The pain from Gene's shredded and cut skin and bruised, thumping head was fighting for domination with something else, some other feeling, and Gene recognised it groggily as hunger as he came to after a couple of snatched hours of restless, cold sleep. At the thought of food, it increased, making him moan slightly and shift onto his side, trying in vain to alleviate the dull ache inside him.

"Hungry?"

Gene clenched his fists as the voice hissed through the room, turning to see that the cruel grey eyes had been watching him sleep from a stool pressed against the wall on the other side of the room. As bright blue collided with dank grey, Gene's eyes narrowed and his captor's eyes seemed to smile, a cold, joyless smile that seemed to mock with its very presence. Gene looked away, not beaten, simply disgusted at this hateful creature. And still he struggled to place the voice, the eyes…

"Food?"

Gene glanced up. The man was holding out a piece of mould-encrusted bread, his irises gleaming with something hard to read. Triumph? Pride? Maybe some hate? He had no idea.

"Piss off."

"It's all that's on offer."

"You deaf? Fuck off."

The man laughed, withdrawing the putrid food and throwing it down onto the floor instead, as though he was feeding a dog. Gene's blood seethed, and he clenched his teeth, ignoring the bolt of pain that shot through his head as he did so.

"You'll be begging me soon, Hunt. You will fall to your knees in front of me and writhe, desperate to please me, to keep me and my- displeasure- at bay and conserve the last traces of dignity you have left. I will see it- I will. And you know that, deep down. There you are, tied up, helpless and wretched, and I have the power, as I always will. You cannot win, Hunt. You're no more than an animal to me. You destroyed me and now I will exterminate you. Oh no, I won't kill you yet; I will make your life a living hell first, so lowly and disgusting that you'll plead with me to end it once and for all. You know and I know. Oh, how intoxicating this power is…"

And with that and a cruel, harsh laugh, the megalomaniac left the room.

Gene lay silent as the door slammed shut, a few flakes of barely-painted wood falling to the floor in a small cascade. He was sure he would be able to break the door down normally, in its half-rotted and feeble state, but now his head swam as he sat up awkwardly from the lack of food and he knew that he would faint before he even got near the door.

"Yer not a bloody fairy, Gene, grow a pair," he hissed to himself, pushing against the floor and trying to get up properly but falling back onto his knees and swearing loudly. A feeling of uselessness coursed through his weakened body as he lay back, not resisting gravity pulling him down, and closed his eyes again, scenes from his life flashing in his mind: making the Force, throwing Sam against a filing cabinet in the GMP, drinking with Alex in Luigi's, sorting papers in his office and staring at a photo attached with a paper clip to a thick file, a man with dank grey eyes and a harsh, unattractive face, thin pale lips and a general air of menace and cruelty…

He started, his eyes flying open, straining to remember what the case had been about. He was light-headed, pain was still flowing freely through his system and his body was effectively immobilised, but his brain was whirring, trawling through banks of carefully-preserved case memories to try and place those eyes, that face…

And then he realised and gasped out loud.

"I 'ave to warn Bolly… an' the others… oh shit."


Waiting for Randy Torfield is like waiting for a tsunami you don't even know is going to happen. My determination to remain in the office is waning rapidly by the time Shaz takes a call from someone who has found a pack of blood-stained cigarettes by the Hammers and would like us to check it out. Wondering if it'll be another lead to Gene that has us perplexed, I grab my jacket and leave a message with Viv, telling him that if Randy calls, I'm out on a call and to leave a message with the desk.

Forensics are already on the scene by the time I arrive, swarming round the small red puddle with cordons around the scene and Chris and Ray watching the proceedings like hawks, their eyes never leaving the cigarettes and the hands of the officers handling them. I walk up and murmur a question to them, quietly dreading the answer but desperate to know.

"Are they the cigarettes the Guv buys?"

Ray nods, pulling a packet out of his own jacket and comparing the two for me.

"I get the same as 'im, they're the best. Same brand, same packagin', just the small difference o' that one bein' soaked in blood."

I grimace at it and approach a white-suited officer, watching as off comes the spacesuit-like apparatus, revealing a normal-looking young man with tousled dark hair.

"Can you tell me if that's DCI Hunt's blood?"

"I'm not sure, but we can confirm when it was shed and who it's most likely to have come from, checking by the blood group. There was a note attached, by the way."

He hands me the note, stained with the gruesome red liquid but still legible, partly dry.

"So. You haven't yet found me? You never will. I will exert my power over him for ever, and he'll never be able to get away from me- never! K.B."

I stare at the last two initials, confused. K.B.? We thought it was R.T… or is this person using multiple identities? Different names? Or is this even related to Gene at all? It could be someone completely different… and yet the tone of the note is the same, sneering, triumphant, confident. I am almost sure they're the same person.

Deciding to compare the handwriting to check for sure, I turn on my heel and head back to the station, my hand running over my forehead as I wonder if Gene is still alive, still able to know that we are looking for him and working hard to find him.


"The handwriting is the same. The tone is the same. The blood is from blood group AB negative at both scenes, and without looking at medical records I would have to assume that is Gene's blood group. All this points to it being the same person, and them using the initials R.T. and K.B. for some reason. Maybe they changed their names? Shaz, I'd like you to start looking for any people around here who changed their names from R.T. to K.B., or who have all four letters in their names, just anyone who might want to sign the notes with those four initials. OK?"

Shaz nods and turns, stopping dead in her tracks when Ray speaks.

"I can think o' someone."

I stare at him, the room becoming silent as everyone else turns to gape at him. For Ray, this is almost worrying.

"Who?"

"Oh… no, it doesn't fit," Ray mutters, his face growing a little red. He quickly lights a cigarette to hide it, ensconcing his scarlet-tinged cheeks in a cloud of foul-smelling grey smoke.

"No, go on, Ray. Who were you going to say?"

"I was goin' to say, there was this gangster called Robbie Thomas. 'E was caught by the Guv sellin' crack on. D'you think it might be 'im?"

I pause, pursing my lips as I think.

"When did Gene collar him?"

"Couple o' months ago. 'E won't be out o' the scrubs yet, but someone else might be doin' this for him."

"I don't know, Ray, but we should check him out anyway. Someone go and check him out. You carry on, Shaz," I add, looking round at the young WPC, who nods and walks off, her head bowed slightly but giving Chris a tentative smile as she passes him. Without Gene the mood in the room is muted, almost negative, and I wish that I could offer them comfort, reassuring words, to try and improve the mood, but they wouldn't accept anything like that, they would brush it off as some posh bird trying out her psychiatry on them (damn you Gene for getting that word mixed up too often for them to remember that it's psychology!) and ignore or scorn me.

Slowly the room grows silent again, save for the ruffle of papers and crackle of cigarettes and the odd sigh or slurp of tea. I plop down into my chair and wait patiently for Randy, flicking through files, delving through names and photos and records but my mind far away from the scratched, cigarette-burnt desk in front of me.


Bolly taps her watch and calls to me, telling me we have to get a move on or we'll be late for our meeting with the Super. I hurry along the corridor, nodding impatiently at her, my snakeskin boots clicking against the concrete as I keep pace with her, my anxiety growing as the door gets ever closer. It resembles the door of a courtroom, wide and oak-coloured, gloomy and doom-laden.

"Good luck," Bolly murmurs, clutching my hand for the briefest of seconds before the doors open and I am pushed through them into the office, my body suddenly surrounded by glass and wood. I have been forced into a dock.

"Wha…" I start, but I am cut off by my name being called by a foghorn-like, evil voice from the other side of the room, which is still decorated like an office but set out like a courtroom, with rows of balaclava-covered juries all staring straight at me, their gazes cold and uncaring, pale long-fingered hands scribbling on pads.

"You tried to resist me."

The judge at the top of the courtroom raises his head, and I meet his arctic, dank grey eyes.

"You tried to win. Once you did. But you never will again. I will have my revenge."

A blood-stained hand reaches out to pull a lever resembling the handbrake of the Quattro, and the last thing I see is the courtroom standing and applauding loudly as I yell, pain searing through my head as the floor opens beneath me and I am falling, blind and breathless and writhing through the air, desperately searching for a handhold, a ledge, something to break my endless fall into the void of blackness I can sense all around me…

Blackness…

Blankness…

Cold and uncaring…

Help me…

"Beg me."

No!

"BEG ME!"

I can't…

PLEASE!

"PLEASE!"

A hand drew back from the back of Gene's head, stained with bright blood and macabre as it swayed lazily in front of his face, the fingers dripping with scarlet. Pain throbbed through Gene's head once again, the cut just above his hairline stinging with its recent assault.

"I told you you would beg, Hunt," a voice hissed in his ear as the person above him put his hand firmly on Gene's hip, stroking idly and pinching before it withdrew, leaving him writhing and panting on the floor, kicking the backs of his knees as they walked away, leaving cold laughter echoing through the miserable cell and despair festering in Gene's heart.

They hadn't found him. They were no closer, probably.

Gene's stomach twisted in fear.

Maybe they never would.

Or maybe they would when it was too late.

He had no idea which was preferable.


A/N: Please remember to review! Thanks for reading, and once again, thank you so much to my wonderful beta happyeverafter72! :D Jazzola :)