Author's Note: Hi all! Hope everyone had a very merry Christmas. Thanks to the following people for reviewing the last chapter: Catelly, Theta'sWorstNightmare, SawManiac211, 3LW00D, RedBrickandIvy, Bernice-Summerfield, egaara, mericat, The Mouse's Rose and Aietradaea.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Amy didn't even realise she had been holding her breath until she found herself letting it out with a soft, relieved whoosh. In the last couple of hours, she had come to the conclusion that she would happily trust Sam Tyler with her life in any situation. But when it came to Gene Hunt, she hadn't been sure at all. The DCI had been nothing but condescending and contemptuous of her from the moment he had first laid eyes on her – she had really had no idea how he would react to the Angel's proposal. However, seeing the hard, determined expression on his face as he crushed the radio beneath his foot, she realised she had done him a disservice. Loud, brash and uncouth he might be, but he was not a coward and he would never betray the people under his care.

"So, what's our first move, Sherlock?" he asked now, looking at Sam. "I just bet Hyde 'ad some sort of fancy procedure for dealing with alien invasion, they've got one for everything else. Come on, Tyler, surprise me!"

"Actually, we didn't," Sam admitted, ignoring his superior's sarcasm with quiet dignity. "But these torches aren't going to last much longer. If we're going to make any sort of a stand against this thing, we need a more permanent light source. And Amy says the Angel can drain any sort of artificial light, so it needs to be natural."

Gene scowled, his gaze flicking across to Amy. "Natural? Like a fire, you mean?"

"Exactly," she nodded. "A big fire would be perfect. If we can hold the Angel off until the morning light comes, we might have a chance."

"Right!" the DCI said decisively, rubbing his hands together. "A sodding big bonfire it is, then."

"Hang on a minute, not so fast! What are you suggesting we use for fuel?" Sam inquired, a worried look spreading over his already-tense face, as if he had already guessed what the answer would be.

"Use your imagination, Tyler!" Gene snapped. "We're in a bloody police station. We're surrounded by paper."

"Guv, please tell me you're not planning to burn our case files," Sam protested. "There's hours and hours of work in those and we don't have any back-up copies!"

"'Course I'm not planning to burn our case files!" Gene retorted. "What do you take me for, a complete prat?"

"Then what...?"

Gene turned on his heel and marched towards the stairs. "I'm planning to burn Litton's case files!" he tossed back over his shoulder.

Sam stared after him, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Who's Litton?" Amy asked in a low voice.

"The DCI in charge of the Regional Crime Squad," Sam replied, starting to follow Gene towards the stairs. However much he disapproved of the man's methods, he couldn't let him wander off into the dark on his own with the killer Angel on the loose. "They don't exactly get on."

Having been on the receiving end of the Gene Hunt brand of charm, Amy couldn't help feeling some sympathy with the absent DCI Litton. "How surprising," she muttered.

"Tyler! Pond!" Gene's voice floated back down towards them. "Shift yer arses – we 'aven't got all night, you know!"

Sam shot Amy a reluctant grin as they began to climb the stairs together. "Sounds like you're officially one of the team now, Pond."

Amy tried to smile back but couldn't quite manage it. Her heart seemed to clench painfully. The Doctor always called her 'Pond'. Somehow it didn't sound quite as reassuring, coming from Gene Hunt. Oh God, she wished she could see that stupid bow tie right now.

Where are you, Doctor? – please, please...I need you!

When they arrived in the main RCS office, Gene was already grabbing file after file from the surrounding desks and throwing them haphazardly into a large pile in the centre of the room, the wavering flame of his cigarette-lighter held aloft to light his way in the darkness.

Sam looked aghast at the confused mess of paper heaped on the floor. "Guv, there has to be some other way!"

"If you've got a better idea, I'm just bursting to 'ear it, Dorothy!" Gene growled, tossing another bundle of files on to the pile. "The desks are metal, the chairs are plastic. What else do you suggest we burn?"

Amy watched Sam glance around the office, obviously searching for a reasonable alternative. But Gene was right. Aside from the paper laden case-files, there was nothing else available that was even remotely flammable. With an audible sigh, Sam handed the flickering torch to Amy and began to help his boss to collect up some more of the files.

"That's more like it!" Gene grunted in approval.

Sam gave him a narrow-eyed glare. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Bull-shit!" the DCI said cheerfully, as he momentarily disappeared though the door into Litton's office. "This is a life or death situation, Tyler. Litton keeps banging on about being a team-player. I'm sure he'll be only too pleased to 'ave 'elped us out."

"Yeah, I bet," Sam agreed, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Amy surveyed the pile of files anxiously. "Is there going to be enough here to keep the fire going until morning?"

"Plenty more where that came from, luv," Gene told her, reappearing again, his arms fully laden with an unidentified tangle of things. "But just in case, we'd better add these."

With that, he threw his armload of items on top of the heap, where they landed with a clatter. Looking down, Amy realised that they were a collection of wooden photograph frames, most likely memorabilia pulled from the walls of Litton's office. Some held newspaper clippings with front page headlines in bold, black type, and some held photos, but all of them seemed to feature the same dapper dark-haired little man with a moustache and a tight brown suit, smiling smarmily at the camera as he shook hands with the Chief of Police, the Mayor and any number of other important-looking people. Much as Amy hated having anything in common with Gene Hunt, she had to admit, she felt an instant twinge of dislike for DCI Litton.

Ever the voice of reason, Sam tried to protest. "Guv, you can't..."

But Gene had already produced a silver hip-flask from his pocket and was carefully dousing the towering pile in liquid. A strong smell of alcohol suddenly hung in the air.

"Me best single malt whiskey," he said regretfully, waving the hip flask at them. "See, Tyler, we all have to make sacrifices sometimes."

He turned his head towards Amy. "You doing the honours, Pond, or d'you want me to?"

She slanted a glance towards Sam, who just nodded in a resigned manner. Dipping the guttering torch towards the pile, she watched as the warm, yellow flames crawled over the heaped up paper, flaring wildly into life as they came into contact with the alcohol. Soon the entire bonfire was alight. Amy stared at the blaze, mesmerised by the leaping tongues of fire, soaking up the comforting heat radiating against her face. On top of the pile, she could see the photos of DCI Litton beginning to curl and blacken at the edges, before bursting into small, bright flames. In the background, she was vaguely aware that Sam had found a wooden filing cabinet and was busy smashing it into smaller pieces, ready to throw on the fire.

Gene nodded in satisfaction. There was only one entrance into the RCS office. With the golden firelight illuminating the room in a soft glow, the Angel would have no chance of sneaking up on them. As long as they were able to keep the fire going, it would not be able to trap them helplessly in the dark. Amy could only hope that it would be enough to keep them all alive until morning. As for what they would do then, she had no idea. But, as she knew from experience, nothing ever seemed quite as hopeless when you could see what was coming at you.

"Well, kids, what do we do now?" Gene asked sardonically, plonking himself in a nearby chair and putting his feet up on a desk. "Join hands around the fire and sing 'Kumbaya, My Lord'? Maybe toast some marshmallows on a stick?"

Even as he spoke, his stomach growled audibly and he rubbed at it with a rueful expression on his face. "Dunno about you two, but some marshmallows might be actually be good right now," he added. "I'm hungry enough to bite the arse out of a low flying duck."

Then, as Sam shot him a pointed look, he said indignantly, "What? It's been a long time since lunch!"

"We watch and we wait," Sam said, also taking a seat, his eyes focused unwaveringly on the door, his arms folded over his leather jacket. Amy found herself shivering at his flat, serious tone, despite the heat of the fire. "My guess is, the Angel will be coming for us soon."

At that moment, she felt it - the soft, grey dust sifting insidiously down her cheek, like desiccated tears from a long ago grief. "Sooner than you think," she said in a strangled voice, her head whirling towards the door.

And, in the blink of an eye, it was there, framed in the doorway in all its awful glory, pinned in place by Sam's steady gaze. The firelight washed over it in a golden haze, gilding the white perfection of its stone flesh, revealing the horror of its beauty. All subterfuge was gone now. The Angel had no need to pretend to be anything other than what it was - a creature from a nightmare. Its wings were spread wide in anticipation of the kill, its fanged face demonic in its lust and hunger, the pebbled, alien eyes empty of pity or mercy as it looked straight at Amy.

"Time to die, Miss Pond," said the cold, emotionless voice, as unfailingly polite as ever.