Full Circle, by Sue Castle. A
Professionals/ The Chief crossover. No copyright
infringement intended against original owners of the characters used in this
story. Rated NC17 for adult situations, graphic depictions of sexual activities
between persons of the same gender and violence . NO
MINORS ALLOWED. ** warning** Death of a major
character. Bodie. No attempts to hide it -- after all, without it, there
would be no story. **warning**
<<1995>>
It
had been sixteen years since the last time he had seen the man, almost twenty
since he had worked with him. He hadn't changed much. Still a
bull in a china shop, powered by the strength of his convictions and holding
his ideals up as an impenetrable shield to deflect the ire of his enemies.
Edges sharp enough to cut, smile rare but lethal, eyes like malachite chips in
a set, stern face. And always, underneath the stone and steel, a fire for justice
unlike any he had ever seen. DCI Cade hadn't mellowed
any in his transition to Chief Constable.
He
had shared that fire, once. No longer. It had been
quenched with blood nine years before. And in its place grew darkness, and
purpose, born in blood, fed with blood, destined to shed blood in remembrance
of and with vengeance for blood.
He
missed Bodie.
He
missed his soul.
Ray
Doyle slipped further into the enfolding shadow of the underbrush at the edge
of the ancient estate and carefully lifted the binoculars back to his narrowed
eyes. He was hunting, and while the man he watched through the glass of the
upper floor window wasn't his prey, he was a tool. An
excellent tool. It was a long, torturous route that had led him to this
place and this man, but he could feel the curl of anticipation in the pit of
his stomach and knew that his final target, his first target, was finally
within range. And his old colleague would help him bring the bastard down.
His
immediate quarry finished speaking into the telephone receiver, then replaced
it, standing with his hand resting on the cradled handset, staring into the
distance beyond the glass. For a moment, Doyle feared that he had been spotted,
but when the still figure remained in position, he decided the fear had been
groundless. Cade was good, but he wasn't that good.
And Doyle had had a lot of practice blending into darkness.
As
he watched, the dark head tilted forward, as if it was too heavy to hold
upright on the square shoulders. Broad shoulders in fine grey wool slumped,
obvious even from the distance, before Cade pulled
himself upright with deliberate movements. Whatever he'd heard on the telephone
hadn't been good news. One hand rose to the glass, fingers splayed, and Doyle
was irresistibly reminded of a caged bear trying to escape, knowing escape was
impossible, unable to resist the attempt. The hand lingered, then
slipped away, and Cade turned from the window and
disappeared into the depth of the room. Deprived of his opportunity to watch,
Doyle scooped up his pack and began to edge his way around the wood, heading
toward the front drive to wait for Cade there. It
wouldn't be long, now. All he had to do was stay in the shadows.
*******
He
should have seen it coming. When the call had come, Wes had told him that she
had disappeared in
He
had cried, then, finding refuge in the soft rain outside his friend's country
home, fighting the sense of loss and guilt and remorse and anger that had
threatened to consume him. Thoughts had beaten at him -- he shouldn't have let
her leave, should have forced her to remain in
He
couldn't cry now.
He
had work to do.
In
the small corner of his heart that he refused to acknowledge, the whimper grew
to a scream.
*******
Superintendent
Penfold knew as soon as she saw her boss' eyes that
something was very wrong. The set features were in their habitual no-nonsense
expression, but in the back of his jade eyes there was pain, barely held back.
As he accepted the folder from her outstretched hand and went forward to brief
the gathered detectives, she looked askance at him. Silently, he shook his
head, an almost imperceptible movement that caused her to immediately back off.
Whatever it was, it was private, and this was neither the time nor the place.
And if Rose Penfold had learned anything in her fight
to make her place in a man's world, it was that time and place were everything.
Settling
alertly at his side, she looked out over the gathering. Two score detectives
from home station in
Cade cleared his throat and glanced
briefly at the papers in his hands, pulling his mind forcefully to the matters
at hand. His shoreline was a bloody sieve, and something had to be done about
it, now. Putting jurisdictional jealousy and agency pissing contests aside,
kids were dying -- and a hell of a lot more of them would be dead very soon if
they couldn't stop the leaks. His emphasis had always been on prevention, on
catching the pushers, and his critics had decried him as being 'soft on drugs'
because his target was the dealer, not primarily the user. But they were wrong.
He hated pushers with a passion he reserved for the worst scum on earth. He'd
lost friends to poison, had watched kids burn themselves out on it. It wasn't
as it had been when he was a kid himself, and experimenting. The stuff on the
streets now was meant to kill, and kill it did. And until they -- he -- could
stop it, it would go on killing.
"Good
afternoon. I trust you've all had the opportunity to read through the briefing
packet. The details are in there, but the short of it is simple. Terrorists are
using unprotected stretches of shore to smuggle weapons and mass amounts of
heroin and cocaine into the country. The Eastland Constabulary has done the
preliminary investigative work, but we've neither the manpower nor the budget
for an operation this size, and the infusion of guns and drugs has had
consequences from here to
As
he spoke, the men and women gradually straightened and leaned forward, drawn in
by the intensity of his voice. He paced forward, decreasing the distance
between speaker and audience, asking for and receiving suggestions and comments
as he went through the tangle of difficulties in the case. The meeting wore on,
first one officer then another putting in his comments, until throats grew
hoarse and logic became circular. Through it all Cade
guided, prodded, or restrained the conversational free-for-all. He never
allowed the primary focus to slip, the need to capture the pushers insistent in
his words. By the time they called a halt for the night a basic framework had
been hammered out, tasks were allotted to those with the necessary strengths,
and the majority of the soft spots were backed up. He sighed with relief as the
detectives wandered from the room, speaking animatedly in groups of three or
four. No major territorial skirmishes that hadn't been avoided, no short
tempers he hadn't been able to diffuse, and the groundwork was in place. The
next two days would fill in the blanks, and with some hard work and
determination they would have these bastards.
"Calling
it a night, sir?"
Superintendent
Penfold's crisp voice called his wandering thoughts
back. "Yes, Rose. The first hurdle's down. The rest of the course should
be easier." He hoped.
She
smiled at him, that one-sided twist of the lips that almost always drew an
answering smile from him. Tonight, his lips didn't move. He felt numb, cut off,
as if having lost the adrenaline rush from directing the task force he was too
tired to keep up the effort at normalcy. She noticed, and cocked her head in
mute inquiry.
"Ready to brave the ravening horde for your
supper, then?" Maybe he'd open up to her over something to
eat.
He
took a deep breath, unable to stop the small shudder that ran through him.
"I'll--" He'd been about to tell her he'd join her at the buffet laid
out in the dining hall below them, but suddenly realized that he just couldn't
do it. He needed privacy, now. The cracks were starting, and he was half afraid
of what he would find behind them. "I think I'll skip dinner. I've ...
some files to go through. I'm not very hungry. You go ahead."
She
stared at him for a brief moment, then nodded slowly.
Not time yet. Might never be. As she gave him a smile
over her shoulder and headed down the stairs, she reminded herself all over
again that he didn't feel the way she did, that he never had and probably never
would. But it didn't stop her from caring, and it couldn't stop her from
hurting for him.
Cade watched the trim figure disappear
out the door with mixture of relief and something close to fear. He really
didn't want to be alone. Didn't want to think.
Certainly didn't want to feel. But he didn't have any choice. He had shut it
down too often and too firmly to be able to share it now, and no one else would
understand how completely and utterly alone he was.
He
turned to the window, watching the sunset painting the sky a vivid red, and bit
his lip, tasting blood.
*******
Nodding
pleasantly at the harried desk clerk, Doyle gathered up his easel, paint kit
and duffel bag and shouldered his way through the crowd toward the stairway.
None of the people milling about the lobby paid much attention to the scruffy
figure in worn blue jeans and soft leather jacket, long curly hair pulled back
in a queue at his nape and held in place with a braided thong. Casual but
professional once-overs catalogued him as an aging artist-hippie type, not all
that uncommon since the local landscape had been luring painters since
Constable's time. They might have noted the single, wide streak of pure white
running through the auburn curls above his right eye, accenting the odd cant to
his cheekbone from some long ago break, or the unusual fluidity of his
movements as he crossed the floor, but Doyle was as adept at hiding in plain
sight as he was blending into shadows, and no undue notice was taken. As he cut
through the crowd snippets of quiet conversation came to his ears, and his eyes
narrowed. It sounded like it was going to be a big haul, when the curtain came
up, and he mentally crossed his fingers that one relatively small fish would
escape the net. He had his own line in the water. And that small fish was his
raison detre. The one who started
it all. By ending his partner's life.
Swinging
the door shut behind him, closing off his little room from the bustle in the
hall behind him, he settled his gear on the single bed and sank onto the soft
mattress. He had been running for a very long time, and he was beginning to
feel the strain. True, he had been running toward, not from, this moment. But there
had been so much to do. And no one to share the burden.
Sinking back to lie full length and stare at the beam in the ceiling, he gave
in to his fatigue and allowed himself to remember. The pain would burn away the
weariness. It always did.
*******
<<1986>>
He
couldn't help the chuckle that worked its way from between his clamped lips. Bodie was being his normal obstructive, belligerent self,
and the Cow was having none of it. But, being Bodie,
he was getting a scowl instead of having his head handed to him on a plate.
They'd been partners for eight years, lovers for three, and he had yet to
discover exactly how Bodie wrapped the Old Man around
his fingers so neatly.
"Is
there something in what I'm saying that you find amusing, 4.5?" The dry,
not exactly dulcet tones of his boss straightened his face immediately. As long
as he didn't look at his partner, he could keep it that way.
"No,
sir, not at all, sir, would that be all, sir?" All one
breath, in his very best Bodie-imitation. He
heard a suspicious snort off to his right, but didn't dare look.
"Aye,
I'll get no more sense from either of you, in this mood. Off with you, now, and
get to it!"
'It',
in this case, was a particularly nasty small- time villain by the name of Mack
Shipley, a pusher who'd gone to ground on the docks. He was causing some
concern to the law abiding citizens in the area -- both of them -- but his
value to CI5 had more to do with his usefulness as a possible grass. He had
been seen in some very fast company, including some musclemen for the Mob who
were on Cowley's list of 'people he would like to
pound for an hour or three.' Took a very dim view of the gunrunning activities
of certain members of the Mob, Cowley did. So Bodie
and Doyle were off to sniff the docks and see what sort of rats they could
scare up. They were good at it. They'd done it hundreds of times. They'd been
banged up a time or two, knifed or shot or beaten, but they'd always come
through.
Always.
Clean
fresh smog whistling through his curls, a surprisingly sunny day for so late in
the Autumn, a clear view of broad hands wrapped around the steering wheel and
the gearshift, those muscle-hugging cream cords showing off every flex in those
strong thighs, his head filled with the scent of drying leaves and Bodie. Pulling into the muddy lot by the
abandoned warehouse, shivering momentarily at the dead look of the broken out
windows and sagging metal framework. Quick glances left, right, up, eyes
meshing with midnight blue, loving the light in them, the sparkle Bodie got when they were on the chase. One
'round front, one 'round back, slick as clockwork, no one home. Easing through the shadows, even on this bright day, careful of the
noise, just in case. Gun in one hand, catching sight of his partner and
gesturing, one swift wave of the fingers, a search pattern agreed to without a
word exchanged. Crates, a ton of the damned things, broken
and listing sideways, casting strange flickering shapes in the shadows, playing
with his eyes. Movement? Nah,
just another damned crate. Scritch of wood on cement, eyes darting to the side, back to the front.
Not in time to stop the bullet. Not in time to fire. Not in time to save his
mate.
Hadn't been a cat after all. There had
been three of them, hiding in the shadows, waiting. Not even waiting for CI5,
as it turned out later, from the interrogation of the one they finally brought
in. Wrong place, wrong time, they'd interrupted the set-up for a drug buy. When
the action started, Doyle got one shot off before the bullet tore through his
side. Bodie didn't have time for even that. The
bullet caught him high in the back, angling up from where the shooter was
crouched behind the stacked crates. It ripped through his spine and out the
front of his throat, the force impelling him onto his stomach, arms outflung, gun skidding uselessly away from the lax,
nerveless fingers.
Doyle
shot true. He always did. One man lay dead, and dimly he heard the rush of
footsteps and muffled roar of an engine as the other two escaped. He had seen
them, though. He would know them. He had seen the one who shot ... Adrenaline
and fear propelled him to his feet, staggering as pain and blood loss made him
dizzy. It had only been seconds, but his mind was screaming at him to get to Bodie, get help, he'd been shot, he had been... There was
so much blood. The hole really didn't look that bad from the back. He tried to
kneel beside his fallen partner and found himself collapsing. His hands curved
around familiar shoulders, slipped to cup the strong neck. Found torn flesh,
and blood. Pulling, desperate now, he rolled Bodie over . He knew he had to get help, had to stop the bleeding.
Had to stop... Blue eyes. His eyes were so very blue. And surprised. How could you miss, Ray-mate? You never miss.
You never miss. The sparkle was gone, no more light. Just wide, surprised, blue blue eyes.
And
blood.
*******
<<1995>>
Dimly,
he was aware of a high, thin keening sound, muffled, but still hurtful to his
ears. Bloody damned widow woman somewhere, or a banshee, from
the sound of it. It wouldn't stop! And his throat hurt. With a vague
feeling of disbelief, he realized that the dreadful noise was coming from himself. He concentrated fiercely, and his surroundings
gradually came into focus. He was curled into a ball on top the duvet, one
corner of the pillow stuffed so far into his mouth that his jaw ached from the
stretch. His hands were clenched, white- knuckled fists digging into the
softness of the pillow, hugging it as tightly as he could. His face was wet,
eyes stinging, and his nose was running, clogging his breathing. Between the
mucus and the pillow shoved halfway down his throat it was a wonder he hadn't
suffocated. But then, he always had had shitty luck.
No.
Better luck. Now. He had a reason to stay alive. For a little while longer, at least. He had a murderer to
bring to his own form of justice. A killer to kill.
Then he could let go of the pain. And rest. Until then, he had work to do.
He
straightened his spine, sitting up on the edge of the bed and deliberately
wiping his mind clean. He didn't have much time. Shipley had been spotted in
*******
He'd
watched for three days, and Cade always managed to
get away for a break sometime in the mid- afternoon and head for the low wall
to the southeast of Norwich Cathedral. The white stone tower and spire, jutting
into the surrounding greenery, were a perfect excuse to set up his easel and
wait for his prey. Patience under stress had become his specialty, and on the
third day it paid off.
It
was later than he had hoped, and he was on the point of packing up his paints,
when he spotted the somber figure walking slowly along the pavestones. He
looked tired, and pensive, and abstracted. Doyle smothered a feral grin. Vulnerable.
Perfect.
*******
It
had been a hell of a conference. He felt as if he'd been dancing barefoot
dressed in raw steak through a coal pit full of unchained tigers. But it had
been very productive, and it was over. Now they would disperse, and the real
work would begin. For a moment, the small wave of euphoria swept over him at
the way it had all come together, and the eve-of-battle edge lifted his mood.
Then the evening sunlight glanced off the high arched windows in the tower to
his left, and sherry sparks filled his sight. The same shade as her eyes. He
stopped in his tracks, and took a steadying breath. Enough.
She was gone, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. He suddenly
remembered the aching feeling he had gotten when he remembered his father,
dying when he was only ten, and the anger he had suppressed then joined with
the anger he felt now. Such bloody waste. Such a
damned filthy bloody--
"Cade?"
The
deep, somewhat incredulous question brought him up short. He swung his head to
face the street artist he hadn't really paid attention to, before. Slight, wiry,
strong-looking, about 5'9, ten stone, scruffy clothes, long fingers resting on
slender hips in indecently tight jeans, hair halfway to his ass, emerald eyes,
full lips, straight nose, round chin, broken cheekbone. His eyes automatically
stored every feature, returning again to the eyes, then the cheek, then the
eyes again. A half hidden memory, years ago, when he was
still at the Met. Working in the
"Yes?"
His answer was tentatively friendly. With the press he'd gotten, he never knew
if old colleagues showing up were a good thing or not.
"Doyle.
Ray Doyle. I worked with you--"
"At the Met. I
remember." He closed the distance between them and stretched his hand out
for a firm shake. "It has been a long time." He glanced over the
artist's supplies and the unconventional appearance of the man opposite him.
"And I take it times have changed?" There was a brief flash in the
emerald eyes, gone so quickly he decided he'd imagined it.
"Yeah,
and us with them, I see." Doyle gestured at the expensive suit.
"Don't get that on a copper's pay, do you?" The grin accompanying the
query was a friendly one.
"Yes,
I do," he responded with a smile of his own. "Chief
Constable here."
"Eastland? Since
when? I didn't think you'd ever leave the Met." Narrow hands were
busily stacking supplies as he spoke, and Cade found
his gaze drawn to the long fingers. Artist's ... or marksman's hands, he
thought inconsequentially.
"Oh,
you never know where opportunity's going to knock. You
through for the day?" At the decided nod and squint toward the
rapidly sinking sun from the other man, Cade grinned
again. "Join me for a drink? A lot to catch up on."
And I don't want to be alone, he added silently. He needed some undemanding
company. Rose saw too much, Wes was too old school, and Charlie would never
forget he was his driver long enough to be his drinking companion. The reminder
of just how few friends he actually had settled around him, weighing his
shoulders down. Too many losses. He looked at the
appealingly lopsided face of the younger man and decided Ray Doyle was just
what he needed tonight. He looked as encouraging as he could. Apparently it
worked.
"Love
to. You'd never know it but painting's thirsty work." Lifting his easel
and slinging his pack over his shoulder, he gestured with his chin. "Lay
on, MacDuff."
For
an instant, Cade was irresistibly reminded of bloody
hands. He forced the image away and, smiling, led the way to the nearest pub.
Stepping
across the threshold, he knew he'd made a mistake. Usually, it was a little
crowded, a little noisy, but nothing too boisterous -- a good place to snag a
table in the back corner and unwind. Tonight, it appeared as though half of the
visiting detectives were stacked three deep at the bar, and the noise level was
terrific. He felt Doyle check at his side, and made a quick decision. Leaning
forward, he half-screamed to be heard over the din.
"This
is insane. I have a fully stocked bar at home and we can hear ourselves
think." He waited for the equally quick nod of agreement and turned into
the cool of the night, heading for his car. He'd dismissed his driver earlier
that day, content to get himself home for the night. They didn't say much on
the short walk, and Cade was surprised at the ease of
the silence.
Opening
the boot, he waited until Doyle had stowed his gear, then unlocked the door for
him. As the other man brushed lightly against him, he felt an unusual tingle in
the fine hair along his forearm. Taken aback by the sensation, and unwilling to
examine the possible explanation for his reaction, he hurried to his own door
and slipped behind the wheel. The drive seemed to take no time at all, and he
was swinging his front door open and gesturing for Doyle to precede him.
"Will
your paints be all right in the car? Temperature won't bother them? It gets
chilly here pretty quickly." Inane, perhaps, but he couldn't think of
anything else to say. The flash of dark green eyes and the quirk to the full
lips distracted him, and he found himself leaning against the door, watching
his guest.
"Nah,
they'll be fine. They've seen worse." Not seeming to notice how his host
was melting into the door, Doyle began to prowl around the living area,
stopping to examine the oil painting above the fireplace, the glazed pot on the
side table, the inlaid chest beside the sofa. Long fingers brushed, lingered,
as if he was seeing the beauty of the objects through his fingertips. Cade felt a sudden tightness in his chest, watching the
tactile exploration, and forced a breath past his pursed lips. He didn't know
what the bloody hell was wrong with him, but it was time to get past it, and
offer the poor man a drink.
"What's
your pleasure?" He tried for a light tone as he headed for the small wet
bar by the fireplace. It didn't - quite - work, but Doyle didn't react to the
tinge of panic underlying the question.
"Single
malt, if you have it." There was something there, buried deeply but still
powerful, under the low voice. Doyle was staring at the swirling greens and
blues of the glaze on the ceramic pot, lost in the wash of color. Cade was intrigued by the hint of pain, and wondered at his
guest's abstraction. He splashed a liberal two fingers of scotch into a pair of
crystal glasses and brought them over to Doyle.
"Here
you go," he offered, waiting for the other man to come back from wherever
he had gone, extending the glass patiently. Doyle slowly set the pot down,
carefully placing it precisely where it had been when he picked it up. Taking
the glass he smiled over at his host. Cade thought,
or hoped, that the brush of fingers had been casual.
He
sank gratefully onto the end of the sofa, propping his back against the arm
cushion and waving a hand in Doyle's general direction. "Take a load off,
Doyle. I'm going to. Been a hell of a few days."
The
younger man chose to settle next to him on the sofa instead of taking the
wingchair angled next to it. He stared into the depths of his drink for a
moment, then raised it so that the light from the
corner lamp caused the liquid to glow amber. "What shall we drink to? Old days? New? Old
acquaintances? Or just ... a hell of a week?"
Cade watched him, caught up in the
grace of his movements. Then he grinned suddenly, shifted forward, and clinked the rim of his tumbler to Doyle's. "All of it. Why not." The crystal rang clearly in the still of the
room, and Doyle turned, catching Cade's eye.
"All
of it," he replied softly. "Yeah." The
word was a soft growl. "I like that." Then he broke the odd tension
between them with a lopsided grin, showing off a chipped tooth and looking for all the world like a ten year old.
Cade relaxed, and sipped his drink. He
needed to relax, and Ray Doyle might just be the best way to do it. They talked
for a long time, falling into an occasional silence, neither seeming to mind.
The level in the scotch bottle slowly dropped, but Cade
was relishing this unusual evening too much to pay attention. Doyle was
fascinating. He was quick, and had a biting sense of humor, and had traveled
through many of the same places Cade had worked in
throughout
*******
Doyle
watched the man slouching against the cushions next to him, taking in the lines
of stress between the dark brows, the shadows under the jade eyes. His frame
had lost its earlier tension-induced rigidity, and his strong, square hands
were idly playing with the half full glass of scotch. He had limited his own
intake skillfully without letting the older man notice, and the majority of the
liquor had made its way into Cade. He got the feeling
the other man didn't unwind very often, and, while not about to question his
unusual luck, he did wonder what it was about himself that caused Cade to trust him. Whatever it was, he'd use it. Things
were moving along nicely.
He
found himself, unexpectedly, wishing for more time. Cade
was an interesting, complex individual -- a liberal with radical ideas about
justice doing his damnedest to make a difference in a very conservative patch.
He was articulate, and bitingly funny, and deeply passionate, even when half
toasted as he was now. It was a shame that his time was so limited. He would
have enjoyed spending some time with the Chief. But Shipley moved fast, and his
schedule was stretched. He'd been in
Worrying
the problem in the back of his mind, he tuned back into the conversation and
caught the last of an anecdote Cade was telling.
Seemed there were two camps in a certain corner of
He
made the appropriate noises, encouraging more tales and supplying a few of his
own, gleaned from years around some of the best liars in the country. Surreptitiously
he topped the other man's glass, encouraging him to forget his troubles and
enjoy the company. It took somewhat longer than he expected, but by eleven, he
had his prey nicely pickled. Just enough to make him
malleable, not enough to render him incapable.
They'd
started a fire earlier in the evening, and he used the excuse of adding wood to
shift himself off the sofa. When he returned, he
emptied the last of the scotch into Cade's tumbler,
concealing the state of the bottle before he turned back to hand the glass to
him. He unfastened another button on his shirt, playing with the soft fabric,
drawing attention to his body, watching the other man's reactions, his own
manner deceptively casual. Cade took a deep breath, then lifted his eyes from the open shirtfront with what
looked like an effort. This might not be as difficult as he feared. He wondered
how long it had been since Cade had been touched,
decided to take the initiative and see what happened. If worse came to worst
and Cade threw him out, he could always break in and
see what he could find after the older man passed out from the scotch.
When
he resettled on the sofa, he moved closer to his target, allowing the side of
his thigh to rub lightly against Cade's knee. The
older man stilled, but didn't withdraw. Good, first point to the seducer. They
sat quietly for a moment, Doyle staring pensively into the fire and not
appearing to notice their proximity. After a few minutes had dragged by, Cade shifted. Unfortunately, there was nowhere to shift to,
and when he relaxed again his knee was pressing even more firmly against
Doyle's thigh. Cue action, Doyle thought dryly. The edge of Cade's
glass clicked faintly against his teeth as he swallowed the last of his scotch.
Doyle very slowly turned his head to gaze, wide eyed, at the other man. With
equal deliberation, he twisted his torso, using the firelight to highlight the
curves of his chest and arms, drawing attention to the line of his waist and
his long legs. He felt as much as saw Cade's eyes
flicker helplessly along the length of him, watched the nervous sweep of tongue
over dry lips, noted the convulsive clench of the
blunt fingers around the heavy crystal glass. Now or never.
Cade was as ripe for the plucking as he was ever
going to be, and if he hesitated now, second thoughts and sobriety would take
his chance from him.
He
stilled, willing the narrowed jade eyes opposite his to look up. It took some
concentration, because Cade's attention was focused
on the hollow of his throat, seemingly mesmerized by the pulse beating there.
Eventually, his stillness penetrated the other man's preoccupation, and he
glanced up. Doyle allowed the heat to show in his own eyes, and Cade stared, fascinated. Taking care not to lose that eye
contact, Doyle leaned forward slowly, watching the other man's face flush, his
eyes widen, pupils dilating. Yeah, he hadn't lost it. Hadn't used it in a long
time, and hadn't seduced a man like this since ... no. He would not think of Bodie now. He couldn't afford to. Deliberately, he slid his
right hand lightly from his own thigh onto the top of Cade's
knee. The other man didn't even flinch, still staring into Doyle's face, caught
in his eyes. The hand continued its journey along the solid muscle of Cade's thigh. Cade raised his right
hand, as if to stop its progress, and Doyle brought his left hand around,
twining his fingers with the upraised hand. The tumbler was still in Cade's left hand, and with his right hand tangled with
Doyle's he was momentarily immobilized. Doyle used that moment to his best
advantage.
He
didn't try to kiss him. Instead, he ignored the tempting mouth and took his cue
from Cade's own actions. He trailed the tip of his
tongue in the hollow of Cade's throat, canting his
head to the side, and drawing a moist line with his tongue along the tendon
running up the side of his throat, then over to the point of his jaw. It
worked, even better than he expected. Cade had a very
sensitive neck. The fingers wound around his suddenly clenched, drawing him
closer, and he took advantage of the better angle to nibble along the underside
of Cade's jaw. He felt the crystal glass fall against
his shoulder blade as Cade's left hand came up to
curl into his shoulder, pulling him nearer still. The older man dropped his
head back against the soft cushions, closing his eyes and breathing softly
through his mouth, just short of a pant. Oh, it had been a long time, then,
hadn't it, Doyle thought triumphantly, then busied his
fingers with the buttons along the front of Cade's
shirt.
He
gave a quick nip to Cade's lobe, then
licked along the edge of his ear, distracting the now-slowly writhing man from
his efforts at undressing him until the shirt was completely opened. Then he
began to nibble and lick his way back down Cade's
throat, stopping for a slow suckling just over his Adam's apple that caused Cade's entire body to jerk. Then down, across the arched
throat, the lightly furred chest just beginning to
heave as his breathing became erratic. Doyle nosed his way through the soft
hair until he found a flat nipple, then he concentrated on the soft flesh,
teasing it with teeth and tongue until it hardened. Cade
was whimpering now, a strangled sound forced out from a tight throat, almost
painful to hear. Leaving one nipple for another, he spent some time arousing
them fully, kneading the lean muscles of Cade's
chest, slipping along his sides, drawing lines of fire along the nerve endings
from the soft flesh along his waist to the dark hair under his arms. The two
men had gradually shifted until Cade was lying full
length on the sofa, one leg along the back of the seat cushions, the other
bent, his heel pushing into the floor, pressing as much of his body into
contact with Doyle's as he could. Doyle was draped over the top of him, both
hands busily caressing all the skin he could reach, mouth making forays across
and over and along Cade's chest. Doyle suddenly bit
into the underside of a pectoral muscle, and Cade
bucked under him in response, an inarticulate protest breaking through. It was
the signal Doyle was waiting for.
In
a sudden flurry of motion, he ripped Cade's shirt
down over his shoulders and down to his elbows, effectively trapping his arms.
He slithered down Cade's body, forcing him to feel
every inch of the movement, before dropping to his knees beside the sofa.
Grasping the other man's hips firmly, Doyle pulled him around until both feet
were touching the floor, Doyle kneeling between them. Two quick moves at button
and zip, long fingers inserted into waistband of slacks and pants and swiftly,
if carefully, pulled out of the way, and Doyle had Cade's
erection free. He reached under the man's hips and yanked the material down far
enough to give himself maneuvering room, then cupped Cade's
sac in his left hand, rolling the heavy testes from side to side as he curved
the fingers of his right around the swollen shaft and looked up at his victim. Cade's head was thrown back, his lips parted, a deep flush
started from his chest and swept into his face. Sweat was standing out over his
skin, and he looked utterly abandoned. Doyle felt his own arousal fiercely, and
bent to his task, determined to seduce Cade so
thoroughly he'd never be able to turn him in.
Cade's hips were thrusting up of their
own accord as Doyle palmed his erection, applying a hard, steady rhythm with
his hand as he sucked deeply on the head. From the state of him, Cade wouldn't last long, and with the amount of liquor in
him, hopefully he'd sleep deeply. Doyle worked away at Cade's
swollen cock, matching his pace to the older man's thrusts, alternating between
a milking motion with his fingers and irregular deep gulps that engulfed the
whole of the cock. His left hand played along the sensitive skin of the
perineum, brushing along from the base of the tender sac to the beginning of
the cleft of his buttocks. A finger played with the puckered opening, and as he
felt the balls tighten and the thrusts increase, Doyle drove just the tip into Cade's anus. The extra sensation was all it took, and the
other man climaxed with a convulsive jerk that nearly threw Doyle off. He held Cade's hip down with his right hand and relaxed his throat,
swallowing the straining cock throughout the orgasm. When it finally finished
he gently withdrew his finger and pulled away, cleaning the last of the semen
off the twitching flesh before letting it slip from his mouth. Doyle looked up,
unconsciously licking his lips, to find Cade staring
at him in a combination of shock, satiation and the last remnants of arousal. Cue
action, round two, he grinned to himself.
Still
without speaking, he uncurled from his kneeling position. Reaching out to pull Cade from the sofa, he efficiently stripped him of his
shirt and pushed the slacks and pants the rest of the way off. Just as
efficiently, he stripped off his own clothes and held out his hand to Cade. Finally, softly, he
almost-whispered, "Bed." A command, not a
question. Cade obeyed in a sort of sex and
scotch induced haze, moving as if immersed in unreality.
By
the time they reached the king sized bed, Cade was
starting to come around. Doyle didn't give him the chance to sober completely.
Turning him around by the simple expedient of pulling his wrist behind his back
and leaning into him, he pitched them both onto the soft mattress. Before Cade could form a protest, Doyle covered that full mouth
with his own, giving in to the urge to kiss and explore that he had ignored
earlier. He brought a hand up and caressed Cade's
throat, finding the sensitive spots that had made him so hot just a little
while earlier. They worked again. God, bite the man's neck and he was
anybody's, Doyle cracked to himself, before the hard
thigh working its way between his own nudged up against his erection and
brought him back to the moment. Some of the lethargy from Cade's
explosive orgasm was still in evidence as Doyle curved himself around the other
man's body and tipped him over onto his side. He began to lick and nibble
again, along Cade's spine this time, outlining each
vertebra with his teeth, enjoying the writhing that was beginning again. By the
time he got to the swell of Cade's buttocks, that
delicious whimpering was being torn from his throat once more, and Doyle knew
he had him. Now to make sure he had Cade well enough
that he would not dare to betray him.
Shifting
to settle between the older man's splayed thighs, he
palmed the curves of his buttocks and pulled them gently apart. Running the
edge of his tongue lightly from the bulge of Cade's
sac, pressed against the mattress, along the flinching skin to the base of his
anus, Doyle moistened his mouth and allowed the saliva to pool behind his
teeth. Gathering it up with his tongue, he licked across the tight opening,
laving it thoroughly. Every time the roughness of his tongue lapped across it, Cade moaned, sounding surprised and overwhelmed and awash
with pleasure. Doyle licked at his finger, then slowly
worked it into the tight anus, curling his hand to loosen the muscle and relax
the entry. At the first rake of his finger over Cade's
prostate, a strangled gasp came from above him on the bed. First time, looked
like, and he was loving it, if the involuntary hump
backward onto Doyle's hand was any indication. He took his time, building his
own arousal, enjoying the sight and the sound of Cade's,
gradually working a second, then a third finger into the now greedily grasping
channel. Doyle spread a combination of saliva and pre-ejaculate over his own
erection, then withdrew his fingers. Cade moaned a protest at the action, and Doyle soothed him
with a gentle bite to the shoulder. Then he placed the tip of his erection
against the small opening and carefully pushed. Cade
was so aroused by this point he pushed backward abruptly, taking more of the
rigid cock in than Doyle had intended, then freezing at the unaccustomed
intruder. Doyle snaked a hand around to grasp Cade's
erection, beginning to fade under the stress, and pumped it firmly to distract
the older man from the continued assault. With deliberate care, Doyle continued
until he had Cade fully aroused and himself fully
sheathed, then he paused, allowing the man under him to adjust to the fullness.
Very quickly, the dual stimulation of Doyle's hand and cock overwhelmed Cade's distraction with the new sensations, and Cade began to buck back and forth, muttering into the
pillow for Doyle to get on with it, damnit. Doyle
grinned widely at the command and put his back into it, reaming Cade as thoroughly as he was ordered, driving them both out
of control.
Cade, having come once already,
outlasted Doyle. The younger man felt himself fall over the edge and threw his
head back, loosing one low growl as he came, and came hard. He fell forward
against Cade's back as the climax tapered off,
burying his face in the scented curve of his shoulder, biting gently, leaving
his mark on the smooth skin. The final tiny spark of pain must have been what Cade was waiting for, because before Doyle could withdraw, Cade's orgasm caused his sphincter to clench around his
softening cock. It was painful on the extra-sensitive flesh, but he rode it
out, digging his fingers into Cade's hips. When the
last contraction eased, and the muscle relaxed, Doyle pulled out with a
deliciously wet sound and wrapped his arms around the other man. He spooned up
against him and waited until the even cadence of his breathing announced that Cade had slipped into a deep sleep.
Time to get to work.
Carefully
easing his arms from around the warm body next to him, Doyle waited for the
slight sound of protest to die away and the even breathing to resume. Cade shifted at the loss of warmth in the cool night air,
and Doyle gently tucked the duvet around the curve of his spine, keeping him
cozy. He certainly didn't want him to wake up now -- might ask some awkward
questions, even through the booze-haze. By slow increments, Doyle levered
himself from the mattress and, with a last searching glance at his unknowing
source, headed for the den on silent feet. The memory of that stern face,
relaxed into misleading innocence in sleep, nagged at him, but he didn't have
time for conscience. Not now. Too much to do.
Stopping
just long enough to dress, making sure to stay as silent as possible and
stopping often to listen for any signs of movement in the next room, he crept
to the desk. Slipping a penlight and his pick kit out of his jacket pocket, he
set to work on the drawer he had seen Cade put his
folders into when they first arrived at the house. It was a solid lock, but he
was -- or had been -- a professional, and his initial misgivings about breaking
and entering had worn away completely over the years. Four searching wriggles
of the pick, and the lock gave with a quiet snick that sounded like a gunshot
in the still room. He froze again, every sense tuned toward the bedroom, but no
movement answered the sound. Getting his heart firmly back in his chest where
it belonged and out of his throat where it had leapt, he eased the drawer open
and began to flick efficiently through the papers. Less than a third of the way
through the bulky folder he found exactly what he had been looking for.
He'd
been right. There was very little time. The locals were on to Shipley's little
crew, and they were planning a raid on his drop site the next afternoon -- no,
it was nearly three in the morning. Today, then. There
was the time, 1400, and the address of the warehouse. For a heartbeat he went
still, his thoughts returning to another warehouse, another meeting with
Shipley. With an inaudible growl, he pushed the memories away firmly,
concentrating on the papers, memorizing the salient details. Yes, they had
enough to put him away. Schedules of movements, patterns of
behavior. Contacts. And they were no doubt
planning to bargain with the bastard, in hopes of netting some of the bigger
fish. Not this time, boys, he thought fiercely. This one is mine. This one is
dead.
Replacing
the papers exactly as he found them, he relocked the drawer with his pick and
took a final look around, making sure he hadn't missed anything. As he
unlatched the door and stepped into the very early morning breeze, he spared a regret for the man he left sleeping behind him. It had
been ... more personal than he'd expected, and much more difficult to leave
than it usually was. Something about Cade got to him.
He shook his head abruptly, loosened hair swinging about his shoulders. It was
too near the end game to be distracted now, no matter how he had enjoyed the
Chief's company, or found unexpected pleasure in his bed. Alan Cade was a means to an end. If all went well this
afternoon, he would never see him again.
He
refused to consider why that thought should feel so bloody depressing.
Consigning
his canvas and paints to 'loss in the commission of duty,' he set a fast pace
for his hotel room. It was a cold forty minutes before he let himself in the
side door and made his way up the stairs, but he didn't notice the temperature.
His mind was busy ticking over the details of the hit, when he needed to be
there and set up, possible actions on Shipley's part, how tightly he had to cut
it to be out of there before the coppers arrived to find the corpse, mentally
cataloguing his tools -- Walther, silencer, extra clips, Browning for back-up
in case of a stoppage. Running over the map of the area he had memorized,
making a note to check alternate routes, escape routes, need to take extra time
to get there by a circuitous route so as not to draw attention. His body was
exhausted but his mind was in high gear, preparing for the one thing he had
been working for and waiting for, for years. He didn't stop to think what he would
do after Shipley was dead. He didn't really care. His entire being was
concentrated on paying blood for blood.
Reaching
his small room at last, he studied the local map intently for several minutes.
Then, satisfied, he stripped and settled under the covers, setting his watch
alarm for nine. Five hours of sleep, then breakfast at a nearby restaurant and
a nice long walk with an inconspicuous canvas bag slung over his shoulder. An hour to get there, an hour to reconnoiter, an hour to wait.
If his luck held and Shipley kept to his routine, he should arrive at the
warehouse no later than 1300. Walk in, get popped. Doyle'd
have time to check the corpse and get out the back before the cavalry arrived.
By then, it'd be too late for this particular Indian. Aware he was mixing his
metaphors and too damned tired to care, he let himself fall into sleep.
He
wasn't aware of the changes around him, just a muzzy white light, seeping under
his eyelids. And pain, a fire in his belly, his ribs restrained, hard to
breathe, body feeling oddly heavy. His throat, raw and sore,
dry as if he'd been screaming. His gut, a deeper ache, like someone had
reached into his abdomen and ripped out his insides, leaving him with a gaping
hole in his middle. But there were no bandages there. Bandages?
Why was he wearing bandages? What was with that stupid beeping noise and why
did his side itch and how come he couldn't move and where was Bodie?
BODIE.
Oh,
Christ. Bodie. Oh, god. God-fucking- damnit. Bodie.
He
didn't realize he was screaming although he did pry his eyes open to see three
concerned faces towering over him. A man, he didn't know him. A girl, mouth all
primmed up, not sure if she was offended or shocked,
didn't give a tinker's damn. And Cowley. Not looking
like the Cow. Looking like the Cow's father. When had Cowley gotten so old? Lines on his face, bags under his eyes, lips a thin line
like they got when his leg was really giving it to him. Why were they holding
him down? And where the *fuck* was that *noise* coming from?
More muzzy whiteness.
No
Bodie. Where was Bodie?
Cowley, sitting in a chair. Standing over him. Touching his shoulder,
avoiding the bulky gauze and the tubes and the needles. His face was
wet. Cow, crying? Ah, shit, Bodie.
Why'd it have to be you? So damned much blood. Bodie. Love. I'm sorry. It should have been me.
"No, lad. You canna blame yourself." And
why the bloody hell not? I'm still here, aren't I? WHY? Why, without Bodie?
Flashes
of light, winter on the ground and blowing in his face. No Bodie
to pick him up. Murph was a champ but he wasn't his
lover. His partner. His. Bodie.
Shaking,
holding a gun. Alone, in the flat, alarms turned on, locks turned and bolts
thrown, it'd take awhile to get to him. No Bodie to
come through the window this time and stop the bleeding. *Damn* Murphy. And
damn George-bloody-Cowley. Another muzzy white time, then too many doctors in
too many hospitals and too many clinics before being invalided out. Unstable. Of course he was unstable, he'd lost his anchor,
hadn't he? Lost his center. Flying
away on the anger and the pain and the sheer bloody minded waste of it all.
Wandering,
but not for long. The nightmares didn't go away, they just became old friends.
There was blood on the sheets, blood on the floor, on the walls, on his hands,
on his chest, on his face. Bound by his word to Cowley, he watched as the third
man was brought in, questioned, tried, convicted. Frightened the jury with his
testimony ... frightened the villain with his eyes. Blood, in
his eyes. Had to watch as the little bastard was taken from his reach,
but that wasn't the one he wanted, that one hadn't killed his soul. The other one. Shipley. He would
die. Blood for blood.
Cold again. Drops of
rain on his skin, soaking his black leather jacket, freezing his feet. Dismal weather, perfect for the day. Anonymous
little gravesite, dignified granite marker, name, dates, Servant to his
Country. Rich dark earth on a polished box.
Bye, Cow. You can care for your young no longer. The bonds are broken, the last
promise no longer binding him. Turning from the graveside,
turning to the grey horizon, finding a new promise, old within him, freed now
to fulfill it. Scrubbed the palms of his hands against
his legs.
Couldn't get the blood off.
And
that damned beeping was back.
With
a start, Doyle woke, poking at the tiny button on his wrist alarm then
unconsciously rubbing the palms of his hands together. Another
night, another nightmare. Or had it been memories? It was so hard to
tell the two apart. Shaking off the last of his distraction, he rose and
prepared for the day. The hunter scented his prey, and there would be blood
before he was satisfied.
*******
The
bell on the alarm took him by surprise, jerking him from an unusually deep
sleep. As he rolled painfully over and swatted at the irritating thing with one
hand until it finally shut up, Cade moaned, stretched
gingerly, and tried to hold the top of his head on with the other hand. He
didn't usually drink very much, preferring to keep control of himself and the
situation at all times. But last night that control had slipped. With a vengeance. He had wondered what would happen when the
facade of strength finally cracked. Now he knew.
He
squeezed his eyes tightly shut against the offensively bright sunlight, then
started to sit up. A deep twinge at the base of his spine and a muscle cramp
along the top of his thigh stopped him mid-motion. Holy
Mother of God. What had he done last night?
The
memories were hazy around the edges, but his body wasn't lying. He had the sort
of all-over muscular relaxation he only got when completely satiated, and a
vague ache in his lower back as if he'd spent too much time hunched at his
desk. He felt a blush start somewhere around his toes when he remembered just
how that second orgasm had come about. The unintentional pun, even in the
privacy of his own thoughts, caused him to wince, then
grin ruefully. Lifting himself cautiously, he took a deep breath and
straightened, pleased when the stiffness in his back and legs eased. Swallowing
hard, he peered at the sheets, relieved to find no traces of blood mixed with
the sticky mess of sweat and semen splashed liberally across his bed. The blush
intensified. God almighty. Forty nine years old and
last night he'd lost his cherry.
And
he'd enjoyed it.
Even
more drunk than he could remember being since Marie
had left him, he still could have called a halt to the proceedings. But it had
felt ... god, he didn't even know how to describe it to himself. Exciting,
yeah, and arousing in a wholly new fashion. The shock of looking down at that
unruly mass of hair and that generous mouth wrapped around his erection,
burying his fingers in the silky curls, the heat and strength of Ray's mouth,
and hands, and arms as he held him down on the sofa -- the incredible sensation
of a wet rough tongue in areas he seldom touched himself, the gentle,
inescapable invasion of his body, first by Ray's mouth, then his hand, then his
cock. God. Oh, god. Cade
realized he was shaking, standing still, staring at the bed, his mind supplying
feverish images of exactly what Ray Doyle had done to him the previous night,
and how he had responded. He'd never really thought of himself as wanton,
before, and it was a hell of a shock to think of it now.
But
it was more than that. For the first time in so long he couldn't remember, he had not felt alone. The sheer comfortof
Ray's touch, even beyond the sensuality, was in its warmth. The
closeness. He'd felt a connection with him before he'd taken his first
sip of scotch, standing against the door, watching him move. He hadn't
understood it at the time, or hadn't wanted to, but it had been there. Waiting for him.
The
alarm rang again, and he jumped, then swore. He'd only
hit the snooze button, not the alarm. Just as well, he had a lot of work to do
today. No time to stand around and ... and ... Feeling the blush that had only
just died down start to rise again, he hurried into the loo
to wash and try to put his composure back together. Wouldn't do for the
denizens of Eastland Constabulary to see their Chief with a
permanent sunburn and a fucked -through-the-mattress look when he
finally made it to the office!
Thankfully,
it was a busy morning. Citizens to placate, politicians to
piss off, briefings to give and receive, and a raid to coordinate. He
went down to the armory and checked out his weapon, since he was going with the
squad to hit the warehouse that afternoon. There was a small time pusher there,
and if they could bring him in and question him, they could squeeze some
details out of him, and hopefully put a major crimp in the pipeline of drugs
and weapons heading toward
Forcing
himself to put all the nagging questions aside, he called his detectives in for
one final briefing and headed for the car. This was too important to let
personal considerations interfere. When it was over, and the criminals were
cooling their heels in lock-up, then he could get back to Ray. He felt a
pleasant glow at the thought, and set that aside for the evening as well. He
was unable, however, to completely eradicate the little grin his face insisted
on sporting. Oh, well. He could always blame it on anticipation. Wouldn't be a total lie, after all.
*******
The
walk out and the muesli he'd managed to force down his throat, washed down with
orange juice, had centered him. Doyle was completely focused as he slipped into
the side entrance of the quiet warehouse. There were so many things to remind
him, here, of the past. He desperately shoved the memories down, feeling the
weight of years and weariness wearing at his mental walls, threatening to
breach his defenses when he needed most to be strong. One final task, he
promised himself. When Shipley's dead, he could rest. Bodie
could rest.
He'd
never gotten the chance to say good-bye.
He
drew a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a fine trembling
throughout his muscles, running along his bones. Better to let it run its course, get it out of the way. Then he would be calm. For an
instant, his lover's face was before his, deep blue eyes hidden behind heavy
lashed lids, hands pressed together, calm concentration on his face as he went
through his morning routine, greeting the sun. The tremble intensified,
abruptly, into a shudder, then passed and was gone. When his eyes opened again,
they were dull emeralds, barely glinting in the dim light. Pupils distended,
face drawn, he resembled nothing more than a feral hunting cat, scenting his
prey, flattening himself against the wall, slipping into place. The satchel on
his shoulder was silently placed behind a large crate near the back of the
warehouse, one weapon slipped into the back of his waistband,
the other held loosely, waiting, in his palm, long fingers wrapped around the
grip, as the other hand tightened the silencer on the muzzle. Long legs curled
comfortably in place, slender body slid into the dark, private spot, clear line
of sight to the cramped office where the drug runner conducted his business. Time to wait. He breathed softly, eyes intent, seeing only
the target area, hearing nothing but his heartbeat.
Time
slowed, a steady flip of numerals on the digital face of his watch, matching
the slow thump of his pulse. It seemed forever before there was movement in the
doorway of the office. Late. Leave it to a small time
villain like Shipley to be late to his own funeral. Nearly
1340. It would be close. But he would have time. He edged up into firing
position, still completely camouflaged by the surrounding crates, waiting for
the best shot. He would have one, perhaps two, no more than that. There was no
time for more. But he would have his shot. And hadn't Bodie
told him he never missed? He'd not gotten rusty. He'd insured that when the
time came he would be up to the task. But Shipley was being an uncooperative
bastard, as usual. On the phone, pacing like a trapped rat, the posts in the
thin dividing wall that marked the area of the office interfered with his aim.
He would not fire until he knew he had him. There.
Now. One muffled crack. A flinch, a recoil in the figure before him. Adjust sight, as quick as
the thought.
NOW. A second quiet
crack, sounding as close as an echo to the first.
SHIT!
Nonononononononono...
*******
Cade spun in disbelief as his arrest
blew up in his face. There was a sniper somewhere in the building. His men had
gotten to the rendezvous early, and with visual confirmation of the suspect had
made their move. Not two feet into the confines of the warehouse they'd heard
the first snap of a bullet, the whuffling whine of a
silencer. The suspect dived out of immediate sight, and his officers swarmed
around the office as the second shot came out of nowhere and shattered the thin
metal frame of the office door, not a foot from Cade's
face. Behind him. It had come from behind him. He
whirled and headed for the side of the warehouse, calling out to his men as he
ran.
Scrambling
over and through the stacked crates, cursing viciously under his breath at the
right royal cock up the whole raid had turned into, Cade
saw the small entryway and threw himself out the door, slamming cautiously
against the wall as he came around the corner. He was *not* anxious to get any
closer to a bullet than he'd already been that morning. Then he saw him.
Not
three yards away. Long, silky curls glinting in the weak
sunlight, glinting as well off the blue metal of the gun in his hand. A strong, slender body, long legs working to take him as far, as
fast as possible. Cade stopped, lifted his
weapon, and tried to call out. His voice didn't work. But the other man must
have heard something. He stopped, abruptly, and turned to face his pursuer.
Doyle's
face was drawn, all the color leached from it, only his eyes alive with a green
fire that burned all the way through Alan Cade.
Doyle's gun came up, leveled at him. Emerald met jade, both guns steady, then Cade slowly lowered his
weapon.
"Ray."
Only a whisper. All he could manage.
Doyle
slowly lowered his gun. He shook his head, like a man waking from a dream, then
turned again. Before Cade could react, he was around
the corner and away. As several of his men clambered through the door behind
him, he heard the footsteps fade away.
"Sir?"
panted PC Gordon. "You see 'im, sir? Did 'e go
this way?"
"No,"
Cade answered slowly. "No, I didn't see
anyone." He turned back toward the front of the warehouse. Gesturing for
his deputy, he inclined his head toward the mess inside the warehouse.
"Take care of this, Wes. I have something that I have to attend to."
Without giving the other man a chance to respond beyond a quick nod of
acquiescence, he nearly ran toward his car. "Charlie?" PC Webb ran to
his side. "Give me the keys. I have to -- see someone." Without a
word, the young black man handed the car key over. Before anyone could question
him, knowing he was acting like a madman and completely unable to stop himself,
Cade settled himself into
the driver's seat and threw the car in gear. He had to catch Ray. Had to find
out what the bloody hell was going on. Had to find out why.
Why he'd been picked up, seduced, and very nearly killed. Why he'd been
betrayed.
*******
That
had been a royal fuck-up. He ran until he was well out of range, watching his
back, cursing his luck. Cade just had to be early. Damned super- copper. Couldn't keep to a goddamned schedule,
any more than that asshole Shipley, and why the hell had *he* been so bloody
late? The thoughts chased themselves through his head, as he doubled back and
slipped through back alleys and leafy side streets, finally arriving at his
hotel. He stared at the white plasterwork and clean painted trim for long
moments before melting back into the shadows. It was Cade's
fault he'd lost Shipley. Well, Cade's and Shipley's.
But he wouldn't miss again. And Cade was going to
help him get the bastard.
Retracing
his steps carefully, he reviewed what he knew of Cade.
The Chief Constable was deeply committed to justice and upholding the law,
making a practice of taking a reaming in the course of executing his duties if
it protected the innocent and captured the guilty. He might take the risk of
having Doyle tell about their little fling last night if Ray made the mistake of
going back to his hotel. Cade just might be angry
enough to throw his career to the wind to put Doyle away for the fiasco at the
warehouse. Better to give him time, make him think, allow
him a breathing space in which to calm himself. He'd be more reasonable by
tonight.
Doyle
headed toward the house he'd left in the early morning hours. He'd watched Cade set the alarms the previous evening. Compared to those
he'd set -- and broken through -- in his CI5 days, they were a cake walk. He'd
just beat Cade home, and when the Chief walked in
tonight he'd have a little surprise waiting for him.
*******
He
hadn't checked out. His gear was still in the room, the bed had been slept in, the maid hadn't yet been in to make up the room. Cade made a complete reconnaissance of the room, but there
was nothing incriminating in it at all. Only a local map, curled at the edges,
creased as if it had been well used. Two pairs of jeans, a
sweatshirt, some tee shirts, socks, underwear. Doyle traveled very
lightly.
Frustration
clawed at him. There had to be a reason. He debated with himself about telling
the others what he had seen. He knew he should ... knew,
eventually, he probably would. But he had felt a connection last night that had
taken him completely by surprise, and he knew in his gut that there was
something very strange going on here. And he wanted to find out what it was. He
*had* to find out. For the sake of his pride, if not his
sanity.
Taking
a last look around the Spartan room, he was turning toward the door when he saw
the thin piece of paper by the side of the rumpled bed. Leaning down, he
flipped it over and unfolded a corner that had become bent. It was an old
snapshot, colors faded with time. Three men, laughing, arms
around one another. He recognized the grinning face in the middle of the
group hug. Doyle's urchin grin, beaming from a younger face,
with shorter, lighter curls, no vivid streak of white at his temple. He
was clutched tightly in the long arms of a handsome, smiling man with close
cropped dark hair, chest to chest, with Doyle's arms draped possessively around
the other man's waist. Behind Doyle, the dark haired man's hands splayed around
his shoulders, stood an older man, a laughing smile on
his face as he held the dark man's elbow in turn. There was a wealth of
affection in the shot, laughter and easy camaraderie lighting up the
time-dulled lines of the photograph. The clothes placed the scene about fifteen
years before, late seventies or early eighties. The state of the paper
indicated that it was well worn, as if it had been held and pored over many
times. Something about the older man struck a chord in his memory, but he
couldn't quite place the face. Cade tucked the
snapshot in his jacket pocket. It would come to him. For now, he had missed his
quarry. He had to return to headquarters and see what the team had picked up at
the warehouse. And he had to think. Doyle wasn't gone. He didn't know how he
knew it, he just did. And until he had more information, he would keep what he
had seen this afternoon quiet. He had to find him, had to talk to him, as soon
as possible.
Unaware
of the deep frown etching lines on his face, or the pain lurking in the back of
his eyes, he made his way down the stairs to his car and headed toward his
office. He had work to do. The pain would have to
wait.
It
always did.
The
ending of the work day was not nearly as bright as the beginning. The afternoon
was a maze of frustration, dead ends, nonexistent clues and short tempers. The
older man's laughing face popped into his mind at odd moments, and he knew that
the key to the entire bizarre situation lay in that picture. But Cade was damned if he could figure it out, or remember just
where he had seen those craggy features. The staff around him moved as quietly
as possible, and he let them think his ragged temper was due to the blown
set-up that afternoon. But it went much deeper than that. By the time he
finally admitted that he wasn't getting anywhere on his private investigation
it was nearly eight, and he gave up the fight for the evening and headed home.
Perhaps if he stopped trying so hard his subconscious would give him the answer
he was searching for. He certainly hoped so. He absolutely hated having the
answer in his fingers and being unable to understand it. And he hated, even
more strongly, to be played for the fool. It had happened too many times in his
life, and this time was one time too many.
*******
The
sun had long since gone down, but Doyle wasn't about to light the fire, or even
turn on the heater. He wanted to give Cade no warning
whatsoever of his presence, until it was too late for the other man to get
help. He needed to make the situation perfectly plain to the Chief Constable.
When he did, he was quite certain the older man would see it his way.
Of
course, there was always the off chance that Cade
would let his personal code of honor get in the way of Doyle's quest for
vengeance. If that happened, well ... Doyle still had his handcuffs. And a gag. And a little time. It
wouldn't be the first time he'd had to disappear into the woodwork, and he was
close to his goal, this time. He'd winged Shipley at the warehouse, he knew he
had. The bastard wouldn't get very far. And this time he'd have him. He just
had to keep Cade off his back long enough to get him.
He
finally admitted to himself that he didn't care what happened to him after
Shipley was dead. He had lived for this for so long that he had nothing left.
He wouldn't go to prison, he knew that. After years as first a copper, then a
CI5 agent, he had too many enemies behind bars to ever survive a prison term.
But he couldn't bring himself to care about getting caught. He just needed to
kill Shipley. So, he decided fatalistically, if he accomplished his task and
escaped, he would take it as it came and figure out what to do then. If he
didn't escape, he'd eat his gun.
Maybe
then he'd finally have some peace.
The
scrape of the key in the deadbolt interrupted his increasingly morbid thoughts,
and he pressed himself against the side wall of the bedroom, in the depths of
the shadows. He heard the click of the door shutting, the slide of the locks,
and the whisper of fingertips pressing the security pad followed by the tiny
beep as the electronic alarm system reactivated. Weary tread of feet across the
living room carpet, a pause, then a clink as a glass
was raised and lowered with a decided slam back to the surface of the table.
Guess the Chief wasn't in the mood for a drink tonight. There was the rustle of
cloth as the tie was loosened and pulled from the collar, then the small sigh
of relief as the shoes were toed off. The myriad sounds of a tired man at the
end of a long day came closer to the bedroom, then the
solid bulk of the older man filled the doorway. His head was down as he reached
for the light switch, eyes half-closed, even the short cropped hair seemed to
sag with weariness. As the blunt fingers reached for the switch, Doyle swung
out from the shadows. His right hand wrapped around Cade's
right wrist and twisted it up behind him as his left arm swept around the older
man's waist, effectively trapping his left hand. Cade
started to struggle, then stopped abruptly as his arm
was immediately twisted higher.
"Don't
make me hurt you, Alan." Doyle kept his voice soft, reassuring. Almost
comforting, a strange tone considering the threatening
way he was holding his captive. "I just want to talk."
Cade squirmed, seemed to realize there
was no way he could break the hold, and relaxed in place. Doyle could feel the
heat where his chest pressed into Cade's back, and
the combination of pressure, warmth and the spicy scent of Cade
caused him to draw a sharp breath. He really didn't want to hurt him, he just
needed his cooperation. And perhaps a place in his bed for
the night. Before the tempting images could solidify in his mind's eye,
he wrenched his thoughts back to the issue at hand.
"Will
you listen?" Still soft, reasonable.
"Do
I have a choice?" The answering growl reminded him of a cornered guard
dog. Ready to spring if he should catch a moment's weakness.
"Yes.
You could call your squad, and bring them in, and I could spend the evening in
your lock-up giving Technicolor details of exactly how good a fuck their chief
constable is. Just the sort of sounds he makes when a man's sucking his cock,
just what place to bite to make him moan. Just how to get him
going, and just how he turns on when a man's fingers are pumping his ass.
How to make him come, and how to make him beg for it, and how tight and hot and
sweet it is to shove a cock up his ass." He paused for a moment, gauging
his captive's reaction. The stone stillness convinced him that he had Cade's undivided attention. He lowered his voice, allowing
a touch of throatiness to insinuate itself. "Is that what you want, Alan?
Are you willing to do that to me, to yourself? Yeah," he drawled,
stretching the single syllable out to the space of several heartbeats.
"You could. But I don't think you will. You want to stay where you are.
You want to remain Chief. Wouldn't be there long if the Police Authority found
out just what makes you scream." By the time he finished the sentence his
voice was a chilling hiss. Cade reacted with a barely
perceptible shudder. "But I don't want that, Alan," Doyle continued
in a more audible tone, retaining the almost caressing timbre but infusing it
with more warmth, reining in the naked threat. "I just want Shipley. One
little rat, and you can have the whole lot of the rest of them."
Doyle
eased his hold slightly. When Cade remained standing
still, he allowed his hands to slip away from Cade's
body, lingering slightly to remind the older man of the truth behind his
threats. Keeping himself between Cade and the exit,
he stepped back and swung the door closed. Leaning against it, he stared at the
other man. Slowly, Cade took three steps into the
room, then turned to face his captor.
"Why?"
A single word, to cover so many questions. His eyes
were huge in his face, a combination of shock and impotent anger causing them
to spark.
"I've
been after him for years," Doyle returned flatly. "He killed a man. A good man." For a moment the feral emerald eyes turned
inward, then they snapped back to Cade.
"My partner. Nine years ago he killed my partner.
And now he's going to get his."
Cade backed up, still moving slowly,
keeping his eyes locked to Doyle's. When the backs of his knees hit the edge of
the bed he sat down. Looking up at his erstwhile lover, he managed,
"Partner? Were you ... running drugs too? Or was it guns, then?" His voice
strengthened as it went, until by the end of his words they were an accusation
flung in the face of the younger man.
Doyle,
unaccountably, grinned at him. "Not quite."
*******
Cade felt like he was in the middle of
a nightmare. The locks were on, the alarms were operational when he got home, there was no indication of any sort of intruder. He'd
stripped off his coat, tie and shoes as he wandered through the living room,
deciding against a drink with the memories of the previous night strong in his
mind. Wending his way into the bedroom for his robe, thinking that a hot shower
might loosen whatever knots his thoughts were tied in, he hadn't seen the
threat until Doyle had already jumped him. The helplessness, rage, disgust he had expected. The arousal, he had not.
He
should have realized Doyle would threaten him with exposure. And the litany of
details had pounded on his ears, making him flinch inwardly. It had also
brought to the forefront of his memory all of the
sensory overload of their lovemaking. He castigated himself for being a coward,
but knew that there was no way he could take Doyle in. Partially
because he could be, and in this case was being, blackmailed. He had
lied in the past to keep his job -- his private life was his own business, and
implying that Maria Romero was only under his protection because he admired her
writing instead of because they were lovers was a minor penalty to pay to
remain Chief. This was major, though, and he might very well end up losing his
job over it. And his bloody conscience just might force him to do it, too. If
Doyle was in this ring, somehow, if he was a drug pusher or a gun runner like Shipley ...
"Not
quite." The little bugger was grinning at him. There was an instant when
time shifted, present day amusement overlaid on the celluloid memory of years
before, and it hit him. Cowley. The older man in the snapshot was George
Cowley. The Controller of CI5 before his death and the subsequent disbanding of
the department. The wide grin had thrown him off. The man had never smiled like
that in public photos.
The
younger man opposite him suddenly straightened and stepped forward. Cade looked up at him with surprise. "What about
Cowley?" he demanded. Cade started. He hadn't
realized he'd spoken aloud.
"I
found a photo. In your hotel room." Doyle reached
for his wallet, then stilled, and waited as Cade
continued. "There were three men, laughing, embracing. You were in the
center, and Cowley was behind you. The third man, was he-"
"Bodie." Doyle's voice was almost inaudible. Cade looked searchingly at him, the wealth of loss in the single word enough to keep him silent. Doyle abandoned his post between him and the door, and joined him on the mattress. Cade glanced at the door