It has occurred to me that I should've put half that last Flashback in this chappie to stretch and even it out a bit more. Bum. Ah well. This chapter is way long enough as it is!

Thanks to:

* tech17 *

* 2whitie *

* KKCopper *

* Shadow Huntress * (- welcome to the thanks list! :) Thanks for the review and I'm glad you like it!)

for the awesome reviews that keep me editing chapters to put up instead of doing college assignments... but ho hum :)

As the title suggests, this is the showdown chapter I have been waiting to post since Round One of Butler v.s Drake. Here goes - Onwards!

CHAPTER ELEVEN - Lights, Bullets, Action

Butler rolled into the stairwell, avoiding the shot by mere centimetres. The basement was the last place he wanted to take the fight, but it looked like he didn't have much of a choice. As in, the bullets following him didn't give him one.

Although he was certain he could take the younger blue diamond on easily this time (well, last time there had been concrete dust in his eyes and the sneaky bastard had used this to his advantage), Drake was still cautious as he rounded the corner. Fortunately for him. Unfortunately for Butler, who would have preferred a more fatal shot under these circumstances.

As it was, the Sig Sauer's bullet clipped the henchman's own gun, denting the barrel and rendering it mostly useless. It was testament to Drake's strength that he didn't let go his weapon.

"What is it with you freaks and shooting my friggen' gun?" he roared, not noticing in his anger that Butler was crouched on the third step.

And so he was surprised when the hand shot out so fast the air whistled. Butler grabbed the wrist, twisting with the intention of breaking a few bones and forcing the gun to drop, but instead receiving the man's other fist in the face. Ornate knuckle-duster rings split his skin but Butler managed to block the second hit, concurrently giving Drake time to snatch hold of his collar instead.

Butler wasn't surprised. He had been fully expecting him to fight back. This was just round two. So, regretting the move before he had even begun it, but hoping it would work in his favour in the long run, he fell backwards, using his weight to haul the man down the stairs behind him.

They tumbled head over boots, once, twice, both guns skittering across the floor as the men loosed them in favour for scrabbling for any purchase on the cold concrete before hitting the floor heavily.

Fall training ensured Butler didn't hit his head on the concrete... Drake, however, ensured that he did, banging his skull on the floor until Butler's knee came up and hit him in a particularly sensitive area. Obviously never having been a sufferer of that particular session of Madame Ko's (pretty damn evil) focus training, Drake's ham fisted grip loosened for a fraction of a second whilst he swore and Butler put the moment, and his head, to good use, nutting his enemy in the nose. Blood spattered over both their faces and Butler bared his teeth in a grimace as he went for a pressure point jab. One under the freshly broken nose, one in the corner of the eye... but he had to stop to catch the hand heading for his own temple. More than technically, he was still the underdog here. Drake had nothing to lose.

Drake swung a fist back, beating him repeatedly around the face. Butler took another few blows before his own counter-hits started missing. He closed his eyes and rolled with the punches the best he could, concentrating on staying conscious and hitting upwards with his hands, slamming his enemy in the chin with the heel of his palms. He was not about to have his ass kicked by anyone.

Drake retaliated by digging a thumb into the fresh stitches in his arm - whether purposefully or not, it hurt like hell, and it gave him time to latch strong fingers around Butler's throat with his free hand. Butler had a fair amount of experience with being throttled, and so he didn't grapple with the hand and try to break the hold, instead swinging his own across his chest as best he could and bringing it back in a clean chop across Drake's windpipe. The man coughed and spluttered. They were both choking.

The upper man clamped his other hand around his own throat in an attempt to protect it from further hits and Butler went for his temple instead. Once, twice... spots were appearing in front of his eyes. His arms were more flailing now than hitting with their usual deadly accuracy but Drake was flapping his own free arm in an almost panicked series of sweeping gestures that were barely grazing Butler's skull.

Three heavy 'thwack's to the side of the head and Drake almost let go, stunned at the very least. The millisecond the grip loosened, Butler brought up his knees and threw the heftier guy as best he could. They rolled sideways and suddenly he had the upper-hand. Drake grabbed at him desperately but the hits had left him entirely disorientated and Butler somehow managed to cross the man's hands over his chest and pin him with his knees, glad of every gram of his almost-over-weight-ness and gulping in air as he used all the swing in his torso to elbow strike Drake to the side of the head. The man's eyes rolled back in his head and his body sunk beneath Butlers knees.

He knelt on his prey, banishing the black that was spreading from the edges of his vision like spilt ink and breathing deeply. When he was fairly sure he wasn't going to fall over when he did, Butler got off Drake's chest and stood swayingly. His nose was spouting blood and he pulled up the bottom of his jumper and rubbed some off his face, spitting blood onto the floor and checking he still had all his teeth with his tongue. None even loose, unlike his opponent, whose gold ones had been dislodged in the fight. Butler hoped he'd choke on them. Still, if this was Carker's personal bodyguard, that should mean he was the last straw. No-one else was coming. Hopefully.

Nevertheless, Drake wouldn't be down for ever and he still had to check it was safe up above before he fetched the Fowls. As steadily as he could, he climbed up the stairs, edging round the corner this time and checking everywhere else before he let his eyes wander to the floor.

The Major hadn't moved, but there was no-one else in the ex-takeaway in any state to be fighting either. The front door was closed, which was odd since it only had one hinge left, but at least it kept everyone inside's condition a secret. Hopefully that would deter anyone else from entering just yet too.

He looked down at his uncle, an uneasy feeling clenching in his stomach at the sight of the invincible man lying pale and still on the floor. Blood was seeping in a rough puddle-shape into the material of the jumper, one hand covering the wound limply, the other still wrapped loosely around his gun.

Principals then Family.

Sod that, Butler thought. The principals are as safe as I can make them for now.

He worried for a moment that Drake would wake up and find their hiding place, but either way, he couldn't bring them out until he was certain no-one was going to start shooting at them up here. Just because no assailants had leapt out on him yet, didn't mean they wouldn't shoot once he brought more vulnerable people into the frame.

He crawled, army-style, across to his Uncle and grabbed his wrist, oddly hopeful that the man would wake up suddenly and try to break his own at any moment.

Nothing.

He squeezed down hard, searching for a pulse, trying to block out the pounding of his own blood roaring in his head.

Nothing.

For one of the longest and worst moments of his life.

Nothing.

He closed his eyes, silencing his own breathing in order to concentrate and then...

Throb.

Pause.

Throb.

The simple 'whumpf' of blood being forced through his uncle's body calmed him instantly. Realising there was nothing else he could do, he placed the giant arm back over its owner's bloodied waist and stood up cautiously. No-one shot at him and all he could see of anyone left in the takeaway diner was a pair of legs sticking out from behind the shield of an overturned table. They weren't moving.

He staggered back down the stairs, still a little punch drunk. Everything was still in the basement too. It was eerie. Like being in one of his dreams where he was the only one left alive. Yes, he'd had plenty of those. Any soldier had. You just had to learn to shake them off after the first few, but that didn't mean you could forget them entirely.

Checking Drake and the two other unconscious men were still just that, he hauled open the freezer door. The pair inside cowered, shivering and he wiped his face on the back of his hand.

"It's OK. It's me. Let's go."

Angeline looked like she would have wanted to hug him, if it wasn't for the blood. All they had been able to hear was the snarling and crashes of the fight, staying low like they had been told, in the cold, dark freezer. Now they walked through the aftermath nervously.

"Is he dead?" Artemis asked in quietly morbid fascination as they skirted the slain giant.

"I don't know, so we best be going in case he wakes up," his mother said, ushering him past. She stepped quickly around the man called Travis but hesitated at the unconscious form of Mickey.

"Butler, you don't suppose...?"

The bodyguard refrained from sighing heavily. He knew what she was asking, but his brain was too swamped to come up with an argument to dissuade her.

"If it's too much trouble, I understand..." she faltered.

"OK," Butler shrugged. "If you're sure it's what you want, m'am."

The lady nodded and so he lifted the man bodily. Even if he awoke he wouldn't be able to walk far on that leg. And besides, he could prove useful as something to push ahead of them through the door as bullet-bait.

Checking the coast was clear once again before the trio slunk up the stairs, Butler took the lead, holding the limp man out before him to catch any bullets coming his way. None came and so he proceeded with caution and gestured the Fowls to stay low and follow him.

The staff area was empty but for the still form of The Major. Angeline stifled a gasp at the sight of her husband's bodyguard and Artemis reeled slightly at the blood so Butler pushed them past him, away from the door to the basement to the far corner of behind-the-counter and placed himself between them and The Major, with Mickey lying on his side by the basement doorway. Hopefully anyone coming up the stairs would trip over him.

Butler considered the situation and decided that being in the middle was good position defensively for once - or at least he could guard both parties best he could from here.

"Is Major..." Angeline opened her mouth to speak but Butler shushed her. He didn't want anyone hearing exactly who was behind the counter.

"He's still alive," he whispered. "We need to get out of here but we're best waiting for back up first."

Angeline nodded, hand clasping her son's as though she would never let go. Butler knew what she was feeling. He was on the verge of losing too many people recently. He daren't move The Major for fear of causing more damage so, gesturing for the Fowls to stay where they were, he snuck another glance over the counter, trying to decide if it was worth trying the door. He didn't want them to be sat here like sitting ducks when Drake got up and there was no reliable way to lock the basement door. Or at least none that would hold an angry Drake down there.

It was silent in the takeaway. Not even the sounds of laboured breathing to give away how many men were lying on the floor. By the turn of events, Butler was fairly sure at least a few had turned tail and run. And the ones left were the ones that were unable to. Sirens were approaching but he'd wait until they arrived before letting the Fowls walk out into the street. Even then, a sniper could take a shot and he'd have to go first to make sure they didn't. And if he then got shot, there would be no-one left to guard the Fowls since then there was The Major, who was in no position to do so. Butler wanted to make sure he got a medic on him as soon as possible. Preferably before Drake came hunting for revenge. Or this guy Mrs Fowl had wanted bringing along woke up and turned out to be a backstabbing bastard.

He considered opening the door to the kitchen and shoving his temporary human shield in there. After all, he only had Angeline's word on whether or not he would wake up and try to kill them.

"I'm gonna move this guy out of the way," he whispered.

The way he said it offered no openings for the 'Why?' or 'Where?' that were in Angeline's head so instead she nodded and said, "Thank-you for bringing him up here. He really was quite pleasant to us."

He tied you up and held you hostage woman! What on earth are you talking about? Butler wanted to yell, but instead he just muttered that it wasn't a problem and lifted the man back up.

The only thing causing concern was two others he had taken out in the beginning so easily. But that had been before he had used up a good portion of his energy fighting Drake. Opening the door could be like opening a whole can of worms if they had woken up.

Especially since his gun was somewhere downstairs. Butler muttered a curse.

"Language, boy," a voice rasped.

Butler spun round, almost dropping Mickey, a rare look of surprise on his face. Angeline and Artemis both gasped in shock, neither of them knowing what to say or do. Artemis had already assessed the injuries from the corner they were crouched in by the vending machine and ran the possibilities through the medical section of his growing brain. The shot, by the blood, had to be somewhere in the region of the lower left abdomen. Better than a shot in the chest by a normal person's standards, but then again, he was almost sure the Butlers slept in their bulletproof vests and so perhaps a shot in the chest would have been more desirable this time. Or at least better than a one that could be causing fatal amounts of blood poisoning from ruptured gut tissue leaking toxins into his father's bodyguard's bloodstream whilst they waited for the emergency services to arrive.

Placing the 'nice' man back by the doorway, Butler dropped to the floor next to his uncle.

"You got... the big un'?" The Major was forcing the words out through gritted teeth.

"Yeah he's down," Butler assured him, some hidden part of him laughing at his uncle calling another human being 'big'.

"Perma...nent...ly?"

"Doubt it."

"Then get... them out... before... he... gets up," The Major panted. "And... will you stop carrying... bloody strangers... about... like some sort... of... St. Bernard... boy?"

Butler gave a slightly tense chuckle. OK, so his uncle was pretty much lucid, his charge's were unharmed so far and the sirens were closer now. It was almost time to make a move. He could cope with this. He made a split decision.

"Come on, you're coming with us," Butler grabbed his uncle's shoulder. A hand gripped his wrist back firmly enough to give him some hope that there was life in the old dog yet.

"No. You're going to... get them... out," he said more firmly. "I'm fine."

Butler gently loosened the bloodied fingers and lifted the other palm covering his uncle's stomach. Blood was soaking heavily through the jumper now. Not good. Not fine.

"Major, really. You're badly injured," Artemis said nervously. "The sooner you reach an ambulance the better."

The Major shook his head firmly.

"Thank-you for... your concern, young sir," he said, trying to speak normally. "But you're more important... I can wait."

Butler knew what his uncle meant. He meant that if he, Butler, was helping him to get out of here, he would have to divide his attention between his aiding his uncle and guarding the Fowls.

"Can you walk?" Angeline asked, also realising the reason The Major was refusing help. If he could walk himself then Butler would be able to focus more on them than his uncle. "We can hardly leave you after all you've done."

But as The Major tried to sit up he was forced to clamp his eyes shut and hiss through his teeth.

"They're right. I'm not leaving you like this," Butler said quietly. "Don't even think about it."

"Go. That's an order," The Major growled.

Butler was about to completely disobey and haul his uncle to his feet, regardless of the amount of pain that would cause the stubborn old git, when Angeline, who had wisely been keeping an eye on the doorway to the basement, screamed.

"Look out!"

Butler spun, catching the blow on the arm. Drake, apparently, was already up. Butler went to pole-punch his opponent in the stomach but the man leapt back out of the way, tripping on Mickey and stumbling, giving Butler time to leap to his feet.

See, his sarcastic side muttered. The human doorstop did come in useful.

Drake recovered his step and waved a gun at Artemis and Angeline, who pressed themselves against the side of the counter. Butler's adrenaline spiked once again as he realised it wasn't the gun he had crippled, but another. It was borrowed off Travis, little did Butler know. Although the term 'borrowed' suggested the original owner had some input in the offering of the lent item.

"You two. Back downstairs," he spat out blood as he spoke and the pair crept towards the basement door with terrified eyes. "You, up against the wall and I might kill you quickly."

Butler backed off with a snarl, wondering whether, in his concussed state, Drake would miss the kill shot if he ducked for one of the knives in his boots. He was fairly sure he could throw it accurately enough to hit the pulsing jugular on the man's thick neck.

"Or would you rather bleed to death like him?" Drake asked, lowering the gun's sights from head to body. Butler's knees tensed and he . Reaction training came into play here. If he had been up against another blue-diamond he wouldn't even have considered it but Drake was cocky. About the very worst trait, mentally, along with arrogance, that a bodyguard could have.

"Stop taunting him! You have us - what else do you want?" Angeline shouted, some part of her angrier than she was scared now. Drake turned to her to answer her, a toothless sneer on his face and, in that very second, Butler had cleared the space between them and, missing taking the Fowls with them by centimetres, rugby tackled him through the door.

Who'd of thought we'd get to fall down the same flight twice? Butler thought as his head missed impacting with a step by about a hair's width.

This time, both rolled apart on impact and sprung to their feet. Butler was up faster, kicking Drake in the knee and dropping him to the floor. Drake fired a shot that hit the ceiling and Butler wrestled the gun from his grip, throwing it across the room. Drake scuttled backwards on the floor dragging his leg and searching for the other working handgun. Butler's gun. The owner dived on top of him but Drake ducked forward, dragging him over his head as best he could and smashing his opponent's skull into the wall. Plaster board sent out plumes of choking dust and Butler just thought himself lucky it hadn't been one of the concrete ones.

Perhaps should have seen that one coming, he thought, regaining his feet and leaning on the wall for support.

What he didn't see coming was one of the previously unconscious men from before, the one without the broken leg, the one Angeline hadn't liked, returning to being very much awake and joining the fight. Being attacked from two sides, Butler went for it with everything he had, but the man that wasn't Drake took over whilst the bigger man rested. Butler had him though. It would have been an almost enjoyable fight if it wasn't for Drake waiting to tag team.

Drake ran at him and Butler decided in that moment to charge right back. The ceiling was low for men of their stature and if he timed it right...

His hand grabbed the naked light-bulb and the glass crushed like an eggshell in his grip. He slammed the burning fragments into the side of Drake's head. It went almost dark, but for the light spilling down the stairs and lighting up a patch of the floor. The man bellowed in pain, scrubbing his face. Butler would have liked to have continued his plan for Drake, which involved ripping the wire further out of the ceiling and pressing the broken light fitting into his neck, hopefully electrocuting him with 240 volts. But the man jumped back, still rubbing molten glass off his cheek, letting the smaller assailant take his place, somewhat more reluctantly than he had been originally. And with good reason.

The counter-attack took all of a few seconds. Travis had barely stepped forwards, hands badly arranged in a ridiculous attempt to block any hits. Butler simply grabbed the man by his shoulders and kneed him in the stomach, then spun him forcibly into his comrade, who dived out of the way. The man returned to unconsciousness as he hit his head off a crate when Drake didn't bother to catch him - he'd never liked Travis - instead taking advantage of the way the throw left Butler unbalanced and spun on the spot, kicking him hard in the chest. The Fowl bodyguard stumbled backwards and hit his head off the solid concrete ground, tiny white grains of light darting across his vision as he tried to get up. Drake stepped back and scooped the gun from the floor, limping towards his quarry.

Butler shook his head to clear the stars and tried to scrabble out of the way, almost back on his feet when Drake fired three times into the dim light.

They thudded into his target, the velocity of the impact knocking him out of his half-crouch.

But the Kevlar vest held. Just.

He rolled over and dived towards the other gun. Another bullet hit him in the back.

The gun glinted in the light from the doorway and he could see the barrel was smooth and un-dented.

Butler snatched up the weapon and rolled, aiming as he flipped onto his back and pumping the trigger before Drake could so much as duck.

But nothing happened. The magazine was empty.

It wasn't his gun.

Drake's face went from very worried to very pleased in under a second and he leapt forward out of the rectangle of light, landing two footed on Butler's chest. It knocked the wind out of him and Drake stepped off, stomping one boot down on the floor, and the toe of the other against Butler's throat.

In the few seconds left of his life, Butler realised it must be his own gun that was pointed at him. Ironic. He tried to breathe but the plasterboard clogged his mouth and lungs as it was, and then Drake's boot pressed down harder as he struggled to throw the man's weight. Drake took careful aim this time, avoiding any Kevlar in a shot that was going to leave a mess. Both of them heard the cheery tinkle of the front door opening and Butler's bodyguard brain dimly hoped that it was the Fowls escaping.

He didn't hear anyone approaching. Neither did Drake.

Butler grabbed the ankle at his throat and tried to force it upwards. Drake was having none of it.

"Why don't you people just die?" he spat, cocking the gun and aiming for the younger Butler's head.

"You die," a voice growled.

Drake turned, gun and all, to the source and a trio of bullets hit him, one in the collarbone, shattering it instantly and making his gun arm go limp, two more in the chest, carrying on through his torso and exploding in a shower of blood on the other side. Drake started to fall and, covered in the red spray, Butler twisted the leg he was holding before Drake flattened him and tipped him onto his side.

Inhaling plasterboard and choking, Butler crawled as far away from Drake as possible before he hauled himself up on a crate and breathed properly.

Drake was gasping too, mouth bubbling with blood, a hand reaching out as though to cling to life itself, face contorted in a mix of pain, dismay and fury. Something inside Butler hardened. Everyone was dying anyway, just some got there quicker. It was kill or be killed. It always had been in his life. He strode over and took his gun from the dying man's hand, wiping it once before tucking it lightly into its holster.

"He dead... yet?" panted the voice. Shading his eyes with a hand, Butler looked up towards his saviour. Obviously the lack of oxygen was getting to his head, as he hadn't even considered the gunman.

It was his uncle, of course.

"On his way out," Butler coughed, wiping his face. His hand came away bloody, but that wasn't unexpected. It seemed there wasn't a single inch of skin unbeaten. Although likely he wouldn't have many bruises to prove it. It was a family trait to bruise like a brick.

"And yourself?" The Major asked through gritted teeth. He gripped the handrail and hauled himself up the few stairs he had come down, feeling like he was holding his stomach together with the other.

"Still kicking," Butler nodded, taking the stairs more slowly this time, keeping one eye on his slain enemy.

"There's paramedics... out front," The Major tripped and leant heavily against the wall with a hiss of pain. Ignoring Drake for now, Butler grabbed his uncle round the waist and steadied him.

"Thanks. Didn't think I'd get out of that one," Butler said, half lifting him up the last few steps of the narrow staircase.

"You got... your arse... kicked...boy," The Major chuckled slightly.

"And you got shot and knocked out. Three impossible things on one day, eh?"

"Shut your... trap," The Major muttered, but there was a small smile on his face as his nephew helped him through the tangle of tables and chairs and out of the door. It was incredibly bright compared to the half-light of the basement and cheap artificial glow of the take-away. The sun bathed them in a golden glow and the pair of them blinked in the radiance.

And then there they were, laser dots of twenty policemen hovering over their chests as they stood half-in, half-out of the doorway.

"Same old welcome, eh?" Butler said, raising his hands half-heartedly.

"We don't look like... the stereotypical... good-guys," The Major swallowed some pride and leant on the doorframe, not going so far as to use his nephew for support. Finally someone seemed to notice all the blood and started warning them to stay still and keep their hands on their heads, approaching quickly. "They don't seem... too... happy."

"Well you did cause one hell of a traffic jam for them," Butler shrugged.

The Major barked a weak laugh as he allowed two paramedics and an armed police officer to shepherd him to an ambulance.

Butler too, let himself be cuffed - or at least once he had cast an eye around and seen that the Fowls were safe, huddled under blankets together, being comforted by a policewoman he vaguely recognised. They were all safe. Or at least safe-ish. That would have to be good enough for now.

"What happened in there? How many are inside?" one of the officials asked him, sitting him down on the back step of a riot van whilst the paramedics checked for serious injuries.

Skipping the first question, Butler answered. "Alive? Maybe two or three. Altogether, I don't know."

The man looked a little shocked at his blasé attitude to the body count, but Butler couldn't bring himself to care as he explained shortly about Drake and the others. He wasn't sure whether or not to be thoroughly annoyed when he saw Drake on a stretcher, albeit handcuffed and taking eight officers to carry him. Carker's bodyguard was very much alive and gasping abuse through the oxygen mask. Anyone could survive on one lung, but Butler was hoping The Major might have hit both with his spread. He consoled himself that at least that meant he wouldn't have another murder charge to be going on with.

"Do you have anything you shouldn't have on you?" the nearest policeman asked him cautiously.

"Yes," Butler said bluntly. He spat blood onto the road and wiped some off his chin with the back of his cuffed hands. It was probably Drake's when he thought about it. Nice.

"O-kaaay," the man continued. "Care to elaborate?"

"I'm a bodyguard. Theirs actually," Butler sighed, gesturing to the Fowls. "I have licences for everything on me but I don't plan on handing anything over until I'm sure they're safe."

"I can assure you they are currently under police guard as ex-hostages. And besides, you're cuffed up mate. How are you going to do anything?"

Butler itched to point out at least eight basic security flaws the so-called police-guard had left that could get his charges killed, but instead, he just gave the officer a look that said simply, 'Do I look like I need my hands free to kill people?' and said aloud, "Then you won't mind if I keep my stuff on me, will you?"

The man looked like he really did mind and was about to start forcing him to hand over his armoury when a paramedic shouted over to them.

"Hey you - big guy! You're Stefan, right?"

Butler looked over his shoulder to where a paramedic was waving. His head hurt. Why was the man calling him Stefan? Stefan was... an alias. Right. He recognised the shouter from somewhere but the connection had been bashed out of sync in his head and he couldn't quite remember who the man was...

"You know this man don't you? He's your Uncle Cons...something," he gestured to The Major, flat on his back on a gurney. Butler immediately sensed wrong, the happy-ending-feeling he'd had just moments ago vanishing. "You two were at the fire at Skylight yesterday, right?"

"Yes," Butler said as the connection clicked. The paramedic was the very same one that had taken Mr. Fowl and the waiter to hospital. "And yes he's my uncle."

"Do you know his blood type?"

"Same as mine."

"Fantastic, can you just come over here?"

Butler went to get up off the back of the riot van, testing the strength of the handcuffs until they creaked.

"Please. I can help him," he said, knowing that threats weren't going to get him anywhere right now.

They weren't out of the woods yet, but his arresting officer wisely gave him a bit of slack, walking over to the ambulance with him.

"The boy and the woman put in a good word for you, else I wouldn't be doing this," he warned.

Butler couldn't bring himself to care and half-towed the man to the back of the emergency vehicle.

"How badly are you injured yourself?" the paramedic asked.

The Major was hooked up to an oxygen mask, teeth bared in a snarl of pain as he drummed his fingers on the gurney in a pain-pattern - a technique taught at Madame Ko's to control all forms of discomfort. They'd cut away his jumper, the ugly hole in his muscled abdomen seeping freely. At least that meant the bleeding wasn't entirely internal. And the more blood that flowed out, the less likely the bullet had hit an organ.

Butler mentally flicked through his own injuries. Mostly bruises, bust lip, nose that wasn't feeling too clever and a jaw that clicked when he talked but that would pass.

"I'm fine," Butler said, checking his arms and chest. The holes in his jumper had a few eyebrows raised so he explained simply; "I've got a kev-vest on."

"You're bleeding," pointed out the paramedic, beckoning him to learn far enough over for him to see the split in his shaven head. It had been bleeding quite profusely, but was already clotting now and nowhere near bad enough to be classed at life-threatening.

"Nose bleed. I'll be fine. Trust me," Butler said firmly, as though daring the medic not to take his word for it.

"You'll do," the man sighed reluctantly.

The finger-tapping stopped and The Major seemed to freeze slightly. The paramedic looked worried.

"Right. Let's start. I'm Dan, what's his name again?"

"Ah... Constantin," Butler said quickly.

"Jeeze that's a mouthful..." Dan muttered.

"Just call him by his rank - Major, we all do," Butler fabricated an excuse quickly. To be honest, it was true, but as far as the paramedic was concerned, he was treating Major Constantin Bashkir, ex-Russian military and talking to his nephew Stefan Bashkir and so far, Butler thought it was best if it stayed that way.

"Right then. Major? I need you to lie still and hang on in there ok?" Dan said to The Major, then to Butler; "Have you given blood before?"

The younger Butler nodded, rolling up his sleeve and baring the veins bulging under the skin on the muscled limb. The paramedic half-pulled him into the ambulance and Butler had to duck through the doorway.

"He'll have to come with us. If you have to too then take a seat," he said before the policeman could protest. Then to Butler, "Great, just sit there. Sharp scratch now."

Dan jabbed him with a hollow blood drawing needle attached to a machine. Scarlet life-juice threaded its way through a clear tube and into a machine that whirred and clicked. The paramedic patted The Major's arm.

"You sure you're the same blood group?" he asked, pausing with the needle.

Butler nodded. "Certain."

He didn't only have hospital paperwork as proof, The Major had saved his life through a blood transfusion before. Butler had gone through a second-floor window with an assassin, then through the conservatory roof below, landing in a swimming pool that had needed a full cleaning and water change after the incident. Butler had survived the lacerations he'd received, and the blood loss they caused, thanks to some quick thinking and action by his uncle and the first paramedic on the scene. The assassin hadn't been so lucky.

"Hold still Major," the present one said and stuck The Major's arm with the needle leading out of the machine.

"Wait. I need to stay with the woman and the boy," Butler said quickly. "We're their bodyguards."

"That explains a lot," Dan sighed. "Well I can't unhook you now."

"I'm not going without them."

"He'll die if we don't get him to a hospital," the paramedic said seriously.

Butler didn't even falter. "Trust me. It'll be what he wants."

The paramedic sighed in annoyance and called to another police officer. "Could you follow us with those hostages please? This man isn't willing to go without them and my patient isn't going to survive long without surgery."

Actually, Butler would have preferred them to be in the ambulance with him. Then again, it was already very cramped with him, The Major, the paramedic and the policeman and he couldn't really be so choosy when he was lucky enough to be getting out here in the back of this kind of emergency vehicle rather than the one reserved for criminals.

And so he had to make do with staring through the small, blacked-out window at the flashing blue lights tailing them as the ambulance started up its sirens and made its way to the hospital.

That limited view of his charges and watching The Major's chest rise and fall as shakily as Butler felt was all he had to keep him going.

I promise they are my favourite characters, I just have a thing about putting them in life-threatening situations to over-prove just quite how awesome they are :)

And there were no splits whatsoever in this chapter! It's already over 6,000 words so I didn't bother writing in a bit about Artemis Senior, he'll just have to wait until the next chappie.

Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it,

Wolfy
ooo
O