TITLE:  From L.A. With Love

AUTHOR:  Eloise

RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Honestly. I also do not own James Bond. Still wish I did.

SPOILERS: through episode 4.2 – Ground State

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Chapter 4 of 8. Title mangled by me and nicked from Ian Fleming. Quotation from Exodus ch21v22-24

Chapter 5: Steelfinger

He had followed Gunn's instructions and dressed in what he hoped was an appropriate fashion for what he really wanted to call a trendy hot spot, but knew that it would earn him a derisive snort from his American counterpart. No tie, no suit, he had been told, but no jeans either. He had decided on a soft blue grey oxford shirt, worn with the ubiquitous grey tropical weight worsted trousers and a navy casual cut jacket, all supplied by Savile Row tailors Denman and Goddard. What he was currently wearing would have probably cost him half of his year's salary at Angel Investigations. Perhaps there were some perks to being trapped in this lunatic universe.

He had strapped on the extendable titanium blade thingummy that Fred had given him. He'd given it a couple of trial runs, and was hoping that the company would be paying for the broken lamp and the sofa cushion that he'd managed to run through. He had come to the conclusion that everything would be fine as long as he didn't try to shake anyone's hand. Or wave at them. He shoved the blade back home as gingerly as possible and gathered the other items Fred had given him. He had decided against bringing the aqualung, but the cigarette case and pen laser were probably going to be useful.

Gunn was waiting for him in the lobby of the hotel, dressed with a quiet understated elegance that surprised him. He was used to seeing the man in his work clothes, which for them meant something with ease of movement and no dry cleaning required. The idea of "dress down" Friday was something of an all week phenomenon in their line of work.

Now the man wore a fine knit black polo and an almost but not quite black jacket and trousers, which was shot with some sort of opalescent thread. He looked very un-Gunn like. Wesley fought the urge to complement the man on his ensemble, thinking it was not something secret agents generally engaged in. A chorus of 'Oh, I say, old chap, you're looking well this evening,' was more than likely to be met with a fist in his face.

'Looking sharp, Peregrine.' Gunn seemed to have a knack for making the name sound even more ridiculous than it already was.

'I…er…well, likewise,' he stumbled over the words, and fiddled with a non-existent thread on his cuff, forgetting the deadly blade that lay nestled a few inches from his fingers. He heard a click, and he froze, fully expecting to see a couple of digits drop onto the lobby floor. Imagined himself scooping them up apologetically, while Gunn rolled his eyes at his stupidity.

Thankfully his hand appeared intact, and he realized the sound had come from the weapon concealed in Gunn's jacket.

'You did remember protection, Wes, right?' he asked quietly, smoothing his hand down his pocket with professional ease.

Wesley drew back his own jacket to display the gun which rested in the holster at his waist. 'I'm packing heat.'

Gunn's lips twitched ever so slightly before he gave an exasperated sigh and actually did roll his eyes.

'Good to know. As I'm sure everyone in this lobby does now.'

'Oh, sorry. I keep forgetting I'm… well, you know…'

'It's okay, English. Knew there'd be some fallout from your last mission. London office warned us you might need some looking after.'

Wesley felt his cheeks flush hot with embarrassed anger. 'I'm not a child, you know.'

Gunn's face grew suddenly serious. 'No, I know that, Wes.' The air between them sparked and crackled as something passed between them, an unresolved conflict that he couldn't remember. And then it was gone.

'Look, our guy usually shows at the club around ten.' Gunn looked at his watch. 'That gives us some time to get the lay of the place, and see if we can gather any information. Come on.'

He strode purposefully out of the hotel lobby, and Wesley followed behind. He had truly believed he couldn't feel anymore confused. And here he was, wrong again.

*~*~*~*

"Soul Music" was one of those clubs that you see in old movies and long to visit, though you know they don't exist in real life. The façade of the club was pure Rick's café, and they were led down a short staircase into a seating area lit only by a candle lamp on each table. There was a small stage at the front of the room, which was currently unoccupied, but the spot light trained on an open piano promised entertainment.

They were shown to a table at the side of the room, not too far from the stage. Menus were brought, and they ordered a light meal and American beer, which was served so cold it negated the effects of any alcohol that actually happened to be present. Wesley was just relaxing into his seat and thinking that maybe this secret agent life wasn't too bad after all, when a figure stepped onto the stage that made him choke on his beer.

'Well, folks, have we got a show for you tonight.'

There was a soft smatter of relaxed applause, and a very definitely not green not horned not particularly demonic Lorne stepped into the spotlight and seated himself at the piano, winking conspiratorially at his audience.

'Fresh from her triumphant performance in L.A., where she literally brought my house down, it's the siren of song, the mistress of melody, the beloved of ballads, the indefinable Darla!'

Lorne segued gently into the Cole Porter classic 'Love for Sale', and she stepped out from the shadow of the curtains.

She was just as he had remembered her at the Hyperion, pale and thin, soft blonde hair framing her delicate face, wearing a white cotton dress with thin straps across her milk-white shoulders. She swayed gently as she sang, and there was not another sound in the room. Wesley glanced over at Gunn, who was watching him intently.

'Angel's ex,' he whispered, moving his head towards the stage.

Wesley nodded his assent, well aware of the effect this particular little blonde had had on their friend. She was basically responsible for driving Angel over the edge and into the dark place where locking up a roomful of albeit morally doubtful humans with a one devious and one decidedly loopy vampire had seemed like the thing to do. As indeed had firing his friends. He hadn't seen Darla since she had disappeared after Angel had taken the whole concept of firing rather more literally with his vampiric family.

'If you want the thrill of love

I've been through the mill of love,

Old love, new love, any love but true love.'

She looked directly at them as she sang, her eyes devoid of any emotion, and Wesley felt a shiver run down his spine. She looked… well, the only word he could think of was damaged. The haunting melody ended and she acknowledged the soft applause with a slight wave of her hand, then drifted ethereally offstage. After a few moments she appeared, ghost-like, at their table.

'You're here for Angel.' It was a statement, rather than a question. Gunn pulled out a chair for her and she sat, running her hand over her dress reflexively, her palm lingering briefly on her stomach.

'He knows why you're here.' This time there was emotion, and Wesley recognized it easily. She was afraid. He leaned forward, and reached over to her, covering her pale trembling hand with his own.

'Please, don't be afraid. We won't harm you.'

She laughed unexpectedly and turned to him. 'It's a bit late for that, isn't it, Mr Pryce? After what happened in L.A.?'

Gunn grabbed her hand firmly and she recoiled from him, her face rigid with terror.

'Listen, Darla, we don't have time for your games. If you know where Angel is, you better start singing.' He squeezed her tiny fingers between his, and she mewed softly, clearly in pain.

'Gunn, is that really necessary?' He hated that he had not the slightest clue what she was talking about, but the woman seemed genuinely terrified.

'Wesley, she works for them. She is the enemy.' Gunn's voice was cold and hard.

'But she…' before he could finish, a shadow fell across their table and he looked up to see Lorne bearing down on them, cocktail in hand.

'Ah, there you are, my little diva of despondency.' He took her other hand, pulling her out of Gunn's grasp, frowning almost parentally. 'You know the boss doesn't like you fraternizing with the clientele. Especially this sort of clientele.' Lorne looked vaguely disgusted as he waved his hand in Wesley's direction. Darla let herself be ushered to a door at the side of the stage, and then she disappeared into the darkness beyond. Lorne turned and strode back to their table, with the air of a man who has unfinished business. Wesley braced himself for another of those increasingly bewildering conversations that were occurring with rather depressing regularity.

'You've got some nerve showing up here!' Lorne spoke quietly, but there was venom in his voice. Well, that at least was new. Overt hostility, rather than the hypocritical 'We don't blame you for what happened in L.A., except we really do'. He thought he might actually learn something from the Host. The usually bright red eyes were a strangely neutral hazel, and it was a little disconcerting to see the man below the demon visage.

'You better pray the boss hasn't heard you're here.' He addressed them both, and Wesley looked at Gunn for an explanation. The other man was sipping his beer with deliberate casualness, remaining silent. Lorne leaned in a little closer.

'My advice to you gentlemen is to drink up, pay up and leave. Now, before the rumours spread. I run a nice establishment here and I have a reputation to maintain. I would hate to have it sullied by the discovery of two bodies in the dumpster out the back, if you catch my drift.'

'You have bodies in your dumpster?' Wesley asked incredulously, not quite believing Lorne would be capable of such an atrocity.

Lorne shook his head in disbelief and looked at Gunn, who tapped the side of his head with his forefinger in a not very surreptitious manner. A gesture which clearly was meant to cast some aspersions on Wesley's mental state.

'He means us, Wes. It's a threat.'

'Oh, I see. We'd be the bodies, then. That makes things much clearer, thank you.'

'Um, you're welcome?' Lorne looked as if he was having some trouble following the conversation. Well, it was nice to see someone else as confused as he was. Gave him a sense of camaraderie which almost made up for the fact that Lorne had just threatened to kill them. Okay, have them killed, but who was going to argue semantics. Apart from him, obviously.

'Look, you may not believe this, but I'm not one for the holding of grudges. What's done is done, and all that crap. But you shouldn't be here. He hasn't forgotten what was done to him. Sees it as his life's mission to make those responsible pay. And I mean the sort of cheques your body really doesn't want to be cashing.' Lorne sat back in the chair, eyeing them both with a wistful hostility.

'So I think it would be best if you just left now…' he took a sip from his cocktail glass and leaned over towards Wesley, running a finger along the arm of his chair.'…while you still have the option.'

He stood up and popped his now empty glass onto a tray which had materialized next to him, borne by one of the many discreet waiters who floated effortlessly through the semi darkness.

'Ah, you're a treasure, Tomasi!' Lorne wafted off towards the stage, the coloured spotlight briefly granting him his usual garden hue. Gunn set down his beer and stood up.

'We're going? That's it? We're not even going to speak to this Steelfinger?'

Gunn appeared to be having some trouble controlling his temper. He moved over to Wesley and leaned down so he could speak without being overheard.

'I'm going. To try and find Darla. Girl knows way more than she's saying. You're staying here. In this seat. Not moving. Not talking to anybody. About anything. We clear on that, English?' There was a threat in his tone that wasn't so much underlying as verging on the blatantly obvious.

'Absolutely, yes. Clear as crystal.' He knew he was rambling, but couldn't seem to stop himself. Gunn gave him a final pitying look, and straightened up, heading over to the other side of the club where they had last seen Darla, before she had vanished through the stage curtain.

Wesley eyed the remains of his beer with apathy, and poked disconsolately at his jambalaya, hoping to find a rogue shrimp, or a piece of what Gunn had assured him was chicken, but he could have sworn was frogs' legs.

He'd had just about enough of this world. It simply wasn't fair to expect him to act all secret agenty and cool when he hadn't a bloody notion what was going on. He would just sit here quietly until Gunn came back and then he would tell him the truth. That he was completely and utterly insane.

That was the plan. He did indeed stay in his seat, without moving. And that would have been fine, if his chair had co-operated. It, however, had plans of its own. There was a sudden rush of cool air, and he felt himself being pulled first backwards, and then down, as if on an accelerated lift. The chair hit the ground with a jarring bump, which would have thrown him out of it, had he not now been bound by the wrists to the arms of the chair. That discovery was certainly a cause for concern, he mused, as indeed was the pitch blackness in which he now found himself.

The sudden blinding light that immediately enveloped him made him wish for the comfortable darkness again. As his eyes grew accustomed to the brightness, he was dismayed to note that the table in front of him played host to a number of antique and suspiciously sharp weapons. They were arranged in descending order from the largest to smallest, and they looked as if they had been recently cleaned. Wesley looked down at his manacled wrists which were clamped tightly to the chair arms, his hands and fingers hanging freely off the edge. This did not bode well.

'Ah, Mr Pryce. I've been expecting you.'

He raised his head swiftly and met the gaze of his captor, one Lindsey McDonald, who stood smiling before him, hands folded casually behind his back.

'I don't know what you mean,' he countered swiftly, remembering his cover. 'I'm Peregrine Wyn…'

'Oh, please, Pryce, spare me the spiel. You know who you are, and I'm not likely to forget, am I?' As he spoke, he brought his hands in front of him.

The left hand was small, almost too delicate for a man, except for the little calluses on the pad of each finger. It was a musician's hand, and he suddenly had an image of Lindsey in Caritas, playing acoustic guitar quite expertly.

The right hand couldn't really be called a hand, in any sense other than it seemed to be attached to the end of the man's wrist. It was suddenly very clear to Wesley how Lindsey had gained the nickname Steelfinger. Where there should have been flesh and bone, there was only metal. A modern day hook; two steel pincers that acted as thumb and forefinger. It was at once extremely disturbing and horrifically fascinating.

'What happened to your hand? Didn't you have that transplant…?'

Lindsey threw back his head and laughed manically, not filling Wesley with much hope for his future.

'You haven't forgotten? What your friend did to me, back in L.A.?' He waved the claw wildly in Wesley's face. 'Chopped my hand off, and left me with this!'

'Well, you have to remember that you were trying to burn that… um… document.' It sounded pathetic, even to his own ears.

'My document, belonging to me, and none of Angel's damn business!'  Lindsey swung round to the table and snatched up the largest of the weapons, a curved scythe with a blade that looked sharp enough to split hairs. Or indeed slice off fingers.

'Yes, well, perhaps he was a bit hasty. Never really one to think things through, our Angel. Not so much of a planner, more one of the hit first, ask questions later brigade.' He was well aware that he was babbling inanely, but he was also extremely aware of the deadly blade that was poised inches above his wrist.

'I, on the other hand, am a master of planning.'

And here it was, the moment when the evil genius revealed his dastardly plot to the hapless hero, who would then somehow manage to escape the certain death scenario and foil the mastermind's evil scheme. Only the hapless hero generally tended to have a firmer grasp on reality than Wesley currently possessed.

'I want to know where Angel is.' Lindsey smiled nastily, and gently ran the tip of the scythe across the back of Wesley's hand, a thin thread of blood welling in the wake of the blade. 'And I know you're going to tell me where to find him.'

He turned back to the table and slipped his left hand underneath, pressing a hidden button. A few moments later, a door opened and a veiled figure stepped into the room.

'You've already met one of my muses this evening. Darla is my Rhyme, and here's my Reason. So-called because she possesses none. Drusilla, come and say hello to the nice gentleman.'

Drusilla removed the veil and sat down at the table, her dark hair tumbling down her back. Where Darla had been dressed in white, Drusilla was in black, a fitted velvet gown which left her shoulders and throat bare, revealing extensive burn scarring from the neck down. She placed her palms on the table top and nodded to Lindsey, who thankfully laid down the scythe.

'Ready?' he enquired, running his metal pincers through her thick tresses. She did not flinch, seemed to lean into his cold caress.

'I am ready.'

'Now, Pryce. This is very simple. I ask you a question, and you answer. Drusilla here will know if you are lying. Call it woman's intuition; call it the simple honesty of the truly insane.' He paused and picked up a small scalpel from the table. 'We'll start with something easy. Your name?'

'W- Wesley Pryce.' He heard the tremor in his voice and was overwhelmed with self-disgust.

'He speaks the truth.' Her voice was flat, emotionless.

'Good, I knew you'd co-operate.' Lindsey moved closer to him, leaning over him, pressing his artificial hand against his own. Wesley felt the cool steel on his warm skin, and a shudder ran through his body. 'Now. Where is Angel?

Straight to the point. 'Actually that's what I was going to ask you. I'm afraid I've no idea where he is.'

Lindsey looked over at Drusilla, who had begun to tremble slightly. 'Dru?'

She turned to look directly at Wesley. 'Wicked, wicked boy! You hurt Daddy! Took away the baby. And now Daddy doesn't love you any more, and he doesn't love us. And Miss Edith has no one to come to her tea party, and we were going to have such a lovely time, just Miss Edith and me and the baby. Wicked child!'

Wesley felt the sweat trickle down his sides. 'Look, I don't know what she's talking about. I have no idea where Angel is, I swear.'

'Liar! He's been a bad, bad boy and needs to be punished.'

Lindsey had set down the scalpel, and was now holding the little finger of his right hand between the pincers.

'Oh, dear. Looks like you've been found out. But don't feel bad, I was going to hurt you anyway, no matter how you answered. You familiar with the old testament, Wesley?'

Wesley nodded hopelessly, trying to prepare himself for the pain that was about to come, knowing that it was an exercise in futility.

'Exodus, to be precise. He shall pay as the judges determine… eye for eye, tooth for tooth…' Lindsey smiled nastily as his pincers closed around the finger.

'And hand for hand.'