Brazil

by J. Ferguson a.k.a. Timeless A-Peel

Disclaimer: I don't own The New Avengers, nor the characters of Mike Gambit, Purdey, and John Steed. Sadly. They're the property of The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises, and this story is for entertainment purposes only.

Timeline: Sixth in a series. Takes place in late February/early March, 1977, near the start of the second season, probably shortly after the events of Hostage and the year-later bits of Gnaws and The Last of the Cybernauts...? It is strongly recommended, but not essential, that you go back and read the previous stories in the arc, Aftermath, Dance With Me, The Anniversary, and Merry Christmas, Mr. Gambit.

Author's Note: Inspired by one throwaway exchange in Angels of Death, this is the piece I completed most recently. Meant to explain a few things that went on in the show's second season, it also sets up the rest of the arc in terms of the characters. All the other fics have been fairly plot-light, more or less character studies. I have fun doing character sketches. What can I say? But this one's got a bit more going on in the background, and it sets the tone for the next few stories, a bit darker than I've been posting thus far (nothing too terrible though). Also, this one's long. Really long. Really, really long. And I'm trying to edit it with what little spare time I have. So expect to see this one to be updated for months as opposed to weeks. I hope you enjoy it.

For more information about the series, please see my profile.

Purdey's orders had been to stay in Manaus until the following afternoon in order to identify any suspicious characters eyeing up either her or her cargo. Purdey was on high alert all that evening, despite the soothing effect her call to Gambit had had on her nerves. After dinner she took a brief walk, with the case, and watched for tails, but as far as she could tell, the only thing looking over her shoulder was the ghost of the past. Her father's face loomed large in her mind's eye, the smile she had loved so much lighting up his features. The smile he had given her the day before he left. And never came back. He'd told her he was going to be back soon, to see her dance. He kept half his promise. He returned--but in a box. Purdey couldn't help but draw parallels with her own situation. After all, no one expected Jonathan Bryde to take that bullet, the way she didn't expect this to be much more than an average courier job. But the longer she pondered it, the more the coincidences formed sinister shapes, and she returned quickly to the hotel. As she wove her way through the sights and sounds of Manaus, she reluctantly admitted to herself that she wished that Gambit had come along. Something felt wrong to her, too.

She didn't sleep well that night, whether from jet lag or tensions from the assignment, she didn't know. When she finally did drift off, her dreams were filled with sinister Greys, smiling that smile while her father sank to the ground, and she stood by, frozen, unable to help him. It was half past ten Brazilian time when she finally jerked awake, but sleeping in bore no real consequences. Her trip into the jungle was scheduled for later that afternoon. She took breakfast in her room and wondered what Gambit and Steed were getting up to in her absence, and how much of it she'd be shaking her head at when she got back.

The boat that waited to take her into the jungle was obviously meant for tourists, but the men that had commandeered it spoke English, not Portuguese, and Purdey doubted this particular vessel saw much in the way of the photo-and-souvenir-seeking set. The crew was polite enough and ushered her onboard with her precious cargo after she'd produced enough ID to identify not only herself but the two organizations she was representing. Once she'd settled in, however, her attempts at conversation were politely but firmly discouraged, and Purdey quickly got the hint that in whatever capacity these men had been hired, they couldn't—or wouldn't—exchange words with 'the spy.' She settled into her seat, briefcase clutched in her hands, and took in the great expanse of green as it crept by. The heavy foliage was still drenched from a recent rain, and the smells reminded her of England in their own strange way. At the same time, she felt as though she was being watched by hundreds of pairs of eyes, each tracking her progress with the intention of doing harm. She shivered and concentrated on the river itself.

It was just starting to darken when they arrived at their destination. Purdey climbed out of the boat and found herself face-to-face with another woman who had materialized from the bush. She was petite, but Purdey could tell from the way she moved that size was more than compensated for with athletics. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, and the hazel eyes were bright and sparkled with intelligence. She stuck her hand out to Purdey even as the latter started at her sudden appearance. "You must be Purdey," she greeted, and the blonde recovered quickly, offering her own hand in return.

"That's right," she confirmed. "You're Samantha. Samantha Grieve." Purdey couldn't help but note that the girl's surname didn't do her justice. Samantha Grieve was anything but somber.

"Pleased to meet you," Sam replied. "I believe you have something for me?"

Purdey held up the case as evidence. "I'm afraid I've been instructed not to hand it off until we reach the camp," she reminded. That was where the key was, and Purdey, as courier, had to be present when it was opened. That way, there was someone to hold accountable in case anything was mysteriously 'missing.'

"Naturally," Sam agreed, gesturing up a thin footpath. "It's a short walk. One of my colleagues has the key. Please."

Purdey shook her head. "You lead the way. I'm likely to trigger a trap if I go stumbling along."

Sam laughed merrily. "We're not that exciting, I'm afraid, but suit yourself." She started up the path, and Purdey followed.

"I know you can't tell me very much," Purdey acknowledged as they walked, "but what exactly are you doing all the way out here?"

"Surveillance, mainly," Sam informed. "Trying to, at any rate. There's a man that's set up shop somewhere in the jungle, and we think we may have found his base of operations."

"Anyone I know?" Purdey queried. She didn't care particularly, but she felt better making conversation. It distracted her from the jungle and its invisible eyes.

"His name's Pym," Sam revealed, pushing aside a branch. "Watch your step here. It's a bit uneven. Jeremy Pym. He was a respectable British businessman once upon a time. Advised the crown. Worked in coordination with another company for a few years. Then he got caught advising a few other interested parties, if you catch my meaning. He fled, and the rumour is he put down roots here. We're trying to prove it."

"Yes, I think I remember reading something about him," Purdey said vaguely. It had been in the papers around the time her father had died, but she'd been too busy mourning to pay much attention to the news. Sam had suddenly clammed up, and Purdey knew that she wasn't going to share much more. It didn't matter. They'd arrived at the camp.

Grey's overseas base had been set up in a clearing, sheltered from prying eyes in the sky by the thick canopy. It was a cosy little cluster of tents and equipment, with people bustling back and forth. One caught sight of them and broke away from the crowd. He introduced himself as Peters, the all-important holder of the key.

They had the all-important opening ceremony in one of the tents, and Purdey looked on with barely contained boredom as Grieve and Peters rifled through the documents and declared the delivery a success. By now the light had faded a great deal, and Purdey was more than happy to accept the tent that Sam led her to for the night. The last thought Purdey had as her head hit the pillow was how nice it would be to go home tomorrow. She would not have slept as soundly as she did had she know that of those 100 pairs of eyes she had felt on her back, only 99 were imaginary.

***

The gunshot was deafening in the peaceful night, and Purdey was awake and alert instantly, eyes probing the darkness for suspicious shadows. The shot was soon followed by others, many, from half a dozen different weapons if Purdey's ear was good. She could at least discern two distinctive coughs, one of game rifles, the other service revolvers. The gun battle was most definitely two-sided, but who was winning was anyone's guess. There were sparks and torchlights flickering beyond the canvas of her tent, throwing silhouettes of running figures into sharp relief. They were under attack. It didn't matter by whom, not now that her adrenaline had kicked in. She dropped onto her stomach and started to crawl from beneath the mosquito netting toward her gear, lying off to one side, feeling about blindly in the interior for her gun. She cursed as her hand located everything but. She didn't utilize a gun as often as Gambit, and that meant she'd gotten less accustomed to carrying it around on her person. Now she would have killed for a shoulder holster like Mike's. Mike himself wouldn't go amiss, either, but even Gambit couldn't ride to the rescue over five timezones, and anyway, she could handle this herself. Ah! Success! Purdey closed her hand around the butt, extracted it from the depths of the pack. She gave the clip a quick check before crawling to the tent flap and peeking out.

The camp was in chaos. Agents were everywhere, seeking cover behind vehicles, trees, whatever was handy. Purdey could just make out Sam Grieve ducked behind the blinding glare of headlights. She was peering round the bonnet of a car, using the light to hide her from the enemy. Purdey glanced away from her to size up her opponents. A group of rough-looking hooligans, brandishing the rifles she'd identified earlier. Mercenaries, most likely. They looked like they were enjoying themselves. She'd put a stop to that. She took the safety off with a satisfying click.

Neither side had noticed her as yet, and Purdey used the confusion to duck out of her tent and snake round the side. One of the mercenary types had the same idea, and she wasted no time in introducing him to her high-kick and her right hook. He sank to the ground with nary a sound, and Purdey knelt to unclip the torch from his belt. She was still on one side of the tent, and she could hear shots and shouting on the other, but firing blindly was only going to give away her position. Instead, she switched on the torch and lobbed it over the top, hoping it would land with the light shining the right direction.

It did. Three silhouettes were immediately illuminated through the thin canvas as Purdey ducked back inside. Making a quick calculation to take into account the magnification and distortion, Purdey loosed off three shots through the tent wall, and was pleased to see the outlines crumple. She was out again before the trio's friends could gather their wits enough to return fire. She'd have to tell Gambit about that trick. He could add it to his own arsenal.

She was so pleased with herself she neglected to notice the man melting out of the shadows to her left. She was focused on making her way over to Sam, sticking to the edges of the camp, when she felt the cold, familiar sensation of a gun in her back.

"Don't move."

Purdey stiffened immediately, debating whether or not the man would shoot if she wheeled round and delivered another highkick. She might have managed it, but he was quickly joined by two more, all concealed in the trees at the edge of the camp, all lying in wait for someone to stick to the circumference with their attention absorbed by the gunfight within. The first man relieved her of her gun, and the two newcomers flanked her. "Turn round," the first, still unseen, opponent instructed, and Purdey did as she was told.

He wasn't much to look at. Another burly mercenary type, badly in need of a shave and shafted in the neck department. He looked Purdey up and down with interest, and his expression made her skin crawl. His two friends seemed to agree, but the first held them off with a wave of his hand.

"She goes straight to the boss," he reminded, and Purdey could almost feel disappointment radiating off the flankers. "It's all right, Miss. Old Charlie'll make sure you get to Mr. Pym all right. It's once you get to Mr. Pym I'd start worrying." He smiled evilly. "Follow me."

Purdey arched an eyebrow in nonchalance. "And if I don't?"

Charlie frowned. "You had to ask," he muttered, and nodded to his two friends. Purdey tried not to cry out as her arms were wrenched behind her back, and instead concentrated on keeping her balance as Charlie and co. steered her into the jungle.

Sorry it's been so long between updates. Things got hectic. I haven't forgotten about it, though (but reviews keep my memory sharp! :-) ). Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I'll try and post the next one sooner than I did this one. Purdey's situation has to get worse before it gets better.