A/N: I'd like to take a moment to thank you all for continuing to read and for your positive reviews and encouragement. I'm so glad so many of you are enjoying this story. I realise that according to canon and the various Spooks companion books, Ruth would have been 21 in 1991, which is far too young for what follows, so for the purpose of this story, she's a little older, mid to late twenties (haven't decided how old exactly). Cheers, S.C.
10pm
Small Village in Shropshire
She leaves him to rest and goes outside for a little while, not far from the house now, a little fearful, if she's honest, after last night's events. She needs the fresh air to clear her head though as she's finding her patient far too attractive for comfort. No, worse than that, she finds him desirable to the point of distraction, something she's never experienced before – not with a real man, at least, only with fictional characters. It's the sound of his voice, his gorgeous body, his eyes... oh God, his eyes are so very expressive. She could get lost in their shimmering depths, and when she's changing his bandages, she finds it hard to resist the temptation to kiss him better. Everywhere.
When she gets back, she finds him asleep. He's left the bedside light on, but rather than turn it off, she decides to use it and read a little until she's sleepy. She's going to have to share a bed with him again and she doesn't want to end up just lying there, rigid with tension for fear of inadvertently touching his warm skin and waking him, being tempted to do all manner of things to him. Far better to be exhausted and desperate for some shuteye herself when she joins him.
She makes herself some tea and carries it to the bedroom. Then picking up her book, she takes a seat in the chair by the bed and opens it. She's not quite sure why she's chosen to read in here. She has a feeling that her motives go deeper than concern that he will wake and need something, but she doesn't probe them that deeply. She turns to her book, pushing aside further thoughts of Richard and allowing herself to get lost in the wonderful world of Greek mythology.
She's just reaching for her mug when she hears a crash coming from the hall. The sound startles her patient awake and he sits bolt upright, swiftly reaching for the gun on the bedside table. Less than a second later, the door to the room flies open and several armed men enter quickly and stealthily. They're dressed in black and have their weapons drawn. Ruth's face pales and her eyes open wide in shock, but she stifles the scream that rises to her throat. Harry lowers his gun and places it back on the bedside table slowly, making sure that the armed men can see his every move.
"What the hell is the meaning of this?" he demands, once it's safely on the bedside table as one of the men steps forward and removes it from his reach. He's utterly furious that they've sent Special Branch to extract him. It's completely unnecessary to scare Ruth like this.
The four men who have entered the room move aside and one of them, their commander, says, "All clear, Sir."
A tall, blonde man dressed in a black polo shirt and dark trousers walks into the room. He glances at Ruth briefly and turns to look at Harry. She thinks that there's a glimmer of recognition in both men's eyes, but it's gone so fast that she's not sure she hasn't imagined it.
"You need to come with us," he states calmly.
"Who are you?" Harry demands.
"We work for the government," the man replies. "You have information we need." Then turning around, the man walks from the room, saying to the commander of the unit, "Bring them."
Two men move towards Harry, and despite her anxiety and fear, Ruth can't help but exclaim, "Be careful. He's injured."
The men pause and look at their commander. He studies Ruth for a second and then orders one of his men to bring in a stretcher. Her eyes lock with Harry's and they hold each other's gaze for a moment. She can see admiration in them and something else, but she has no time to figure out what it is before strong hands seize her arms, and she's escorted from the room and into a waiting car. She's sandwiched between two burly men, the doors slam shut, and the vehicle speeds off towards London.
Once the stretcher's brought into the bedroom, the commander pulls the duvet back and pauses as he notices Harry's near nakedness. He raises his eyebrows questioningly and Harry says with a grin, "Don't ask me, Mate. I was unconscious."
"You spooks have all the bloody luck," the officer grumbles and directs one of his men to grab a blanket. They wrap Harry in it, heave him onto the stretcher, and carry him out to the waiting van.
3rd September 1991, 1 am
140 Gower Street, London
"Why the hell did you send Special Branch?!" he demands when he sees Malcolm.
"I didn't," Malcolm relies. "That was Coolidge. He thinks the young lady might know something."
"Like hell she does," he fumes. "She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"More like the right place at the right time," Malcolm points out, "or else you wouldn't be here."
"That's true," he concedes with a quick, lopsided grin.
They're in the medical treatment room at MI-5 Headquarters, where Harry was taken just after he arrived. The doctor on duty made him comfortable and treated his injuries, pronouncing that Ruth did a remarkably good job with them and then, just as she'd finished, Malcolm had appeared, wishing to make sure Harry's alright.
The door opens again and Coolidge steps into the room. "What happened, Pearce?" he asks without preamble.
"It's good to see you too, Sir," Harry replies in a mildly sarcastic tone, still annoyed about the method of his extraction.
Malcolm cringes slightly, but Harry has always been able to resist Coolidge's stare and so is given more leeway than most.
"Well?" Coolidge asks, choosing to just ignore Harry's comment.
"I don't know how they figured out who I was," Harry frowns, "but once they did, two of them grabbed me in the night and overpowered me. They tied my hands and took me to a derelict farm. Then the big bloke knocked me about a bit, trying to get me to reveal who I was working for. He had the gun aimed at my head when Ruth came out of nowhere and yelled, 'What the hell do you think you're doing?'" He pauses, smiling fondly at the memory before he continues, "It was enough to distract the bastard, so I wrestled with him for the gun and chocked him, though not before I got shot in the leg. Then the other bastard came to investigate. I played dead, which was the best I could do with my thigh, unable as I was to get a clear shot at him as he came up the hill towards me in the dark. I was biding my time, waiting for a clear shot, when Ruth distracted him too and I took my chance. I think I got him in the head. She cut me free and tried to help me up, but I couldn't stand. She had the presence of mind to get the van and use it to drive me to her house. Then she helped me to bed and left to return the van. Next thing I remember is waking up to find her sitting in a chair reading. She saved my life, Sir."
"Right," Coolidge says. "I'll bear that in mind when I question her. In the meantime, I want you two to figure out how your cover was blown while I talk to Miss Evershed." He turns on his heel, and as he's leaving the room, he adds, "And for God's sake, put some clothes on, Pearce."
1:30 am
Ruth is sitting on a very uncomfortable chair in a very uncomfortable room. It's made of concrete and the only furniture in it is a table and two plastic chairs. They'd arrived in London about thirty minutes ago, she thinks, after which she was shoved into this room and left alone. She has gone from feeling terrified, to afraid, to angry, to livid and now she's settled on just plain tired. She places her arms on the table, and laying her head on them, she closes her eyes. Less than a minute later, the door's pushed open with a loud bang and her head snaps up. So that was it, she thinks, all she had to do to get this over with was pretend to go to sleep.
The man who's caused her rude awakening is tall and lean, but the first thing she notices about him are his piercing, blue eyes.
"Miss Evershed," he says in a pleasant voice, "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."
He takes a seat opposite her and holds an open folder in front of him. She glances at it, but he angles it so she can't see its contents.
"Are you?" she asks rather rudely, but she's not feeling particularly polite at such a time in the morning after the treatment she's received.
"Yes," he replies smoothly.
"Well," she says, "that's something I suppose. Could I get a drink of water, please?"
"Yes, of course," he answers. "I'll get you one in a minute. Now, please tell me how you know," he looks down at his notes briefly, "Richard?"
She studies the man for a few moments. There is an aura of power about him and she can see that he's used to being in charge and getting his own way.
"We met less than two days ago. He was injured and I helped him out," she replies.
"You are a doctor?" he asks.
"You know perfectly well that I'm not. In fact, I'm certain you know practically everything about me by now – when and where I was born, where I live, where my mother lives, when my father died, and quite likely, even who I voted for in the last election," she says calmly, "so please don't treat me like an idiot... Sir."
He smiles. "Why didn't you take him to hospital?"
"He asked me not to."
"Didn't that strike you as a little suspicious?"
"Not really," she replies. "Those men tried to kill him, so I assumed that he was worried that their mates would find him and finish him off. He told me the group he'd infiltrated had good connections."
"Did it ever occur to you that he might be lying to you?"
"I know he lied to me."
"Please explain," he replies, intrigued by her response.
"I'd like some water first, please," she answers and looks steadily into his eyes.
They stare at each other for a long time, and Ruth is thrilled when her interrogator gives in and has a glass of water brought to her by the blonde officer she'd met at the house. As he hands her the cup, he looks at her with interest and she's sure there's admiration in his gaze. She smiles at him and thanks him for the water before he leaves. She sips the water slowly, making it last as she's sure it'll be much harder to get a second glass, if not downright impossible.
"Well?" the man says.
"He didn't give me his real name," she replies, "and I believe that he's one of your officers."
"What makes you say that?" he asks cautiously.
"You have an aura of being in charge here," she answers, deliberately misunderstanding his question.
"I meant," he says with more of an edge to his voice, "what makes you think he works for the Security Services?"
"The whole story about being an undercover journalist didn't ring true to me," she answers with a frown. She doesn't want to push him too far and cause him to get angry, but she's pleased she's getting under his skin. Normally she wouldn't be this bold, but the lateness of the hour and the treatment she's received have made her a little reckless. So she opts for showing off her talents and showing him exactly how well she can analyse any situation. "Then there's the number of scars he has on his chest and arms – knife wounds, burns. Even in the army, I don't imagine people get injured that often and in such a way. His reluctance to be taken to hospital also seemed a little odd. It struck me as being a little paranoid. The men he fought were nowhere near as good as he was in combat, which likely means that the organization he was investigating was comprised of a number of thugs with nothing better to do with their time than create trouble. These kind of people wouldn't be able to figure out where he was in hospital, let alone mount an attack there. Of course, if they were indeed well connected, they might have been able to hire a professional."
Coolidge doesn't know what to make of this young woman in front of him. She hasn't crumbled under his stare, she's identified one of his best officers as a spook, has analysed the situation perfectly and is looking at him with defiance.
"Miss Evershed," Coolidge says in a cold voice. "The man you know as Richard is not, in fact, one of my officers, nor is he a journalist as you so rightly deduced. He's a very dangerous man and we're grateful for your help in apprehending him."
She frowns slightly and asks, "Dangerous in what way?"
"I'm not at liberty to divulge that information," he replies and then adds, "Now, please tell me exactly what happened."
"I will," she says, suddenly tired of this cat and mouse game, "but I don't believe you about Richard. I'm a good judge of character, and he's not dangerous, at least not to people who don't threaten his country. I still believe that he's an MI-5 officer whatever you might say."
He doesn't argue with her but waits for her to tell her story, which she does with a few interruptions from him. He wants to know why she risked her life to save this man and why she took care of him instead of taking him to hospital. The first question's easy to answer. She just couldn't stand by and watch him being executed, even if it cost her, her own life. She's a firm believer that, if more people stood up against crime and injustice, we wouldn't have had the holocaust or any number of other genocides and crimes against humanity. The second question isn't so easy to answer. She chose to trust him, and despite everything, she still does. She frowns as she realises this, but she knows she doesn't have time to analyse it now, so she files it away in her brain for later.
She's exhausted now and is having difficulty keeping herself together. All she wants to do is have a cup of tea, a good cry, and a warm bed to sleep in, and not necessarily in that order.
"I've told you all I know," she says wearily. "Please, may I go home now?"
"What about the gun?" he asks.
"Richard told me to take it with us, so I did," she answers. "I also took an extra clip from the big bloke's pocket."
"Thank you, Miss Evershed," he smiles and gets up to leave. "I'll have one of my officers take you to a safe-house. We may have more questions for you in the morning."
"Thank you," she replies and gets up also.
He studies her for a moment, then nodding his farewell, he leaves the room and she hears him instruct someone outside to take her to a safe-house.
The young officer with the blonde hair is the one who enters the room and smiles at her. "James Harold," he says extending his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Evershed. I'm sorry this has taken so long. I'll be taking you to a safe-house for tonight."
"Thank you," she says tiredly. "As long as it has tea and a warm bed, I won't complain."
He laughs and they exit the room together.