began to rise and instinctively knew that something wasn't right about this picture. They could've just been paying their respects to a deceased friend or relative but somehow he knew this wasn't the case. This may have been supported by their secretive attitude and the general feeling of being up-to-no-good. Doyle was about to back away – perfectly aware of his unarmed and damaged state – when one of the men shifted enough for Doyle to see his face. Immediately his stomach did a flip and he had to supress a gasp.
Aiden Murdoch: arms dealer and terrorist with IRA sympathies. The very man that CI5 had been looking for in the past month. He was notoriously hard to find and suspected to be the brains behind quite a few huge bombings and arms shipments… and Doyle had found him by accident. Now he needed to get out of here and phone it in. As he turned to leave the huge dog suddenly stiffened and barked.
Doyle broke into a run; there was a shout that sounded very much like 'get him!' but he certainly wasn't hanging about to confirm this. Adrenaline gifted him with wings and he tore across the graveyard. If he'd been in peak physical condition he might have made it to the high wall. As it was the Rottweiler was faster. With a growl it leapt for Doyle's back, knocking the slender ex-policeman to the ground, pinning him. Doyle curled up automatically as he landed, trying to protect his throat and face. Sharp claws dug into his shoulder warningly, the jaws of the dog were just centimetres from his face. A low growl rumbled out. Doyle stopped struggling. He saw the men running up, flattened as he was on the wet grass, and heard one of them say, "Don't move if you know what's good for you curly, or else Grenade will take your throat out." Doyle gave a half-hearted chuckle.
"Good name for him." There was a click of a pistol and then the cold metal was jammed against his head. Murdoch's Irish lilt drifted into the air as he crouched beside the agent.
"You've got a sense of humour. I always like a man who who's got a bit of wit – don't I boys? Now," he pushed the pistol more painfully against Doyle's head, "if we let you stand, you don't do anything stupid… alright? I'll shoot you in the head or, even better, let Grenade really have a field day. Am I clear?" Doyle hesitated, "am I clear?" Seeing no way out except cooperation, Doyle nodded. "Call him off, Charlie." A burly blond-haired man whistled expertly. Grenade released his hold and trotted over to his master. Murdoch grabbed Doyle's jumper and yanked him to his feet, the gun held against the nape of his neck. "Put your hands on your head and don't bother shouting… no one will hear you."
Doyle was pushed forwards, very much aware of his position. Grenade flanked him on one side and Murdoch had a firm hold on his shoulder, the gun making escape impossible. The other man had gathered up the weapons and following behind, silent as the graves around them. Doyle glanced around desperately, trying to think of a plan. The graveyard wall was too high for him to scramble over in time. The gate was too far away. The fog obscured him from any witnesses who could call the police. He was unarmed, breathless and slightly confused as to why he was still alive. Whether he would be alive for much longer was another question entirely.
Quickly his captors hustled him up the path and into the church itself. Murdoch shoved him forwards into the aisle and Doyle had to grab onto a pew to stop himself from falling. Spinning around, he saw one of the men shutting the door firmly and locking it. "Who are you? What do you want with me?" Doyle demanded, playing the civilian card for all he was worth. Murdoch gave him a smile and gestured with his weapon.
"That's for me to know and you not to find out, curly." His tone was friendly and conversational but Doyle wasn't fooled for a minute. Almost anyone else would've been however; Murdoch wasn't a big man in girth or stature – everything from his green eyes and crew-cut dark hair to his casual dress sense just said average, that this was a man you would pass in the street without even looking at him once. "Now, you just be a good boy and we might let you go," he pointed to the altar at the front of the church, indicating that he wanted Doyle to walk up there. When he had Doyle where he wanted him he ordered, "Search him." Doyle gave an inaudible groan as Charlie pulled his wallet out of his trouser pocket and flipped it open.
"We've hit the jackpot boss, curly here is CI5!" Murdoch spun on his heel and stared at Doyle in surprise. Doyle gave him a defiant glare back. A slow smile crept over the terrorist's face and he climbed up the steps so he was level with his captive.
"In another life you should've been an actor, curly. Now what shall we do with you?"
"Kill 'im," one of the men muttered. "CI5 is always bad news, boss," he directed his gun at Doyle, "Where's your partner? You lot always seem to come in twos. Where is 'e?"
"Not here, Benedict, or else we would know about it by now," Murdoch said tiredly. "He's off-duty."
"'Ow do you know?"
"CI5 are very keen on their guns, and he's unarmed."
"Then what are we going to do?" Charlie asked.
"You could let me go," Doyle offered. Murdoch laughed.
"You're a funny man, curly." He opened his mouth to say something else when there was a sudden hammering on the door. The terrorists moved quickly, Charlie ducked behind one of the pews, his gun raised, Grenade beside him. Benedict took up position on the other side in a similar stance and Murdoch seized Doyle and forced him down, holding the gun to his head. Nothing moved inside the church and Doyle shut his eyes as his ribs screamed at him.
The frantic banging continued and a voice cried, "Murdoch! For God's sake, let me in!"
"Sheffield!" Benedict looked back at Murdoch, waiting for permission. Murdoch nodded. Crouching low he crept up to the doors and unlocked it. Quickly he opened it enough to yank the man through. Sheffield stumbled and tripped, gasping hard.
"What happened?" Murdoch demanded, not relinquishing his grip on Doyle, "Where's McNeil?"
"Police… got him, shot… him, they're after… after me," Sheffield managed between sucking gulps of air.
"You led them here!" Murdoch yelled, "you idiot!" Sheffield cringed backwards, hands covering his face.
"I'm sorry!"
"Too late for that now, get a weapon… they'll be here in a moment and you," he glanced about and inspiration seemed to strike, "look like you're going to be useful after all. Get moving."
Bodie's R/T crackled into life. Not taking his eyes off the road he snatched it up just before Murphy could. "3.7."
"Bodie, Murphy," Cowley's voice cracked out of the device, "get over to St Eugene church in Romford, Murdoch and his crew have initiated a hostage situation."
Bodie handed the R/T over to Murphy, who asked, "How many?"
"Just the one so far, so get over here!"
"Yes, sir!" Bodie floored the accelerator and spun round the roundabout. Murphy grabbed the A-Z from the glove department and started leafing through it hurriedly. Suddenly he stopped and looked over at Bodie. "Isn't that near Doyle's flat?" Bodie grunted the affirmative. "What's the bet he'll be on the scene already?" Bodie gave a fleeting frown.
"He's supposed to be recovering."
"When isn't he?"
"Just shut up Murphy." The force behind the statement was enough for Murphy to do what his temporary partner said.
"Bodie, Murphy, took you long enough," Cowley barked as the two agents run up. Bodie looked around them. A barricade had been constructed around the church, police cars were parked everywhere and several CI5 agents were ordering the police about.
"We were coming from further away," Murphy replied reproachfully. Cowley sighed.
"What's the situation then, sir?" Bodie said.
Gesturing to the church, Cowley began to explain, "Four men including Murdoch, one hostage and an arsenal of weapons. They shot at the officers when they arrived at the scene so we've evacuated everyone in a two mile radius. Plans are of the church are on the way as we speak."
"Planned?" asked Murphy. Cowley shook his head.
"No, I don't think so. Sheffield and McNeil were sighted stealing weaponry. McNeil was shot during the pursuit but the police tracked Sheffield to here."
"What about the hostage?" Bodie asked, "What do we know?"
"It's a man but no one's been able to I.D him yet, the police only got a glimpse. The only thing they know is that he's not the local minister. He's away on holiday in Scotland." Bodie nodded.
"They likely just grabbed him from the graveyard or the street."
"What do you want us to do, sir?" Murphy asked.
"Not stand around here for a start! Get over to the building over there and set up a sniper's nest. The roof faces one of the windows so you might be able to see in," he hoisted the megaphone in his hand, "I'm going to find out his demands."
It didn't take the two agents long to collect a couple of rifles and the key to the old warehouse. Soon they were set up with Bodie peering through the rifle scope at the large window and Murphy manning the radio. It was a good perch, Bodie could see the front and back of the church and part of the inside. It wasn't much, just some of the pews but every so often a shadow would flit at the corner of his line of sight. "Lucky it's a big window on this side," Murphy noted, "the other window's tiny – and there's no building."
"Hmm?"
"Bodie, are you alright? You've been…"
"What?" Murphy rolled his eyes.
"Snappy. That's the third time today you've tried to bite my head off. You've been like this for the last few days. Beside I thought you were –"
"Leave off, Murph," Bodie warned him, "Nothing's up alright? If you keep pushing it I'm going to push you."
"Touchy," Murphy muttered under his breath before turning his attention back to the radio.
Bodie slowed his breathing and concentrated on the view through the scope. The morning breeze had blown the fog away so now there were only tendrils that drifted aimlessly along the ground. Bodie shivered and pulled his coat closer about him. The old warehouse was draughty and it certainly wasn't helping that he wasn't moving about much. The newly sprung light breeze brought snatches of Cowley's amplified voice, "CI5… come out… talk…" There was no reply from inside the old church. He saw Cowley raise the megaphone and heard the message repeated. This time something happened. Through his rifle scope Bodie saw a man be forced up to the window until he was standing on the ledge of it. The crosshairs centred on a wild mane of curls. Bodie hesitated, sure that this must be the hostage. Then the man looked up.
"Shit!"
"What is it Bodie?"
"Shit! It's Ray!" Bodie's gaze travelled over the familiar face, the hair, the size, the broken cheekbone, even the clothes. There wasn't any mistaking it. "Their bloody hostage is Doyle!"
"What?" Murphy grabbed for the binoculars and brought them to his eyes. "Are you sure?" Bodie didn't need to answer and Murphy hissed another swear through his teeth. "He's wearing something…" Bodie peered too. A sign was hung around Doyle's neck, large, stark letters decorating it.
"SEND R/T," Bodie read aloud, "1 MAN UNARMED." For a moment both men just stood staring at the horrifying image before Bodie grabbed for the radio. "Sir! It's Ray!"
"What are you on about Bodie?" Cowley asked. Bodie took a breath and attempted to be more coherent. A hard task considering the circumstances.
"The hostage, sir, its Doyle," he managed to say slowly, not taking his eyes the bound figure in the window, "They've hung their first demands round his neck."
"What do they want man?"
"One man to bring them an R/T, sir. I'm coming down."
"Negative Bodie, I need you up there."
"Send someone else, I'm coming down."
"That was an order Bodie!" Cowley barked into the radio. Bodie just gave Murphy a look and started for the stairs.
"Wait, Bodie!" Murphy called after his retreating back, "how are you going to be any more help down there?"
"I need to get down," Bodie reiterated before breaking into a sprint.
Bodie ran across the road, his head full of images. Doyle didn't seem to have been harmed by his captors – yet – and Bodie would prefer to keep it that way. The idea of having to stay up in the warehouse with no clue as to what was transpiring between Cowley and Murdoch was an unthinkable one. He skidded round the corner and nearly ran to Jax coming the other way. He was about to elbow his way past when Jax grabbed his arm. "Is it really Doyle in there?" he asked in a worried tone. Bodie nodded and started to push on. Jax opened his mouth to ask more questions, but the Bodie's clenched jaw made him hesitate and then forgo the option entirely. Shaking his head, he hurried on with his appointed task.
"3.7," Cowley took one look at his agent and decided not to bring up his disobedience.
"What have we got?" Bodie demanded. Cowley pointed at the path leading to the church.
"A man's bringing the R/T to them; it's already set to the right frequency. Then we'll be able to get their demands. Tell me what you saw."
"What?" Bodie said, confused, "I saw Doyle, sir, what else is there to say?"
"What shape was he in? Injured? Drugged?"
"He looked lucid." and livid, he thought sourly, "He was tied up and had a gun in his back, but I couldn't see any sign of injury." Cowley switched his gaze from Bodie to the man walking up the path, his hands in the air as a sign that he wasn't a threat. Bodie could've sworn Cowley had exhaled in relief.
"Did they know where he was?" he wondered, apparently to himself. "Was he their target?"
"I don't think so, sir," Bodie replied quickly, "Doyle runs here sometimes. They probably just took him because he was in the right area. I'm going to murder him!" he added heatedly.
"I'm sure Doyle wasn't planning in being taken hostage," Cowley reminded his agent drily. Bodie glared at him.
"Don't joke sir."
Cowley didn't reply. The man with the R/T had reached the church now and stood outside the large wooden door; he glanced back towards the barricades then raised his hand and knocked on the door. Bodie watched as a small panel slid across. There was a brief exchange that neither of them could hear before the man pushed the R/T through like it was a letter. Even Cowley had to supress a smile at the absurdness of the image. They waited quietly until the man had made his way back to safety before Cowley thumbed his radio.
"Aiden Murdoch, can you hear me?"
"Mr Cowley!" the tone was friendly and calm, "I see you managed to find me after all. Shame, I was enjoying the chase."
"You could just come out Murdoch, that church isn't the best fortress in the world," Cowley said.
"Hmm, no thank you, I'd rather not be in CI5 custody. Oh, that reminds me, I believe I've got one of your men in here with me. Nice boy, he goes by the name of Doyle."
"Is he injured?" Cowley asked forcibly. There was a slight pause before Murdoch came back on the line.
With a small chuckle he said, "Nothing that a few plasters wouldn't fix… he wouldn't stop when we told him to I'm afraid…" Bodie snatched the radio from Cowley's hand, decorum completely evaporated.
"I want to speak to him. Put him on the line."
"And your name is…?" Murdoch asked pleasantly. Cowley indicated that he may as well answer the question.
"Bodie,"
"Well, Mr Bodie, if you and Mr Cowley get me what I want, I'll let you speak to your partner… not before."
"How'd you know he was…?" Bodie asked, nonplussed.
"I'm not an idiot Mr Bodie." Gently, Cowley lifted the R/T out of the young agent's hands and spoke into it.
"What are your demands?" There was a long pause and then Murdoch came back on.
"I want a fully-fuelled helicopter and four authentic passports. Since a helicopter can't land in the graveyard I want a car, also fully-fuelled, to get to the nearest place a helicopter can. That's three streets away from here, the car park. You have an hour and a quarter. After that your boy starts to lose pieces. Couple of fingers, tongue, I don't really care. I'll do it in a way that means he won't bleed to death immediately. I am I clear?"
"Yes," Cowley said, a restraining hand on Bodie's chest, "You're clear."
"Remember," came the reply, "an hour and a quarter, I'll be waiting." The static made Bodie jump as the man cut the connection. Angrily he swiped Cowley's hand away, fury burning in his blue eyes.
"Now what sir?" he demanded, "I could –" Suddenly the R/T buzzed back into life.
"Oh, and by the way, any attempt at a raid or throwing a stun grenade or anything like that will result in me shooting your boy in the head personally. Understand?" The radio fell silent for the second time. Bodie shot a homicidal look at it.
"I'll contact the minister," Cowley said.
Doyle's stomach rumbled. As he shifted position, he wished for the umpteenth time that he hadn't decided to forgo breakfast that morning. Grenade noticed his movement and growled a threat, the teeth flashing in the light. Doyle abruptly stopped moving and glared at the dog in disgust. Grenade just stared back steadily. For the hundredth time Doyle glanced around his prison with an apprising air, taking note of his situation.
He was sitting with his back to the church door inside the pulpit, his hands bound with a plastic tie behind his back. The pulpit was one of the enclosed ones, when he was sitting down it was higher than his head, cutting his sight off more effectively than a blindfold. Grenade was guarding the steps out of the box; sitting just inside so there was no way Doyle could get past. Even if he could stand faster than the dog could leap he wouldn't be able to scramble out the top. Frustrated, Doyle started hitting his head against the wood behind him, trying to think. The cuts on his shoulder and chest had finally stopped weeping but Doyle was missing his pain pills. The knife wound seemed to be throbbing now, hot and itchy, and Doyle couldn't even reach a hand up to try and relieve the pain. Finally he closed his eyes and tried to rest. That didn't work so he started trying to recite poetry in his head. Keeping your mind active was the key in these situations. It kept you alert and being alert was good. Being alert could save your life.
Gradually Doyle realised he could hear someone talking. Straining his ears he recognised Murdoch and Benedict's voices arguing. "They're not just going to stand down, boss. You know that, I know that. We should just kill 'im and run!"
"You idiot," Murdoch replied calmly, "do you not understand the concept of a hostage situation? A hostage situation is when you demand something in exchange for the release for the hostage. The only way we stay alive, Benedict, is if we keep our hostage alive, because the only reason that CI5 haven't thrown a couple of bombs through that window is they don't want to kill the hostage!" Doyle didn't catch what Benedict mumbled in response but he heard Murdoch's scathing reply. "Yes, I know what you meant. You've got to understand, our futures depend on us looking like we're willing to do a fair exchange – no, not yet. Not until they need hurrying up, alright? Good, go back to your post."
Doyle closed his eyes when he heard the footsteps approaching, feigning sleep. Rule number one: always look worse off than you are. "I know you're awake curly."
"My name's Doyle," he answered sharply, opening his eyes. Murdoch leaned on the edge of the pulpit, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"So it is."
"Then why don't you call me that?" Doyle asked as evenly as he could, barely hiding his contempt for his captor.
Murdoch chuckled softly, "Because I don't want to." Doyle turned his head away in disgust, wanting to leap up and take all of them down, to shoot this smooth bastard of a murderer between the eyes. The images of bombed out shops and dead kids who didn't understand what they were doing burned behind his eyes. Some of them were only twelve, fighting in the streets they'd grown up in because that's all they knew…
Murdoch moved around and entered the pulpit, leaning down to give Grenade a quick pat. Doyle watched him warily, trying to judge what he would do next. "What happened to your face curly?" Doyle held himself in check… just. Murdoch watched as his hostage's face tautened then relaxed and he smiled to himself. Sometimes it was too easy…
"None of your business."
"Well, that's a shame," Murdoch fumbled in his coat pocket for a cigarette and lit it carefully. Taking a deep drag, he crouched down in front of Doyle. "I always like a good story."
"Fuck off." The slap made his ears ring and nearly toppled him over. Doyle managed to catch his back against the rough grained wood and, blinking away the fuzz in his mind, glared at Murdoch. Blood dribbled down his chin, dripping onto his favourite green shirt.
"Now that wasn't polite," Murdoch stated quietly, "I abhor bad manners."
"I bet your mother is really proud of that," Doyle retorted thickly. Murdoch slammed a fist into the agent's ribs, Doyle nearly screamed in pain as the knife wound ignited. A foot caught him on the back. Three more blows landed before he had a chance to draw breath, one of them aimed at a very painful area. He curled up on the ground, retching weakly, unable to even think with the agony pulsing through him. A hand grasped his hair and yanked him upwards.
"You just don't know when to shut up do you?" Murdoch hissed in his ear, his voice darker and more dangerous than Doyle had ever heard before, "The only reason you are still alive, is because you are worth more that way. I swear to you Doyle, the moment you outlive your usefulness, you better hope your precious CI5 lives up to its reputation because otherwise you might not be such a pretty boy anymore." He opened his fingers, letting Doyle fall back to the floor. Without the use of his hands to stop his fall, Doyle landed painfully on his temple. Vison dimming, he heard Murdoch say cheerily; "You just stay here and be a good boy curly. I've got a few messages to…"
Everything went black.