Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your input means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Thank you again for reading, and reviews would be most welcome.

Chapter Seven: Suspect Device

Lucas made the introduction as smooth as possible, despite his racing heart. Displaying his forged Police badge in one hand, he extended the other to Thomas Mortimer. "Chief Superintendent Liam Collins," he said, giving his alias smoothly and arranging his face into an expression of impeccable neutral benignity.

Chief Superintendent Mortimer regarded him coolly from over the rim of his reading glasses. It was that moment of scrutiny that always had Lucas flinching inside. He always felt like he was being X-rayed, like the other person could see beneath his skin and read the thoughts in his head. The other man was older than he by at least a decade, but he was burly and strong. His expression maddeningly unreadable as he returned Lucas' handshake. "Chief Superintendent Thomas Mortimer," he introduced himself in return. "Please, take a seat. Just in from the Midlands for a few days, is that right?"

Lucas, as always, had the cover story straight in his head. "From the Birmingham force," he explained, careful to give particulars. "After such a smooth resolution of a double murder, we thought, perhaps, there were some lessons we could learn for our own investigations."

"You mean the Hicks and O'Casey murders," Mortimer replied. "Well, we were certainly aided by the guilty party's confession. But, by all means, take a look into it. See for yourself."

Mortimer got to his feet and began rummaging through a filing cabinet set against the back wall. Making the most of the temporary distraction, Lucas used the time to properly inventory the Office he now found himself in. It was large enough, with a gaudy watercolour hanging on the back wall behind the desk. An old, boxy computer sat on the desk, humming away to itself. The windows were flung open to tempt in the early summer breeze, but to little avail. The room still smelled of dust and decaying timber. There was one way in and one way out, and Lucas was glad that there was nothing barring his path to that one door.

After a minute, Mortimer was back with a bulky file held in both hands and he let it drop to the desk in front of Lucas. "There you go."

"Is this the complete file you've just given me?" asked Lucas, turning from the file back to the Chief Superintendent, hoping that his words were picked up by the mic hidden in his lapel.

"That's it," replied Mortimer, eyebrow raised as though he suspected a trick question.

After a moment's hesitation Lucas pulled the file towards him and started to skim over the first pages, all protected behind plastic covers. However, he took little of it in as he glanced it over, until a knock came at the door and he released the breath he didn't realise he had been holding. He glanced over his shoulder as a young Woman Police Officer poked her head around the door. "Urgent message for you, Sir," she said to Mortimer, "at Reception."

Mortimer shot Lucas an apologetic glance as he rose to his feet. "Excuse me for a moment," he said, before leaving with the Officer.

The door was barely closed before Malcolm's disembodied voice sounded in Lucas' ear. "Come in, Alpha One?"

"I hear you," Lucas replied softly, still listening to the sound of Mortimer's footsteps receding down the corridor outside the office.

"That's the decoy. Ruth will keep Mortimer talking for as long as possible," said Malcolm, his voice distant over comms. "But you still need to act fast. Get on to Mortimer's computer now and accept my request for remote access."

Lucas wasted no time in darting round to the opposite side of the desk, where Mortimer had left his computer on, still whirring happily away to itself. The shooting star screensaver had activated and as Lucas hit a random key to get rid of it, the tower began to grind. The machine was ancient, powered by Hamster, he thought glumly to himself. However, Malcolm's request for remote access had already popped up.

"You're on, Malcolm," said Lucas as he granted the necessary permissions.

Lucas sat back and let Malcolm work his magic; a flurry of activity happening from the Grid that was over in seconds. Meanwhile, he listened out for the sound of approaching footsteps, even though he knew Ruth would keep Mortimer occupied for as long as she could, and he would get fair warning of his impending return from the Grid end. If Mortimer walked in on this, Lucas knew he'd have some tough explaining to do.

"Lucas, print off Amalyev's release forms now," said Malcolm. "He's still in the holding cells at the Station, but will be transferred to the Scrubs at seven this evening. You have until then to get him out and here, to the Grid."

Lucas clicked the print button immediately, before Malcolm had finished explaining the time frame. He checked his watch as soon the ancient printer clanked and ground into life, a noise so loud it jangled his nerves. It was almost three pm. Bags of time, he grinned to himself. He snatched up the papers as soon as the printer spat them out, almost spilling them onto the floor before Lucas caught them in time.

"We're done, Malcolm," he said, once the printer fell back into its dormant silence. "I'm going out there now to release the prisoner; if Mortimer sees me, I'll make an excuse. Going off-comms."

He just caught Malcolm wishing him luck for the rest of his mission before he took out his earpiece and silenced the mic in his lapel. Once the papers were stamped with Mortimer's own seal, he was out of the door and working his way towards the holding cells. From the floor plans he'd seen back on the Grid, the best way to get to them was through the Reception area, where suspects were initially checked in.

The doors that separated the main station from the public areas were automatic looking, and he had to press a button to open them. Once out there, the noise levels increased five-fold as he entered a Reception area populated by squalling babies, singing drunks and spaced out crack heads slumped in corners as they waited to be 'processed'. Lucas let his gaze drift over them all, until he fell on Chief Superintendent Mortimer, just hanging up the telephone on the Reception desk. He looked in Lucas' direction, making him duck behind a group of vagrants who had just swarmed into the Reception area.

Confident that he hadn't been seen, Lucas skirted the back of the room, once again avoiding the large crowds. He weaved past a mother pacing her restless toddler back and forth, careful to avoid standing on the child, so that he collided with someone else entirely. He muttered his hasty apologies as he turned to face the newcomer, and found himself face to face with Jo and Clara.

"What the hell are you two doing here?" he snapped, not bothering to disguise the anger that had flared up in his chest.

Jo flushed a deep red. "L-" she bit her tongue before she could say his name, and corrected herself staunchly by omitting his name altogether. "We're just checking up on the suspect-"

"I don't care; get her out of here, now!" He hissed, keeping his voice low. "I'm on it now."

Clara had already begun a tactical retreat, but Jo stayed put, her eyes widening like a child's caught with its hands in the sugar bowl. "She wouldn't rest until we had seen that something was being done," she tried to explain. "Otherwise I would never-"

Jo did not get to finish her stammering explanations. Her voice was drowned out by a Senior Police officer's as it resounded over a loud-speaker, making Lucas whirl around as an alarm immediately began to sound, sending the room into chaos. "Please vacate the building, now; emergency procedure, Code Red," the voice over the loudspeaker announced. Seconds later, the women on the Reception desk were out among the crowds, shepherding the public outside. "Everyone out now!" they shrieked over the alarms. "We have a bomb scare; out now!"

"Shit!" Lucas cursed heavily as he turned back to Jo. "Get her well out of here; back to the safe house now!"

Jo grabbed Clara's wrist, holding her steady against the tides of people now streaming towards the exits, but then she stopped. "What about you?" she asked.

Lucas hadn't thought of that, but this was the perfect cover for him. "There's something I need to do," he said, already swimming against the human tide. He left Jo staring, wide-eyed, after him as he was swallowed by the crowds.

Ros stepped out of the car and looked at the sign above the door of Charlie Weir's pub. It was three o'clock precisely; as always, she prided herself on her punctuality. She straightened her skirts and smoothed down the front of her crisp, clean blouse before confidently pushing open the double doors and stepping inside. It was gloomy indoors, especially after being outside in the bright afternoon sun, but she soon adjusted to the change. She found herself in a large bar room, all marble effect table-tops and bars. Chrome fittings and mirrored walls. Disco balls shone in the dull lights, but failed to sparkle in the silence of the usually bustling pub.

Inwardly, she cringed. 'How bloody tacky can you get?' she thought to herself as she smiled at the barman getting ready for the night's trade.

"Hi, I'm Abigail; the agency sent me to cover for your regular Manageress," she explained, setting her bag down on the bar. "Mister Weir is expecting me."

"Oh yeah, that's right," replied the barman, slinging his bar towel over his left shoulder as he extended his hand towards Ros. She returned the handshake tentatively. "Follow me, and I'll take you up there now."

They made idle chatter as he showed her up the back stairs. Luckily for Ros, he was a lot better at it than her, so she let him do the talking as she simply nodded and agreed at regularly timed intervals. Otherwise, the chatter washed over her as she mentally prepared herself for her introduction for the gangland leader. They reached a large oak door, so highly polished Ros could see her distorted outline in it, and the barman knocked loudly. A voice on the other side was distant, obviously not talking to them.

"Sounds like Charlie's on the phone," he observed, "I'll leave you to it. He'll be out soon."

With that, he descended the stairs, presumably returning to his cleaning duties. Meanwhile, slipped off her shoes to reduce the noise she would make, and trod closer to the door, where she could listen to the conversation happening on the other side. However, Weir's words were barely audible, not to mention one-sided as he was definitely having a phone conversation.

"What do you mean 'a warning'?" Weir asked.

Silence. A silence during which Ros could only speculate as to the nature of the warning.

"Now, Tom, don't get ahead of yourself," he later added. "Have you checked the guy out? If you reckon he's MI5 then check him out before you do anything. Well, actually, no. Keep tabs on him first. Just keep after him. If he's MI5, he could cause all sorts of trouble. The bomb scare's probably a hoax anyway!"

Ros' stomach churned as she began to retreat from the door. Her fear broke the surface of her steely calm with an eviscerating ease as she tried to get back on comms, but her hands were shaking and her mouth had run dry. He was talking about Lucas, there was no one else it could be and she needed to get him out of that Station fast. But it was too late; the call had ended and Weir had appeared at the door before she could even get her shoes back on. He smiled at her from the doorway, completely unruffled and relaxed. With every fibre of her will-power, she pulled herself together.

"Ah, Miss Walters, isn't it?" he asked, glancing down at Ros' bare feet as she slipped back into her shoes.

"And you must be Mister Weir," she replied, "don't mind this; they're knew and killing my ankles." She explained with a laugh, extending her hand. "Sorry to hear about your Manageress."

Weir shook her hand, looking at her carefully. "Yes, it was quite a surprise," he replied. "Still, I am sure whoever sent you here thinks you can do a good job."

Maybe it was the conversation she had just over-heard, but she didn't like his phrasing. "The Agency, Abacus, sent me," she replied, affecting an air of confusion.

His smile widened. "Is that what you're calling yourselves these days," he replied in an undertone. "Well, never mind, you're here now and that's what counts."

She could sense the uncertainty in him; he suspected, but he was undecided. Ros knew she would have to measure her next steps carefully, otherwise her cover would be blown and that could potentially mean the loss of both herself and Lucas. For the moment, he would have to fend for himself, and she stepped into the spacious Office of Charlie Weir.

By the time Lucas made it to the holding cells, the prisoners were already being handcuffed to Police Officers and evacuated from the building. However, he had to ensure that he was the one who escorted Alexei Amalyev outside, or the operation would end in disaster for them all. The Sergeant in charge of overseeing the evacuation was standing at the far end of the cell, and Lucas showed him his forged Police badge.

"Chief Superintendent Liam Collins," he said. "I have release papers for Alexei Amalyev; I need him out now before I can go anywhere."

The place was emptying fast, and Lucas feared he had already missed his target. The Sergeant, however, simply raised a brow. "You've timed this one well," he snorted. "Release papers?"

Lucas handed them over, tapping his foot impatiently as the other man gave them only the briefest of glances. "Cell B3," he said, already turning away from Lucas to carry on assisting with the evacuation, "down the corridor and turn left."

It was almost ten minutes into the bomb warning, now. The place was almost empty, and as Lucas made it to the last cell, the one with the framed suspect in it, he could already tell they were almost alone. He keyed in a code into the machine at the side of the locked cell, the exact same as it appeared on the release papers, and the automatic lock clicked open. The sight of so many cells brought back memories of Russia that Lucas had to fight to keep at bay, this was no time to get carried away by his own memories.

He pulled the cell door open without bothering to check the Judas hole; finding a thin, dark haired teenager crouched in the corner of the cell, huddled near the foot of the bed. He looked up at Lucas through wide, bloodshot blue eyes that peered through the strands of an unkempt fringe. At the sight of Lucas, he tried to stand and back himself further into the corner of his cell, trembling visibly. But Lucas had no time to set the boy at his ease.

"You speak English?" he asked, not waiting for an answer before he grabbed his wrist and marched him towards the door.

Alexei tried to pull back, but Lucas tightened his grip. He did not answer the question. "C'mon, I'm trying to get you out of here!"

Lucas wrenched the cell door open again, and collided with a fist. Pain exploded through his lower jaw as the force of the blow sent him reeling backwards. He came crashing to the floor of the cell, helplessly bringing Alexei tumbling down with him. A steel toe-capped boot landed in his stomach, knocking the breath out of his lungs and making him heave painfully. Alexei recovered quickly and tried to fight back, but Lucas could easily see he was no match for the other person. He tried to call out for help, but he knew everyone else had already gone. A hand reached out and pulled him up by the hair.

"Game over, James Bond."

Lucas didn't have to twist round to see Mortimer, he recognised his voice. But as he was dropped back down again, he could just see the Chief Superintendent leaving the cell, making sure it was safely locked as he went. A surge of uncontrollable panic swept over Lucas; anger and frustration pulling him to his feet as he kicked out at the door, sending fresh waves of pain coursing through him. But already he knew it was too late; he was locked in a cell with a bomb ticking inexorably towards detonation.

Nature abhors a vacuum. The rattling windows were the first sign, but no one saw it. It lasted for only a few seconds as the bomb sucked the oxygen out of the atmosphere, creating a vacuum that then tried to suck in everything surrounding it. Then, a nanosecond later, the bomb combusted and the explosion tore suddenly outwards, ripping through the first floor taking everything there with it. The force radiated outwards; blasting the straggling evacuees off their feet and hurling them through the air. The noise of the explosion was deafening, fading rapidly into a mute, deadly silence as it went.

As the silence was finally punctuated by an array of caterwauling alarms, Jo Portman climbed unsteadily back to her feet. Even though she knew about the bomb, the detonation still left her bewildered. Ears ringing, an unwelcomely familiar sensation, she looked all about her for Clara. Clara was beside her, sitting upright with mouth agape at the carnage all around her. For a long moment, the two women just looked at each other as events registered, were processed, and they accepted what had just occurred.

"Your colleague's still in there," said Clara, pulling herself up to her feet, using a nearby car as support until the glass from its shattered windows cut her hand.

"Lucas," whispered Jo, unmindful of using his real name. She turned slowly towards the Station which now had a great, yawning chasm down the side, where the bomb had detonated.

Clara was already hobbling towards the Station when she spoke next. "He was going to get Alexei," she said, still distant and dazed.

Jo reached out to stop her, and raised her voice over the din of the alarms. "No! Wait, we can't…"

Clara pulled herself free of Jo's grip with surprising force, enough to give Jo a jolt back into reality. "We can't just leave them," said Clara, continuing towards the Station with recovering strength.

The dust clouds cleared slowly, revealing bodies spread out around the grounds. However, the distant blaring of sirens indicated to Jo that help was fast on its way. She could leave them to the professionals, and get back inside. The survivors moved like wraiths, covered in dust and muted into silence by their own shock and trauma. Others moaned as they lay on the ground, or sat with their heads in their hands. The two woman clasped each others hands and, ignoring the pleas of a dazed policeman, stepped over a ragged cordon, before breaking into a run for the entrance that had been mercifully left in tact.