It had not gone well. True, CI5 had got the better of them, but there were casualties on both sides. Trevis, a new agent, was dead and another dying of wounds. The opposition dead or on the run.

Out of the corner of his eye Doyle saw a man have a go at Bodie with a meat cleaver. God knows where he'd got that from but he certainly knew how to use it to good effect. Trevis had already gone down, and he didn't look as though he was going to get up any time soon. Bodie was engaged at the time with one of the opposition's colleagues. He tried unsuccessfully to push the man in front of the cleaver to shield himself, but both he and his opponent got hit with it. Doyle was too busy with his own oppo to understand fully what was going on, but got the impression from the yelling and swearing that Bodie was losing his particular battle. Doyle laid into his man with renewed energy, not caring about Queen's rules. He'd fight as dirty as he needed to. He laid his man out with a handy brick and turned into the path of the cleaver man. Blood had already stained the blade as Bodie lay at his feet. Doyle was furious. Rage overtook the fear the man had been expecting, and Doyle lay in with all he had. The battle didn't take long and Doyle made sure – absolutely sure – that the man wouldn't be getting up again. He rushed over to his partner who was still lying flat on his back, barely conscious. Blood was pumping from his side and he was panting hard. Bodie couldn't keep the panic from his eyes. He knew how badly he'd been hurt. Doyle tore at Bodie's shirt and assessed quickly as Bodie watched him. Doyle's choice was clear. Either he could risk Bodie bleeding to death as he dashed to the car and phoned for an ambulance, or he could stay with his friend, apply pressure to the wound, hope that somehow or another an ambulance would miraculously turn up, but still risk Bodie bleeding to death in the meanwhile. It seemed that the outcome was going to be the same; fatally the same.

"Sorry," Doyle murmured as he undid Bodie's bloody trousers and pushed his fingers hard into the pressure point at the groin. Bodie jack-knifed and gasped in pain. The pumping blood almost immediately reduced to a steady trickle. Doyle persuaded his friend to lie back down and keep as still as he could while he kept up the pressure. He then ran out of any further ideas.

After a few minutes Bodie, still gasping, gained enough of his vocal chords to keep Doyle company. "You know, I thought that if I bought it, it'd be so quick I wouldn't know about it."

"Bodie, save it for your memoirs."

"But if it had to be dragged out like this," Bodie continued, ignoring him, "I'd want you to be there with me."

"You're going nowhere, so shut up and save your strength."

Bodie heard the panic in Doyle's voice; try as he might to make it sound like anger rather than fear.

Bodie again ignored him. "The fact that I'd go with you having your hands down my trousers is, I must say, not something I'd considered!"

Doyle had to smile at that one. "Look, just keep breathing in and out. You've done it before."

It seemed to Bodie that Doyle was having a bit of difficulty himself on that front. He'd felt the pressure on his groin easing though Doyle was putting his whole weight on the area. He was definitely losing strength.

"You all right, Ray?" Bodie panted anxiously. His voice was barely above a whisper now.

Doyle tried to respond but was so weak that Bodie couldn't hear him. He was fading out himself. Bodie wasn't sure he'd heard a siren and even less sure that it may be heading their way. He must have drifted off briefly. The next thing he was aware of was a stronger male voice. He opened his eyes and saw a man in uniform crouched next to Doyle, who was still at his post, still pressing down on the pressure point. He and Doyle exchanged medical news, lost on Bodie. The man, a medic, said something to Bodie but he seemed unable to process the words. Then something odd happened. Doyle very slowly and, it seemed at the time, carefully, keeled over onto his side next to his friend. Bodie had difficulty processing that, too. He reached out automatically and stroked the top of Doyle's head for reassurance. The soft, curly hair tickling his fingers was the last thing he remembered.