LJS - thanks so for the wonderful compliment a review or so ago, but I think Kudos are doing just fine without my particular brand of insanity - I just hope they don't write out our dear Mr. Firth's character in the process!

And thanks to all those who take the time to review! Onward!

Chapter 9

Lucas looked up at Beth as she walked back onto the Grid. "Is Van Deert secure?"

"Yes, he's in isolation with not so much as a drink of water until the medical team can figure out what to do with him to neutralize the chemicals implanted in his body."

"Good." He turned to Tariq. "Have you heard from Ruth since she phoned in to say she was off the Grid unless we needed her?"

"No."

"Hmm… Okay, thanks."

"Lucas," Beth said, "now that we have this man, can we stand down the terror threat?"

"Yes, I believe we can." Lucas went to his desk and reached for his phone. "I need to confirm with the home secretary, but I think we can at least put the threat part of this to bed."

Beth looked at him. "You're going to go after the assassin."

He met her eyes with determination. "Yes I am."

Lucas hit speed dial and waited for the home secretary's assistant to pick up the phone…

"Harry, I really think we should get to hospital," Ruth said, the worry lining her face. She placed a hand on his forehead. "You're feverish."

"Fever's not going to kill me."

"The hole in your abdomen might, Harry," she said as she prepared a table with items from the MI-5 field kit she retrieved from the bathroom at his insistence.

"You need to sterilize the wound and then close the entrance and exit areas with 5-0 nylon sutures, they should be in the field kit."

She looked. "They are." And she glanced at him again, noting anew how dreadful he looked. "Harry—"

"—Ruth, stop doubting yourself." He bellowed, his hazel eyes staring into her blue ones. "What, exactly, would you tell them at hospital? Good evening, I have a dead man with me who is quite alive and kicking, although he's a twice-dead spook who was shot by his own British security services team when he was in the midst of assassinating his 19th victim in not as many hours so that a biological terrorist plot couldn't launch in Greater London?"

Ruth just stared at him for a moment before she retorted, "Well, aren't you just a pleasure when you've been shot."

He sighed. "Ruth, please, could we just get this over with..." He swallowed hard, the pain in his side distracting him from clear thinking. "Is there any morphine in there?" He asked weakly.

She felt a pang of sympathy for him, and brushed a hand over his forehead. "Pain's pretty awful, is it?"

"It's a bit on my nerves, if that's what you mean." His anguished eyes looked up at her. "I just need something to take the edge off."

Ruth looked through the items she had and pulled out a syringe and a small bottle of morphine. "How many milligrams, Harry?"

"15 ought to do it, no more than 20," he replied with a grimace. She plunged the needle into the end of the bottle, turned it upside down and filled the syringe to 15mg, and was about to inject his arm when he stopped her. "Not in the arm." He met her eyes with his and said, "The thigh."

Her eyes narrowed at him, and then she tried to lighten the moment. "Is this some clever plot to get me to take your pants off, Harry?"

"Would that it were, Ruth," his voice, tightened from pain replied, "but morphine spreads more quickly and evenly in a larger muscle." He tried to fix her with a seductive smile, "It's my thigh or my buttocks, you decide."

"The thigh it is then."

Without much thought about it, Ruth removed his pants and forced herself to avert her eyes from the tight, black Ralph Lauren Polo trunks he wore; in the brief moment before she looked away, she noticed that they left little to the imagination regarding what was beneath. She knew her face had flushed with color, but she chose to ignore all of it.

"Okay, Harry, here we go…"

She jabbed the needle hard into his thigh as she had been trained to do, and plunged the entire contents of the syringe into his muscle, briefly rubbing the area where the syringe pricked him. Harry couldn't keep the grimace from his face when the familiar burn of the drug hit him; he had always hated that about morphine.

She touched his forearm with her hand. "Sorry, Harry."

He shook his head, swallowing down the pain. "It's okay."

Her fear regarding how seriously he was really hurt resurfaced. "I'm really not sure I can do this, Harry," her voice shook slightly, "what if something goes wrong, and—"

"—Ruth, we've been over this," he growled, "now please, just get it done; procrastinating will not make this go away."

Ruth glared at him, but the pain registering in his eyes tore at her heart. "You are truly one of the most stubborn human beings on the planet."

In an uncharacteristic show of need, Harry reached a hand out toward her. After a momentary hesitation, Ruth took it and sat on the edge of the bed next to him. "Let's give the morphine a minute or two to get into your system, and then we'll have a go at patching you back together."

His hand flexed slightly in hers, his thick fingers moving to interlace with her smaller ones. His voice was soft and husky, his muscles relaxing, "I'm sorry I've put you through all this, Ruth. Really I am."

The familiar timbre of voice had its usual reaction on her, and Ruth blushed slightly, her voice soft in response, "I know."

She smiled sweetly at him, reminding him of a picture he'd seen once of an angel.

"God but you're beautiful, Ruth…"

She shook her head. "That's the morphine talking; I think you're relaxed enough for me to have a go at this now."

She started to break away from him to stand, and he held tightly to her hand. Her brow furrowed slightly, looking at him quizzically.

"I meant what I said a couple of days ago about not having any regrets, Ruth." Her eyes stared into his as he continued, "Even though you don't…have any feelings for me, I'm still a better man because you've been in my life."

She could see how heavy his eyelids were becoming and she caressed his cheek with her free hand. "Shhh, close your eyes, Harry. You're in no condition for a chat just now. Close your eyes, relax and I'll be as gentle as I can closing this wound."

"Mmmm…" His eyes fluttered closed, the drug relaxing him enough to let his exhausted body sleep.

Ruth stood, and began to clean the bullet's entrance and exit points, preparing to use a local anesthetic to close his wounds. She looked down into his face, which had grown so pale; with a shudder, she thought about how much blood he'd lost. For a moment she thought about calling Lucas, but she knew it wasn't really an option – at least not until either she or Harry had spoken with Towers. She silently prayed that Harry would be all right…

TBC