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

Chapter Nine: The Round Table

It was barely an hour after the explosion when Ruth stepped out of the car to be greeted by a wall of blaring sirens; blue lights flashing like a disco in a warzone. The walking wounded, a travesty of revellers swaying into the open backs of ambulances. Then there was the dead. Arranged in a neat row, shrouded in plain white sheets, blood leaking out from beneath to form a stream of gore leaking down the guttering like a busted water pipe. The uninjured – at least physically – sat on the kerb cradling themselves as they watched, in a cloud of utter bewilderment, the world turn itself upside down.

Harry appeared at her side from the opposite side of their car and, unthinkingly, her hand reached for his. Just for a moment, they grasped each other, exchanged a sidelong glance for reassurance before slipping on their professional masks, steeling themselves for whatever lay ahead. Ever the gentleman, Harry held up the police line tape for her step under. As she turned to thank him, she found her words cut off.

"Hold it, there!" the man's voice bellowed above the sirens. "No one is to go beyond this point. Step back! Step back now!"

They both turned in time to see a flustered, dust-covered Policeman bearing down on them. Ruth then looked to Harry, whose expression was turning thunderous. "Will you tell him to bugger off, or shall I?" she asked.

"You can't deny me the pleasure," he replied, the old twinkle back in his eye.

"Did you hear me?" the Policeman asks taking them both for idiots. "I said step back from the line!"

Ruth stepped back, letting Harry have a clear view of his next victim. Ultimate satisfaction for a stressful day.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" he asked, fixing the unfortunate Officer in a death glare. "In fact, don't answer that because I don't bloody well care…"

The Policeman suddenly looked as sheepish as a spanked toddler; Ruth almost felt sorry for him. She suppressed a smile and turned to the wreckage of the building. Lucas was still in there and she had to struggle against the urge to simply rush in and start digging through the rubble herself. The doors were blown wide open, she could see into the Reception area. Anyone in that part of building, had it not been evacuated, would have taken the full force of the blast.

She strained her eyes to see beyond the Reception desk, but it was in darkness. However, a small movement caught her eye. Some masonry falling? Possibly. She stepped away from Harry, closer to the building. The darkness shifted again, but any sound was drowned out by the sirens still blaring in the background and the revving engines of ambulances and fire engines.

"Harry," she said, briefly glancing over her shoulder.

He did not hear her; he was still remonstrating with the Policeman. When she looked back towards the building, her view was blocked by a posse of firefighters carrying cutting equipment. She wanted to push them out of the way, but then they passed and she saw them. Lucas leaning against Jo as she half dragged, half carried him out of the building. Clara was close behind, guiding a young man she had not seen before.

She almost fainted with relief. "Harry!" she called, louder and firmer. "Never mind him, it's Lucas and Jo!" She pulled his sleeve and almost hauled him away from the Officer.

There was a cut open above his temple; hit on the head at some point. A black eye blossoming, livid against his pale skin. His leg seemed injured, but otherwise, all appeared well. Even Harry, the man of few visible emotions, sagged with relief as he saw his Senior Case Officer emerging from the wreckage of the Station. The two men looked at each other for a moment.

"Hello Harry," said Lucas, a lop-sided grin spreading across his face.

Ruth didn't get the joke, but Harry seemed to as he burst out laughing. "Welcome back, Lucas. God forbid, I thought we'd lost you for a moment, there."

Ros held still. She relaxed her whole body before the plasticuffs that bound her hands together could cut into the flesh at her wrists. Bound behind the back of the chair they had her trussed up in, the way out was far from clear. Reluctantly, she had to admit that she was at their mercy. The worst part by far, however, was the way in which the others in the room acted as though she was not there, like she was just part of the furnishings.

Her friendly barman, Charlie Weir and two of his henchmen sat at a wide, circular table in the middle of the bar room talking quietly amongst themselves. Her mind raced for reasons why they had not yet killed her. However, as she forced herself to relax, the effect spread from her body to her mind. Taking slow, deep breaths she could concentrate on what was being said; her mission was not over, and she was not defeated, until she was dead.

"….anyone called Frankie, yet?" the barman asked.

"He's on his way. So is Mortimer. I think he's bringing us another MI5 Officer. Said he found one sneaking about his Station before we blew it up," replied Mortimer.

Ros closed her eyes, blanked out images of Lucas and concentrated every fibre of her being into staying calm and level headed. They had dropped their guards; they were already acting as though she were dead; they had already made their first mistake. They were taking things for granted. To make herself that little bit more invisible, she let her head tilt to one side, eyes still closed. It would look as though she had passed out and they wouldn't bother with her at all, then. At least, not until they got the audience they were currently waiting for.

Ros opened one eye just a fraction and checked the clock behind the bar. It was five o'clock. She checked again roughly three hours later. It was quarter past five. Her adrenaline was back up and she almost screamed in frustration and boredom. She was itching for the fight she was beginning to fear would not come. Then finally, at half past the hour, the bar room doors swung open and two more men entered. One was the Police Chief Lucas was spying on, but the other was Frankie Morris. Lucas was nowhere in sight and if she had been the praying type, she would have sent up a silent prayer of thanks at that moment.

"Welcome, gentlemen," Weir called over to the new arrivals. "Come and join us. Look, we have a guest from Her Majesty's Secret Service joining us!"

He gestured to Ros, who decided it was time to stop playing dead. She feigned grogginess, pretending to come around as she looked at them each in turn, committing it all to memory. She even raised a smile. "Afternoon, Gentlemen."

Weir nodded to the barman who immediately strode over to Ros, pulling her out of her seat. To resist would only succeed in antagonising them, so she went with it, letting him walk her over to the table where they were all sitting. It had been pulled into the middle of the bar room. A round table, like something out of Arthurian legend. The windows were shuttered and a bar spotlight was switched on overhead. All she could see then where the men, the gangsters of the round table. Directly opposite her sat Charlie Weir. To his left was Frankie Morris and to his right was Thomas Mortimer. She sensed an interrogation coming on.

"Your colleague is dead," Mortimer stated. "I saw to it myself. Tragic really. A promising young Chief Superintendent so busy saving others that he didn't make it out in time to save himself." Mortimer paused for effect, as though he'd cracked a joke and was waiting for the others to laugh appreciatively. They didn't. "Except, you and I both know that's bollocks, don't we?" He grinned.

She knew what he was doing; he was fishing for information and not doing a very good job of it. He wants her to blow Lucas' cover and get an emotional rise out of her to boot. Their anticipation of an emotional meltdown fortified her own defences. She kept her expression neutral, her mind washed almost blank. Her half-smile benign. "What's bollocks?" she asked. "That he's dead? Well, that's good to know."

Mortimer got up, leant on the table leering through the poor light at her. But she was more interested in Weir. He was their leader, the one pulling all the strings. Yet, he was holding back, glancing sidelong at the two men on either side of him. His expression was unreadable, even to her.

"Are there any others?" Mortimer asked, bringing her wandering attention back to him.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she answered matter of factly. She needed to keep them talking, to buy herself some time. The plasticuffs were digging into her wrists again; she could feel the blood leaking into her clenched hands. But still her expression remained benign, her training overriding all of her other senses. "Why don't you tell me what you think? Does it concern you that we know all about what you're doing, yet you have no idea of what we've done to you?"

Weir laughed quietly to himself, drawing Ros' attention back to him. However, none of the others seemed to have noticed.

"We run this patch now," Frank Morris chimed in over the Chief Superintendent. "Here and the East End. Is that what you're interested in? You want to know who's doing what and to who? Was it O'Casey brought you to us? Or that girl of his, the journalist?"

Ros studied him intently for a minute. He didn't look nervous, but he was pulling at the loose threads in his shirtsleeves, a tell tale sign of stress. He's dissembling, sensing that someone somewhere is double-dealing.

"You knew she was a journalist, then?" asked Ros. "Is that why you killed him? He managed to get semtex for you, didn't he? The same semtex you've just used to blow up a load of innocent people in a Police Station. Didn't O'Casey use his Dissident friends in the North to get that for you?"

Morris laughed, all tension draining from him as he sat back in his seat.

"What's so funny?" asked Ros, genuinely curious and seizing an opportunity to keep these talks going.

Frankie fell silent, raised his gaze to meet hers. "Oh how wrong you are," he retorted. "He was the one trying to stop it. He knew too much; he interfered too much. He had to go."

It dawned on her then. O'Casey died because he refused to hand over the detonators, the ones she had Lucas found in his flat. She composed herself quickly, letting the revelation wash over her.

"You murdered his fiancé, Roisin, to break him down. He held fast. Refused to support your little Gangster war, refused to let you wreak havoc on the streets of London, so you killed him for it," she summarised, the pieces of the jigsaw finally falling into place. If she got out this situation, she resolved, she would see to it that O'Casey got the full funeral he deserved for his bravery.

"Finally, she gets it," Morris replied. "Now, you know what we're doing. It's only fair you tell us what you're doing."

"She doesn't."

Ros was still reeling from what Morris had said, so she didn't catch who spoke. It wasn't Mortimer, or the friendly barman. They all, however, were looking at Weir. Finally, he was stepping into the fray.

He got to his feet and slowly paced around the table in a perfect circle, just wide of them all. "She doesn't know what's going on," he repeated. "There isn't going to be a Gang war, what sort of a man do you take me for?"

Ros decided not to answer that question. So, it seemed, did everyone else there.

"There will be no merger, no rivalry no power-sharing executive of businessmen," he pressed the point home. Morris was looking at him, his eyes charting Weir's progress around the table until he couldn't see without turning around. It was clear from his expression that Weir had, as far he was concerned, gone way off script.

Weir paused directly behind Morris, his supposed new business partner. Ros held her breath as she caught the brief glimmer of metal – a handgun being draw. Instinctively, she leaned right, out of the way of the bullet's trajectory before he even pulled the trigger. The blast made the breath hitch in her throat, and she almost slumped to the side. She turned her face away, a futile effort to stop the blood and gore of the dead man from smattering her face.

"No really, I'm fine," Lucas protested as the nurse eased him back on the bed. They tried to tell him he was concussed. But there was no more headache; he wasn't seeing double and he hadn't been sick at all. However, resistance was futile, especially after Ruth moved in to back the nurse up.

"Just one night, Lucas. You can be back on the Grid in a few days. Just rest for now, you've done all you can."

He heaved a sigh, looking to Harry for back up. Surely, he would understand. Hard hearted Harry, live for the job no matter what; would back him up. However, Lucas' heart sank as Harry moved to stand beside Ruth. He should have known that, above all things, he would take Ruth's side. What was it Ros called her? His "rose-tinted blind spot".

"I'm afraid Ruth's right, Lucas," he said, trying to look sympathetic and sound fatherly at the same time. "You're extremely lucky, and returning to the arena so soon after a trauma could be pushing that exceptional luck just a little too far."

His defeat was unanimous. Without further protest he held out his hand for the nurse to attach an IV line, pre-emptively fending off the threat of dehydration. He made his feelings known through well timed, regular, sighs of impatience and an unscripted wince of pain as the needle of the IV line sunk into the vein at the back of his hand. Luckily, it was drowned out by the sound of Harry's phone ringing. Just as Lucas was about to strike up conversation with Ruth, he found himself distracted by the conversation Harry had taken to the other side of the curtain around his bed.

"Hello, Malcolm," said Harry, "slow down, and start from the beginning."

This was followed by a lengthy silence during which Ruth made obvious attempts to distract Lucas. Harder to do now that the Nurse had finished inserting the IV and had gone to fetch a saline bag to fit onto it.

"Are you okay?" Ruth asked, a little over-brightly.

"Yeah, fine. What's going on?"

"Lucas!" she scolded warningly, flashing him one her sternest looks.

"What?" he asked, shrugging. "I'm only asking-"

"Ros is deep shit," he said, clearly flustered. "Malcolm said she went dark over an hour ago; the last time they spoke she said her cover had been blown."

Ruth paled. "Oh God," she replied, breathing hard. "Are CO19 on the way?"

"Yes," replied Harry, "and so are we."

Lucas had already pulled his IV line clean out of his arm and was reaching for his clothes.

"I meant 'we', not 'you', Lucas," Harry snapped.

But Lucas was having none of it. "Don't test me, Harry," he retorted. "Either you take me with you or I'll just follow you. I don't care if you decommission me, either."

Then came the stand-off. They stood, eye to eye, each staring hard at the other. After a full, tense minute, Harry sagged, deflating almost as he backed down. "Come on then," he said, already turning to leave. "But you're readmitted straight after this is resolved, no matter what the outcome."

Fair's fair, and Lucas nodded his agreement as he pulled his jeans back on.

The Hospital he was in was packed with casualties of the bomb. Lucas tried to estimate the number as he passed the wards on the way out, but gave up in the face of sheer numbers.

"Harry!" he called after his boss. "Mortimer, the man I was sent to shadow. It was him who locked me in the cell, he knew where I'd come from. What if he's at Weir's bar now, sussing out Ros. It's the only explanation I can think of."

Harry's answer was interrupted by his phone, just as they reached the Hospital doors. "Malcolm, what's the latest?" A pause, followed by: "how many? Just the one?"

Both Lucas and Ruth paused to look at him as he disconnected. His expression was grave as he answered their unspoken question. "There's already been reports of at least one gun shot."

Without speaking another word, all three advanced on their car. No more quibbles or rows about who should be in Hospital and how long for. They weren't stopping until they reached the scene of the shooting.