10 pm

Small Village in Shropshire

Ruth puts her boots on and slides her rucksack over her shoulder and her telescope across her chest before opening the door to the bungalow she's borrowed from a friend for a couple of weeks and slipping out into the night. She lifts her eyes to the heavens for a moment, smiling at the gorgeous sight of the stars shining above and feeling grateful for the clear sky tonight before she returns her gaze to the road, switching on her torch as she begins to make her way up the lane that passes in front of her bungalow. It's the last one on this road, and as she walks away from the village, she finds herself in a living tunnel made by the trees on either side. During the daytime, it's beautiful, but right now, she finds it a little spooky. The starlight filters through the branches here and there casting strange shadows across her path as she makes her way uphill on the narrow country lane, her breathing loud in the stillness, the occasional hoot of an owl reassuring her that she's not alone. At the crest of the hill, she turns left, climbing over a stile and cutting across a field, grateful to be out in the open again where she can see more clearly. She's aiming for the derelict barn she'd spotted earlier today where she hopes to find some shelter from the light breeze and study the stars. It's the constellations that have sparked her interest, not because she's a particularly keen astronomer, but because she loves the legends and myths associated with each one. Ruth is very thorough when it comes to research, and she wouldn't dream of reading about the legends without actually looking at the constellations themselves – hence this trip and her foray into the field tonight.

Her rucksack is heavy with the books, charts, light blanket, and Thermos of tea she's carrying. She crosses two fields and approaches the derelict building when she hears a vehicle passing on the road to her right and is surprised, and rather alarmed, when she sees it turn into the farmyard. She quickly switches off her torch and veers off her intended course, making for a clump of bushes up against the low, stone wall to her right, where she crouches down out of sight. She's a little wary of finding herself all alone out in the middle of nowhere with strangers, so she intends to hide until she can assess if these people pose a threat. The van drives into the middle of the field, turns to the left and stops.

Though the moon is not out yet, the sky is clear and Ruth can see the passenger's side of the van and its back in the starlight. A broad shouldered man of average height gets out of the passenger seat and walks to the back of the van where he's joined by the driver who is tall and slim. She can't make out much detail about them in this light, but she notices that the broad bloke is wearing a cap and is, rather alarmingly, carrying a gun, which makes her feel rather grateful that she'd thought to duck out of sight so quickly. The thin man opens the back of the van and pulls out a third man whom he throws unceremoniously onto the ground, causing him to grunt in pain when he lands, his face hitting the hard earth despite his best efforts to avoid the collision. His hands are tied behind his back, she realises with alarm as the thin man pulls him roughly to his knees.

"Take the van out of here and wait for me at the gate," the burly man orders his companion, "while I deal with this piece of shite."

The thin man wordlessly obeys and a few moments later the van has disappeared back where it came from, while the man with the hat turns to his prisoner.

"Who do you work for?" he demands, and when the other man remains silent, he hits him hard in the face with the butt of his gun making the prisoner cry out in pain. "Who do you work for?" he repeats. "Are you Five?"

The prisoner spits at the man's shoes and gets rewarded for his insolence with another couple of blows to the face. Then the man in the hat primes his weapon and places its muzzle against the other man's forehead, and Ruth finds that she cannot watch any longer without doing something. Despite the fear that's coursing through her, turning her knees to jelly, she forces herself to step away from her hiding place and walk towards the men.

"What do you think you're doing?" she demands with more conviction than she feels and in a surprisingly steady voice.

The man holding the gun turns towards her in surprise, and that split second when his attention is diverted is all the other man needs. He falls to the side and kicks the other man's legs from under him before tucking his knees up and pulling his bound wrists forward, under his feet, and launching himself at him, wrestling with him for possession of the gun. Ruth is rooted to the spot in astonishment at the swiftness of the bound man's moves, but the gun shot that shatters the stillness of the night shocks her out of her stupor.

"Get down," the bound man demands, though she's already moving away, back to her hiding place in the hedge.

Her chest is heaving and she sinks down onto the ground, her limbs trembling, unable to support her weight, her mind reeling. She hears another gun shot and covers her head with her arms, but then suddenly the scuffling stops and all is eerily still. She lowers her arms cautiously, listening intently as her heart hammers loudly in her chest, keeping completely still as a fierce battle between her fear and her curiosity rages inside her. What seems like hours later, though in reality it's probably less than a minute, her curiosity wins out, and she crawls over to the edge of the hedge and peaks round it. The two men are lying on the ground, both of them still and silent. She's just wondering if she dare go over to them and whether her shaky legs would even support her weight if she tried to, when she hears the tall thin man approaching, cautiously calling out to his friend. There's no answer, and a moment later, he comes into view, walking carefully towards the two fallen men. He pauses as soon as he spots them, about ten yards from where they're lying, and raises his weapon.

Her brain analyses the situation in a split second. The man in the hat is clearly either unconscious or dead, or else he would have got up by now. The other man is unconscious, dead or, quite possibly, playing dead, but the thin man isn't going to take any chances and is about to shoot him again, just to make sure. The moment she reaches this conclusion, she jumps up from her hiding place and says, "Excuse me, are you from around here? Only, I seem to be a bit lost."

The man turns towards her in surprise, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees the bound man lift a gun and fire. The tall thin man crumbles to the ground as the other man slumps back with a soft groan. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, she thinks in a panic, realising that she's just helped a man she doesn't know kill two people. What if they were actually the good guys and she's just helped a madman? She'd assumed the bound man was the one in trouble – after all the other two had bound him up and had been about to execute him – but what if it's the other way round? She dithers for several moments, trying to decide what to do, when a groan of pain coming from the bound man snaps her out of her indecision and she slowly approaches him, feeling certain that he's injured and in need of help. Plus, she reminds herself sternly, he'd been the only one who'd shown any concern for her, shouting at her to get down when the gun had gone off. He must be the good guy, she tells herself firmly as she walks towards him, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

As she passes by the man in the hat, she notices that his eyes are open. Not unconscious then, she thinks and takes another deep steadying breath as panic threatens to overtake her before she turns her attention on the bound man. He has his eyes closed, but they snap open again as she takes another step towards him and he raises the gun, pointing it straight at her. She's surprised and suddenly terrified, raising her hands in a gesture of surrender.

"I mean you no harm," she says in a shaking voice.

The man immediately lowers the gun to the ground beside him and grimaces with pain, confirming her belief in him. Determinedly she pushes away her fear and crouches down beside him, running her eyes over him to assess the damage. It's hard to make out detail in the semi-darkness but he looks older than her, probably in his thirties. He's strong and well built with very short hair, and he's wearing a dark coloured cotton shirt that's open at the neck and dark jeans, his wrists bound together with thick rope that's probably extremely uncomfortable, if not painful.

"I'm going to cut through the rope round your wrists," she says gently and fishes out her pen knife from her pocket.

She removes her leather gloves, shoving them into her back pocket, and sliding the blade carefully between his wrists, she begins to saw through the rope. It takes her several seconds to cut all the way through, and she can feel his eyes on her the entire time as she works to cut him free. Finally the rope gives way, and she closes her knife as he rubs his wrists in relief.

"Thanks," he says in a hoarse voice. "Who are you?"

"Your guardian angel, it would seem," she murmurs and then asks. "Are you badly hurt?"

"My thigh," he answers and gingerly sits up, reaching forward with his hands to feel his leg. "I need to tie something round the wound to stop the bleeding," he adds.

"Here," she says, "take my scarf," and she proceeds to unwrap it from around her neck.

"Thank you," he replies.

He takes it from her and as his fingers slide over the fine silk, he's genuinely surprised at her willingness to part with it as it will surely be ruined. He murmurs his thanks again and ties it securely around his injury, clenching his teeth against the pain.

"Who were these men?" she asks. "Why did they want to kill you? Are there more of them?"

He nods and says, "We need to get out of here."

"Okay," she replies. "Can you walk?"

He tries to stand but moans loudly and slumps back down, clutching his leg.

"I can go for help," she offers, seeing that he won't be able to move anywhere and she knows she's not strong enough to lift him.

"No!" he exclaims, startling her into silence.

"You need a hospital," she insists.

He shakes his head and says emphatically, "No. It's just a flesh wound. I'll be fine. I just need to bandage it up. I can't go to hospital. They'll find me. Do you live near here?"

She hesitates and then nods.

"Take me there," he murmurs. "I'll be able to call for help from there."

"Hang on a second," she objects. "I don't know anything about you. Who were these men? Why were they trying to kill you?"

"I'm a journalist," he says, his voice weakening. "I was undercover in their organization – human trafficking. They're well connected." He pauses, taking a deep breath, and she can see that he's finding it hard to speak. The rest of her questions will have to wait, she realises, making a quick decision to trust him and turning her mind over to the problem of how to get him home.

"Wait here," she says, an idea striking her, and getting up, she walks towards the tall, thin man who's lying in the grass a few yards away. When she reaches him, she notices that his face is a mass of blood and quickly averts her eyes. Shaking slightly, she pats down his pockets, looking for his keys, when it suddenly occurs to her that she should put her gloves back on so she doesn't leave any fingerprints. She pauses to pull them on, thinking that it's a good thing she likes to read murder mysteries before she continues with her task, locating the bunch of keys she's been looking for and pulling them out. She walks to the van and starts up the engine, diving it back through the field with the lights off. She parks it as close to the man as she dares in the dark, and getting out of the driver's seat, she approaches him once more.

"I'll help you in," she says.

"In the back," he replies. "It'll look less suspicious with the blood."

She opens the back doors of the van and moves to stand next to him. He places his good foot on the ground as she wraps her left arm round him under his shoulders, and he drapes his right arm round hers.

"On three," she says. "One, two, three."

She heaves him up, and he manages to get upright, sucking in a sharp breath as he does so. Then with her help, he hobbles to the back of the van and gets in.

"Get the gun," he gasps, the pain overpowering. She nods and shuts the doors, remembering her rucksack and telescope too. She runs over to get them and also picks up the gun and an extra clip she finds in the dead man's pocket. Then shoving both in her rucksack, she jumps in the driver's seat.

"You okay?" she asks worriedly, concerned that he's lost too much blood already.

He grunts in reply and murmurs, "Drive with the lights and engine off where you can."

"Okay," she answers and sets off.

It's lucky that she's staying at the end of the row of houses, she thinks as she turns the engine off when she reaches the crest of the hill and lets the van glide slowly down, stopping outside her door. Quickly she gets out and goes round to the back, opening the doors to find the man unconscious. "Shit," she says under her breath and almost decides to risk his wrath and take him to the hospital, but when she shakes him gently, he comes round quickly.

"We're here," she whispers. He grunts and pushes himself to a sitting position with some difficulty as she adds, "I'll be right back," and dashes to the front door.

She unlocks it, and leaving it open, she walks through to the back of the house and the only bedroom. Here she dumps her rucksack and telescope in the corner, then pulls back the covers from the bed, and finding a couple of old towels in the airing cupboard, she spreads them out on top of the sheet. Then she returns to her charge, and with his help, she manages to get him to the bed where he lies down exhausted from the effort. She removes his shoes and covers him with an old blanket.

"I'll just put the kettle on and then I'll take a look at your wounds," she says.

"No," he shakes his head. "First you need to take the van back before they find it here."

"You've already lost too much blood," she objects. "I should bandage that up first."

"No," he insists. "I'll be fine until you return. It's not bleeding much any more."

She looks doubtful, but she can see that he's not going to let her have her own way unless he loses consciousness again, and in the mean time, every minute wasted arguing is leading to more blood-loss. So she gives up and says, "Fine. I won't be long."

He nods and closes his eyes as she leaves him to complete her task. She returns the van and the keys before making her way swiftly over the fields and down the lane to the bungalow, her heart beating wildly in her chest as she hurries along. She's terrified as she does these things, but the thought of the man in her bed dying from his injuries keeps her focused on her task.

She enters the bungalow and locks and bolts the door. Then she draws the heavy curtains across the windows in the sitting room to block out the lights in the house, puts the kettle on, and then returns to the man. She draws the curtains and switches on the bedside lamp. He looks pale, but when she puts her hand on his forehead he feels too warm.

"Shit," she mutters again.

She locates her first aid kit, a bowl, clean wash cloths and plastic bags, which she carries into her bedroom. She also gets a bottle of Arnica homoeopathic remedy out of her first aid kit, and turning his head to the side and opening his mouth, she pours one dropper-full into it for the shock. Then she goes back to the kitchen for the water. She removes the blanket and unties the scarf, placing it sadly in one of the bags – it's completely ruined. Then she unbuttons his jeans and tries to yank them off. When she finds she can't manage, she tries to rouse him to get him to help, and when that fails, she gets a pair of scissors, and working up from the leg, cuts through the material with some effort and peels it away from his wound. She bathes it with the warm water and disinfectant and is relieved to see that there is a clear exit wound on the back of his thigh. When she's satisfied that it's clean, she ties a bandage round it, putting as much pressure on it as she dares, not wanting to cut off his circulation, feeling suddenly very grateful for the first aid course she'd taken in the spring.

When his leg is taken care of, she removes the rest of his clothing, apart from his underwear, cutting away the rest of his jeans and gently rolling him over to remove his shirt, the bits of material and old towels. There is a small wound on his right shoulder where a bullet nicked it, some abrasions on his forearms and the skin around his wrists is raw. She cleans and dresses these wounds too and then proceeds to clean his face from the dried blood. He has a cut on his lip and a gash on his left cheek where the butt of the gun hit him, and his cheekbone and left eye are starting to bruise.

"Stupid man," she mutters under her breath as she finishes dressing his wounds. Then grabbing the old blanket and a couple of cushions, she places them under his leg to keep it in an elevated position. She stands and stretches her back muscles before reaching into her first aid kit and getting out a tube of Arnica cream to gently spread over his bruises. She does the same with his scrapes and shallow cuts using a tube of Calendula cream, just as her father used to do when she was little. When she's finished, she puts the creams back in her first aid kit, and standing up, she looks down on him. Her gaze travels over him appreciatively as she realises that he's got a good looking body – very fit, strong, and well proportioned. In fact he's probably got the best male body she's ever seen, including an impressive bulge in his trunks – not that she's seen that many. His chest, however, is littered with old scars and it makes her wonder who he is. Special forces? MI-5? Somehow she doesn't quite buy his undercover journalist story. Realising that she's staring at his practically naked form, she feels suddenly embarrassed and ashamed of herself for taking advantage of him like this. After all, if their roles had been reversed, she wouldn't appreciate a total stranger ogling her body. She sighs and quickly covers him with the duvet.

She cleans up and then has a shower. When she comes out all ready for bed, she checks on her charge who's temperature is rather high for her liking, so she bathes his forehead with cool water and vinegar for a few minutes, wondering how long she dares risk keeping him here. He had been adamant that hospital wasn't an option, but she's not at all confident of her skills as a healer and is really worried he needs antibiotics or a blood transfusion and will die on her in the night. If he doesn't improve in the next few hours, she decides, she'll call an ambulance.

"Who are you?" she asks him, but of course, she gets no answer.

Unfortunately the only bed in the house is now occupied. She contemplates the sofa in the sitting room, but dismisses it quickly as being far too uncomfortable and too far from her charge. She doesn't want to leave him alone until his fever brakes, so she climbs into bed beside him.

"Don't try anything, will you?" she warns as she turns on her side to face him.