Ignoring any further protest from Bodie, Doyle leaned on the door and pushed it open. He was surprised to find that it opened into a wide open space – there was virtually nothing in the way of cover. All the boxes and equipment had been shoved to the far end of the room, stacked haphazardly against the far wall. Kenny had clearly decided to remove any chance of Doyle taking cover and he suddenly felt horribly exposed. This was nothing, however, to the anger and revulsion that threatened to choke him. Kenny Price stood in the middle of the room. Either side of him, he'd thrown ropes over the overhead beams. To his right, Tony Webster was standing, hanging from the beam, the rope tied cruelly tight around his wrists. His head was bowed and Doyle could not tell if he was breathing. Hogan hung similarly to Kenny's left, head down.
"I'm here, Kenny," Doyle said, in a low voice, "now let them go…"
Kenny laughed, hysterically. It was the most chilling sound Doyle had ever heard.
"Let them go?" he repeated, "Let…them…go?"
Suddenly, without warning, Kenny swung around and drove his fist into Webster's stomach. The taller man choked, unable to protect himself or evade the blow. Doyle snapped his gun up, but Kenny was quicker, stepping behind Webster and raising a knife to the younger man's throat as Webster fought for breath. Doyle could now see that both Webster and Hogan bore the marks of a severe beating. Kenny appeared unharmed, and Doyle wondered just how this maniac had managed to take down two fully trained CI5 operatives with what looked like relative ease. Hogan was clawing at the ropes above her head; Doyle could see, even from where he stood, that the flesh had been rubbed raw around her wrists from her struggles.
"Drop the gun, Doyle," Kenny said, in a low, menacing voice.
Doyle hesitated, and then complied. He bent down and placed the weapon on the floor, never taking his eyes off Kenny as he straightened back up again. Kenny stayed where he was, behind Webster, that wickedly sharp hunting knife still pressed against the agent's exposed throat.
"Now – take three steps forwards…" Kenny ordered.
For barely a second, Doyle's eyes flicked away from Kenny's face to scan the floor. Seeing no signs of a trap that could be triggered by his movement, he slowly walked forward.
"That's far enough," Kenny said, his voice now sounding frighteningly calm.
At the moment, Kenny was fully in control of the situation, and that was not good for the three agents in the room. Doyle hoped that Bodie was watching his back and calling for reinforcements. As for him, he had to do something to take back some control.
"It's me you want, Kenny," he said, quietly, "why do you need them?"
Kenny glared back at him, as if gauging his response.
"This bastard was just as involved in bringing me down as you were," he snarled, at last, giving Webster a rough shake and eliciting a moan of pain, "he'll pay – just like the others. He'll pay for what he did to me."
"Him?" Doyle put a trace of scorn in his voice, "He was just an arresting officer, following orders! And what about Graham Morris? He wasn't involved at all! It was before his time!"
"His old man," spat Kenny, "he paid for his old dad's involvement. I'd still got money, hidden away in places you guys didn't dream of looking – it's cost me, oh yes, it's cost me – but I bought weapons. Information. I bought blood and vengeance to the streets of London!"
Kenny's voice was building up to a screech and Doyle was very painfully aware of the knife that was still held up against Tony Webster's throat.
"What about me, Kenny?" Doyle challenged him, pointing at Webster and Hogan; "What have you got in mind for me? Webster – he was just there for the arrest – and as for her, she wasn't involved at all – she was never even a cop!"
"You'll get your turn," Kenny promised, lowering the knife at last, much to Doyle's relief, "Don't be so impatient to die, Doyle – I'm going to make it nice and slow for you…"
A flash of light suddenly lit up the room, making everyone jump, quickly followed by a loud clap of thunder. The rain, so long anticipated as a break in the heat-wave, suddenly began, rattling on the windows. Doyle edged a step forwards, hoping to make his move. However, without warning, Kenny moved. Doyle saw the dim glint of dull light on a brightly polished blade, and heard Webster's choked cry of pain as the blade found its mark. The young agent's back arched in agony, before he drew in a shuddering gasp and collapsed. The ropes around his wrists took the strain and he hung there, limp, unmoving.
"Kenny, you bastard!"
*CI5*
Doyle lunged. He crashed into Kenny, sending the knife skittering across the warehouse floor. Doyle was strong and well trained; while Kenny was more muscular and fought with manic desperation. He punched, kicked, and clawed at Doyle, snarling curses all the time, while Doyle fought for purchase, trying to subdue his flailing target. Kenny kicked out, catching him in the face and sending him sprawling; Doyle recovered quickly, in time to land a hefty punch across the larger man's jaw as he recklessly threw himself forwards. They fell back, away from each other, and got to their feet, as the door burst open and Bodie entered the room, gun drawn. A single shot was fired; Kenny Price let out a gurgling wail, mortally wounded. As if in a desperate attempt to escape, he ran for the window and leapt at it. Glass shattered outwards and Kenny screamed as he fell. Doyle suppressed a wince at the dull thump of the body hitting the ground.
"You okay?" Bodie asked, glancing at his partner.
"Yeah – but Hogan and Webster aren't."
Doyle glanced at the knife on the floor and decided against picking up the blood-stained weapon. He took a small flick-knife from his pocket and set to work on the ropes that bound Hogan. Bodie stepped forwards quickly as Hogan, only semi-conscious, collapsed into his arms. Doyle then sawed through the ropes that bound Webster. Dropping his knife back into his pocket, Doyle gently lowered Webster to the floor. The agent was white as a sheet, and, as Doyle checked for a pulse, he knew it was too late.
"I should've shot Price when I had the chance," Doyle murmured, bitterly.
Any further self-recrimination was cut off when a slightly damp-looking George Cowley strode into the room, flanked by other CI5 operatives; an equally rain-soaked Jax and Murphy. Outside, blue flashing lights lit up the dark sky, and the wail of an ambulance siren sounded and suddenly cut off, heralding its arrival in the stormy night. As far as Doyle was concerned, it was too little, too late.
*CI5*
The next morning, the air was fresh and clean, cooler and more comfortable than for the past few days. The sky was blue with white clouds scudding along in a gentle breeze. Bodie and Doyle sat in the break room of CI5 HQ; both had showered, shaved and rested from the night's activities. Still, there was an air of despondency – a fellow agent had been killed, and Tony Webster had been popular around the department. The two agents were now drinking tea and filling in any number of forms.
"Bloody paperwork," Bodie grunted, as he added his short signature to another report, "there; done."
"Just a tick," Doyle mumbled.
Bodie watched as his partner ticked off a few more boxes, scribbled a comment and scrawled his signature across the bottom.
"Right," he nodded, "let's pass these on to Cowley and get back out to some real work."
"Agreed!"
They picked up the files and carried them off to Cowley's office. When he entered, he gave them an appraising stare.
"What have you got for me?" he asked.
"As if you don't know," Bodie replied, "the reports of last night, sir."
Cowley gave Bodie a brief glower, and indicated a corner of his desk for them to leave the reports.
"Any news from the hospital, sir?" Doyle asked, softly.
Cowley's expression softened, albeit only slightly.
"Hogan's going to be fine," he assured them, "she suffered a broken wrist, a couple of broken ribs, concussion and multiple bruises. Apparently Price planted a canister of gas in her car – he didn't have to go anywhere near them to take both her and Webster out. He just activated the canister by remote and the anaesthetic took them both out before they could even get out of the car."
"I wondered how he'd managed that," Bodie commented, "Hogan fights like a demon when her back's up. She can be a real bitch, that one."
The comment was made with an edge of respect, so Cowley let it slide.
"Even so, she'll be off duty for a while," he said, "as for Webster… the funeral will be in three days' time. Hogan says she was unconscious and didn't see what happened, but from the sounds of it there was nothing you could have done, Doyle."
Bodie expected a sharp retort, but Doyle just shook his head resignedly.
"I think different," he said, a little sadly.
"No use beating yourself up, laddie," Cowley responded, "now; do yourselves and Webster a favour. Get out there and find the bastards who sold weapons and information to Price!"
*CI5*
Three days later, a small crowd stood around outside the crematorium. The service had been short and non-denominational; very few people had attended outside of CI5. Tony Webster had no family to speak of and all of his friends were either CI5 or cops. Hogan was there, her face bruised, and her left arm sheathed in a plaster cast and a sling. Her manner was silent and withdrawn, but Bodie did not miss the way she kept gazing across at him, and especially at Doyle. Putting it down to grief, he decided to give her some space. Loosening his black tie slightly, he crossed over to Doyle. He was almost amused to see his partner had already abandoned his tie and loosened the collar of his shirt; Doyle hated formality. He met Bodie's gaze for one moment, and Bodie could easily see the self-recrimination in Doyle's expression.
"Come on," he said, forcing a lighter note into his tone, "I need a drink and you need the company."
Doyle hesitated, and then, the smallest of smiles touched his lips, and he allowed Bodie to lead him to the car. Behind them, Hogan watched them go, and, silently, she mourned her partner's death. Glancing back at the crematorium, she watched as the smoke drifted lazily from the chimney, and she drew in a deep, steadying breath.
"Goodbye, big brother," she murmured, "I'll miss you."
Silently, she added to herself:
I'll avenge you…