Back by popular request – chapter 2! (Please note that Chap 1 has been altered as well – not majorly, just a few nitpicks that got sorted)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Alex Drake heard the shot, and, frozen with shock, closed her eyes, waiting for the pain to set in. When it didn't come, she realised that she had not been the target. Heart racing, she whipped her head around to see –

"RAY!"

The Detective Sergeant lay half-propped against the wall, head dropped down to his chest, eyes shut tight. His shirt seemed to blush scarlet.

"Raymondo!" Hunt was by his side in an instant, hands pressed tight to the hole in the torn and bloody shirt. "Wake up, Carling! No-one is gonna cop it on my shift!" He sounded angry, but Alex knew that it was just how he reacted to an attack like this. Hunt's usually ruddy face was almost as pale as Ray's rapidly-bloodless countenance.

"Get up."

She had almost forgotten about the balaclava-clad villain in all the action. Hunt ignored the order, and proceeded to rip off the sleeves of his shirt; wrapping them under and around Ray's arm and chest in a make-shift bandage.

"I said – GET UP!" The sneering tone got suddenly louder, as her captor began to lose his patience.

Hunt got up slowly from the floor, keeping both eyes fixed on the man with the pistol.

"Right, nobody moves unless I SAY SO! Got it?" The villain waved his gun to one side, indicating that Hunt should come and join them.

Gene Hunt walked slowly towards the pair, hands held high above his head, a grim look of determination on his face. Alex found herself barely capable of keeping her balance, let alone having the strength to speak coherently. She contented herself with merely staring at Gene, and casting worried glances at the prone form of Ray Carling.

"Now get over here and stand next to this bitch." Alex saw that the gunman had produced a length of coarse rope from his pocket, and was swinging it in one hand. Presumably, it had would have been used to subdue his next victim, though Alex thought it best not to dwell on that particular thought at moment.

"You," the gun was pointed at Gene, "tie her hands together." He tossed Hunt the rope, then swung his gun round to cover Alex, "You make any sudden moves, and she gets it."

Proffering her hands up to him, Alex met Gene's eyes and they exchanged a look.

As gently as was possible, Hunt proceeded to bind her wrists together, being careful not to pull the knot too tight, or catch her skin. Alex allowed herself to relax slightly at the sensation of his fingers on hers; he felt somehow, safe – a comforting touch in what was otherwise a pretty bleak situation. Knowing only that she needed some reassurance right now, she grabbed Gene's hand as he wound the rope around hers. He didn't look up at her, lest the masked man see the exchange, but he did squeeze her hand back – hard.

Buoyed by this brief contact, Alex felt her spirits rise a little, taking confidence from the fact that whatever happened, they were in it together. Snapping out of her reverie, she stuck her chin out a little, and stood straight, turning to face their captor.

"Right, now – face each other." He belted out the instructions and stepped forwards, another loop of rope in his hands.

Before she knew it, Alex was roped up to the Guv; his bound wrists looped under and around her own; their arms forming a complex figure of eight. Their captor had checked and double checked the knots; there was no way out for either of them for the moment.

"That ought to do for the moment," the gunman assessed his handy-work; Gene and Alex were most definitely stuck. "But just in case you decide to run for it..." He had picked up a heavy metal rod that had been lying in a pile of building rubble in one corner. Wielding it like a maniac golfer, the man approached Gene slowly and deliberately. As the pair tensed themselves ready to duck the blow, their captor faked a swing of the club and took them both by surprise.

Swooosh-KERTHUNKCH!

Their captor had taken careful aim, and landed a vicious blow on Alex's ankle. The sickening crunch of bone could be clearly heard in the silence.

"AAARRRRRRRGGGHHHHHHH!" Alex yelled with the agony of the impact, momentarily blinded by the pain. She fell forwards, and clutched desperately at the remnants of Gene's shirt to stop herself from falling. She knew without a doubt that the ankle was broken, if not completely shattered. She had to bite her tongue to stop her from screaming; the pain was unbelievable. Fisting the shirt, she pulled Hunt closer as a means of support, barely noticing that he had already brought his looped hands up and over her head, holding her tightly to his heaving chest.

Hunt seemed torn between launching a return attack and beating the vagrant to within an inch of his life, and staying put to steady the crippled Alex. He seemed to decide that the latter would be the wiser choice, and stayed put.

But as Alex collapsed against him, sobbing agonised tears into his already damp and bloodied shirt, Hunt couldn't help himself.

"You BASTARD! You cowardly, spineless, wimpish¸ jessie-lovin', perverted, twisted, sick BASTARD!" He enunciated each word deliberately, spitting it out with the contempt and disgust it deserved. "You SICK CREEP. Waltzing around my city, murdering girls just cos' ya dad was a twisted and thoroughly depraved individual. Is it really the best you can do? Cripplin' strong women cos' you ain't got big enough balls to admit that your dad was a-"

The gunman had clearly had enough, and, provoked by Hunt's verbal onslaught, raised the metal rod again, a gurgling growl deep in his chest. But Hunt was ready for it; he knew what he had been doing when he goaded the felon. Before the man could complete his downwards chop, Hunt had made his move.

Quick as whip, DCI Hunt's leg shot out, landing squarely in his opponent's crotch. With a yelp of pain, the masked man folded, melting onto the floor in a writhing heap.

Knowing they had only seconds, Gene quickly turned to Alex.

Meeting her red-rimmed eyes, he took only a moment to catch his breath, before uttering the syllable:

"RUN!"

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Still interested? (This is turning out to be quite a long one-shot!)

R & R