Wet sleet pirouetted under the harsh gleam of the streetlamp, accenting the pathetic scarecrow huddled in the door corner. The man was hunched over and his arms were hugged tightly to his chest, breath misting lightly in the freezing air. His hair and rough stubble were longish and dark with moisture and, from the way he was leaning into the wall, he was most likely drunk or drugged.

Perfect for the likes of Uriah Campbell III.

Gently, he eased his non-descript black Bentley down the little side street. Apart from a solitary dark blue van parked haphazardly at the end of the street, it was completely empty. Campbell subjected the van to a quick searching glare. Finally convinced that it was abandoned, Campbell began humming cheerily as he cruised towards the staggering man, his mind's eye full of images of the future; the contents such that would have easily overqualified for a video nasty. The sleet was coming down thickly now – his target's hair and shoulders were sticky and white with flakes. Twice the man slipped and nearly fell.

Campbell's smile grew wider.

Setting his expression in what convinced the papers to call him a 'genuine good guy', Campbell pulled up just ahead of the vagrant and opened his door. The chill hit him like a ton of bricks and raised his skin in goosebumps even though it was hidden in his luxurious down jacket. He leaned out of the door. "Are you alright?"

The vagrant started, drawing back into his tatty coat like a tortoise into his shell. A few slurred expletives coloured the air. Campbell smiled again. Unfolding long legs, he climbed from his car and approached the man casually, openly, his hand held out in front of him. The crinkle of warm notes was audible, even with the whisper of sleet hitting the ground. Immediately the vagrant's stance changed, becoming less stiff. "Here," Campbell said. He covered the ground between him and the other man in a heartbeat and grabbed his hand, pressing the two twenties into it, "Merry Christmas, mate."

"Th-thank you. Thank you, sir…!" the man backed off, staring incredulously at the money in his palm. Campbell laughed.

"'Tis the season to be merry, isn't it, mate? Least I could do." Bait the trap…

"Thanks, sir… I can't tell you…" Campbell smiled. It had razors in it.

"Actually, mate, since it's Christmas…" Campbell dropped his arm around the drunk's shoulders and carefully didn't grimace at the smell, "I run a charity centre for homeless people. It's not far from here. I could give you a lift."

"Err… no – no thank you, 'm Oday – OK…" the drunk started to pull away, but Campbell kept him tightly in his grip.

"I insist. I was going there anyway." So saying this, Campbell began to manoeuvre the man towards his car, ignoring his mangled protests. "I insist."

"Ah, no, I –"

"I insist. You'll love it. It's to die for." (Too much, too much Uriah – reel it in a bit!) He shoved the man into the car, effortlessly fending off the feeble resistance.

Campbell's car revved up and reversed out of the street. He was making polite small talk to the edgy vagrant so he didn't check his surroundings quite as thoroughly as he maybe would have.

So, as he pulled out into the street, Campbell didn't notice the blue van smoothly whispering into life and tailing him into the flow of traffic.

Ten minutes later they pulled up outside a shabby building crisscrossed with cheery, bright blue fairy lights. "What do you think?" Campbell asked, almost as cheery as the lights. The vagrant mumbled an affirmative and ducked his nose into his coat. The stink of alcohol was insidious and filled the car; Campbell could see where the man had spilled it on his coat. "It looks better on the inside, trust me. There's roast potatoes and turkey and…" he kept up this litany as he pulled the man from the car and hustled him towards the door.

The inside was clean and fairly bleak. It had the look of quick community centres everywhere; pastel colours on the cracked walls, faded, relentlessly chirpy banners strung from corner to corner and the overly optimistic posters pinned up everywhere. Two hefty men were waiting in the centre of the room, faint enigmatic smiles twisting their lips. "Hello! D – Duncan is it? These two are Jones and Christen. They'll look after you." The taller one – Jones – took the vagrant under the elbow.

"Come with me," his voice was sickly sweet and so obviously trying to be charming that the effect was creepy. The vagrant looked up at him with a mixture of drunken astonishment and dawning horror.

"I – "

"Come on."

Christen and Campbell watched as Jones led Duncan out of sight. "Sir… shall I get it ready?"

"Yes, this is looking like it's going to be a great Christmas, isn't it?"

The door shut with the finality of the Bastille. The click was sweet and sharp and very, very loud to the vagrant's ears. He crept to the door and tried the handle, knowing full well that the door was locked. "Great," he muttered, sounding a lot more sober and in control than he had five minutes ago. He turned and surveyed the rest of the room. There was a single table set with a steaming plate of turkey and a bottle of wine. "At least, he wasn't lying about the turkey," he said apparently to thin air.

"That's one good mark in his book then," a voice replied testily. "You alright, Doyle?"

It wasn't the first sign of madness. Doyle touched the wire hidden under his curls, "Yeah, you lot here?"

"We're out the front. What's happening in there?" Bodie's tone was impatient. Doyle could hear the repressed urge to throttle their boss for even thinking of this plan.

"I'm locked in one of the back rooms. Campbell's got two heavies as far as I can tell," Doyle replied, peering out the high window.

"Can you get out? I'm sure this is illegal," Bodie growled, "We could get him for false imprisonment."

Static assaulted Doyle's hearing as someone in the van knocked the other end. He cursed, "Careful!"

"Sorry, Ray. Benny you idiot! Watch it." Muffled arguments filtered through to Doyle before Bodie came back on, "I don't like this. Cowley's –"

Doyle poked at one of the turkey pieces and sniffed it, "What's the bet he put something in the food?"

"Ray…"

"Listen, Bodie. False imprisonment is nothing compared to murder. Campbell's got diplomatic immunity because of his daddy. You've seen what he did to Ronny and the others. He's a nutter. He needs locked up. We may not get another chance!" Doyle tried the door. Running a hand through his hair, Doyle said, "I'm OK, Bodie, really. Just don't fall asleep on me, eh?"

"Roger that." There was a scratch at the door as someone turned the lock.

Doyle slid backwards, huddling as he did so. "Shut up," he hissed, tucking a curl around the wire, "Someone's coming."

"Be careful Ray. I don't want to have to dredge up your sorry ass from the Thames."

As the door opened Doyle sagged into the table, gripping the bottle of wine by the neck. Liquid dribbled out over his patchy jacket and pooled under his feet. He glanced up at Jones' disgusted face. "Mice grub – nice grub," Doyle fell back, giggling helplessly. Jones' stared at him for a moment, disconcerted.

"I think you've had enough of that," he said and reached out to take the bottle. Doyle pulled it back, still grinning. A frown twisted Jones' forehead. There was something unsettling about the man hanging onto the table, but he couldn't figure it out. Maybe it was the burning green eyes… or perhaps it was the white-knuckle tight grip on the wood…

But Jones had done enough thinking for tonight. He wanted to see some blood. His hand shot out, snatching the bottle out of Doyle's grasp. His other hand swung around, striking the agent on the side of the head. Doyle rolled with the blow, absorbing it. Inside he was seething; desperately wanting to retaliate, but knowing that he couldn't blow this now. Stay calm. Stay in character.

But damn, Jones was fast.

Doyle could hear Bodie muttering in his ear and the shards of anxiety sharpening his words. He shook his head, trying to ignore his partner. Jones seized his arm and dragged him to his feet. "We need to sober you up, friend."

The smile he gave was as false as Doyle's drunkenness.

Bodie hunched over the radio like a vulture, his face granite. The rest of the agents sat around him, silent. The van was filled with the sound of Doyle's breathing and the crackles as the microphone shifted around. He heard the hit; he heard Doyle's grunt and Murphy had to grab Bodie to stop him from breaking down the door and tackling the villains himself. "We wait for Doyle's signal," he reminded Bodie.

Bodie just exhaled heavily and returned to his vigil. He heard Doyle be jostled against something and harsh snatches of conversation. Bodie tensed, muscles twanging as they locked up. Doyle's voice was snappy and somehow as stinging as a sword. The drunken act was sliding away; Bodie resisted the urge to remind Doyle of his role and had to force himself to stay still. Any sudden movement – any sudden word in his ear – and Doyle could inadvertently reveal himself.

The only thing buying them time was Campbell's incorrect assumption that Doyle wasn't much of a threat.

Doyle's voice suddenly cracked out, "I tol' you that I'm not goin' in there! Leggo of me!"

"Stop struggling - !" The words came through clearly and Bodie held his breath, realising that whoever was speaking was doing it right by Doyle's throat, right by the microphone. Any second now and they'd notice that there was a thin, white wire tangled in the matted curls and tucked under the shirt…

There was a fierce explosion of static as the worst case scenario came true. One of Campbell's goons had hooked the wire. It wasn't completely dislodged, but that was enough. There was a scream of rage and the sound of flesh striking flesh.

"NOW BODIE! COME IN NOW!"

Then there was only white noise.

Bodie burst out of the back of the van, slamming back the hammer of his Browning. Murphy and Benny spilled out after him and they tore across the street.

Bodie ran the fastest.

He flew at the door, smashed it open, and landed in a cat's crouch in the corridor. Bodie paused, listening. The silence weighed heavily on his shoulders and Bodie's heart thrummed into triple figures. Where was Doyle? Murphy tapped Bodie on the shoulder and signalled. Careful.

You hear anything?

No. I'll take this side.

They crept forwards. Bodie was aching, straining, to rush into action, but he knew that they had to be cautious and had to proceed carefully. Doyle hadn't been certain of how many goons Campbell had, there could only be the two or there could be many more waiting to gun them down as they turned the corner. Sneakily, they crept up to the adjoining door. Bodie peeked carefully around the door, half expecting to see Campbell holding a knife to Doyle's throat.

What he found instead was far more surprising.

It looked like a small bomb had gone off – a small, curly-haired bomb named Doyle. Chairs were smashed into pieces and a plastic table was thrown onto its side, paper plates crushed underneath it. Torn paper hats were draped across the devastation like brightly coloured funeral shrouds. As Bodie took in the scene, an ironically fond smile tightened his lips.

Only Doyle could explode and leave this much mess.

Movement caught his eye and he saw a sturdily built man sprawled on the ground; whimpering quietly to himself and clutching his leg. Bright blood gleamed on his jeans, a bloody pool slicking the floor. With an abrupt signal to Murphy – cover me – Bodie moved over to the man. As he drew closer, Bodie realised that he knew who the man was: Robert Jones, a known associate of Campbell with a criminal record and a history involving the African bush.

Bodie smiled.

Usually, when Bodie smiled hearts fluttered. Usually, his smile brought a smile to someone else's face because it was so gleeful and mischievous and full of impish childishness that you felt like you had to grin along with him.

This was not that smile. For one thing, this one had knives in it.

Bodie knelt down.

"Hello Jones," he said, "Remember me?"

It was barely three minutes later when Bodie strode out of the room with no blood on his hands. "Cover the back rooms," he snapped to the others, "Doyle ran that way. There are three of them here. Doyle only knows about two."

They split up, in the end, Bodie taking the back rooms. Gun at the ready, he crept down the corridor listening. Smears of dark, sticky liquid decorated the floor – Bodie wasn't sure if it was blood or alcohol, but he supposed that it meant that he was going the right way.

He just hoped it wasn't Doyle's.

Voices cracked out from in front of him. Bodie hurled himself behind a doorway. Angling his weapon, he waited, listening.

"Where'd the dirty bastard go?" the words were distinctly slurred like the speaker couldn't move his jaw properly. The steps were uneven as well, consistent with a limb. "The little fucker's insane."

"Can't have gotten far, from what you've told me he's got half a glass bottle embedded in his back," the other voice snapped. "We'll split up," there was a regretful pause. "I want him alive –"

"Yeah, fat chance."

"– if possible," the other continued (Bodie realised with a jolt that it was Campbell speaking), "If not, then shoot him in the back of the head. Twice. I don't want him to get back up again." Bodie heard Campbell turn and stalk away.

"Great," the other voice grumbled to himself. There was the click of a hammer being thumbed back. "Like bloody Alien in here…"

Bodie waited and watched as the man hobbled past his hiding spot, peering fearfully into the shadows. The man didn't see him. Just before the man could round the corner, Bodie stepped out and shoved his Browning against the base of the man's skull. "You are my lucky star…" he sang, "Drop it."

There was a dull thunk. The man raised his hands. "You the cavalry?" he asked.

"What do you think?" Bodie replied coolly, pressing the barrel harder.

The man laughed shakily, "Where did you pull Bruce Lee from then? How much did you pay for him to walk in here?"

"Didn't pay him anything. That's his job. Now… where is he?"

"His job… you're not police?"

"Worse," Bodie hissed, "We're CI5."

"CI5!" the man yelped.

"Where is he?"

"I – I don't know!" the man was pleading, "I honestly don't know… he's here, somewhere…"

Bodie fumbled for his handcuffs, "Are you the one who glassed my mate?"

"What –? No! No! It wasn't me! Please don't shoot me!"

"Where did Campbell go?" Bodie demanded as he shoved the man into the one of the side rooms.

The man didn't answer at once. Bodie waved his gun threateningly in his face and the man blurted, "There's a room – downstairs where Campbell worked. Where –" he cut himself off. "If they've caught him, then he'll be down there."

"Thank you," Bodie replied coldly, "Wasn't so hard, was it? Don't go anywhere."

Then he left the man in semidarkness, rattling the handcuffs pitifully.

The room was dark. Bodie crept down the stairs, heart hammering. "Doyle!" he hissed. There was no answer. His eyes were adjusting to the light when he saw the body.

All the tension he had been harbouring spilled over at once and Bodie leapt down the stairs, throwing caution to the winds. Mouth dry, he raced over and stooped down beside it. It was a man; his neck was twisted back at an impossible angle, his eyes wide and gleaming in the shadows. Bodie stared at the corpse and felt grotesquely thankful for the lack of tumbled curls and broken cheekbone. Blood was speckled across the bricks behind the corpse's head and was still weeping from the gash on the man's jaw.

Half drunk on relief, Bodie started to turn – and a very cold, very large barrel was pressed into his neck. "Drop your weapon." Bodie hesitated. "Drop it!"

Bodie complied, inwardly cursing. "We've got the place surrounded, Campbell."

"Turn around." Bodie shuffled around to see the pound-coin-sized black hole directed at his forehead. Campbell's lip was bleeding and murder was in his eyes. "Where is he?" he snarled.

"Who?" Bodie asked innocently. Campbell smashed the gun across Bodie's head. Bodie dropped like a stone, blood gushing from his nose. His vision wavered and Campbell's voice broke like waves on a beach; echoing and loud. Too stunned to put up a fight or even reply, Bodie blinked up at his target.

Another blurry shape moved out of the shadows and Campbell began snapping orders at him. "Find the little fucker." Then he leaned down and grabbed a handful of Bodie's shirt and shook him. "He's one of your lot, isn't he? Where is he?"

"Dunno…" Bodie slurred. Campbell kicked him and Bodie curled up in agony.

"Well, I guess you'll do. I'm going to have my fun, even if it has to be on such short notice," he whined. Campbell cocked the gun and pointed it at Bodie's knee. "I want to try something Christian here saw on TV –" he was interrupted by a howl that could have only come from a tiger. The roar seemed to erupt inside Bodie's head and for a brief second he wondered where it was coming from.

Then a small, dirty whirlwind exploded out of the darkness and charged towards Bodie's captors.

Campbell had enough time to swing his weapon towards the apparition before it barrelled into him, a foot striking like a sledgehammer into his guts. The gun spilled out of his hand and he staggered back, raising his fists. Doyle blocked it easily, shoving Campbell into the brick. Christian launched forwards and managed to get his arms around Doyle's waist and lifted him off the ground. Doyle roared in pain and twisted around, using the momentum to scythe Christian's feet from underneath him. They crashed to the ground, but Doyle rolled out of his grasp and smashed his fist into Christian's face. He stopped struggling. Bodie struggled up onto his knees, still dizzy. Campbell, shaking his head, had pulled a knife and was approaching Doyle with a feral gleam in his eyes. Doyle's was brighter. With little visible effort, he disarmed Campbell, snapping his arm in the process. Bringing the murderer to his knees, Doyle hesitated. The knife shone deathly bright in the darkness. It hovered, seemingly not held by his partner, but by something else more ancient and unknowable.

Bodie kept still. The red mist burned in Doyle's gaze like all the lamps in Hell and he knew, if he made the wrong move now, Doyle would turn on him too with absolutely no knowledge of who he was fighting.

But suddenly he wasn't seeing the scene in front of him – he saw the knife flash… saw Campbell fall back… blood drooling from his neck… saw Doyle stagger and stare at his hands… his killing hands… guilt drowning his face…

"The line was getting too thin, between what I was doing and what the villains were doing…"

Bodie opened his mouth. The knife flashed. Campbell fell backwards.

No blood.

An angry red mark adorned Campbell's forehead.

Doyle stood there for a moment longer, still panting heavily. As his eyes adjusted and stopped watering just a bit, Bodie realised that the back of Doyle's filthy t-shirt was saturated with blood. All of a sudden Doyle seemed to sag, all the fight leaving him in one long breath. He turned to Bodie and offered a hand, "Are you OK?"

He sounded normal if a little pained.

"Yeah," Bodie took it gleefully, gratefully, "Stings a bit."

"It would," Doyle dropped the knife disgustedly and scooped up the gun, tucking it into his jeans. "You sure?"

Bodie nodded and grimaced. "I think we both need a hospital."

"Both…?" Doyle frowned. The adrenaline was draining out of his gaze to be replaced with dull hurt. "Oh, right," he fingered the hem of his shirt. "Glass always makes you bleed more, doesn't it?"

"What happened?"

Doyle gave him an ashamed look, "Not sure… instincts took over. I think one of them hit me with a whiskey bottle." Bodie winced in sympathy. Doyle gave him a tired, but genuine grin. "Let's get out of this lousy basement, shall we?"

"Let's get out of this lousy basement."

"Mr Cowley?" Cowley turned to see a grey-haired politician hurrying up the Whitehall corridor. "May I speak to you?"

"I have an appointment," he replied. He vaguely recognised the man. "But if it's urgent then we can walk and talk."

"Of course." They set off. It was a few moments before the man said slowly, "Mr Cowley… my name is Uriah Campbell Sr. You arrested my grandson a week ago."

Cowley stopped, anger creeping into his usually composed features. "Don't tell me you are asking for leniency or – or –"

Uriah looked horrified, "No! Of course not! I'm sorry, my son wanted to speak to you as well, but he… he and his wife are grieving. We all are. No, Mr Cowley, I wanted to thank you."

"Thank me?" Cowley repeated, nonplussed.

Uriah nodded vehemently, "For getting that monster off the streets. He is no grandson of mine."

Tears glittered in his eyes and Cowley was taken aback. Uriah Campbell Sr. was renowned for his stiff upper lip and here he was, crying in the corridors of power. He set his face and listened to the sobbing man.

"I should have noticed," he was murmuring, "I never thought… even as a child, we thought he was just a bit rough with his siblings, that's all… we never suspected." He looked Cowley fully in the eye, "When he announced that he was opening a centre for the homeless, I thought he had finally taken my values to heart. I was so proud of him! But when I found out what he was doing…" Uriah's hands curled into fists. "I want the names of the people he hurt. I want to find out if they had families. I'll do something to try and redeem the Campbell name. I'm rich, I have connections. I'll do anything!"

"That's very admirable," Cowley said pacifyingly.

Tears were streaming unashamedly down Uriah's cheeks now. "It said there was a sting operation."

"Yes, it was."

"Is the person you sent in hurt? Because I'd hate to think that my grandson hurt one of your men, Mr Cowley. His father tried to instil respect for the law into him."

Cowley nodded, "It was superficial injuries only. Only a few stiches necessary." That was a lie, he'd seen the mess Christian had made of Doyle's back. "They'll live, Mr Campbell."

Uriah breathed out. "Thank them for me, Mr Cowley. Please make sure that they know that I am indebted to them."

"I'm sure that won't be necessary, Mr Campbell," Cowley said.

"And, Mr Cowley, if there is ever any way I can help you…"

"I'll be sure to let you know."

Uriah hurried away, leaving Cowley standing in the corridor by himself. A small smile tugged at his lips. It wasn't often CI5 was thanked and he would make sure that the message was passed on to all of the agents involved.

But right now, he was late for his meeting. Cowley began to stride away.

Their job went on.

Author's note: My first case fic in a while; finally managed to write a story where Doyle isn't kidnapped - yay! Also, I have no idea how 'wires' used to record and keep contact with people undercover work today let alone over thirty years ago, so apologies if I have used them incorrectly.