A/N - Sorry for the radio silence, lots of Real Life happened all at once. I've got a bit of catching up to do, but thanks to everyone who's been in touch. I'd like to think that the next chapter will be up next weekend. -x-

A/N II - And this is now 19 chapters long. I'm 99% sure of that. I think... :D

Chapter 16

What Would Ironside Do?

The stairwell was narrow, each floor had two flights of steps. Ed counted twelve on the first section, desperately pulling in any information he could find, hoping to think of a way out of this. Ahead there were only more plain, concrete steps and walls, there was nothing he could see that would help.

What was he going to do?

For the second time in two days, adrenaline flooded Ed's body, slowing the world down and speeding his mind up. Moving felt sluggish and exhausting and difficult to control, as if he was walking upstream against a raging torrent. With each stride, Ed's legs grew heavier, his heart pounded like it was trying to break out of his ribcage, and the panic hovering at the edge of his consciousness ate away at his instinct and his logic.

The scuff of his unsteady footsteps echoed on the concrete, but the man behind him seemed to make no noise at all, giving Ed the unsettling sensation that this was all in his imagination. But that was the alcohol and his own wishful thinking, trying to make this easier to bear. It wasn't true, he knew it wasn't true, the crushing grip on his arm and the blunt barrel of a gun at his neck reminded him that he couldn't hide in fantasy. He had to keep trying to push, and trying not to die, at least not until he'd helped the Chief.

He was running out of time.

They crossed the landing, halfway to the second floor, Ed reached out to the metal railing, but once again misjudged the distance and instead of catching hold of it quietly as he intended, he caught the edge of it with the bottom corner of his bourbon bottle. The relative silence was shattered by a dull clunk.

They both tensed at the noise, and the suspect yanked Ed's arm. To stop himself from crying out at the stabbing pain it caused, Ed pressed his mouth shut so tightly that the cut on his lip stung as if he'd been punched again. He tasted blood and a bolt of fear, amplified by the panic, surged through him. What in the name of God had he been thinking, bringing his "bourbon" with him from the table? He was in enough trouble as it was, without holding on to the single most obvious link he had to the cops. Keeping hold of it was like carrying a primed bomb. If the man discovered that the bottle was cold tea, and not JB Sefton bourbon like the label said it was, then this would finally be over.

The irrational, panicking part of his mind was sure that the man would take the bottle and drink.

Now.

Or now.

Or now…

But the rational, more detached part dismissed the idea. This man wasn't going to do anything of the sort. He was a professional, someone cold and calculating, who liked to keep control. That was obvious from his demeanour and the thoughtful, measured way he'd gone about circumventing the Chief's plan. He wasn't going to dull his reflexes with alcohol, so the only way he'd find out about the tea was if Ed did something stupid, like breaking the bottle so the contents ended up all over his clothes. There was no way anyone would mistake the smell of tea for the smell of bourbon.

'Keep going,' the man grunted. 'But quietly.'

Ed obeyed, and they started to climb again, silently chastising himself for his carelessness. The man wasn't going to take any chances, and was going to keep everything under tight control. It was clear that he knew exactly what he was doing and where they were going. Ed had no doubt that if he tried to do anything outside of the man's expectations, the consequences would be instantaneous.

A ripple of powerlessness and nausea went through him at the thought, and panic pressed forward again. He was trapped in a constantly shrinking world. The more he tried to get himself out of this, the more entangled he became. The Chief needed him to do his job and help them, but the first mistake he made would also be his last.

There would be times in the future when Ed would think back to that instant, and try and explain what changed, but he'd never be able to find the right words. Because rather than amplifying the panic, like it should have done, a dispassionate resolve flooded through him and brought his situation into perfect focus.

Survival became a simple equation. If his first mistake would be his last, then he couldn't make any mistakes at all.

And Ed immediately thought of Ironside.

Only Ironside would be able pull off something like this. The man was legendary; even the downtrodden lackeys on the lowest rung of the criminal underworld thought twice when Ironside got involved. Of course, like all rookies, Ed had assumed that the rumours in the department about Ironside's skill and nerve were inflated by gossip, but now Ed knew more about the Chief, he thought it was more likely the other way and the Chief was much better at this than the rumours suggested.

So what would Ironside do?

Ed's first thought: that Ironside wouldn't have let himself get into this idiotic situation in the first place, didn't help even if it was also true. But Ironside would have a plan. He always did, the Chief's uncanny ability to understand the details of a situation in an instant was like some kind of superpower. He'd have figured out the man's weaknesses, disarmed him and be half way back to the department by now, with the suspect in handcuffs.

Ed mentally shook his head. That wasn't helping either.

Ironside would have a plan. And the first part of it would be to stay alive. That meant not taking stupid risks, and to stop waving that damn bottle around.

The next would be to trust the other officers were trying to find him. Trust was something in short supply this morning for Ed. One of his best friends had crossed the fence, and the other four had forced him out onto the street and, knowingly or unknowingly, started the chain of events that led him to this stairwell and the gun pushed against his spine.

But there were also other people here at the hotel, and he could trust them. The Chief was the obvious one, and Lieutenant Simon, who also had an impressive rep in the department. And Sergeant Reese, who'd taken him in when he'd had no one else, helped him prepare for this assignment, and had even complimented him on his skill on the way back from the funeral.

Ed remembered the drive, and their talk, and the relaxed, calm way the sergeant had spoken about Ironside. It will work out. The Chief will make sure of it. That's what Reese had said, and whatever else was happening in the world, it was true. The Chief was an unstoppable force of nature. He wouldn't give up. He'd move Heaven and Earth, and everything in between, to get their man. And he would expect the same level of commitment from Ed.

So what would Ironside do?

The answer was easy: He'd keep his cool, he'd trust his colleagues and find a way to help the others find him. Nothing else mattered.

It didn't sound so hard when he thought about it like that, and all of a sudden Ed realised he had the start of his own plan.

The first thing to do was swap the bottle to the other hand, away from anything that might break it. Drawing attention to it was dangerous as well as dumb. After doing that, as they climbed, Ed made himself focus on what was going on around him, using his training to keep searching for a way to push. The stairwell held no answers so Ed concentrated on what he could learn about the suspect.

From the moment they'd met in the bar, the man had shown a superior and arrogant attitude. Maybe he was trying to intimidate his target (and Ed couldn't deny that that had been working) but it also showed that he took what he saw at face value.

First, the man thought Ed was drunk. Although his head was spinning and he recognised the fuzzy, detached feeling you got from a hit of bourbon, Ed was nowhere near to being as smashed as the man assumed.

Second, there was the snide, petty dig at his competence, "Guess they don't make cops the way they used to". It showed that he'd thought Ed wasn't much of a policeman. The insult had hurt, but the sting to his pride didn't matter as much as what it told him about their suspect.

Lastly, and more importantly, the man had also decided that Ed hadn't figured out that the cops were tailing him, and thought he wasn't part of their plan.

Putting those facts together showed Ed that he had one advantage: the man underestimated him.

As they climbed the final few steps to the second floor, Ed felt his confidence start to rise. Any advantage would help him stay in the game and give the Chief time. He was going to keep acting drunk, and keep letting the man underestimate him while he figured out a way to leave a trail for the others to follow.

They walked across the second floor landing, past the stairwell door, and Ed slowed, cautiously looking around for anything he could use. Beside the door was a half-full garbage can surrounded by a few bits of random trash, cigarette butts, newspapers, and scrunched up candy wrappers that had been left on the ground. There were a couple of signs on the wall and strip lights on the ceiling, but that was all.

Ed felt the man tighten his grip.

'I said third floor,' he hissed. 'Keep going.'

They started up the next set of stairs, two more flights of twelve steps, so if Ed was going to let Ironside know where they were going, he had twenty four steps to figure out what to do.

Twenty three.

What did he have that he could use? He was unarmed, unlike all the other officers on duty, because Ironside had been adamant that it was too much of a risk. The bottle itself could be a good weapon in other circumstances, but against a close-range bullet it was next to useless. He wasn't going to take on a man with a gun, not with those odds.

Anything he used had to be something unobtrusive. It also should be something that the Chief would recognise as his, and not mistake for any old junk. Thanks to the events of the previous few days, he had very little, just his generic, black wallet (which was empty except for a couple of bills), a packet of pills and his house key. His watch was... It was...

Twenty two.

A wave of cold, crushing loss came and went in a flash. But then he remembered the picture of their engagement party he had rescued from the floor. At the thought of that photograph, his hope soared. That would be a perfect message. There would be no mistaking it and Ironside would know which way they'd gone.

Twenty one.

The thought of abandoning it wrenched his heart. But it didn't have to be for long, and the Chief would give it back afterwards. So if he dropped it by a door, or at the wall in the shadows, no one else would see it. Except the Chief who'd be…

With a devastating thud, reality came crashing back. The picture might be the perfect choice, but it was in his inner jacket pocket. There was no way the man was going to let him reach inside to get it out. It might as well have been locked in his suitcase or on the Moon for all the good it could do.

Twenty.

The abrupt rush of resigned anger suffocated him, as if someone had punched him in the throat. He clamped his mouth shut again, biting down hard to stop himself swearing out loud, ignoring the increasing pain from his lip. Now he thought it through, anything in his pockets would be useless. Pills, wallet, her picture, it didn't matter because the man wasn't going to take any chances. The moment he moved his hand towards his jacket, the man would stop him. Permanently.

Nineteen.

His focus wavered, but Ed managed to avoid panicking by reminding himself that he couldn't afford to make a mistake. The fact that he couldn't use anything in his pockets was a setback, but he had to keep pushing and not give up at the first problem. So what else could he do? What else did he have? Answer: he had whatever he was holding in his hands. The pressure on his chest spiked as he realised that all he had was his bottle of tea.

Eighteen.

His mind went blank for a second.

Seventeen.

Was that his only option? The one thing that he wanted rid of more than anything else? The one thing he had that was like a flashing sign that said "I'm an undercover policeman"?

Sixteen.

It should have been impossible to think, and he should have been lost to panic, but he wasn't. Instead, there was an incandescent thrill of understanding. Maybe if he'd had an hour, he might think up something better, but he didn't. He had fifteen… no, fourteen steps left. He had to follow his gut and pray that it was right.

Thirteen.

They turned at the midway landing, and Ed gripped the banister to help keep himself steady, and let the man guide him forward. The bottle was his only chance, so he had to go with what he had and not waste time wishing things were different.

They only had twelve steps left.

Heart drumming louder, Ed tensed. In his mind he was running ahead, trying to figure out his next move. He had to leave the bottle somewhere the Chief would see it. Ed felt almost certain that he could get away with leaving it on the ground, if he was casual enough about it. And there would probably be a trash can, there was one on the level below, along with more garbage that people left on the floor, so he could put it with that.

Eleven.

Just dumping it might look odd, especially since he'd dragged it along from the table. If he finished it off, then played up being drunk, staggered and "accidentally" missed the can, the man wouldn't be that surprised.

Ed gave a gulp, not liking the thought of knocking back a quarter-bottle of cold tea. It had been hard enough to force it down when he was sipping it from a glass.

Ten.

But it had to be done. He could imagine what he'd do. He would keep acting drunk, which had irritated the man before, and should do again. They would stop at the door, and he could make an unfunny wisecrack about stairs being thirsty work. Then he'd down as much as he could stand and leave the bottle with the trash. If he was careful, and stayed cool, he could palm the cap for later, another clue to leave for the Chief, and maybe drop it at the door of their destination.

Nine.

Suddenly, it seemed ridiculous that the Chief would find any of it, and know what had happened. Leaving bits of trash lying around in the hope he'd recognise them as a hint and understand? Wasn't that one chance too far? Would he even know what to look for?

Eight.

It will work out. The Chief will make sure of it. Ed didn't doubt that now. Ironside was the best there was, he knew Ed would try to leave something. He'd know how limited Ed's options would be.

Seven.

Ed knew he didn't have time to plan every move or every detail. As long as he didn't do anything threatening, he should be okay. Trusting himself and his instinct wasn't easy, but it was much easier than second guessing everything that could go wrong.

Six.

He had to do it and pray it worked.

Only five steps to go.

Another burst of anticipation made him go hot, then very cold. He realised he was sweating, his hands were shaking and he wasn't sure his legs would keep supporting his weight.

Four…

He tried to take a deep breath, but his lungs only went half way before his torso seized up and he gave a low, choked gasp. When had it become so hard to breathe?

Three…

As they reached the third floor landing, the blood rushed from his head. He'd never felt so nervous in his life. Because if this went wrong, he-

Two…

-wouldn't get another chance.

One.

Instinct taking over, Ed took a half-step forward and gave a drunken grunt, anticipating what he was about to say and do. As he'd hoped, the man yanked on his arm and pulled him to a halt, looking furious. His gaze darted around the stairwell and Ed paused. He hadn't expected the suspect to look so unsettled.

'Goddamn drunks,' the man hissed. 'I don't have time for this!'

In response, Ed twisted, moving his free hand to undo the cap of the bottle, words forming on his lips. Another wave of determination swept through him. There was no time for doubts. He had to make this look good.

But almost as soon as he moved, the pressure of the gun in his back increased. The man gave a furious growl and released his grip on Ed's arm. He reached out.

Ed's instinct shouted a warning at him, but he didn't react fast enough. The man grabbed the bourbon bottle and tugged it out of Ed's hand.

The world tipped sideways, out of his control. He had no way to respond, taken by surprise by the action. An image of the future flashed before his eyes; the man would open it, realise how he'd been tricked. Then he'd fire and it would finally be over.

This was it.

But that didn't happen. Instead, the man muttered something extremely uncomplimentary about Ed and dumped the bourbon bottle in the garbage can. There was a scrunch of paper then a thud. Ed stood with his mouth open, momentarily stunned into inactivity.

'You'll need to be able to walk,' the man snarled. 'Now let's go!'

It took the Chief five minutes to check the two stairwells, always looking for something out of the ordinary. It didn't look like either stairwell had been cleaned in weeks, and each level looked the same, with some old trash left lying on the ground at the landings and inconclusive scuff marks on the stairs. Nothing caught his attention as being unusual, or something that Ed could have "dropped", and without more information, he had no idea what he should be looking for. Ed had some cash, but very few personal items on him, he had very few personal items left. And their suspect wasn't going to let him rummage around in his pockets. No, he was far too clever to let Ed do that. He'd watch Ed closely, and make sure he was the one in control.

Feeling increasingly frustrated, Ironside returned to the middle of the foyer, and gave a silent sigh. The search had just become ten times harder, as Ed could be anywhere on the upper floors.

They had to find a way to narrow their options.

Murray and Carl stood next to him with similar expressions of worry on their faces. Both understood how easily this situation could turn deadly. The Chief felt it too, as well as a jagged, unpleasant feeling of not understanding what was happening, or why, and that this was already out of their control.

As he looked back towards the revolving doors, the Chief gave a frown, shaking his head, getting an unfamiliar dissatisfaction with his reasoning. He started to run through the facts again. Ed had left a tip, then left his key. That meant either Brown had lost his nerve and deliberately cut and run, or he'd done it because he felt he had to.

In spite of Murray's doubts, Ironside knew which option he favoured. He wasn't a man given to blind faith in any circumstance, but he trusted that Ed wouldn't run out on them. He'd stick to the plan, as best he could. He'd taken the decision to leave and followed the first parts of his instructions, but he hadn't made it out to a cab. So, if Ironside was right to believe in Brown, that meant that the suspect had intercepted him. And if that had happened, then it was reasonable to assume that the man wanted to trade, why else would he be here? Not only that, they had to be still inside the hotel. Ed hadn't left, the men on the outside were certain. So taking the stairs was the logical thing to do. Assuming their suspect had used force when intercepting Ed, he couldn't have stood by the elevators and waited, not in full view of everyone. He would have kept them moving, using the stairs to get where he needed to go.

That was what had happened, Ironside's instinct was telling him that. But there was another angle, a fact that would help him explain the extra details. The suspect had his reasons, people always did, but when Ironside tried to extrapolate them from the facts, he only became more confused.

What had the suspect said to make Ed need to leave? And why had the suspect walked away? Why had he ambushed Ed? Why did he need to? What else was going on?

Why had the plan unravelled?

Think like the suspect, that's what he'd told his sergeants. That's what he was doing, and it still made no sense.

His chest was heavy with the disconcerting feeling that he'd missed something. Making a mistake was the last thing he could afford to do tonight, and the Chief didn't let himself dwell on that possibility. They had to work their way through this, finding the answers as they did.

Every minute that passed decreased the chance of this ending well. He hadn't wanted this to descend into gunfire and bloodshed, even though that was always a possibility. Murray's warning from before sounded loudly in his mind: This goes wrong, all three of us will have his blood on our hands.

At the thought, a cold coil of genuine worry tightened around his heart.

Despite their plan, somewhere in this four-storey maze, Ed Brown was alone with a cop killer.

'Keep moving,' the man hissed in Ed's ear and pushed him forward into the corridor.

Ed obeyed, still feeling shocked and light-headed. But he'd gotten what he'd wanted, the bottle was out of his hands. But whether the Chief would find it was a completely different question. Would he think to search through the trash?

An irrational, incongruous image of Chief Robert T. Ironside rummaging desperately through a garbage can like a wino in search of a free drink popped into his mind. Ed started. The idea was laughable, but he also realised that Ironside would do exactly that, if he thought it would help. That was what he had to remember. He had to keep acting as if Ironside would follow, and look forward not back. He'd gotten this far, and if he was still alive, he was still in the ball game.

'Keep moving!' the man repeated, the words fizzing with tension. For the first time, Ed realised how uptight the suspect was. His words were quick and quiet, and his tone now sounded anything but relaxed, very different from how he'd been downstairs. He might be cold and calculating, but he was also human enough to be worried, if the stakes were high enough. Ed wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

They kept moving. The hotel section was no more pleasant than the bar had been. The corridor's decor felt like an afterthought, as if the owners hadn't gotten around to updating it. The pattern on the carpet had concentric circles of dark brown, cream and orange that looked like archery targets. The wallpaper had lost most of its original colours, but Ed could still make out an old-fashioned pattern of pale green leaves and cream flowers winding up to the ceiling.

He didn't see anything nearby that he could use. And he had nothing left. Well, he had the things in his pockets, but Ed was certain that if he tried to get at them, the man would fire. An uptight, nervy man holding a gun to his back wasn't someone Ed was going to antagonise, not without a very good reason.

The man pulled him to the left, and Ed obeyed, always looking around as they walked, aware that he need to keep pushing. Other than the occasional furtive glimpse, Ed wasn't able to see the man's face clearly. But his own instinct was telling him the other man was growing increasingly anxious. He sounded worried, the grip on his arm was getting steadily tighter, the gun dug harder against the small of his back. And they had sped up, no more meandering up the stairs, he was being dragged along as fast as they could go.

Even empty-handed, Ed knew he couldn't afford to waste time or thought on what they'd left behind. Instead, he had to find something else and, very aware of the gun, he knew it had to be subtle.

They turned a corner, and the man leaned toward him.

'Along the corridor,' he said. 'Room 232.'

Ed glance up to the nearest door, it was number 226. He was running out of time. Again. With an involuntary shudder, he managed to nod, his throat tightening. He licked his dry lips.

What? That's…?

A second later he licked them again, his tongue running over the swollen ridges of the cut Sam's punch had made. He could taste blood.

The idea that struck him was ridiculous and inspired at the same time: He'd mark the wall with blood.

Once again, he felt the same decisive inevitability he had on the stairs when he'd realised any mistake would be the end. As crazy as the idea sounded, it might work and that was all that mattered. Ironside would see anything out of the ordinary, that was the sort of man he was. If he saw the bourbon, he should guess that this was the correct floor. And he'd come looking for more clues. A small fleck of blood might just be enough.

A slew of contrary ideas and objections came to mind, all at once, but Ed had already made his decision, finding an inner trust that took him by surprise. There was no guarantee that this would work, but he knew it was the best he could come up with under pressure and at such short notice. He didn't have the time for anything else. Again, he felt a rush of emotion-fuelled terror at what he was about to do, but this time he was expecting it.

They stopped by number 232 and the man pushed a key into his left hand.

'Open it,' he said. 'And don't forget…' The gun prodded him hard.

Ed nodded. Taking the key, he watched his own hand move to the lock and slide it in, all times aware of the relative positions of his right hand, his mouth, the man and the gun.

As he turned the key in the lock, Ed gave a faint gasp, as if he was trying to stifle a cough. The man didn't react, he was too busy watching Ed unlock the door. Then Ed raised his free right hand to his mouth before coughing again, just as quietly. He felt the wetness of his own blood under his fingers as he touched his lip.

Again, the man didn't react, so Ed pushed the handle down, letting the door swing open. Then he deliberately swayed, and grabbed the door frame with his right hand, as if needing the support.

This time, the man gave an impatient snort.

'Just get inside!' he hissed. 'Move!'

At the instruction, Ed pushed his fingertips hard against the wall, feeling them slide slightly over the paper, then let go of the frame, and his hand dropped down to his side. He stepped through the doorway into the unlit room beyond.

That was it. Finished. That was all he could do.

He forced himself not to look back. Instead, he took another step forward. At first he couldn't make out much detail in the hotel room, the light from the corridor behind him cast long shadows. In the relative darkness, Ed took the chance to lick the cut on his lip, not wanting to draw attention to it and rubbed his fingers along the hem of his jacket to clean them of any blood. Then he glanced around to get his bearings.

Although there was little light, he could make out the larger pieces of furniture, a pair of single beds, a dresser with a chair in front of it, and a wardrobe off to one side, next to the closed bathroom door. Directly in front of him was a large, uncovered window that looked out over the water. It was almost the same view as the one from the bar, but now he was two stories higher, the outside felt further away, as if the world itself was pulling back from him, leaving him isolated and alone in the night.

The sensation passed in an instant when the other man spoke.

'Walk forward to the middle,' he said. 'Stay facing the window. And keep your hands where I can see them.'

Ed followed the order, taking slow, measured steps, the plush carpet muffling the noise of his footsteps. He lifted his hands, not ready to take any chances. The pressure from the gun might have gone from his back, but he could just make out its reflection in the glass of the window, always held steady, always pointed at him.

For the moment, he was on his own. There was no more he could do to signal the Chief. He'd delayed as much as he'd dared, he'd left what meagre hints he could, the situation stretching both his ingenuity and his faith in his boss. He had no idea if he'd done enough. He could only trust that he had, and prepare for a sudden interruption.

The man snapped on the main light and Ed blinked at the abrupt change. With the lights on, the outside vanished. Instead, Ed was looking at the room in the reflection of the window. He felt trapped, his world suddenly compressed to this one place, drab and plain, with walls that fenced him in and a ceiling that crushed him down. His attention was drawn to the open doorway, his only way out, but it might as well have been on the other side of the world. He shivered as the other man closed the door and took one step towards him.

'Turn,' he said.

Ed obeyed once again, and took his first good look at the suspect. Ed wasn't sure what he'd expected, but the man didn't fit with his preconceived idea. He was older than Ed expected, maybe close to fifty, medium height, medium build, with dark blond hair and a plain, unremarkable face, the kind you might see but find hard to describe. The glasses he'd been wearing earlier had gone. Ed looked more carefully, and noticed the slight scowl, the way his eyes flicked constantly around, and the sheen of sweat of the man's forehead.

Why was the man so nervous? Ed inwardly frowned at the unvoiced question. The man had the upper hand, that had been true all the way through this case. Now they were at the end, the man was nervous?

Ed's instinct whispered a reason, that this "trade" was for something vital. After all, the man had turned over two rooms and sent a gang of street thugs to search him. He looked more than just nervous, he looked desperate. Ed recoiled at the thought that he was face to face with a desperate cop-killer, not wanting to believe that it was true. But it fitted with what he was seeing.

'Over to the wall,' the suspect said, jerking his head to the left, toward the closed bathroom door. 'Hands on the frame, head down, feet apart.'

A knot formed suddenly in Ed's stomach. He knew that position from the Academy, when they'd practiced it. He didn't want to be searched again by a stranger, it would remind him of the attack last night, and the memory made his skin crawl.

Fighting against the feeling of revulsion, Ed forced himself to do what the man told him. He kept his movements slow and deliberate, following the man's instructions and placed his hands on opposite side of the bathroom door frame, then shuffled his feet back, his arms taking some of his weight. A stinging pain went through his right hand where it had been scraped and Ed tried his best to ignore it.

'Back further,' the man order. 'Move your hands down. Further down.'

Ed gritted his teeth, moving back and sliding his hands down the frame, the muscles in his shoulders and his back aching under the strain.

He saw movement then felt a kick at each heel, pushing his feet back and out, causing him to shift more of his weight onto his arms and making him even more unstable. He wasn't sure he could stay like this for long. Gritting his teeth harder, Ed closed his eyes. He wanted this to be over with as fast as possible.

'Don't move,' the man ordered him, as the barrel of the gun came to rest at the back of his head again, the handle sitting painfully between his shoulder blades. It was an unnecessary order. Ed was completely off-balance and didn't dare move in case he slipped.

The gun held steady, the man frisked him, with an uncomfortable and unsavoury thoroughness. And somehow the suspect managed to find every bruise. It took all Ed's concentration not to recoil at every touch. He emptied Ed's pockets; wallet, key, pills and the picture, taking his time to examine each one as he did, before tossing them on the dresser.

When he was finally satisfied, the man lifted the gun and moved back, but left Ed standing there, almost as if he wanted to see how long he could last. Ed kept his eyes closed, ignoring the unrelenting ache over his back and down his arms. He felt his left hand start to slip and he tensed all the muscles in his torso, hoping it would be enough to keep him steady. He couldn't keep this up for long.

Ed couldn't see, but it was easy to imagine a nasty smirk on the man's face. He might have been cold, calculating and nervous, but he also enjoyed thinking he had the upper hand and pushing people around.

Standing as still as he could, Ed reminded himself that he'd done his best so far. "Help bring the man in" was what he'd been told and he'd keep on doing that until…

Until…?

He shuddered at an unexpected flash of insight, unable to finish that sentence, not because he feared death but because he suddenly knew that he didn't. Life was short and fragile, and he'd done all he could to adapt and follow Ironside's instructions.

But if it wasn't enough, then the thought of a sudden, violent death wasn't nearly as daunting as it had been earlier.

It would be so simple to let it all go.

The hopelessness implicit in that idea was deeply disturbing, and Ed pushed it away as firmly as he could, not wanting to face up to the possibility. Not yet. He had other things to think about, he told himself. Like keeping himself upright and hoping his arms didn't give way. And he had to keep focusing on what was going on around him. He had to remember his training. He had to try and keep going. Ironside would keep going. So should he.

At last, the man drew a loud breath and spoke.

'Okay, sonny,' he said. 'Stand up and let's get this over with.'

Relieved, Ed gave an involuntary groan and pulled himself upright, stretching out the cramped muscles of his arms and shoulders. The man was looking at him with the same disdainful, dismissive air that the clerk downstairs had used but, rather than feeling threatened, Ed felt a bristle of anger. He was tired of being constantly one step behind. He had to find a way to push.

Ed stared at the man, seeing worrying hidden behind the arrogance. Whatever this was about, it was important. He should use that to his advantage, whatever happened next. Remembering his training and his plan, Ed decided to embrace his role of drunken ex-cop who was here to do a black-market trade, hoping the man kept believing what he was being shown. The silence grew oppressive, and Ed stayed quiet, waiting. Any delay would help him.

Finally, the man gave a superior sneer and gestured with the gun.

'I take it you're here to trade?'

Ed nodded.

'Well, that's not gonna go the way you think,' the man said with a smug laugh.

Of course it wasn't, and not just because he didn't have what the man wanted. Nothing tonight had gone the way he'd thought it would go. But instead of admitting that, Ed feigned surprise.

'It's not?' he replied.

The man shook his head slowly.

'Shall I tell you what you're gonna do?' the man spoke with a growing menace in his words.

With a nervous swallow, Ed nodded.

'You're going to give me our calling card. And then you're going to tell me which fucker sold me out.' Ed half-opened his mouth, but the man cut in. 'So you either give it to me right now, or this conversation is gonna be over.'

'What makes you think-?'

The man laughed, an unpleasant, harsh sound. He gave a wider grin.

'Your dead buddy laid it all out for me, sonny.'

The bright flare of anger at the word "buddy" passed through Ed with the power of a lightning strike. He could only mean Leo. Not only had Leo let the man pass, he'd spoken to him as well. That couldn't be good.

Keeping in character, as well as being desperate to find out more, Ed frowned.

'What did Leo tell you?' he asked.

'He said enough,' the man said in a gloating tone. 'So you'd better play along with me, unless you want to end up the same way. Tell me where it is. Right now.'

As he spoke, the man cocked the gun.

Ed couldn't breathe and couldn't speak. Since he didn't have what the man wanted, our calling card, he had to call his bluff. If he didn't, the man would know within moments that this was all an act. Then he really would pull the trigger. At least this way, if he was good enough, he might buy himself a chance. With the decision came a terrifying sense of foreboding, because if he was going to get through this, then he was going to have to commit everything.

The internal debate took less than a second. Ed gulped a short breath.

'No,' he said. His voice was flat, he felt empty and the ground swayed as if he was falling. It would be simple to let it all go. What had he done?

'What?' the man whispered, voice laden with disbelief.

Somehow, Ed lifted his hands, palms outwards, more relaxed than he had been for days, and took a slow step forward. Confused, the man raised his gun but Ed took another step, so he was within touching distance of the suspect.

Still moving slowly, Ed took one last step, so the gun was right against his chest. Right against his heart. They stared eye to eye.

In that moment, a wave of heightened anticipation passed through him. He meant what he was going to say, every word. He had to. He was at the edge and had nowhere else to go.

'I came here to trade,' he said in a rough voice, putting special emphasis on the last word. 'And if you don't believe me, well, you'll just have to shoot me.'