Chapter 42 Stockholm Syndrome
Nick was held and questioned for the entire day, his interviews intermittent as he thought about exactly what Washington and Murdoch were loading him up with. Tony Eastough and Jeremy Burns made no appearances and the longer he was left alone, the more Nick began to get confused as to the state of his undercover mission. Was it all over? Even though he had not done his big deal yet and had yet to make any arrests?
SIS hey? Nobody ever really knows what's going on – you just hope for the best Nick thought to himself wistfully.
He'd already cottoned on to the fact that Washington and Murdoch, to name probably just a few, were trying to load him up, turning on him as a fellow member, because he was a heartbeat away from exposing the dodgy dealings of some of their friends - fellow members. Nick shook his head at himself as he sat in the interview room, figuring it all out. He'd clearly got too close, and those he'd been recruited to expose had friends in high places too – high enough that they could override Jeremy Burns and Tony Eastough, high enough that they could haul Nick in brutally at the butt crack of dawn on a Saturday and ask him about an operation he was never going to talk about and that they knew they had no right to ask him about, high enough that they could organise the killing of a young woman, high enough that they could shut down Nick's entire investigation, pretending as though it had never happened, and allowing the corrupt cops who were associates of Joel Christie to continue to do as they pleased.
Nick was disgusted, but at the same time also teetering on the edge of falling under the spell so effortlessly weaved around him. He was outnumbered. They wanted to stitch him up. It was obvious now. Nick Buchanan knew the difference between right and wrong but had by now invested so much time and effort, and so much of himself into his assignment that when they entered the room at 5pm and produced the pistol he'd hidden in the holiday apartment, he was no longer sure what he'd been doing was ever real.
Washington and Murdoch further fuelled his confusion when they stopped addressing him as 'detective' and started addressing him only as Mr Buchanan. They questioned him about the gun, and instead of denying all knowledge of it, telling them he'd never seen it before and that it wasn't his, out of his mouth came Euan's voice, insisting he had got it only for protection, and because he knew it was a necessary tool in the underworld.
The questioning detectives exchanged mischievious looks, satisfied with Nick's answer. A power play had begun.

With every hour that passed Nick fell further from grace. Further from being able to save himself. He knew only one person could help him, but he knew not when he would see her again. All he knew was that they wouldn't stop – they badgered and badgered, yelling and screaming, threatening and belittling, driving him into the hole they had dug just to bury him in.
Nick knew the operation had gotten out of hand. He had made promises too large, let the ambition go off the scale, let himself become taken over by a character that wasn't real, and allowed it to rule his actions, and indeed his life. But a little tiny piece of him thought that it would all pay off so beautifully in the end, and make all the sacrifices worth it. He thought that he would be able to neatly sew up the operation alone, having gathered enough evidence on Joel Christie and Grant Jost as well as the bent cops who bought drugs off the two men, and report dutifully back to SIS that the job had been done and the force was now a little cleaner. But that was always Nick's problem. He was always striving to be perfect. And nobody can be completely perfect, all the time.
As Washington and Murdoch gathered together their paperwork from the table yet again – Nick had lost count of how many times they had been in and out of the room, throwing questions and accusations at him, and always leaving lengthy periods between each encounter to let Nick sweat it out and stew over his thoughts just that little bit more – he lifted his head wearily and watched them leave the room. As Paul Washington opened the door, Jennifer suddenly came into view at the end of the long hallway outside. Despite Nick's tiredness he could make her out perfectly, like a bright shining beacon in a dark, angry, night time sea. He let out an unrestrained, unstoppable half grunt half wail when he laid eyes on his wife and how desolate she looked being led down the hallway. Her complexion on her face was patchy – no doubt a result of crying a few buckets Nick thought. Her clothes looked limp and simply hung on her rather than clothed her or enhanced her features. Her eyes were downcast and her gait slow and unsure, and a step behind her was Matt Ryan, watching her every move like a hawk. He walked with his hands in his pockets, his usual unpenetrable look on his stern face. He would let nothing hurt Jennifer so long as he was still standing. For a fleeting moment Nick felt relief that he was there for her when he couldn't be.
Without thinking Nick leapt out of his chair and raced for the door, pushing past a stunned Washington and Murdoch and covered the fifteen metres between himself and Jennifer in just a few steps. He said nothing, and his shoving out of the way of the detective sargeants had made no noise, yet it was as if she sensed him there. Her eyes lifted up from where they were focussed on the ground and stared right into his as he ran to her.