Ros heard the familiar voice as someone fell into step beside her and suppressed a groan.

"I'm fine, actually," she lied as smoothly as she was able, but he wasn't buying it.

"You lost him."

Ros wasn't expecting that reply but she lied smoothly nonetheless: "I've haven't the slightest clue what you're on about, so if you'll excuse me-"

"Bartolomej Vujović, Old Town murderer. He's gonna strike again so you were tailing him."

It wasn't often that Ros struggled with words but Tom had caught her red-handed, and she couldn't summon an appropriately cold response before his face broke into a grin.

"I've got him. 20m ahead, grey shirt. He ditched his jacket."

Ros scanned the crowds. Thankfully, he was there. Annoyingly, Tom hadn't lost him and she had.

"Whatever the hell you're doing getting involved with this, this operation belongs to Six and I'm the designated officer, therefore I outrank you," she told him rather sullenly, to which he just broke into a grin.

"Okay, boss."

"I'm not your-"

"Two people will make tailing easier," he wheedled. He'd made a good point – the evening was just getting started and more and more tourists were piling onto the streets, making it increasingly difficult to maintain eyeball. Tom was also wearing rather inconspicuous clothes and so wouldn't attract unwanted attention, and he was several inches taller than her which would be good for keeping tabs on Bartolomej.

Ros titled her chin upwards and fixed her eyes on his face. "Fine. You're with me."

"Aren't I lucky," he said sarcastically in response to Ros' brazen, instant dislike of him. "I don't even know your name."

"It's Ros," she said, her words clipped and ones that clearly indicated the chit-chat was over.

Either Bartolomej knew he was being tailed and was trying to shake them by tediously strolling again and again up little side streets, or he just enjoyed really boring and repetitive walks. Either way, a blister was bubbling under Ros' toe thanks to the dreaded flip-flops she had purchased in order to pass as a holidayer, and the silence between her and Tom was beginning to suffocate. Sure, she didn't want to talk to him and had no particular interest in his life and his wife and his inevitable sob-stories, but it was rather unnerving how he too seemed completely content with the silence. A part of Ros longed for him to chip in with a comment of some sort just so that she could snort derisively or ruthlessly criticise him.

The next time that Tom spoke, however, there wasn't much time for Ros' favourite pastime of playing (and winning) a good game of one upmanship.

"He just pocketed a knife from that table," Tom murmured, picking up his pace ever so slightly and gluing his gaze solely on the back of Bartolomej's head. Sure enough, when they passed the restaurant table where he had been mere seconds earlier the steak knife from one place setting was absent.

"He's about to kill – we've got to stop him now," Tom said under his breath in Ros' direction.

She shook her head. "We need to find out who the target is."

"And give them the risk of a knife in the back?" Tom asked scathingly. "No. We take him now."

"What was it I said about outranking?" Ros said fiercely. "Keep walking and shut up, and if you don't do exactly as I say then MI6 will find your pricey, pretty little cottage in the country that you share with your lovely wife and smash every bloody window of the place."

Tom smirked. "Nice judgement skills."

"You're wearing an expensive watch and a wedding ring," Ros said briefly. "Now just do as I say."

Ros watched Bartolomej duck suddenly into a side street and she gestured for Tom to stay still while she followed – he opened his mouth to protest but not before Ros had disappeared into the darkness that the tall buildings and night sky provided. There were fewer people than on the main street but enough to provide Ros with adequate cover in case Bartolomej decided to turn around. In front of both of them, a tall man in a crumpling suit smoked a cigarette, the ash tumbling onto the smooth stone. At a glance he looked wealthy and arrogant and upon further inspection Ros noticed a smudge of red lipstick on his jaw. His phone rang and he plucked it from a pocket, turning away from them. Ros watched Bartolomej pull the knife from the pocket of his jeans and twirl it in one hand, about to close the space between himself and the man before Ros said loudly: "Bartolomej Vujović."

Maybe it was the shock of getting caught or the unfamiliarity of hearing his real surname that made him drop the knife, watching dumbly as it clattered to the ground. The man on the phone seemed suddenly aware of the two dangerous-looking strangers so close to him and mumbled "I'm gonna have to call you back" to whoever was on the receiving end of his call before snapping the screen shut.

"Who on Earth are you?!"

His question was never provided with an answer as Bartolomej broke out into a petrified sprint, throwing a glance at Ros over his shoulder before focussing fully on pounding his feet away from her as fast as he was able to.

"Tom!" Ros called loudly over her shoulder, chasing Bartolomej back onto the main street. Tom caught up with her quickly and calmly, having seemingly not even broken into a sweat, and together they weaved as quickly as they were able amongst the people, keeping Bartolomej at the centre of their vision.

"What are you doing?" cried a heavily-accented voice as Bartolomej pushed past, taking the steps up to the old walls that circled the town two steps at a time.

"What's he playing at?" Ros hissed, flapping her ID card at the man guarding the stairs quickly before moving up them.

"But- it's too dark! It's not safe!" the man protested as Tom jogged past him.

"Safe isn't really on our job description," Tom replied, following Ros up the steep stone steps.

"He must know there's no escape," Ros said as Tom reached her side. She was right – the ancient walls that surrounded the city were perfect for sight-seeing and picture taking but there was only one way up (the stairs they had just taken) and the only other route back down was a steep and definitely lethal drop from the towering walls onto the streets below.

"Let's find him," Tom said simply, jogging soundlessly along the stony ground in the direction which Bartolomej had headed. With the multiple twists and turns of the path coupled with the fact that it was a dark night with barely any starlight due to unusually thick cloud coverage, even though he had been only seconds ahead he now appeared to have vanished completely. Ros focussed her eyes directly ahead of her and didn't try to remember that they were now very high above the city with relatively uneven ground to walk upon and a killer lurking somewhere. His target was probably relatively safe now, but she doubted that Bartolomej would take kindly to being frog-marched out of the city by the security services.

This was not going to plan, and Ros didn't take kindly to the feeling of failure.

"So," she said to Tom, trying to mask the strange sensation of being a little afraid with some light conversation. "How did you get into all this?"

Tom smirked. "I signed up for it."

"And you're not sitting in the air conditioned Thames House office because?"

A frown settled itself on his forehead and he dragged his eyes away from her face, his mouth set in a hard line.

"I woke up to what the service was really asking of me."

Had his voice not sounded so broken, Ros would have snorted in derision. His sincerity was a little startling seeing as their line of work consisted mainly of lying, and Ros knew she would never be so honest if he had asked her such a personal question. She couldn't understand what he meant though. The security service was the only work she could imagine doing, despite the hardships, and his lack of faith was surreal but also a little worrying. She was still relatively new to the job and obviously wasn't naive enough to think things would always go swimmingly, but Tom held experience in his expression and a grief in his eyes which was new to Ros and she vowed that if she ever encountered something unforeseeable and terrible during her time as a spy she would hide it firmly away. Sarcasm and brazenness might not make her everybody's friend, but it was better than being looked at like a kicked puppy.

Suddenly aware that she hadn't replied for several seconds, Ros said "So why are you chasing Vujović?"

"He's not an innocent. I'm good at this, unless there's a moral quandary ticking away that everyone else just seems to ignore. Vujović is a killer - I'm fine with stopping him."

"By killing him?" Ros questioned.

"I'm fine with stopping him," he said again. His tone wasn't one of trying to convince her; it was a statement. And judging by his knowledge and tailing abilities and other operational skills so far, he did know what he was doing. Ros felt as if he was competition now and stood up taller, throwing a bored look across the sea and the yachts looming in the harbour and stopping for a second, peering into a corner where the path veered round to the right to check for Bartolomej's potential hiding spot.

"He's still moving," Ros commented. "What if he makes it all the way around and goes back down the steps into the crowds?" Shit. She hadn't thought of that – Bartolomej knew this place like the back of his hand and would be able to navigate this path more quickly than her and Tom.

"I told the guy guarding the steps to ring the local authorities and have them stationed in case he does," Tom said.

Ros eyed him critically. "Now we'll have PC Plod sticking his nose in. Brilliant."

She was a tad jealous though of his operational consideration, whereas she had been intent on the chase.

Damn him.

Tom disappeared around another corner and then peeked round again, one finger against his lips. Ros slowed her pace and quietened her breathing. Tom stepped back round the corner. For a few seconds, the entire city seemed to hold its breath.

"It's over, Vujović," she heard Tom mutter, and then a grunt. She rounded the corner and saw Tom pinning Bartolomej's arms behind his back.

"Let go of me!" he demanded, struggling against the obviously superior strength of his opponent. "Let go!"

"You've killed five people over the last three weeks, Bartolomej: why?" Ros' voice cut through the darkness.

He leaned forward, his face illuminated slightly by a lamplight glowing below them on a street. "Those animals?" He spat on the ground, not before Tom could move his unfortunately flip-flopped foot away. "They steal and they lie and they drag society down. They give my country a bad name. They are not good. Some of them pretend to be religious – they are not. They don't know of a purpose in life, a belief, something to be better for."

"As moving as that is, I doubt a court will favour it over the fact you killed five men," Ros replied coolly.

Bartolomej shrugged but his voice was still laced with venom. "They are no loss to society. Society needs to be clean. There is no room for people who give nothing back, people who drink away their money and spent nights with prostitutes. These men are poisonous!"

"What gives you the right to decide who is worthy or not?" Ros questioned him.

"I believe in things. I believe in family, friendships, God. A purpose in life."

"And your purpose in life is what? Killing?" Tom asked, wrenching his arm a little harder behind his back. "'Thou shalt not murder' – heard of it?"

"Don't you dare talk to me about morality. Who have you lost, spy man?" Bartolomej managed to spit despite the obvious pain he was in. "Were your parents murdered? Did your neighbours turn against you? Do you have any idea what pain really feels like?"

Ros watched Tom's face flicker almost unnoticeably before he regained control.

"Yeah, I do. I just know how to handle it better than you do."

"I gave money to the families of the victims," he murmured. "I know better than anyone that it isn't the fault of the family. No-one showed such consideration to me though, when my parents were ruining lives. They thought I was the same."

"So why are you killing people?" Ros barked incredulously.

"Because I'm helping lives!" he roared, but beneath the loudness of his voice was a detectable vulnerability, as if he prayed that what he was saying was really true. "I don't kill indiscriminately like my parents did. I don't want people to drink until they die, or have affairs, or steal or cheat or lie. I'm getting rid of people like that who don't give a second thought to decency, or hope, or love. I'm improving the world, and for that blood must be spilled."

Tom shook his head. "No. Whenever blood is spilled, you know you've taken a wrong turn."

"Give yourself up, Bartolomej," Ros tried to reason. "You don't get to choose the choices people make. It's not your right or your purpose to try and make them change."

"And who are you then?" he hissed. "You've never manipulated and lied and used people for your own cause?"

"It's over, Bartolomej," Ros said, ignoring his previous comment although it was rattling around in her head. "We have to deal with you now."

"It is over," Bartolomej replied, but his tone wasn't one of having given up. "But not in the way that you want it to be. As you say-" he breathed out a smirk -"you can't decide what people choose."

Ros had barely taken a step before Bartolomej pulled his arm away and flung it into Tom's stomach, hoisted one leg up onto the wall and lifted his arms to the sky before moving his feet forward, sailing towards the concrete below and making contact with the rough stone with an audible and shudder-inducing thud. She watched Tom gasping for air, arms across his stomach, and the irritation but also despair in his eyes at having been outwitted. Ros moved her gaze over the wall onto the floor below. He had fallen into the wreckage of an old house, the only furniture some crumbling bricks and weeds, the roof having been blown off when war came to this country under twenty years ago. The old town had been bombed but many original structures remained, with a scattering of more modern buildings in places, built after the fight had finished.

"It looks odd, don't you think?" Tom said quietly, coming to stand beside her. Ros noticed how his eyes didn't glance in the direction of Bartolomej's body, a broken smudge of the city's history now.

"What is?" she asked.

He gestured to the towering roofs of the houses that spread across the town. "Old structures. Beautiful and undamaged. And then new ones." He pointed to a roof with clean, well-shaped tiles of a brighter colour than the other red, weather-worn pieces. "The city plugging gaps in the wreckage. Making everything look perfect again and moving on."

"You make it sound like a bad thing – healing scars," Ros replied a little sceptically.

He moved his eyes to her face. "It's not: it's necessary. Forgetting those scars is the fault."

"Don't get all sentimental, or I might follow in Bartolomej's footsteps," Ros said jokingly, but perhaps her tone wasn't light enough - Tom looked at her as if she had overstepped the mark and his next words were empty of the slight warmth his voice had adapted to. "You can do the paperwork. It's your op, after all."

He started mooching back in the direction they had came, his silhouette almost merging with the shadows before Ros' curiosity made her call out: "What will you do now?"
A flicker of a grin made its way to his face. "Back to the cottage with the wife."

"And all of this? What we do?" Ros asked.

"I do one-off things now. I choose. It's liberating, not being told what to do by the Service," he told her.

"Doesn't that make you purposeless?" she asked, out of inquisitiveness rather than deliberately trying to be insulting.

"Nah," he said. "I know exactly who I am and what I'm doing now. It makes more sense than anything ever has."

"Okay then, enigmatic stranger," she said. He grinned. "If you're so intent on do-gooding, why have you been so alive throughout this entire operation?"

"I guess some things you can't hide. It's thrilling, being a spy. I miss it. But not enough to want to be one again. I like being the enigmatic stranger." He shrugged. "Maybe you will too, one day."

"Not my bag," Ros told him confidently, but the way his knowing eyes raked over her face made her feel uncertain. But before she had time to convince him or herself further, he was descending the stairs back into the town and becoming one with the crowds.

A/N: Sorry for the huge delay between updates. I hope you've enjoyed this - I'll be posting the last chapter later this week. If you have the time to review I'd really appreciate it.