A/N OK this is weird, but this story came to me after hearing Ronan Keating on the radio this morning (hence the title). Its a Becker centred fic, but will include all core ARC characters and a few of my own creations! Lots of action, implied Jecker and hopefully actually Jecker by the end! It gives a little backstory to Becker, explaining why he is the Becker that we love. The first two chapters I originally wrote (this afternoon!) as one chapter but then realised it was far too long and so split it in two. Please review and let me know what you think! :-)

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except my story and OCs. But if I did own Primeval, Becker wouldn't need a uniform! Hehehehehe ;-)

It was dark and surprisingly cold. The dust was whipped up by the wind, making it necessary for them to wear scarves covering their faces, their hats pulled down until only their eyes were visible. They had accomplished much over the last week and the young Captain and his men had had a beer at Camp Bastion to celebrate. Now they snuck across town to share their good fortune with the one person who had assisted them against the odds. Becker was grinning as he banged on the door to her small, shabby home.

"Shamsi!" he shouted, more than a little tipsy. His beautiful, beautiful Shamsi, she with the smooth, black hair and deep, brown eyes and soft, plump lips. God, he loved her! "Shamsi!" he called again.

His squad snickered as his calls went unanswered.

"She's moved on to the next one, mate!" his Lieutenant chuckled.

Becker turned and glared at him, worry now beginning to worm its way in to his beer-addled brain. He held up his hand to silence them, his body now on full alert. Carefully, he examined the door and realised that it showed signs of force. He frowned and pushed against it, gaining entry to the house with much less effort than should have been needed. The sight that met his eyes turned his stomach.

The interior of the house was virtually destroyed. Shamsi didn't have much, but what she did have was now smashed beyond repair. The house had been redecorated in blood, her blood, and his name was painted on the stone wall opposite the door in blood red Arabic. Amidst it all, lying on her side on the mud floor, was Shamsi, his beloved Shamsi, semi-clothed, beaten and dead, oh so very dead.

For the first time in almost two years, Becker woke up screaming. He thrashed against the duvet, hands gripping the sheets until his knuckles turned white.

"Shamsi!" someone shouted. His eyes flashed open and it took a moment or two for him to completely come to his senses and realise that he was the one shouting.

He sat up upright, muscles all tensed and contracted, and stared around his familiar bedroom, so different from the mud-stone house in Afghanistan. He was sweating profusely and yet he shivered. His breath was hard and ragged and his hair was wet and sticky with sweat. He pulled his hand over his head and down his face trying to rid the images he had witnessed from his mind. It had been years since he'd dreamt of that last tour in Afghanistan. Why was it disturbing him now? He rubbed his hand over his face again and decided on a nice hot shower. Swinging his long legs over the bed, he stood and walked, naked, to the bathroom.

Becker let the hot water wash over him, the hard jets bouncing off the muscles of his shoulders, un-knotting the tension in them. Feeling the fear and guilt ebb away with the heat of the water, he sighed heavily and resolved to face the day as he had every other day since the incident; military mask on along with the uniform. Stepping out of the shower, Becker towelled dry and donned the all black uniform of the ARC and his impassive "nothing will get me through this" face and headed off to work.

His ARC pick-up truck was parked in its usual spot in the basement car park of his apartment building. He slid into the driver's seat and pulled away with a squeal of tyres, hoping for a busy day to take his mind off his nightmares. He'd only driven a few metres before he got the feeling he was being watched. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he became distracted by a movement in the rear of the car, not quite visible due to the dim lighting of the car park.

"Keep driving Captain Becker and don't turn around," said a voice, familiar to Becker, one that he had not heard for a very long time.

The shape on the backseat moved into view slowly and it took all Becker's skills of concentration to keep the car on the road and not veer into the curb in shock.

"Colonel Rider, sir!" he exclaimed, eyes wide, eyebrows raised.

"Hello Becker. Long time. And its Commander now, actually," said Commander Rider quietly, giving Becker time to regain his composure. Rider had been Becker's Commanding Officer in Afghanistan and Becker wondered briefly if his nightmare and his old CO's presence here were connected. The Commander was in his fifties, had a non-descript face but well lined, brown hair cut short and brown expressive eyes. He was dressed in inconspicuous civvies and looked as if he was ready to blend into a crowd and disappear.

Becker slowed the car and looked for a place to park.

"No, Becker, keep driving and don't attract attention," Rider insisted urgently.

Becker inclined his head slightly and sped up again. Worried now, he made eye contact with the Commander in the rearview mirror.

"What's this about, sir?" he asked tersely.

"Just follow my instructions and we'll talk in a minute," said Rider. He reeled off a list of directions, like an over-active Sat-Nav, and then slid back into the shadows of the backseat, hidden from the outside by the dark, tinted windows. Becker followed the instructions to the letter and stopped precisely at the last set of co-ordinates he was given, knowing there was no room for error but not yet understanding why. He turned to look in the back.

"Face forward, Captain!" order Rider, making Becker snap to attention, facing forwards. "Pick up your phone as if you are answering a call, then we can talk." Rider told him and Becker complied.

"Seriously, sir, what the hell is going on?" he asked once the phone was pressed against his ear.

"One thing at a time," said Rider, quietly. "Its good to see you, Becker."

"You too, sir. Its been a long time since Afghanistan. You still with Special Forces?"

"No, I'm MI6 now, mate," responded Rider and smiled as Becker raised an eyebrow. "That's partly why I'm here. We have a problem. Or, more specifically, you have a problem, Becker."

"Which is?" Becker's face remained impassive.

"Omar Kabir," Rider stated simply.

Becker started and a brief look of panic crossed his face. So brief that, if Commander Rider hadn't known the Captain so well, he probably would have missed it.

"We've received a report from Afghanistan. There's been a breakout from the prison near Kandahar. Three hundred detainees made a run for it about a week ago. The Americans have rounded up about half of them, but the rest have vanished including -" he paused.

"Omar Kabir," Becker finished for him, dryly.

Commander Rider nodded. "And he's coming for you."

Becker's eyes widened. "What makes you think that?" he demanded.

Rider sighed. "Becker, you were instrumental in his capture and detention -"

Flashes of Shamsi, whose information had proved invaluable in the capture of Kabir, distracted Becker for a moment.

"- a fact Kabir is well aware of." Rider continued. "He is a man who takes holding grudges to a whole new level and he's had five years in a prison cell to ponder how he's going to exact his revenge -"

"I thought he'd already done that," muttered Becker, not realising he had spoken aloud.

Rider's eyes narrowed. "Did you really think Shamsi would be the end of it, Becker? He's out for revenge - Shamsi was just the First Act. You know as well as I do, there's plenty more to come."

Becker's face went grim and still at the mention of Shamsi. And he knew Rider was right.

"He left us one other clue that you were his target," continued the Commander. "A note, written in Arabic on the walls of his cell. 'Tell Becker I'm coming'."

Becker laughed shortly. "He never was renowned for his subtlety," he snorted, then paused and frowned.

"Hang on, this happened a week ago? How come you're only telling me this now?"

"Becker, you know how hard it is to get intelligence out of Afghanistan. Its damned difficult getting a straight answer from the Americans!" protested Rider.

"So why hasn't he hit me already?" asked Becker, realising he didn't want to know the answer, even though he already did.

"Becker, you of all people know his MO. He's stalking your life, learning your patterns, finding out who is important to you."

Jess danced her way into Becker's thoughts. Beautiful, sweet, quirky Jess, whom he could easily fall in love with, if he hadn't already. Becker sucked in a loud breath.

"And he'll get to me through them, right?"

Rider nodded. "There's something else though. We've got a leak at MI6. Files have gone missing, specifically your file, including all the classified details of your current assignment."

"What the hell!" exclaimed Becker angrily.

"Sorry mate. But we have to put two and two together and conclude that these details are now in the hands of Kabir."

Becker rubbed his hand over his face to hide his despair. The guy was a fundamentalist terrorist. How was he supposed to protect the ARC against that?

"We also have to conclude that he is watching you, or having you watched, and that he is going to target those closest to you before torturing you to death." Rider added.

"Thanks for the happy outlook," grunted Becker.

"I admit its not great," replied Rider. "But we have a plan."

Becker raised his eyebrows. "We do?"

"You are the one who tracked and captured him before. And since its you and your loved ones he's after, you are the one with the most motivation for this operation. Therefore, the Powers That Be have volunteered you for the mission - to find Kabir before he finds you," explained Rider.

Becker frowned deeply.

"And how am I to accomplish that whilst protecting everyone I know?" he asked coldly.

Rider grinned mirthlessly.

"We're going to kill you first!"

So, there you have it. Not sure about the rank bit. I made Rider a Colonel when he was in the army but now he's at MI6 he was given the rank of Commander (poetic licence please!). Reviews please! Pretty please? :D