Author's note: [chapter revised in 2019] Well, there you go – an all boys chapter! Sorry for the delay, but holidays turned out to be busy and not really holidays – and now I've just learned I might not get my thesis this year after all. And boy, will this year be busy – I hope I get time to write. Anyway, hope you enjoy this one. The chapter title – that one was so hard to find! – is based on a song by Martha Reeves and the Vandellas and it pretty much describes the pickle our boys are in :o)

Also I would like to send heartfelt thoughts to those in Louisiana and Texas who lost someone to the hurricanes. After the tsunami last winter, it seems that 2005 is pretty much an 'annus horribilis' as far as nature is concerned. We can only hope it got worse before it gets better.

Disclaimer: Stephen Sommers owns and developed The Mummy and The Mummy Returns; the characters, places, some situations are his creation. Some things I did make up, but every character here is fictitious, and doesn't have anything to do with any person, living, dead, or in-between. Who knows.

FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM

Chapter 14: Nowhere to Run

Night set fast on the Egyptian desert. The sundown had been long, colourful and warm, with just the right amount of slight breeze to cool the air down to pleasant before the long cold of the night. The ground beneath Rick's feet was still hot, but it was gradually cooling, enough for him to feel it even through the soles of his thick shoes. For the moment, though, only his heels were on the ground as he lay flat on his back with his hands under his head, watching the sky grow darker.

Even with nothing but the immensity of clear night sky in front of him, Rick had rarely felt so trapped. He had his back to the wall, and each time he tried to think up a way to get himself out of this mess, he came up against yet another wall. His range of choices was certainly restricted, and being able to do nothing but lie there and wait for the sun to rise again was a situation he did not like one bit.

The breeze threw his hair into his eyes, and he brushed it away absent-mindedly. It immediately conjured up the way Evy's dark locks of hair got into her own eyes with the slightest breath of wind, their way of curling around her lovely face, and her utter failure each time she tried to tie all of them up into a bun or a plait. Even for the first years he'd known her, when she wore her hair up almost all the time, messy tendrils always framed her face no matter what. To an outsider, it was in direct contradiction with the image of the prim and proper English Rose, especially when her lips parted into a smile, and her eyes began to sparkle. Rick had never seen anyone's eyes sparkle like Evy's. It made her look truly mischievous, and, fortunately or unfortunately for him, utterly irresistible.

And he missed her. Boy, had he had time to reflect on how much he missed her. He missed her laugh, he missed the touch of her light hand, the scent of her hair, the way she sounded adorable even when she sang off-key, the dangerous glint that lit up in her bright eyes whenever she had an idea that could, in Rick's opinion anyway, lead to disaster, the warmth of her skin, the way her lips felt so soft in the morning…

He shifted slightly on his spot on the sand, breaking off a line of thought that was getting uncomfortable. His gaze left the sky for one of the fires a few feet to his right. Beside it was the broad figure of Ferguson, sitting with a cup of coffee or tea in his hands, looking deep in thought and unhappy. It occurred to Rick that he, too, must be missing his wife, and worrying about her like mad. At least Evy was free, and Rick was pretty damn sure that she was probably moving heaven and earth right now to find him and Jonathan. He was just glad that she hadn't taken part in the scuffle the evening before; she wouldn't have considered such a venture very stealthy, but she likely might have joined in anyway. Waltzing in with all guns blazing was more Rick's style. Then again, he had been a very bad influence on her in that matter.

From where he lay on the ground, Rick saw Jonathan walk to the fire a little stiffly and sit beside it, warming his hands by the flames. The Englishman made no sign that he had seen him at all, and Rick made no move to get up and come closer to the fire either. His anger had abated reasonably – as reasonably as it could have in twenty-four hours – but he still didn't get it. He had had the whole day to think about it, but he still just didn't get it. Jonathan had proved before that he was no bad hand at shooting, far from it. He had a sharp eye and a good aim. Hamilton was a perfect target, there was no way in hell he could have missed. So why hadn't he taken the shot when he had the occasion?

The cut on his forehead twinged, reminding him of the other reason he'd spent the entire day stewing in softly boiled fury. He'd been so damn stupid. Taking a hit in the middle of a melee, yeah, that happened. But getting blindsided like that was a rookie's mistake. Or an old man's. Frankly, none of those two options looked good.

The wind shifted, and Rick became aware that the two Englishmen were talking in low voices.

"…now I understand Baine's black eye and why he's been glaring at you all day. And when did you finally find your camel?" he heard Ferguson ask quietly.

"Just before dawn, hiding under the cloth of a collapsed tent, completely unscathed. Scurried away to save its neck, it had. Can't say I blame it, though… That's what any sane beast or bloke should do in circumstances like that."

"So now he's not a 'stupid, filthy useless bugger' anymore?"

"He's still a filthy, useless bugger. But he's not stupid, I'll grant you that."

Rick heard a low chuckle from Ferguson, then Jonathan's quiet voice again, following a short silence.

"So, perhaps now you'll tell me exactly who you went to see to 'pass the word'?"

"Yeah, now that there isn't anyone around close enough to hear…" Ferguson looked about cautiously. Rick reflected that, three or four days ago, he would have thought the guy was being paranoid. And doing a bad job of it. "All right, but you must promise me not to tell anybody – this is serious business."

"Right, I forgot this is all just a big cricket game here."

"Jon…"

"All right, all right, I promise, and I'll shut up and listen then."

"The High Priest of Osiris."

There was a beat. When Rick risked an almost open glance at the two Englishmen, he saw that Jonathan was sitting very still, a suspicious sort of 'Uh?' expression on his face. Ferguson sipped a bit from his cup.

This was getting interesting. Rick strained his ears to understand everything he could from his spot.

"Would you care to elaborate?" Jonathan finally uttered, his voice thankfully no louder than it had been. Ferguson shrugged.

"I've done some… research, asked some people, and I picked up the trail the afternoon before we left Giza. Strange old bloke, very imposing – made stuff I still can't explain, like a little chat with a ghost on the wall… His coffee was the best I'd ever drunk, by the way, hands down."

"Are you playing the bloody fool on purpose?"

"You're not very patient." There was wry humour in Ferguson's voice. "Well, I asked him to warn your sister – tell her that O'Connell and you are fine and all that – so that she would go to the Medjai, because they could give a bit of a hand in this kind of situation, I'd been told."

So that's why Ardeth and his buddies had been so quick to find them. They simply knew where to look. Good initiative of Ferguson's, that.

"Well," came Jonathan's voice after another short silence, "at least they know as much as we do now."

Rick saw Ferguson shake his head. The flickering light of the fire in front of him cast shadows on his face, making him look grim.

"No, Jon, they know a bit more than us – than Hamilton, anyway. Remember what he said about the army of Anubis?"

"What, that any mortal who wakes up this army can control it as long as he claims before the day after tomorrow?"

"Seems that he was a bit wrong concerning the 'any mortal can control it' part."

It seemed to Rick that he sank a little deeper in sand that felt definitely cooler. Just what we need. Not only we got a mad megalomaniac who wants to wipe a whole country off the map, but his plan is based on fairy tales and hokum – half-false fairy tales and hokum, at that. Just great.

"Let me guess." Jonathan's voice was lower. He sounded very tired. "If he tries to wake up the army of Anubis, it will wipe out the world."

"How did you know?"

That's always the story. I guess we're just lucky that way.

"Third time, remember? I'm starting to know how it goes."

Rick went back to staring at the darkening sky. Except for the now-familiar sinking feeling in his stomach that meant the end of the world in a few days, he felt oddly normal. The beat of his heart hadn't even changed.

He continued to listen, albeit idly, as Ferguson detailed his interview with the High Priest. If, somehow, they could get Hamilton tied up and gagged and just wait for the moon – or lack thereof – to set, it would be just perfect. Then again, perhaps it might take more persuasion for agents whom their boss scared out of their wits to commit such a rebellion. Maybe if they managed to convince them that they were all going to die if Hamilton succeeded. It wouldn't even be a lie, after all…

"What the hell do you mean, 'claiming Ahm Shere'?"

The edge in Jonathan's low voice brought Rick's attention to the conversation around the campfire a few feet away.

"Just that. The day after tomorrow at dawn, the pyramid will be destroyed."

"How?"

"No idea. I suppose it'll sink into the ground, or cave in or something."

Rick closed his eyes, and, to his own great surprise, found himself fighting a rising dry, mirthless laugh. It wasn't enough that what Hamilton was planning to do in the pyramid would probably end all of humanity. He had to have it planned for the exact moment nobody should be inside the damn pyramid in the first place.

Ridiculous as the idea sounded, tying up Hamilton until danger had passed seemed damn tempting. But it was also completely useless with all those cronies around the guy – he would be freed in no time. The most it could do would be slowing things down a bit.

Without raising his voice much, Rick said, without really looking at the two Englishmen near the fire, "How long before we're at Ahm Shere, do you think?"

Ferguson jumped, and Jonathan's head swivelled round in his direction. "How much have you heard?" Ferguson whispered, sounding half scared and half angry.

"Pretty much everything from Anubis' army up to now. Don't worry, I'm not gonna shoot off at the mouth about your High Priest of Whatever. So," Rick said, sitting up on his elbows to face the two of them, "how long?"

The Liverpudlian gulped, then paused to think. Rick noticed that, while Jonathan wasn't quite avoiding his eyes, he wasn't exactly meeting them, either.

"I've heard Collins say we can be there by teatime tomorrow, but considering the directions we've been given, I'd say rather tomorrow by nightfall. Camels don't go that fast, and there's quite a lot of things to carry 'round. Why, what are you thinking about?"

"Well," Rick said slowly, "we'd just need to stall things a bit, right?"

"And how do you suggest we do that?" asked Jonathan, more quietly than Ferguson. Rick got up from the ground and went to sit down next to the fire. The sky had reached its night-black hue, and darkness had truly fallen around them.

"Actually," he said in a low voice once he was settled, "I was thinking about jumping Hamilton and storing him someplace till tomorrow, but I guess blowing something up would do the trick just as well. Any kind of diversion might work, really, as long as it slows them down." The truck, for instance, would be a good target. That was where they stored all the tents for the day and half the ammo for the night. With enough gas to light the fuse, it could make a nice big bonfire.

There was a beat, during which the two others' eyes went very round and slightly bulging. While Ferguson still stared at him wordlessly, Jonathan shook his head. "You're mental. They'd never let us try something like that."

"Because you think I'm gonna ask their permission?" Rick retorted. "At least I can grab an opportunity when I see it!"

"All right, I see your point," Ferguson said quickly, before Jonathan, whose eyes flashed angrily for a second, could say anything. "But what kind of diversion? How do you suppose we could get hold of Hamilton without anybody seeing us?"

Rick thought for a minute, then nodded.

"Okay, forget Hamilton, but we have to do something. We gotta slow them down."

"I second that," muttered Ferguson. "I'd hate to be in that bloody pyramid when it crumbles." Rick saw his eyes dart to the truck parked some way off from the campfires. Apparently he had more or less the same idea. It was also true that there weren't that many things that could blow up in the camp.

Question is, how the hell are we going to get there at all?

"If I may venture a suggestion…"

Jonathan's low voice startled Rick out of his musings. The American glanced at his brother-in-law from the corner of his eye with a frown.

"Look, if you don't wanna be a part of it, don't both—"

"It's not that," Jonathan snapped, sounding miffed. He wasn't looking at them. Rick followed his gaze to the camels who were tethered nearby. "I might have an idea."

Never, in Jonathan's admittedly ample experience with plans that were bound to fail dismally, had he laid the foundations of a plan that was so obviously bound to fail dismally.

First, camels. There was the fact that camels were involved, and the fact that they had to behave according to plan, when he knew all too well that the bloody beasts never behaved according to any plan but their own.

Second, the idea of Tom coming up with something to distract whoever would be guarding the lorry was preposterous. If the bloke was anything, it was honest. Truthfully, painfully honest. He was just completely incapable of telling a decent lie without blowing it up out of proportion. Then again, Jonathan conceded, Tom had almost succeeded in fooling Evy, hands down the most suspicious person he knew, into believing everything he'd said, and had definitely succeeded as far as Jonathan himself was concerned. It definitely seemed that life as a spy had changed some things he knew for sure about his old friend. So yes, maybe this particular point was not as worrying as the others.

The worst – the tiny part in the plan that made Jonathan cringe and curse himself for suggesting it in the first place – was that he was going to set the blasted thing on fire. All by himself. And wasn't that a daunting prospect. While he certainly knew a thing or two about the inner workings of an automobile – enough to make one run without really needing the appropriate keys, for example – the idea of an 'internal combustion engine' with explosives in the back blowing to pieces didn't exactly strike him as a particularly clever thing to stand near to. Especially when he was the one who would see to it that the thing blew up, since Rick – bloody Americans always have to blow something up, don't they! – would be busy with the camels.

Which brought him back to the first problem. How on earth do you make camels understand that orders are urgent and vital to a plan? Beastly cretins couldn't even follow a lead decently, anyway.

This very point was the reason for his presence a few yards from the lorry. So far, Rick had been the only one in their group of three with any sort of authority over his camel. He was thus altogether suited for the mission of herding the camels out of the makeshift paddock, and then scattering them to make the biggest mess possible. As for Tom, well, somebody had to distract whoever was doing the guarding and not look especially suspicious in the process.

That left Jonathan with nothing but the truck thing. Fan-bloody-tastic.

Agents had taken the food for the evening out of the lorry and were currently, for the most part, sitting around campfires in groups of six or seven to eat. Most of the tents and gear and some boxes of explosives had been stored in the lorry, and three agents were standing between it and the car, talking in low voices and looking like unnaturally stiff-backed guard dogs. Jonathan couldn't help being somewhat uncharitably satisfied that he was not the only one not to enjoy camel-back trekking.

There was a nip in the air, and Jonathan found himself glancing longingly at the nearest fire. It was sparkling merrily a few feet away, drawing some agents to it like moths to a lamp, looking very welcoming indeed. Neither Rick nor Tom was anywhere to be seen; each was probably at his own appointed post, waiting for his time to act. Which, as Jonathan realised by peering at his watch in what little light he could get, was drawing near.

The sound of footfall and low voices brought his attention back to the three men standing nearby, and he saw that a fourth had just joined them. The outline of Tom's sandy hair had an odd reddish look about it with the light of the fire behind him.

"Good evening."

"Evening, Ferguson."

The third agent said nothing, but gave a slight nod. His sharp-featured face, hidden in shadows, was visible only for a second as he struck a match to light his cigarette.

"What are you up to, then?" asked the first, a burly-looking fellow who stood easily a head or two taller than Tom.

"Oh, nothing in particular, Norton," Tom answered, and Jonathan rolled his eyes at the would-be offhand tone. At least he didn't look too conspicuous. In fact, he just looked tired. "Just wondering what I'm doing here, that's all. I'm stiff, I'm cold, and I miss my wife."

"Ah, come on, Ferguson," said the second man. He had a low-pitched, gravely sort of voice that was surprising coming from a bloke so short. "We're all suffering here – collectively. Now personally, I wouldn't say no to a shower and a pint, but we can't always get what we want, can we?"

"Yeah, Collins, I suppose you're right. But still, Hamilton had no right to kidnap me wife and use her as bloody leverage. No right at all."

"I don't say what he did wasn't dirty, mate – it was, I'll grant you that," the burly one, Norton, piped up. "But it was orders."

"No, it wasn't!" Tom protested, louder. Jonathan's ears pricked up in spite of himself. He was supposed to focus his attention on the camel paddock Rick would unlock any minute now – as soon as he made sure Tom's little diversion was working – but diversion or not, this was getting really interesting. "Hamilton told me just that, when I went to see the prisoners last Sunday. He acted on nobody's orders but his own."

"What are you suggesting, then, Ferguson?" the third asked in a hissing sort of voice, speaking for the first time. "That Hamilton is using us for his own interest instead of the King's? Are you sure you want to call your superior a traitor to his country?"

There was a heavy silence, then Tom said, rather coldly, "I don't know. He intends to raise the fabled Army of Anubis to wipe out Germany – its leader and its population. What do you think? Is that enough to make him a traitor?"

Jonathan was finding it very hard to keep his eyes on the paddock and his ears on the ongoing conversation. What on earth was Tom trying to do? Surely not turn them over? Hamilton would probably get him arrested in no time if words reached his ears about Tom revealing the flaws in his little plan, let alone advocating mutiny. And then things would get really complicated. If not downright nasty.

He watched the three agents stare at Tom, looking dumbstruck. That's right, he thought, peering at them, almost willing this particular thought into their minds, you're not believing him. You're goody-goody secret bloody agents who do what they're told and that's it. Bloke just misses his wife, he's just making up stories… please don't believe him…

What was taking Rick so long?

And then everything happened very fast. The short man named Collins opened his mouth, said, "Well –" and a merry chorus of roars, bleats and occasional yelps interrupted him. From his place on the ground, Jonathan allowed himself two seconds of glee as he watched the whole disbanding herd of camels gallop past the four agents.

The trio plus Tom stood there for a short moment, mouths hanging open, before taking off to try to catch the stray camels. People were already running after the animals, others shouted for anyone who could lend a hand, and one man hollered expletives at a camel that had stomped on his foot. Wondering if the camel who had done the stomping had been his own stroppy animal – and he had a hunch it was – Jonathan scrambled up and slipped under the lorry.

There was almost no light at all under that great big mass, and Jonathan spent a little while blinking in the dark and trying to get his bearings. When he could finally make out enough to know where he was and spot his target, he crawled in the sand, silently cursing the cold, sticky grains already filling his collar, his sleeves and his pockets and wincing at the sickening smell of petrol right above him that meant he was at his own appointed post: right under the petrol tank of the lorry. Biting his lip in some apprehension, he took out of his pocket the small knife Tom had unearthed for this purpose and began to drill the tank.

It seemed to take hours, and his arms were growing lifeless in the end, but it worked, somehow.

Jonathan did not really know how much petrol it would take to make the whole thing catch on fire, and, frankly, he really wasn't contemplating striking a match under that lorry to check. When the hole was just large enough, he stuck his handkerchief in it to make a fuse and dug a hole under it. As petrol filled it at an alarming speed, he crawled back and dug a narrow trench on the way out.

Emerging from under a lorry covered in soot and sand was not, of course, the most inconspicuous Jonathan had ever looked. Incredibly, nobody seemed to notice him as he bent quickly to strike the match and set fire to the trench of thick, stinking dark liquid at his feet. He scampered off without further ado, grinning like an idiot from relief and, admittedly, from having perfectly succeeded in something for once.

What could go wrong at that point?

Well, something could, it appeared, as nothing happened and the lorry still stood there. There wasn't even a single spark.

Jonathan felt his blood drain from his face as his eyes met Rick's, who was coming back from the paddock and looked – surprised? Suspicious? Jonathan couldn't really tell from afar. He spun on the spot and headed back towards the lorry, frowning. Surely something must have got in the way… It was probably the –

He didn't even have time to finish his thought. The intense light hit his eyes before the enormous bang of the explosion reached his ears, and the blast caught him head on.

Tom had finally recaptured his own camel and was quite happy to have recognised the animal before Baine, who was dangerously close, could get his hands on him. Most of his fellow agents were still struggling with the straying camels. Tom did not know what O'Connell had done to frighten them so badly, but it had worked – unless the beasts were unnaturally good actors, and Tom, while not really disliking camels as much as Jon did, was realistic enough to know they weren't.

His camel gave a small roar towards the left, and looking over his shoulder Tom saw O'Connell finishing tying up his own camel a few feet away. When the American spotted him, he jerked his chin towards the lorry – from which he stood at reasonable distance – with a slight grin that revealed some of his remarkably sharp-looking teeth. It was something Tom had noticed the first time he'd seen O'Connell grin. The man seemed to have an impossible number of teeth in his jaw.

The Liverpudlian looked up from tying up his camel to see Jon step from behind the lorry and take cover, dusting himself off energetically but looking overall pleased with himself. When nothing happened, however, he stopped, frowned, and strode back to the lorry. Tom was on the verge of asking O'Connell something about combustion engines when everything exploded and he dove into the sand as a pure knee-jerk reflex.

The night seemed even darker for a second with the stark contrast of the glare, neither yellow nor red, that filled Tom's horizon for a second or two before he squeezed his eyes shut and put his hands on his head for protection. There was a snap and a strangled camel's roar drifting away behind him, meaning that his faithful mount had broken free out of sheer terror. And then complete silence.

Tom lifted his face from the sand and opened bemused eyes to discover a thick, heavy-looking black cloud of smoke hanging in mid-air where the lorry had stood a moment before. There was a ringing silence, and an overwhelming smell of petrol, steel and plastic burning – it was so heavy that Tom's head swam for a second as he wobbled back to his feet, coughing and waving the smoke away.

Sound began to trickle in, and Tom realised that he had been almost completely deaf to everything for a few seconds. Agents, some still clutching camels' reins, were running to the remains of the lorry, or rather the cloud of smoke that still blocked the remains of the lorry from view. And, incidentally, the amateur arsonist who had set the whole thing on fire.

Tom's insides gave an ugly sort of lurch as he realised he had not seen Jon come out from behind the lorry yet.

Beside him, O'Connell's eyes were wide open and, Tom noticed, held something like approval as the American took in the mayhem the explosion had left in its wake. Then the same nasty thought appeared to cross his mind as the half-grin slipped abruptly from his face and he turned to Tom with a funny look in his eyes.

They scrambled up as one and ran up to the still-glowing remains of the lorry, scattered over the black and burnt sand. The carcass gleamed a sinister orange colour that looked ugly set against the deep blue of the impossibly huge sky. Tom almost reeled on the spot from the acrid stench of molten metal and plastic. He swallowed hard, trying not to think about what he might find among the remnants in question.

Hamilton's razor-sharp voice made him jump right out of his skin.

"What happened? Who did this?"

Tom tore his gaze from the wreck of the lorry to his superior, who was striding up between the campfires with a couple of agents in tow, cold fury etched across his usually solemn face. He walked right up to Tom and O'Connell and stopped just in front of them, grey eyes glaring. O'Connell stared back. His expression might have been carved on his face with a hammer and chisel.

"You…" Hamilton snarled, and Tom almost recoiled, relieved not to be on the receiving end of that snarl. "You have something to do with this, I just know it. Don't even try to deny it."

"I don't know what you're ranting about," O'Connell retorted quietly, not looking away. "I didn't go anywhere near that truck since your goons gave me the thing they call 'stew'. You can ask 'em."

"Where were you, then, when the lorry exploded?" the Englishman all but spat, and Tom couldn't help gaping slightly at his dispassionate boss almost losing control. In contrast, O'Connell looked remarkably calm – and remarkably cold, too.

"I was helping the others with the camels. They looked like they could do with some help and I didn't want to have to walk tomorrow."

Hamilton glowered silently at O'Connell for a couple of seconds, then leaned in for a conspiratorial harsh whisper. "I will get you for this, believe you me. I just know you're behind all this… mayhem. I will get you for this."

O'Connell's teeth gleamed in the low glow of the wreck. "Can't wait to see you try."

Hamilton must have sensed the dangerous quality of O'Connell's grim, mirthless smile. He stepped back and his cold, aloof persona snapped back into place as he turned to the other agents awaiting instructions behind him.

"If you would be so kind as to retrieve the Stan Laurel half of your comedy duo act, Mr O'Connell, we will leave all that can be spared behind and ride through the night. Gentlemen, I give you twenty minutes to get ready. If luck is on our side, we should reach the Pyramid of Ahm Shere by tomorrow evening."

He straightened his jacket, and his ice-cold eyes fell on Tom, who fervently hoped the shudder that went through him was not too obvious. "If I were you, Ferguson," he breathed, and Tom's heart skipped a beat at his tone, "I would show more care as to the company I keep. This could cause trouble in the end – to you and to your lovely wife."

Tom gulped, and straightened his back as he nodded. A wave of cold went through him at the thought of what this man was implying, as well as – not for the first time – a helpless sort of fury. He squeezed his jaw shut before he could blurt out something that would threaten Liz's safety even more, and Hamilton walked away, giving him a nasty parting look. Tom felt hollow and sick, and as he turned back to what was left of the lorry his heart bobbed up in his throat. If on top of all that Jon was somewhere in there…

O'Connell had turned as well, and was scanning the wreck with a hard look on his face Tom hadn't seen him wear before. His eyes hardened with each passing second as nothing moved amidst the ruined bits and pieces of the lorry.

Suddenly there was an odd noise right next to them, like a strangled throat clearing, and both men turned around sharply. Whatever had been wringing and twisting Tom's stomach since the explosion released its grip, his heart slid down to its usual place in his chest, and he could see O'Connell's shoulders sag almost imperceptibly. Then he felt his eyes go very round.

Jon was standing there, very much alive but wild-eyed, shaking, covered in soot and sand from head to toe, curly hair standing on end. His blue eyes gleamed out of his sooty face with a heartfelt fury that was almost as bad as Tom remembered flinching at just before he got punched in the face in the basement of the British Consulate.

"You," he eventually articulated in a tone not so different from Hamilton's, pointing a badly shaking finger at O'Connell, who stood his ground stonily, his arms folded across his chest, "you… you absolute, utter – that was so completely – you really have no idea –"

His jumbled words seemed to tumble out of his mouth as though speech failed to describe the apparent monumental stupidity of O'Connell's idea of a diversion. After a moment he seemed to give up trying to speak and just stood there open-mouthed, accusing finger still pointed at the American.

Tom's gaze shifted swiftly from Jon to O'Connell, whose face slowly lit up in a broad, genuine grin.

"Y'know," he said after a few seconds, "years ago when I first met you, I thought you were a boozy slacker in need of a proper spine."

The words took some sinking in, but in the end Jon snapped his mouth shut and glared up at O'Connell, looking even more aggravated.

"Charming," he barked. "Meaning you bloody changed your mind since?"

O'Connell took his time to answer, and Tom, realising he was enjoying it immensely, allowed himself to sag a little bit from the sheer relief of seeing his mate alive and swearing. The American cast his brother-in-law an appraising sort of look, then, finally, gave another huge grin of his. His round blue eyes twinkled.

"Yeah, kinda."

Then, looking more serious, he asked, "Nothing broken or twisted, no burns?"

On top of the obvious, Jon looked like someone with a bad case of brain whiplash. When the question registered, he blinked. Then blinked again.

"…No?"

"Good."

And O'Connell walked off cheerfully after briefly patting Jon's shoulder, lifting a small cloud of soot as he did so. Tom watched him bemusedly while Jon's eyes were still glued to the empty space where O'Connell had stood seconds before; then he whirled round to try to catch his friend when Jon's knees gave out and he collapsed in a heap on the ground. He just sat there, still staring into space with an odd look that was halfway between fury and a sort of astonishment.

Tom refrained from chuckling and bent to check if Jon had come back to his very own brand of normality.

"Oh, by the way," O'Connell said as an afterthought, making Tom start and look up. The American turned to them, thus walking backwards. "You might wanna –" there he gestured wiping imaginary dust off his face "– because Hamilton's not that dense. If you turn up like that, he's bound to reach some conclusions." And he left with a grin.

His was a very good point, Tom noted, and he proceeded to search his pockets for a handkerchief that might do the trick. Preferably one that he didn't care too much about, because there wasn't a square inch of Jon's face that wasn't covered in soot.

In the meantime, Jon seemed to be recovering from the blast of the explosion and the sheer shock of it. His shaking was dying down. He finally shook his head, looking still exasperated but calmer.

"Impossible. Talk about bloody diversion. I'm never pulling a stunt like that again, ever. The man is impossible." He moved into a more comfortable sitting position, and winced slightly. "Fact is, I'm getting a bit old for this sort of thing, possibly."

"Possibly, Jon," Tom said with a grin, handing him the handkerchief. "None of us are getting any younger. It's been a long time since I didn't wake up in the morning aching in various places."

Jon accepted the proffered bit of cloth with a thanks and began to wipe the soot off his face. Tom's comment got a small grin.

"Well, I suppose it's your lot in life if you like sleeping out on the ground – you know, being a secret agent and whatnot. Still, I hope that this 'delay' thing worked and I didn't get all singed like that for nothing."

The only thing that Tom could offer there was a rather embarrassed silence. While the plan itself had gone on smoothly enough for the most part, the results had clearly not met their expectations. If anything, it had reinforced Hamilton's determination for all of them to be on their way to Ahm Shere as quickly as possible.

Jon quickly deduced from Tom's silence that not everything had gone as planned, and his face fell. "Oh, don't."

"Sorry, Jon," said Tom sympathetically. "Hamilton decided to leave all the gear behind and travel by night. He's expecting to see us on our camels and be off in… ten minutes, I guess."

Jon groaned. "Fantastic. A whole night on a bloody camel. If someone snores, I'll kill him."

Tom snorted. "I needed those hours of sleep too, but I imagine we'll have to make do without them, won't we?" He reached down to Jon, who grabbed his hand and staggered up. He swayed a little, but remained in an upright position, to his great relief it seemed.

"Thanks. You know what?" he said, taking off his jacket to shake all the soot he could from it. "When this whole mess is over and done with, I'll get you a drink at the Sultan's Casbah. You never got to see the inside of it, did you? It's always crowded and rather seedy, but the whiskey isn't bad and the beer is better. As good a place to get plastered as any, and I think both of us need that."

"And you'll buy the rounds?"

The idea was appealing – assuming they would see this mess over and done with, of course. Jon made a show of hesitating, but shrugged with a grin. "Yeah, all right."

Tom felt a similar grin make its way on his face. In the chaos of the past week he had almost forgotten how good it felt to have this normal a conversation with a friend. The shock and fear – brief enough, but violent – that had followed the explosion of the lorry had very much calmed down by now. While the constant dull anxiety that never left him since he had known Liz was held prisoner somewhere was still there, gnawing at his stomach, knowing that Jon and him were back on the same side was an encouraging thought.

"That's a deal, then. C'mon."

Plus, when Jon was agreeing to buy the rounds, it was rarely a bad omen.

Notes:

To think that this truck thing came from a couple of lines I jotted down without knowing what it would look like on paper… Inspiration is the most fickle of muses :D Still, I hope this chapter was not too shabby. My beta reader assured me it wasn't, and when I thought twice about it there was stuff I liked well enough, but … Sometimes words just don't cooperate when you need them to :S But I like getting into Tom's head. He's fun to write.

In the immortal words of the Monty Python's Dennis, "I'm 37, I'm not old." These guys are 41 or 42, we're fairly close in age. But I do often wake up in the morning with little cricks and aches, mainly in the back.

Anyway, thanks for the reviews on Chapter 13 (and sorry it was so short!); some of them came at the most opportune moments and I thank you for that.