Brazil

by J. Ferguson a.k.a. Timeless A-Peel

Disclaimer: I don't own The New Avengers, nor the characters of Mike Gambit, Purdey, and John Steed. Sadly. They're the property of The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises, and this story is for entertainment purposes only.

Timeline: Sixth in a series. Takes place in late February/early March, 1977, near the start of the second season, probably shortly after the events of Hostage and the year-later bits of Gnaws and The Last of the Cybernauts...? It is strongly recommended, but not essential, that you go back and read the previous stories in the arc, Aftermath, Dance With Me, The Anniversary, and Merry Christmas, Mr. Gambit.

Author's Note: As was noted in a review a couple of weeks back, there are apparently no tarantulas with bites that are actually fatal to humans. But since this story is based around a mention in Angels of Death, and it's made quite clear that Purdey nearly died of tarantula poisoning, we're just going to pretend Avengerland is occupied by a particularly nasty variety of giant arachnid. It's a lot more plausible than the giant man-eating plant from space.

I've been terribly busy lately, and as such haven't had time for updates. That is also why this chapter is so unforgiveably short. Rest assured there will be another, longer addition in a week or two. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed thus far. Stay tuned...

For more information about the series, please see my profile.

Gambit could hear the scream in his head. The only problem was it wasn't his voice. He bolted upright, going from sleep to wakefulness in no time at all, desperately trying to slow his pounding heart before it burst from his chest. He brought a hand up to his face and wiped away the sweat beaded on his upper lip. Something was wrong--terribly, horribly, sickeningly wrong. He didn't know where the feeling came from, what it meant, if it was instinct or premonition, but he was surer of it than anything in his life. The only question was: what? He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was getting on to morning. He mentally cycled back through the timezones for Purdey's local time. Still several hours before she was due back in Manaus, let alone London. He massaged his temples tiredly, despite his still-trembling hands. By that point he'd have a migraine to rival his last post-Steed's birthday hangover.

The phone rang, once, urgent and shrill. Gambit winced and staggered out of bed and answered it with a weariness that he wouldn't have felt the night before.

"Gambit."

"Mike?" It was Steed. "I think you'd better get down here. Right away." The next two words explained every tremor. "It's Purdey."

Gambit felt blindly for a seat, sank into it just as his legs gave way beneath his weight. "What about Purdey? What's happened?"

Steed paused, too long for the next words to be anything good. "She's missing," he said finally.

"What the devil do you mean, missing?!" Gambit barked, knowing that it wasn't Steed's fault, but unable to restrain himself. "I thought she was surrounded by Grey's people. One of them must have been keeping an eye on her."

"I suspect several were," Steed concurred darkly, "until they were attacked. At that point I doubt eye contact was their top priority."

"Attacked?" Gambit repeated weakly. "Who…?"

"Get down here and I'll explain," Steed told him. "Or try, at the very least. We're not entirely certain ourselves as to what's transpired. There was a message over the emergency line half an hour ago, and we've been doing our best to decode the Morse. I've a feeling there aren't many people who are able-bodied and calm enough to operate the equipment."

Gambit's vision swam, and the floor looked as though it were perilously close to rocketing toward his skull. "When did it happen?" he managed.

"Two hours ago," Steed informed. "But they only managed a signal half an hour ago. A lot of equipment was damaged. The whole camp was decimated. They're still tending to the wounded and tallying up the dead on both sides. Confusion's reigning supreme. I doubt we'll have any sort of coherent and accurate report before this evening."

"But they definitely said Purdey was missing?" Gambit asked urgently. "If things are that bad, there could be a mistake. Someone slipping up on the Morse, or she's been lost in the shuffle."

Steed's reply wasn't too encouraging. "I put in a special request myself. They seemed quite adamant. It adds up--if Purdey were able, she'd have contacted us herself."

"Unless she's helping with the wounded," Gambit pointed out, then cycled back through the conversation. "Did you say dead?"

"Yes," Steed confirmed grimly. "Several on both sides. But Miss Grieve herself told me that Purdey's nowhere to be found among them. She's disappeared completely. The current hypothesis is that the attackers took her, either for her connection to the case, or for hostage purposes."

Or something else, Gambit thought, and felt nausea sweep over him. He knew Steed was thinking the same thing, but neither of them was going to vocalize it.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," he told Steed. "That should Gray enough time to call security."

"What?"

"He'll need it," Gambit growled, "if he doesn't have a damn good explanation." He hung up before Steed could comment.