Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot.

Chapter Twelve: Squatter's Rights

Lucas and Ros watched Malcolm expectantly from across the kitchen table. In the middle of them, Starsky the rabbit nibbled at a raw carrot, blissfully unaware of his increasingly important role in the espionage world. His caramel ears were flat against his back as he took to sniffing the surface of the table. Meanwhile, Malcolm was regarding the creature coolly, stroking his chin thoughtfully. A broad morning sunshine was streaming through the open windows, bathing the scene in a dazzling light. Ros got up and lowered the blinds, before returning to her place.

"Well then?" she asked Malcolm.

"Hmmm," the techie replied, still rubbing his chin.

After another second, he stopped and pointed at the rabbit. He looked as if he was going to say something, but then stopped. Lucas and Ros sank back in their chairs in unison.

"There must be something, Malcolm," said Lucas.

Malcolm sighed heavily. "What I know I can do, is chip him with a tracker. It'd go under the skin, like a normal pet chip, except this one will give us his precise location. Very useful things to have, even if you're not using him in an undercover Op. As for getting a fibre optic camera on him, I would say nigh on impossible. Even the smallest would be a nibble hazard."

Lucas leaned forwards, slumping down in defeat. Malcolm looked at him apologetically. But the older man was still thinking. He got up from his seat and inspected the rabbit's hutch carefully. He ran his fingers along the rough wooden edge, feeling into the corners and crevices. Even going so far as to start pushing aside the wood shavings with the plastic scoop. All the while, he was frowning and muttering incomprehensibly under his breath. The other two tried to keep track of him, second guessing which path he was winding them down now. After what seemed an age, he turned to look at them from where he was crouched in front of the hutch.

"Now this is different," he said, happily. "Listening devices can be threaded into the latch inside the door of the concealed section." Malcolm gestured to the wooden door behind which Starsky slept, before moving on to the mesh fronted 'play area' of the hutch. "In here, you can have a camera concealed inside one of his toys, or up in the far corner. Even behind the mirror he has dangling off the top. I'd have to get two way glass for it, but it's possible. Then the hutch would need to put somewhere prominent, but can be easily explained."

"Can you do it quickly?" asked Ros, wide eyed and on her feet. "Now we have an Asset inside Black Flag, we're moving fast."

Malcolm was already unhooking the toy mirror. Its purpose was actually to dupe the rabbit into thinking he had company in his lonely hutch, now they were about to add another layer to the subterfuge.

"When we put it back," he said. "Fix it to the back bars, so it's not spinning around."

"Can we get the listening bugs in there as well?" asked Lucas. "Somewhere he can't eat them."

"Easy," replied Malcolm. "I'm afraid the idea of bugging your own pet rabbit directly was a little too maverick, even for MI5, Lucas."

"But we got there in the end," Ros put in. "Thanks Malcolm."

"Yes, thanks Malcolm," Lucas chorused Ros' gratitude for the older man's ingenuity.

Lucas made them all tea, while Malcolm got settled back at the kitchen table. Ros cradled the rabbit in her arms, running her fingers the length of his ears. Malcolm still looked dubious. He hadn't been at that morning's meeting when Lucas discussed the plan with them.

"They're not coming here, are they?"

"Ruth's sorting me out with a squat," Lucas replied, leaning against the counter and waiting for the kettle to boil. "Well, she's sorting me out with something that will pass for a squat. It'll double up as my HQ. Once I'm in there, our Asset's going to organise meetings between me and Black Flag. And while they're there, I want to get lots of footage of them."

"Then they need to be rounded up," Ros added as she put Starsky back in his hutch. "Any ideas for that?"

Lucas turned his attention to making the tea. "Leon's already suggested joint action. He's going to run it past Emma Richards tomorrow morning. I'm listening in. But before that, Harry's helping me out with something."

"Oh really," said Malcolm. "What's that?"

Lucas grinned as he filled the tea pot and carried it over to the table. The next stage of his cover was the one he had been anticipating most keenly. "We're blowing the shit out of an abandoned warehouse somewhere down the Estuary. Controlled explosion, of course, but enough to make it look like a real hit. My legend's taking the blame. It'll be leaked to the press and uploaded onto my website."

"We're putting it out there that a pharmaceutical company owns the building and it's packed with stored testing equipment," Ros explained. "After that, Lucas and Leon will pull off a staged arms deal between Black Flag and Lucas' Bovine Warrior, and we'll finally have the bastards."

Lucas rolled his eyes. "Will you stop calling me that? I'm the "Rat Catcher" now."

"And that's so much better, isn't it? Anyway, speaking of the little toe-rag, where is he now?"

Knowing she meant Leon, Lucas sighed heavily. "He's at home, confessing all to his Dad."

Ros, looking at Lucas from over the rim of her tea cup, winced visibly. Malcolm drew a deep breath and exhaled in a sigh. "That won't be easy," he said, classically understating the task.

"I know he's an absurd little shit," Ros ceded, magnanimously. "But do you think one of us ought to go over there just to make sure things don't get out of hand?"

By 'one of us' Lucas correctly guessed she actually meant him. "Ah, don't worry. I'm meeting him at three this afternoon, anyway. He'll be okay."

Shouting was one thing. It was a reaction. Swift and uncompromising; it didn't keep anyone waiting. The stunned silence with which David Shelley reacted to his son's confession was something else. It was like someone had pressed a pause button, throwing them into a state of suspended animation as it all processed. Leon stood with his back pressed to the office door; his father perched on the edge of his desk, the two of them looked one another in the eye. The smile on his father's face frozen into a rictus grin, suspecting it was all just one bad joke.

When the hoped for punchline didn't arrive, his eyes narrowed on the boy. "You were camping with friends from school…"

David's words trailed off, melting back into the stilted silence. Leon shook his head, seemingly unable to speak anymore. His father removed his jacket, dropping it onto the desk.

"I still don't understand," he began again. "You stole information – classified information – from me, so you and your grubby little friends could launch attack on the state that has resulted in two deaths? The girl in the bunker, our Sinead?"

"All of it," Leon finally replied. There was no way to dress it up, so he didn't bother.

His father's face contorted, as though he were trying to say and do several things at once. He pushed himself up from the desk and buried his face in his hands, pacing forwards and then back again. Forcing himself to stop, he turned his back on his son and drew a deep, steadying breath as he tried to marshal his own thoughts. But only one word kept coming up again and again.

"Why?"

To get the answer, he turned to face Leon and slowly paced over to him. The closer he got, the further against the wall Leon tried to push himself. In the light office, his father's shadow fell over him, blocking the sunlight that filtered through the blinds. It was just the two of them, the rest of the room seeming to melt away. David Shelley didn't seem angry, just bewildered.

"Why?" he repeated.

Leon trembled as he tried to form an answer. "Because I…" he began, lamely.

The blow caught him squarely across the cheek bone. He didn't see it coming, he didn't have time to react or prepare. The open palm of his father's right hand, connected with the same spot a second time, knocking Leon sideways. With a yelp of pain, he hit the bookshelf, making it jar against the wall and sending loose books crashing down almost on top of him. Pain blazed across that whole side of his face. His knees joining the party as they hit the carpeted floor, sending sharp pain shooting up his thigh.

"Oh, get up!"

His father was standing over him, nursing the hand he'd just hit him with. Leon responded by curling up on the floor, just as his father bent down and grabbed a fistful of his hair.

"I said, get up!"

The pain made him gasp, but Leon managed to scrabble unsteadily to his feet before he was scalped. The sudden explosion of anger had left his father breathless, panting and red faced as he pinned Leon to the door by his throat, awkwardly lifting him off his feet. Unable to breathe, much less talk, he tried to prise his father's fingers away and kick out with his feet. But David held him fast, beyond speech now, studying him intently. Leon's vision swam as his eyes watered, now dizzy and choking desperately.

"Look at me!"

Too weak to struggle, Leon complied. He kept his hands over his father's, limply attempting to free himself. But he managed to return his father's look, their gaze locking into each other. His father wanted to watch him die, he wanted to see the light in his son's eyes being slowly extinguished. If David Shelley wanted his son to beg for his life, he was about to be disappointed. Leon steeled himself as best he could, but his lungs were on fire and his whole body felt like a lead weight, fast getting heavier. Blood rushed to his head, he could hear pounding in his ears, but he kept his gaze locked into his father's as he began to lose his grip on consciousness.

Then it stopped. Leon hit the floor, gasping for breath in a heap, coughing and choking. He could taste blood at the back of his throat, could just hear the sound of his father's footsteps walking away to the other end of the room. Desk drawers were opened, rummaged through as his father searched for something. Once he had what he was looking for – something Leon couldn't make out from where he managed to get upright again – he came back.

"Out," he said.

Too slow to respond, Leon was half-dragged out of the study and as good as thrown down the stairs. His father came up behind him, giving him another good shove every time he drew level with his son. Leon wasn't even trying to guess where all this was leading; all his efforts were focused on staying upright and placing one foot in front of the other. But they reached the front door. Without saying a word, David took his son's coat from the stand in the living room and threw it at him. Then, he pressed cash into his hands and opened the door.

"Go," he said. "Now. Don't ever come back."

Dazed, Leon was once again too slow. His father moved quickly, clutching Leon by the scruff of his neck and shoving him forcefully through the door and down the garden steps. Belly flopping on to the concrete path, Leon sprawled out uncontrollably, scraping his knees and elbows as he attempted to break his fall. Behind him, the front door slammed shut. Alone, in pain and now disowned, Leon remained there with his face buried in his arms and sniffed away the tears that were threatening once more.

He stayed there. He stayed there for far longer than he deemed wise. It was cold, and getting colder. People were walking past, he could sense them looking at him, staring openly. But he still didn't move. Not until someone walked past, stopped and wandered up the garden path. Heavy footfalls that stopped right by his head. When Leon opened his eyes, a pair of dark, leather shoes, Italian made, came into immediate view. Slowly, stiffly, he raised his head; taking in the newcomer's legs, clad in smart jeans, then the body until he reached the face of Lucas North, his new MI5 handler.

Lucas regarded him wryly. "That went well, then?"

A hand extended downwards, towards his face. Tentatively, Leon reached out for it and allowed himself to be hauled upwards. After a moment spent swaying dangerously on the spot, Leon managed to get his head to stop spinning. Aware of something in his hands, he opened his palm to find fifty pounds that his father had given to him: severance pay, perhaps?

"He's thrown me out," Leon explained, voice hoarse after being half choked to death.

Lucas sighed heavily. "Come on, then. Follow me."

At a loss for what else to do, Leon had no choice but to comply. But as he went, he paused at the garden gate and looked back over his shoulder. The net curtain over the landing window twitched, the pallid face of his father retreated out of view. Despondent, Leon turned back towards Lucas, who was waiting by his car patiently.

Isolated and conveniently due for demolition anyway, the warehouse was perfect. Harry joined the explosives experts milling around outside, checking the buildings structure. It was still sound, like something that could still be in use. The windows, what few there were, still intact, but it was the recently added Pharmaceutical company sign and logo on the front that provided the finishing touches. They needed to make the controlled demolition look like a full on attack.

The road passing by was already cordoned off, making the area safe, but white and black cables ran the perimeter of the building, the only sign it was due to be blasted. Harry nudged them with the toe of his shoe, where they ran across the bare dirt track that led to the front entrance. He would have to ensure those were not in shot when they filmed it. Satisfied that everything was going to plan, he fished in his jacket pocket for his phone and dialled Ruth's number.

"Hello there," he greeted her answer. "How's the house hunting going?"

"Wonderfully," replied Ruth, glancing round at the dry rot that threatened to bring the whole place down around her ears.

She glanced warily up the bare wooden stairs, but it was too gloomy too see what awaited her on the first floor landing. The air was dank and dusty, showing its age and creaking ominously with every footfall. The hallway was papered in peeling, nicotine stained white paper. An old mat, silver with snail trails and mould, covered a patch of the old tiled floor, releasing its own special odour as she passed it.

"You know, Harry," she said, "the sad thing is that this is a perfectly habitable house if only someone spent the money on it."

It was a developer's wet dream. For all its faults it was spacious, with several eye-catching character features; high ceilings and a grand, antique fire place. If it wasn't being used in an Op, she would be tempted to kneel on Harry's chest and wrench his arms out of their sockets until he agreed to take it on with her. Alas, Harry's extremities were safe and Lucas was due to move in and pleas squatter's rights at any moment.

"That's good," replied Harry from the opposite end of the line. "Because Lucas is on his way now-"

"What? Wait!" she retorted, eyes widening in alarm. "He's coming now?"

If he was, he batter have his apron handy. She couldn't make this place relatively habitable any time soon.

"Yes, and he's got Shelley Junior with him," explained Harry. "All did not go well this morning and it seems it's needed."

"Oh, fantastic," Ruth groaned. "Well, you'll just have to get the maintenance team down here; I can't do it alone."

"No one's asking you to do anything alone," he replied, sounding impatient. "Just wait until Lucas gets there, then come down here for the fireworks. Bring him and the boy with you. We need him."

Ruth wrinkled her nose. "Really, Harry? What will that little toad bring to proceedings?"

"Ruth, we need him," Harry insisted. "Bring them both."

"If you insist," she ceded, before bidding him farewell.

After one final glance round the gloomy hallway, Ruth let herself into the living room and wished Lucas would get a move on. Just as she began to relax, her phone rang again. Expecting it to be either Harry again, or Lucas, she stared at the device in wonder as David Shelley's name flashed up on the screen.

TCP, cotton wool and cloths. Lucas ticked them off as he picked each item off the chemist's shelves and paid for them at the counter. Leon was still bleeding and he wanted that dealt with before they moved to the next stage. He returned to the car with his purchases in a paper bag, wedged under his arm as he climbed back into the driver's seat. Just north of London, it was quieter here, with less cars and fewer pedestrians during office hours. There were pleasant parklands to the left, but all they could see of it were the over-hanging tree branches that needed cutting back. However, it looked as good a place as any.

"Come on," said Lucas. "We can go in there."

Leon followed him into the park, where they sat on a bench near a polluted duck pond that hadn't seen any actual ducks in years. A thick layer of poisonous green algae bobbed on the restless surface. Leon watches as it, as though transfixed, even as he removed his jacket so Lucas could tend to the cuts he'd sustained.

"He'll calm down, you know," Lucas remarked as he dabbed cotton wool into the anti-sceptic.

Leon kept his eyes fixed listlessly on the pond. "You really think so?"

He sounded far from convinced.

"All is not lost. People have done far worse than you and gone on to lead perfectly productive lives," said Lucas.

He dabbed at the raw, open skin delicately. But Leon still flinched against the sharp sting. "I find that hard to believe."

"Try to hold still," Lucas advised as he continued to tend the cuts and gravel burn. "Everything depends on what you do next, that's all. Speaking of which, you have to see Emma again in the morning. How do you feel about it?"

Leon shrugged, causing Lucas to smear anti-sceptic down his elbow. "Should I tell her what my Dad did?"

Lucas thought about it for a moment. "She's bound to ask why your face is all bruised. But think of a cover story and stick to it: something close to the truth."

"Something like, he suspects I took the documents from his office?" asked Leon, finally turning to look at Lucas.

Lucas raised a small smile. "Yes. Naturally, you bravely held out against the violent onslaught and didn't say a word. Play the bitch as sweetly as she played you. People like her…" His sentence trailed off as he thought about people like her. He knew one once, a long time ago and he could no longer bring himself to think the man's name, let alone say it. But he was out there still, somewhere in the big ugly world they inhabit. Lucas couldn't help but wonder where, or who he was conning now. He didn't really care, so long as it wasn't him.

"I know what she's done; I know she's played me like a fiddle."

Lucas didn't realise Leon was even looking at him. Pulled out of his private reverie, he resumed tending the teen's open cuts.

"I'm not saying this to rub your nose in it," he explained. "You've nothing to be ashamed of. You're the victim; you weren't to know. Even so, you're making amends now; in the best way possible."

Leon laughed. "How can you say that? You're … well, you'd never let someone do that to you. Not in your, er, line of work."

How wrong you are, Lucas thought wryly to himself. "Don't be so quick to assume," he cautioned. "We all make mistakes. Even people in my, er, line of work."

"But no one died because of your mistakes," Leon said, his gaze cast down and crestfallen. "That's the difference between you and I."

Seventeen dead, Lucas thought. Eighteen, including that other... But he had been in the service, performing his own silent penance for almost fifteen years; eight years spent receiving the punishment he knew he richly deserved inside a hellish Russian prison. It was how he survived, because he knew he deserved no less. Was his debt paid? He would never know; he just had to keep on working towards that ultimate goal.

Lucas hurried the last dabs of the TCP in order to pick up his phone and allay Ruth's fears of running late. The squat would have to wait, they had stuff to blow up.

"Leon, we need to go now," said Lucas, packing everything up and binning it. "We have a warehouse to bomb."

Leon looked like he'd been slapped again. "What?"

"It's okay, it's all been organised. But hurry, we're needed and I've got to collect a colleague first. We all want to see it."

Lucas was already on his way, and Leon had to jog to catch him up. "Do you people do this sort of thing often?"

Lucas slowed down, giving him a chance to catch up. The bruising around Leon's throat was starting to become more visible, deepening from the livid red to a pale purple. It would be worse come the morning.

"Only at the weekends, honestly," he replied.

The pair of them fell into step as they left the park, walking side by side as their chatter fell into small talk. The afternoon was wearing on; soon the school run would start and the offices would begin to empty. They could lose themselves in the crowds later on, but they had a warehouse to blow up before that.

Thanks again for reading, reviews would be welcome if you have a minute.