Sleep of the innocent - written by Elsa©

For the second consecutive night he had woken up in the middle of the night, the pain in his belly that had started earlier the previous day, still annoyingly present. It radiated to his lower abdomen, through to his groin and even as far as his upper right thigh. Secretly glad, that he had been alone in his bed at that moment, he'd stumbled out of the bedroom, made his way for the toilet and had hoped his gut would settle after that.

He had washed his hands and face with cold water, taken - very uncharacteristically - an aspirin and staggered back to bed.

He had tried to find a comfortable way to relax, which was usually stretched out on his back - after a while, he would turn onto his belly and fall asleep easily. But not last night - he could only lie on his side, his knees pulled up and eventually, helped by the aspirin, he had dozed off into a light but un-refreshing sleep.

When the alarm had awoken him at six, he felt knackered. Feeling the lack of sleep and noting that the damn pain was there, Bodie had showered and decided to skip breakfast. He looked at his face in the mirror, when he was shaving. He knew he was running a fever and had been since the previous day, alternately breaking out in hot and cold sweats.

His light skin looked even paler than usual, and he could tell from the lines around his eyes that he should be in bed sleeping, instead of tailing suspects on a stakeout.

But what he wanted and what he should be doing were two different things. Murphy and Jax would be expecting to be relieved as they?d drawn night duty. No doubt they?d be very much looking forward to going home to their beds to sleep.

Sleep?as in one good, undisturbed night. An eight hours long, comforting rest. The sleep of the innocent.

He sighed resignedly, pushed an apple into his pocket, expecting to be hungry at some point that morning, although the thought of eating wasn't appealing to him at all right now. He felt nauseous - not much, but enough to make him decide to leave the bacon and eggs in the fridge.

And he was damned if he would report in sick. He had hardly ever done that before and he wasn't going to do that today. It was just something he?d eaten - must have been the dodgy Chinese. Perhaps Ray was right after all and he should take more time to eat properly instead of getting food poisoning from some takeaway food establishment. He got up from the chair he'd been slouched on when he heard the short horn of a car sounding, knowing it was Ray who had come to pick him up.

Food poisoning - this ought to teach him.He didn't know it was so difficult to stand up straight when you suffered from that. Bodie could imagine throwing up and diarrhoea, but not this. No more noodles from Pom Lai's - that much was certain.

Doyle was in a good mood but nevertheless, immediately noticed Bodie's unusual silence and his withdrawn attitude.

"Karen? Oh, she's lovely and has remarkable ideas in bed." Bodie retaliated with a wicked grin, which nevertheless seemed to be less cheeky than usual.

"Too wild maybe?" was Doyle's quick reply. "She wore you out, by the looks of it."

Bodie didn't answer, which was even more unusual but just nodded to the house the stakeout was based in.

The barely audible grumble, made Ray chuckle. The idea of a girl, who could teach Bodie something new in the field of sex, was a highly amusing thought. Judging from the face of his colleague, he wasn't very pleased with that particular conclusion.

They climbed the stairs. CI5 had set up the stakeout on the first floor, to be able to keep a good view on the white house on the other side of the street. Murphy looked up as the two of them arrived and lowered the blanket he?d wrapped around his shoulders, to the sofa. Jax came from the lavatory, yawning. And looking tired from the nightshift.

"Morning, lads." Doyle said cheerfully. Murphy gratefully accepted the cup of fresh, steaming, hot coffee from the thermos Doyle had taken along.

"Looks like you're in for some action today." He said, stirring the coffee until the sugar he'd put in, had stopped crunching under the teaspoon.

"What? Reardon's expecting someone, today?" Doyle exclaimed with surprise. Maybe the day would turn out to be interesting after all.

"He got a call late last night. It's on the tape, but to put it in a nutshell: today the 'honourable' McKenzie will be visiting him."

"If we can nail that bastard while dealing with Reardon - " Doyle began and Murphy finished his sentence for him:

"I already took it up with HQ. McKenzie is on the manifest of a flight from Frankfurt. It's due to arrive at 12.30 hrs. If he has no other business planned, it could mean he could be here around 13.30."

Murphy put the empty cup down, he also slid on his coat and with a simple goodbye the two operatives left. They were looking forward for a change of scene, swapping the boring stakeout house, for a shower, a meal and a warm bed.

Bodie perched strategically on the corner of a table, his right foot on a chair, and his left on the ground. The stable position he held, allowed him to use the highly sophisticated camera with the telescopic lens, which was installed on a tripod, facing the subject of their attention.

"Your coffee?s getting cold." Doyle held out the cup that Bodie seemed to forget to drink.

"I've had coffee already." Was the only reply that was forthcoming, sounding a little muffled as Bodie was bent over the camera, one eye closed, the other one observing the house on the other side of the street through the lens.

No answer came. Bodie released his sight from the camera but did not look away from the house.

Doyle sighed. Either, Bodie had been stood up by Karen or he had forgotten to eat ? each one could account for his moodiness.

So much for morning conversation. Doyle took the chair by the simple kitchen table, put on the headphones and turned on the tape recorder. He rewound it until he found the correct index point, his green eyes slowly taking in the information Jax had already written down, he started to listen to the recordings.

He took out a pencil and began to add his own ideas to the case. He could remember Gerald McKenzie very well ? a nasty piece of work, that man was. The biggest arms dealer in Great Britain, and yet up till now, no-one had been able to get him. He frequently visited the mainland to purchase more equipment and still no proof to tie him down had been produced yet. All in all it had been a very unsatisfying man-hunt so far.

But - if it was possible to link him to Reardon, if they could really catch him in the act - then that might be enough to put him behind bars for years to come. Doyle was convinced they would nail him today - he could feel it in his bones.

The dark headed man looked up with a mildly apologising look in his eyes. He shrugged his shoulders and took out his gun. The strange face he pulled when he moved awkwardly did not escape Doyle's attention.

"Been eating too much junk food again? I told you - you eat too much of that stuff. Cholesterol, remember? Bad for your innards, mate." Doyle lectured, with an undisguised smile of mockery on his face.

But Bodie didn't bother to answer, which Doyle found even more disturbing. Usually he would retaliate easily, the two of them fencing with words all the time, not willing to give the other one the satisfaction of a victory.

Not so today. Bodie was in no mood to talk, and Doyle knew when that was the case, it was better just to shut up and stay quiet for a while, until the gloomy mood passed and he would be sounding more like himself again.

Around eight am, the two heard a telephone ringing in the house opposite and the hasty reply of Reardon, who answered nervously.

"Two this afternoon. Not one minute later. Have the merchandise ready. The money will be here." His voice sounded high and tight. As if he'd been rehearsing it over and over again, to avoid the one on the other side of the line being able to put in a counter argument.

Doyle tensed as he recognised McKenzie's voice. Bodie used the binoculars to try and see something in Reardon's room. To any uninitiated onlooker it seemed that he didn't react but Ray knew better. He could see it in the way Bodie stood still, his concentration focussed on what he saw and what he heard.

A click indicated that the connection had been broken, and the tape recorder switched off automatically. Bodie stayed where he was, scanning the windows with his binoculars and Doyle got over to him and peered through the camera.

Usually, one of two possibilities was likely to happen: either Reardon would leave to get things organised for the meeting that afternoon or he would start making telephone calls now. This was what years of intensive stakeouts had taught them.

A few minutes after the call, the front door opened and Reardon stepped out, looking uncomfortable and harassed.

He grabbed his coat, ready to run downstairs and then checked himself, as Bodie didn't move.

"Thought I saw the curtains moving." Bodie mumbled behind the binoculars. "Start the car - I'm on my way, gimme a second."

Doyle took the stairs with big jumps, puzzled by Bodie's words - had somebody else been in the house? Bodie didn't say such things unless he was certain he had actually seen something.

When Bodie joined him less than a minute later and shook his head in denial, Ray didn't wait for an explanation and raced after Reardon, who?d left in a dark blue Datsun. The CI5 operative drove smoothly, keeping other cars between him and Reardon's vehicle, thus enabling them to follow him, without being noticed themselves.

"Where d'you reckon he's heading?" Doyle asked, keeping his eyes on the road and the traffic that was blocking the streets of London.

"Dunno." Was Bodie's answer. He left it at that, not bothering to make assumptions as to what Reardon had in mind at that time of day.

"Come on, Bodie! Be a bit more creative!" Doyle said agitatedly. "What's the most common enterprise after a phone call like he had this morning?"

"Superb powers of deduction - arm himself. So he's out to get a weapon? Maybe he's just going over to the supermarket to get some Kellogg's Cornflakes and marmalade."

A wry smile showed on Bodie's face, for just a second. Then Doyle sighed and decided to give up. Bodie was obviously not going to tell him what was eating him and Ray knew his partner well enough by now, to not push it.

Reardon parked his car outside a large grocery store. He went in, tailed by the CI5 men, who followed him from a safe distance.

It was as if the devil was toying with them - indeed Reardon did do some shopping. He filled the trolley, like thousands of people do every day and was no different than all the other shoppers that were queuing in front of the fruit and dairy department.

It nearly escaped their attention, but Doyle noticed this visit was not just randomly chosen. It was clear that Reardon had come here on many occasions, but it was only when he reached the cashiers that Ray saw that their subject head for one woman, behind a particular counter.

An almost unnoticeable exchange took place, so swiftly that both men very nearly missed it. A little parcel, wrapped in white cloth went from beneath the counter into Reardon?s basket.

The partners? eyes met across the checkouts, as they acknowledged what they had just seen. Arm himself - the first step was taken, not at such a common place, but nevertheless: the weaponry was a hard fact.

When Reardon left, Bodie walked straight over to the overweight but still attractive cashier who had handed the pouch to the suspect and asked for some small change to put in the parking meter.

"No need for small change, sir. It's free parking." She informed him friendly, pushing her fingers through thick blonde curly hair. "Company courtesy." She blinked her long dark lashes that surrounded deep blue eyes.

Bodie smiled most charmingly and chose the perfect moment to use his magic trick of persuasion:

"Well, thank you. That saves me from some embarrassment next time I see you, miss??"

"Roswell. Charlene-May Roswell." She was glowing tremendously and Doyle could hardly keep contain his grin. Bodie's wicked performance had that effect on many women, and this time too, he hadn't been disappointed.

He dragged his partner to the door, with an apologising, cheeky glance at Charlene-May Roswell.

Bodie put on the face of a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar and Doyle muttered "to his work" well out of reach from the woman's hearing.

Bodie didn't keep up with him. When he reached the car alone, he looked back over the parking lot and saw Bodie, on his knees, tying a shoelace.

The man with the blue eyes looked up sheepishly and strutted in a jogging kind of spurt to the car.

He didn't have the guts to say that a stabbing pain in his lower belly had forced him to his knees. Thank God, Ray hadn't witnessed that. The shoelace was the first excuse that had sprung to mind.

That afternoon, at 14.00 hours, McKenzie would meet Reardon and within the hour it would be over. He just had to hold on till then. After that he could go home to bed and get some rest. A good sleep, eight - no ten - hours preferably, would most likely make him feel much better. The damn bellyache would go away then, and the fever too, he was pretty sure of that.

But right now, he found it hard to keep the shield up. He hid behind it, making it seem like he hadn't enjoyed himself with Karen, while the truth was that after they shared her bed, very unlike himself he had gone home, feeling miserable.

Soon they were back in the house. Doyle had been irritated and snapped rudely at him but when he gave no answers but a few muttered vaguenesses, his partner had given up with a yank at the wheel and a silence that meant trouble for the hours to come.

The idea alone was enough to make Bodie feel nauseous again. As the minutes turned into hours, it got more difficult to keep his discomfort hidden from Doyle. When he went to the bathroom for the second time in less than an hour, the curly headed man had dryly inquired if his bladder wasn't shrunken by now. But the only thing Bodie did was to sit down on the lid of the filthy toilet, bend over and allow himself to be away from Ray's piercing frown for five minutes.

The hands of the clock moved as if in slow motion. Not for Ray, who was obviously learning a plan of the building opposite by heart, every now and then making notes to himself and in other moments listening back the tapes of the previous day.

But to Bodie, the morning never seemed to be coming to an end. In the Capri he had used the RT to gain information on the cashier, Charlene-May Roswell. It had been short-lived, to have his mind on something else, other than the white hot, stabbing pain in his lower belly but once the information was passed on to HQ, the distraction was gone just as quickly.

He refused the tea Doyle brewed for them. He knew that he wouldn't be able to fool his partner much longer.

"You stupid, pig-headed son of a bitch! If you feel that bad, then report in sick and go home! You're gonna get us both killed with your crazy stubbornness!"

This time it was Bodie's turn to lose his calm. He could take a lot - but not this and not today.

"Afraid I'm in your way, Doyle? Have I ever betrayed your trust by letting your wander off alone? You are the one to go off like a raging bull. You get yourself into trouble and I have managed to get you out of it more times than I can recall. So don't you ever doubt me, Ray Doyle. Ever."

His partner and one of the few people he was close to, was momentarily taken aback by the fierce outburst he displayed. But if he thought he had shut him up with that, he ought to have known better.

"Oh right! Look who's talking? Look out for Number One. Mister Bloody Blue-eyed Bodie, first to come, last to leave. Mr Perfect - entitled to no mistakes, but an occasional error with an opening line for a female presence. Well, let me tell you something, Bodie. When this is over, you are going home to bed, or, so help me God ? I?ll kick you into it myself."

The anger, pronounced so meticulously, hung between them like a fog, so thick and tangible that the sound of the automatic switch-on of the tape recorder startled them both.

The argument was pushed aside immediately when they heard the voice of McKenzie, sounding flat and impersonal over the speakers that Doyle had switched on.

Almost at the same moment a mustard-yellow Vauxhall came around the corner, driving past the Reardon house, slowing down for just an instant and then calmly driving on, around the corner and out of sight.

Bodie had quickly pressed the button on the camera. It was a feeling rather than a hard fact, but he knew this had something to do with Reardon and McKenzie. He knew that Doyle felt it too, because he noticed Ray picking up the binoculars, to try and see the person inside more closely.

Both men used the minutes that remained to make final preparations. A double check on their weapons, another survey up and down the street, a final perimeter scan - the moment of the arrest was soon to be.

Doyle's RT cracked statically to life - it was on the kitchen table. He put the binoculars down and headed for the adjacent room.

"Charlene-May Roswell. She's absolutely clean, no records, not even a parking ticket."

"Nothing we've been able to come up with so far. But I'll keep on looking. Sorry, Ray."

In three big steps he was next to Bodie, who nodded, pointed his hand in the northerly direction of the street. McKenzie had arrived and parked his car rapidly in front of the Reardon's house. He got out, not behaving scared or jittery - just a regular man, probably visiting a friend in a place he'd obviously visited many times before - that was the impression he would make on outsiders.

They peered at the man, who fumbled with something that didn't resemble an ordinary set of keys at all.

"The son of a bitch is going to frame Reardon..! Reardon doesn't expect him yet. He'll be taken completely by surprise."

"Wait until he goes inside. You take the front - I'll take the back." Doyle took the stairs with three steps at a time and was downstairs even before Bodie had got as far as the bend that led to the stairs.

Doyle and Bodie had to go round the back of the stake out place, the same way they had come in. It was of course vital that Reardon did not notice anything out of the ordinary, the stakeout had been going on for three weeks in a row now, dragging from one boring day into another. He was disappointingly conventional, went to work, to the gym, to bed and slept-in on weekends. But a few of the phone calls he'd made had been important, they had taken away the last shred of doubt - if there ever was any. Their informant had been right all along.

Reardon had withdrawn a large amount of money over the course of the weeks. He had even given a reason for it: funds for a renovation of an old mansion he had purchased with a friend. The bank did not doubt his motives and the money was no problem easily raised.

The 'friend' happened to be? Gerald McKenzie. The destination, for which the money was intended, became clear as soon as that name had come up.

McKenzie was an ingenious arms dealer. No matter how difficult the assignment, how unusual the request was, he could somehow pull it off. He was a thorn in the side of various anti-terrorist brigades, as no-one seemed able to catch him in the act. McKenzie was the main supplier to the world's leading and most feared criminals, a position he was well aware of - and willing to fight for as long as he could.

Bodie, putting his foot down on the first few steps of the stairs, shuddered from the sudden pain it caused. Somewhere behind him, from the kitchen, he heard the RT crackle to life, still lying on the wooden table. Doyle was already outside, running around the back, gun in hand. The metallic voice followed Bodie down the stairs, he could hear the call and then he was outside too.

"3.7 to Control. 4.5 is out of reach." He panted as he ran to the front of the stakeout house and squatted behind a green Volvo.

Bodie kept his eyes on the front door, as it slowly closed again and crossed the street as fast as his painful body allowed him to.

He ducked beneath the windowsill and cursed Doyle for forgetting his RT - how the hell was he going to know where his partner was? On the other hand, using an RT could betray them instantly in such moments, so he trusted his instincts and the years of their close co-operation to help him through.

Meanwhile Doyle went round the back, he was glad he had memorised the building plan so thoroughly. Without hesitation, he headed straight for a small passageway that was overgrown with weeds and slippery from the nightly rain. He thrust his gun in its holster, took a little jump and pulled himself up and over a deteriorating brick wall. He landed lightly and silently on his Adidas clad feet, tiptoed to the backdoor and had it open in less than thirty seconds.

His slender fingers searched for the RT, as he stashed away the lock-picking set.

Damn! Forgotten it. It was on the kitchen table, he immediately realised. Now Bodie, he thought with a grimness that was surprising, show me what you're worth. You said you wouldn't let me down - you damn well better be there.

He opened the backdoor as far as he needed to, squeezed his slender body through and shut it soundlessly behind him. One draught, one stirring of air and it could blow the whole operation.

From the observations during the stakeout CI5 knew that the ground floor was some kind of general storage area and that Reardon mainly lived on the first floor. The steep stairs, covered with worn out green carpet, were on the Doyle's left hand side, and began halfway down the hallway. He kept quiet, listening to the sounds from above; he reckoned his position was safe for the time being. Hurriedly he crossed to the front door and pulled it open, only to find Bodie sitting on his knees to try and open the lock from the outside.

Doyle cast a glance at Bodie, and to his horror, he saw him suddenly shuddering violently. The gun he held in his right hand trembled with the involuntary movement. Sweat was pouring from his face, as if he was performing the hardest task ever, in his life. He leant against the wall, his body twisting in a rigor.

It took Bodie a few seconds to get a hold of himself, then he nodded curtly to show Doyle he was ready to go, and, as a proof to show he was capable of just about anything, he rushed up the stairs with a few silent leaps.

Both men stopped, just before the landing. They could hear Reardon's voice, pleading with shrill intensity and McKenzie's smooth words, in vague fragments, filtering through.

Doyle stopped, half-closing his eyes and focusing on the words, at the same time pushing away the anxiety that had risen about Bodie. Not now - not here - no time. He held his breath. He could hear Bodie breathing raggedly. No - no - no - this was not the time!

Reardon's terror, was as obvious as McKenzie's threat. That's no deal ? money here? won't deal with?incompetence ? your behalf ? orders from higher up?ends here?

Bodie counted on his fingers, and Doyle nodded, trying to distance himself from worrying about Bodie's condition and at the same time grateful for his partner's stubbornness to finish this off. Three. Two. One. GO!

They burst through the door where the sounds had come from, their movements precisely co-ordinated and so smoothly that both Reardon and McKenzie were momentarily stunned.

The latter, who was on the verge of taking out Reardon, fired instantly from hip height at the disintegrating door and Doyle saw pieces of the woodwork fly off from the door frame. He reacted faster than lightning, dropped to the ground and fired; he felt more than he saw it, that Bodie had done the same. Bodie had fired at Reardon, who had pulled out a revolver from the back of his belt.

McKenzie slammed back against the wall, Reardon staggered backwards and toppled over an old, worn out sofa.

For a few seconds, which seemed to last an eternity, there was only silence in the stuffy room. The stench of cordite made the air heavy, the echo of the shots deafening the people present, their adrenaline levels sky high.

Doyle was the first to come to his senses. He crawled up from his low position and very carefully, gun raised and ready to fire, every fibre in his body on full alert, stepped over to McKenzie.

The arms dealer was out cold. The bullet from Doyle's gun had hit him in the chest and even from where he was standing he could hear the air hissing as it escaped. He peered round the sofa and saw the glassy look on Reardon's face. Bodie had killed him, with one shot, right between the eyes. Safety first, he quickly frisked the unconscious man and threw aside the weapons he found.

"Hey, Bodie?" he said as he tossed away a spare clip of ammunition. "Cowley will be furious. You killed Reardon."

During the short but intense raid, the picture of his hurting partner had been pushed to the background. Now, once the fight was over, Doyle felt his stomach twist with a sickening rush.

"Bodie!" he crossed the room in seconds, almost tripping over two wooden chairs and kneeled down beside his partner.

A hand was pressed against his lower belly, eyes closed and breathing fast and irregular, Bodie was hovering on the edge of unconsciousness. Bile rose somewhere in the back of Doyle's throat.

"Bodie! Are you hit? Bodie!" Doyle heard the blood pounding in his ears. "Bodie!"

He pulled the hand away and saw no blood, no holes, and no signs of serious injury. But the heated forehead, the shallow breathing and a suppressed moan that slipped out, told him enough. In one movement he grabbed Bodie's RT and warned HQ.

Bodie's eyes flickered. He grinned, one of his eyebrows dancing up for just a split second.

"Never knew you cared?" he mumbled, as he had done once before. But that time had been a joke. And by Jove - this time it wasn't!

Doyle felt worry and relief fighting inside him, the adrenaline of the rush falling off and at the same time his anger getting the better of him.

"You stupid son of a bitch. You'll get yourself killed with this kind of behaviour."

He loosened some of Bodie's clothing. His partner was drifting off again, his body fighting a pain that Doyle could not determine. He heard the sirens from afar, approaching rapidly and, as usual it was confusing to tell from what direction they came. Sounds of screeching tyres on the tarmac, also reached him. He went over to the window, expecting to see the backup team from CI5 arriving, with Cowley leading the way in the big Granada. He shoved the translucent curtains a aside little and peered to see what was down in the street. The same instant he saw the mustard-yellow Vauxhall double-parked in front of the door, shots sounded behind him and Doyle's senses told him the bad news before it literally hit him.

The first shot scorched his head, the bullet flying through his thick, curly hair, kissing the flesh with the sharpness of a razor blade and then shattering the window behind him. The lights went out for Doyle as he smacked backwards against the windowsill, slumped down the central heating radiator and hit the floor.

Through the haze of the pain, when he had felt the explosion in his lower torso, he saw the big blonde, voluptuous woman from the supermarket, standing in the doorway. His vision was glassy and blurred, but her pose, legs spread a little, arms stretched out and pointing at Doyle, who was somewhere behind him, left no room for doubt in Bodie's eyes. In a split second he saw his partner's life unravelling, more detailed and intense than any Alfred Hitchcock film could produce. The hurt in Doyle's eyes when he found out that Bodie checked Ann Holly out, the breathtaking feeling of horror when Bodie had found him shot on the floor of his apartment, the way he'd snapped at Bodie's stupid behaviour towards Zadie, the look of amusement Doyle had not been able to hide when he'd given Bodie some kind of toy watch to replace his broken one? Superman had been printed into it. Superman, all right. If it were the last thing he would ever do, he would act like Superman and take out the scum of the earth.

The second and third shot came from his gun. He hit the attractive girl twice, sending her staggering backwards against the opened door and falling down the post, blood leaving dark streaks on the beige paint.

Her hand, that held the gun, pulled the trigger in an involuntary spasm. The bullet, number four to sound in the stuffed room, ricocheted off a metal handle of a window frame and drilled itself through the flesh of Doyle's hip. Even in the state he was in, his body reacted subconsciously and he curled up, the same way Bodie was lying at the door, legs pulled up closely to his body, protecting it from more hurt and trying to comfort the pain.

"I cannot understand why you let a man walk around with acute appendicitis! What kind of service do you run?! Are you too stern to make your men report in sick when they actually are?" The young, inexperienced Dr Mortensen raised his voice angrily at the CI5-commander. If he'd known to whom he was addressing, he would certainly not have raised his voice the way he did.

Cowley took of his glasses and folded the legs so forcefully that it was a wonder the frame held.

"I am not asking for your advice on my line of business. Do what you're paid for, man, instead of questioning me!" his light blue eyes seemed darker than usual, his musical Scottish accent emphasising the words remarkably well. "I want to know how my men are doing."

"So you can send them back to the slaughter, once they've come back to your private little army?" Mortensen replied, unaware of the thin ice he was skating on.

The glare he was given by Cowley was enough to make him back off a little. But this time, the older man was not going to let him off the hook.

"I," he said, stretching the word to get the doctor's full attention and continuing slower than he normally would have spoken: "work with an army of top class men. They know what they are supposed to do; they know the risks they take. They also know that for every terrorist they don't take out, many innocent bystanders will be killed. And that, Dr Mortensen, is what makes them want to go out onto the streets, and it is what drives them to do what they do. Or don't do what they should do."

"Now, doctor, will you give me a report on their status or do I have to barge through this hospital and find a doctor who will tell me?"

His face pale, his cheeks showing a magical red gloss, the young physician swallowed before he answered.

"Quite err? so, yes. Err?.Mr. Doyle, he'll be fine. A headache for a week or so, the graze on his head was quite deep but caused no real damage. As for the bullet in his hip, that has been removed and that too, will be painful for a week but given proper rest the flesh wound should heal nicely and he should have no further problems with it. The bullet was embedded in the soft tissue and the damage was only minor."

The Doctor had lost his air of self-confidence under the piercing looks of the Scot. He swallowed and nervously continued.

"Err? Bodie.. err? Yes. Err.. well Mr. Bodie is not in such a good state at this very moment. A ruptured appendix. Very nasty; pus all through his lower abdomen. We've performed surgery on him and he's ?err?well.."

"He's doing as well as can be expected. But he'll be hospitalised for quite a while."

He fell silent, nervously biting his lower lip, expecting another burst of anger from the man he was facing. But to his surprise the man said:

Cowley left without another word, leaving the sweating doctor alone and puzzled, in the room.

She smiled gently and the looks they exchanged showed their long history together. She had seen many an agent of CI5 being brought in, put into her care and being released after their recovery. She and Cowley had known each other well, for a number of years.

"Of course. Doyle was awake when I was in his room, just ten minutes ago. Bodie was asleep and I suggest you don't wake him up."

They walked through the almost silent hospital, where the late shift had already left, swapping places with the night shift. Cowley's leather shoes clicked on the linoleum.

"But he will be all right, won't he?" he asked with concern barely masked in his voice.

Cowley smiled, appreciating nurse Cromwell's sense of humour. Apart from being an excellent nurse, she possessed the rare gift of being totally oblivious to the charms of both, Doyle and Bodie. Which was exactly the reason why Cowley had insisted on her presence, more than once. She left him with a curt nod and a smile of mutual understanding.

Bodie was asleep. The CI5 commander looked at the silent, pale man in the bed. The dark, slightly wavy hair, the ever expressive eyebrows finally at ease, the mouth relaxed, released from the tension caused by pain. He looked serene and calm. Once again Cowley was surprised that such a gentle face, hid a man who was capable of killing without a second thought. Of course, he had seen the dark side of Bodie, but he also knew the soft side he tried so vehemently to hide. A man of many faces, and Cowley was glad that Bodie was on his side. His loyalty to Doyle and Cowley was unconditional, even though his obedience wasn't always as obvious.

"Good evening, Ray." Cowley turned and looked at Doyle, who was lying flat on his back. He looked a little drowsy in light of the little night lamp that he turned on, but apart from the somewhat watery look in his eyes, he did seem much better than a few days ago.

"Shouldn?t you be at home, sir? It's almost midnight." Ray muttered a little sleepily. From the looks of it he had been on the verge of falling asleep when Cowley had entered.

"I'm on my way there, on my way." The boss answered, keeping his voice down, to not wake up the man in the other bed. "How are you feeling, Ray?"

"I thought you might like to hear that McKenzie has given a full statement. As well as Charlene-May Roswell, whose real name is Mary McKenzie and who has also been questioned. Both she and her brother Gerald will stand trial when they've been released from the prison hospital."

Doyle let the information sink in: brother and sister set up Reardon, to get their hands on a lot of money, without having to supply the armoury. Intricate and clever.

Cowley broke through his chain of thought with the announcement he was leaving to go home.

"Just came to check on you, lad." He explained, sounding unusually friendly. "And sleeping beauty over there."

"I haven't seen much more of him than the back of his head, sir. He hasn't been awake for more than a few minutes, the past few days."

Cowley didn't miss the sad tone that had encircled the words Doyle had just spoken.

"I know, sir." A sigh and then cheekily he added: "He was snoring today. That's a sign of the living, isn't it?"

"You'd better not, Ray. He might actually think I'm beginning to agree to his style."

Ray switched off the night lamp next to his bed and carefully turned onto his side. He felt stiff and still quite sore, but much better than he had been. Drifting off to the soothing comfort of sleep, he nearly missed the mumbling from the other bed.

He lifted his head, and was immediately reminded that, that wasn't a good move, and as he lowered his head into the soft pillows. He smiled as he answered, his eyes sparkling in the muted light of the room.

"G'night." The grumble was so faint that he could hardly hear it. "Stupid idiot."

Contentedly, Doyle fell asleep within two minutes. In the other bed Bodie snored, softly and rhythmically. Soon, they would be up and about.

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