Hi, this is a series of short scenes centred on Ros Myers and her characteristics; each letter of her name will form an unattached chapter, and the first is Ruthlessness.

I'm planning to do a story for each character, and I'd welcome suggestions as for chapter titles or ideas for stories!

I don't own Spooks, or any of the characters in it.

Please read, review, and enjoy! xx

"Oh, for God's sake, Harry! We're MI5, not the bloody MET! Do we really need to worry about warrants to search terrorists' homes? Isn't saving London to be our priority?"

Harry merely arched his eyebrows, apparently untroubled by Ros's outburst. He had better things to prioritise, if he was honest, such as whether to wear a bow tie for his dinner with Ruth this evening. And if so, would a formal black be the best, or should he opt for something a little lighter – red, perhaps, or purple. Ruth liked purple, didn't she?

"Harry, are you listening to me?"

"Of course. And I understand, but my answer's still no, and will be no matter how long you continue to pester me."

"But Harry..."

"No, Ros," he interjected, with the kind of brisk tone she'd come to associate with him ending a conversation, "I know you're frustrated, but we've just got to wait. The time will come."

Ros shook her head and stormed from his office, leaving him to ponder over the controversial issue of food – it had been so many years since he'd be inclined to make an effort, and he seemed a little rusty on such areas as avoiding garlic...

"Well?" Lucas glanced up from the file he cradled on his lap as his head of section hurried by him, her harshly shaped blonde hair bouncing upon her shoulders, "What'd he say?"

"That we stay away until we've got more information on the ringleader. He seems to think it wouldn't be safe to burst in there too soon."

"Can't think where he conjured up that suggestion from."

"We need to act before he catches on to our plans; otherwise we're back to square one. Again. I'm sick of all this waiting around." Ros grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair, slung it over her arm and headed for the exit.

"Ros!" Lucas called after her, but she'd already gone, leaving only the pod's soft buzzing behind. He sighed. Why was she always so impatient?

XxXxX

The street was mercifully quiet as Ros approached number 32. It appeared a normal home, at first glance, with sun-bleached grass and a peeling red front door. She approached nonetheless, tapping her knuckles against the plastic, and listening avidly for any sign of life. None came, and she moved as if to leave – maybe Harry had been right. But then the bedroom curtain twitched, and she froze. She couldn't be certain either way if she'd been noticed, but she'd definitely seen him. Lewis Martin.

With a hard kick, the door was thrust inwards, and Ros took the stairs two at a time, gun readied behind her back. She searched the bedrooms, but to no avail. Standing tensed in the centre of the landing, she caught a glimpse of a figure move from behind the bathroom door. On reflex, she shot. A child's scream echoed hollowly around the entire house, and a tiny body fell to the floor, golden curls falling over her pale face.

She fought the urge to run, so repulsed by what she'd just done. There were always two sides to every argument. How could she have known there'd be a child? If they'd waited longer they'd have found out. How could she not have shot her? He'd been in the bedroom, not the bathroom. She stood gazing at the body.

A floorboard creaked behind her, and she spun around again. Martin's eyes flickered between Ros and the child, his lips trembling as he realised what she'd just done. Whoever he was, whatever he'd done, that was his child. Dead. And it was all Ros's fault.

He flew towards her, and she toppled backwards, knocking her head against the banister with a sickening crunch. She felt blood trickling down her neck, her body throbbing. She saw Martin reach out for the abandoned gun, saw his finger rest on the trigger as he towered over her. Stared death in the face once again.

Then she grabbed his leg and dragged him down, tumbling across the landing until she crouched over him, droplets of blood dripping onto his top. Twisting his arm back until he squealed in surrender, she retook the gun, and held it over his face.

But something stopped her. The look on his face, perhaps. The concept that she'd just killed his daughter. Instead, she fired at his leg, the bullet piercing the flesh agonizingly. He struggled for a few moments, and then lay still.

And she fished out her phone, dialling Harry's number with a groan. What had she just done? He'd warned her this would happen one day. After months of waiting, her ruthlessness for a moment had ruined the entire operation.

And her boss was not going to be happy.

XxXxX