The Cabin   by Mona Morstein Author's warning: Mona Morstein adamantly states that any reader MUST be over 18 years old to read her stories and if someone DOES read her story they are agreeing to that point and ARE over 18. If you ARE over 18, ENJOY; if you are NOT, then other authors have stories you can read and enjoy.   Chapter One For all his affectations of being lazy and slow, things could move very quickly with Steed. Three weeks after Emma had run into the back of his Bentley, introducing herself to him with a crash, he had intrigued her enough with his random presence in her life, he convinced her to be his secret agent colleague over a dinner at an Italian restaurant. Easily, deliberately, without seeming to exert any effort, he had made Emma agree to change the whole course of her life, and feel lucky and excited about it.   She barely had time to process just what she had agreed to when, the very next afternoon, Steed showed up at her apartment with several pieces of paper labeled "Official Secrets Act," which she was to sign with the fountain pen he uncapped and then handed to her with a deliberate flourish. "A minor bit of officialdom, my dear," he said, shrugging. "It is a bit irregular, you know, you working with me" --(he leaned over her whispering, "being a civilian, and all")-- "so to appease my apoplectic administrators, we shall obey this little formality. Do you mind?" The papers were all in order, and nothing less than she would have expected from one of her country's intelligent agencies. She read it all, then signed and dated it on the bottom line, guaranteeing she would never speak about the Ministry to anyone, she would never relay secrets she learned to anyone, she would never admit to working for the Ministry to anyone, and so forth…punishment being life in prison or death as a traitor to Queen and country. She recapped the pen and looked up for Steed, who had left her side as she carefully perused the document. She turned and saw him leaning against the wall by the window, one leg casually bent behind the other, one hand in his pants pocket. Very handsome, obviously fit, and impeccably dressed in a three piece suit that shaped his broad shoulders and lean hips perfectly, he could have easily been posing for a clothing ad in some gentleman's magazine. He smiled from across the room and then walked to her in a loose saunter. She handed him the pen. "Still game, Mrs. Peel?" he asked. "Of course," she said, her eyes travelling to his flat abdomen and hint of muscular biceps under his Saville row suit coat, before being willing to focus on his friendly grey pupils. "Excellent." He folded the papers and put them back in their envelope. Steed picked up his bowler and brolly from off the sofa, and while studying her apartment décor spoke, "Well, I best be getting this to the file fanatics. At some point in the near future, I imagine I shall be ringing you up." He placed his bowler on his head in an immaculate angle, tapped the top of it lightly, then began his habitual swinging of his tightly rolled umbrella, stopping to point it at a painting by the piano. "That is a lovely Greuze." "Yes, it is. Thank you. Been in the family for years," Mrs. Peel answered, still not used to Steed's abrupt conversational non sequiturs. Steed fairly glided toward her front door. Emma felt a tinge of emotion run through her as she watched him depart. She couldn't exactly pinpoint what she experienced, it seemed a mixture of many feelings, but they left her tingling with anticipation. "Mr. Steed," she called out, and then as he turned with his eyebrows raised, she lifted her hands in appeasement and corrected herself; she knew he just liked being called by his surname. "Just Steed, sorry. Look, I want to…thank you for this opportunity you've given me. Becoming an agent means a great deal to me, and I have every intention of excelling it." "I never doubted that," Steed answered. "Or, I'd never have asked you to be my partner in the first place. And, you're welcome." They grinned at each other. Steed lifted his bowler to her. "Good day." Steed called her up a few times over the next couple of weeks, but only to take her out to a museum, or a walk in the park, or a drive around the city and countryside, allowing them the chance to get better acquainted before placing their lives in each others' hands. It wasn't any sort of formal dating, and no motions outside of their platonic partnership were engaged. Steed mentioned various cases that the Ministry had worked on, giving her an idea of the sort of investigations they might be call upon to investigate. He mentioned various criminals he had tangled with, describing them to her in pinpoint detail to acquaint her with the type of individual that gained the Ministry's attention. Emma was amazed at the hidden doings of malefactors in her country that she never imagined existed and that were so entirely suppressed by both the newspaper and television media. "We don't like the limelight," Steed said, scrunching his face and curtly shaking it in emphasis. Things looked different to Emma, suddenly, as she drove around the city alone in her Lotus, doing errands and shopping. It was no doubt her eagerness to begin her first case, or maybe a bit of fantastical musings, but it seemed she could sense the hidden seams of underworld and spy activity. She shook the feeling from her mind, for such a focus could lead to a descent into a dangerous paranoia over time. Steed once said to her, "Remember that out of fifty-six million people in Great Britain, only, perhaps, a couple of thousand at maximum are a concern somehow to The Ministry. Watch out for those individuals, but, do view all the others as the innocent people they are." He came over one day with a bottle of fine champagne, celebrating "It being Wednesday," which was all the reason he needed to open his most favorite beverage. After a couple of glasses, Steed ushered Mrs. Peel into his car and drove her around London, showing her various secret places for her to memorize, as they were not in the phone book, and she was not to write their addresses down. She toured the Ministry's London headquarters in Whitehall, the secret city medical clinic injured agents could go to for treatment, a safe house ("My safe house," Steed had told her. "All agents set up their own, but partners should know of each others'. It's a refuge if one needs to disappear in the city."). He pointed out the Soviet Embassy ("Can't wait for you to meet Brodny; you'll knock his Russian socks off."). Then, he drove to Patterson Street, pointing to a small bakery as they went passed. "Place that bakery firmly into your head, Mrs. Peel," he told her. "Is it a meeting place for their side?" she asked. "Certainly not," Steed answered, his brows knitting together in mock consternation. "It has the best croissants in London." Emma could not help but be amused, and a thin smile broke through her studious face. Then Steed took her to his unlisted apartment in Westminster Mews, and parked his Bentley in the garage. "Shall we go up, Mrs. Peel? I assure you, it is purely for professional reasons," he said, his lips opening into his most charming smile. "Of course. After you, Steed," she said. She tried to hide her excitement for seeing exactly what his living space looked like. One could tell so much about people by their décor. They walked up the stairs and then down the end of the hallway to his flat. He opened the door and allowed her to enter first. She stood in the small area between the door and a few stairs that led down to the main living area, whilst he put his umbrella in the stand by the door and his bowler on the coat rack. "Home, sweet, home," he said, he said descending the stairs. Mrs. Peel followed, her eyes taking in the large living room that was bisected by a long, thin, narrow sofa. The entire space was purely masculine, though the back half more so, heavy in dark wood, guns and swords hung on the walls, decanters and brandy on the sideboard. It was not ostentatious, though all the décor was expensive. The other half of the room from the sofa on contained some chairs, a coffee table and Steed's desk against a wall. Steed, standing in front of the sofa lifted his left arm towards a door. "The Kitchen, that way." Then he lifted his right arm and pointed to the opposite side of the room. "The, uh, well, my sleeping chamber through those doors." Whether or not his slight fumbling showed he was really embarrassed Mrs. Peel did not know. "Some tea?" he asked. "Thank you, yes," she answered. "China or Japan?" "China." Steed patted the cushions of the sofa. "Please have a seat; I shall soon return with some refreshments." He went into the kitchen; instead of sitting down, Mrs. Peel wandered through the living room studying each knickknack and each tome in the bookcase. She was thumbing through a philosophical study of Kant, when Steed reentered the living room and placed a silver tea tray on the coffee table. She replaced the book on the shelf and rejoined him on the sofa. He poured, not spilling a drop. "Sugar?" "One lump." "Milk?" "Lemon." He used neither sugar nor lemon, but poured a dab of milk in his tea, and, she noticed he stirred his tea counter clockwise. He noticed her watching him stir against the normal way. "Makes things mix better stirring anti-clockwise. Something to do with the rotation of the earth, I fancy." "Really? I haven't ever heard of that." Steed looked left then right and then leaned forward whispering, "It's a Ministry secret." "I see," she whispered back. "What else have they discovered? That toast should be buttered from the bottom up for best spreading?" "No," Steed replied nonchalantly. "Diagonally." Before Emma could respond, he continued. "See," he said, leaning back on the sofa, "look how much more we know about each other now. One's tea habits are infinitely valuable in getting to the core of a personality, don't you think?" "That, and seeing which Port a person reaches for after the chicken alfredo." "Exactly," Steed agreed, raising a finger in agreement. Mrs. Peel settled back as well, at the other end of the sofa than Steed, and they drank their tea in quiet enjoyment for a few moments. Then the phone rang, and Steed, gulping the rest of his tea down, stood and answered it. Emma heard him say "I see" a number of times, and then after a "I'll get right on it, Colonel," Steed hung up the phone and turned to face Mrs. Peel. "I wonder if I might impinge upon your afternoon just a little more, Mrs. Peel," Steed asked. "In what way?" she asked, her heart thumping several times. "It seems, we're needed. Are you ready to get started?" She put down her own teacup. "Absolutely." He motioned up the stairs. "Shall we go, then?" They went off on their first assignment. Emma Peel looked out the window of her penthouse flat in fashionable London and pouted at the rainy August day that blanketed the city. She had had designs to spend the day riding one of her stallions around the South Downs, but the relentless drizzle had ruined the idea of a relaxing drive to the stables and her interest in spending hours outside, so she was left with nothing to do for the day. Crinkling her lip, she left the curtain fall back to covering the window and wandered back into her long narrow living room. Stopping in the middle, she looked around trying to find something to stimulate her. There was the easel in the corner, the bright red piano at the side, an article on chess strategies she was writing, her half read book in French, Knight Industries quarterly reports to analyze, and a new recipe in the kitchen waiting to be manifested into a delicious casserole. She heaved a sigh and flopped down on her sofa, lacking motivation to engage in any of those possibilities. Steed had warned her of this. "Adrenaline addiction" he had termed it, a feeling that normal activities were so less enlivening than spy work that it made it hard to adjust to normal life once off a case. "Work hard at maintaining a regular schedule in day to day life," he had advised her. "Force yourself to keep yourself busy at activities that have always interested you before you became an agent. The need for high adrenaline for stimulation will die down after awhile and then one will truly enjoy returning to the calm normality of regular life after a case is over. It becomes a balancing act, the opera openings with the villain catching, the breakfast omelet with the poison capsule, and both sides are necessary to keep oneself rested yet always on alert. When off a case, allow a short time to recover and reorient oneself, then plunge right back into your painting, riding, social routines. At times it will be easier or harder to do that, but so we must do. It's the agents who cannot readjust to off-duty life, who cannot break the craving of needing adrenaline, that become unstable and, inevitably either careless, out of control, or dead." Although that last line had been spoken as if Steed had had personal experience with his advice to her, Emma had not pressed him to explain further. She had learned that Steed spoke about himself and his past only when he chose to -which was infrequently to never- and rarely upon direct questioning. He was absolutely masterful at manipulating conversations so that in the most natural of manners, he side-stepped inquiries and redirected the talk to other people or subjects without seeming to be rude or offensive. So, she had listened in silence, respecting his words greatly. In the six months they had worked together, Emma had learned to respect a great deal about John Steed, her partner from The Ministry. She had of late had to face the fact that what she really missed when she was not on active duty, was not so much the work (which, nevertheless was highly fulfilling), but being with Steed. In the last six months, she could not deny how much she had taken to her convivial yet proficient partner. Even Steed had agreed that those months had been unusually busy for them. In that time they had investigated three sets of unusual murders in England, an outbreak of birds attacking people in Norfolk, the mysterious disappearance of a whole archaeology crew near Dartmoor, an attempt by some Russian agents to kill two Russian defectors, and a rash of bank robberies where odd clumps of moss and lichens had been found in the empty safes. Mrs. Peel had even traveled to Berlin to capture a thoroughly nasty fellow named Prendergast; she had enjoyed that a great deal as Steed had decided the way to get the information they needed to arrest him was for Mrs. Peel to seduce him. She had thrilled at being considered competent enough to be the key point of the stratagem, and had done better than anyone had anticipated. Within one month Prendergast had been taken into custody by German authorities. These last six months it was evident she had gained quite a name for herself at The Ministry. Being victorious in all their cases had made them a well-respected partnership, although, Steed apparently was renown for his successes. "That's why I selfishly chose you, my dear, as a partner," he had said, after the Prendergast case. "Didn't want to ruin my record." She had nodded her head casually at the comment, but inside had been very flattered. She had spent a great deal of time with Steed during those months, and she was forced to admit that she had become rather enthralled with him. He was innately charming, sweet, and thoughtful, actually, she realized, even gentle. He truly seemed to abhor violence and went out of his way with people to avoid it whenever possible. He had a patience with villains and enemies that was almost saintly at times. Yet, when needed, he had the athletic prowess and emotional hardness to be as violent as needed, and the determination to do whatever was necessary to solve the case and capture the perpetrators. Still, Steed used the least possible energy when engaging others in fights (oftentimes relying on his aptness with his specially made umbrellas as his only weapon), not because he was slothful in his work, but because, she began to understand, he had the capability to be so easily lethal, that he deliberately held himself back. He won his fights, but by inflicting the least possible damage on his opponents. It was said of him, by other Ministry workers Emma had by and by met, that Steed had once shattered a man's jaw with one angry punch. Emma, having seen Steed only develop an outwardly mild irritation at times during the last six months, which had passed in seconds even when dealing with some very nasty individuals, deliberated upon what exact set of circumstances would so enrage Steed. What power, to shatter a man's jaw with one thundering blow… Steed's silences portrayed him as very enigmatic and rather mysterious. No one knew how he had come by his money; no one knew the fully details of his past; no one knew where he had been or what he had done after the war for several years…and Steed was positively unwilling to provide any answers to those questions, shrugging his shoulders and either changing the topic of conversation or excusing himself from present company whenever such a specific inquiry arose. There was also a decided sense of danger to him, and Emma wondered just what he had been like, in his long years working for M16, when he had been posted mostly overseas. What he seen. What he had done. She was sure much of it may not have been pleasant; it was the way his eyes betrayed a spark of a devilish fire sometimes that no gentleman's life brought to birth. He was intriguing; hard to pin down; debonair; unique; and gorgeously handsome. In the last six months, she had been privileged to glimpse the form of his body occasionally. At times he had taken his jacket off, and she had been able to more clearly discern those muscular, broad shoulder and large, hardened biceps under his shirt sleeves; and when he sat, he could see the muscles of his crossed legs outlined through his cavalry twill trousers. She knew that if those aspects of his tall, purely masculine body were so fully developed and well-built, one could logically deduce that the rest of him…her eyes had begun to flick just beneath his belt when she was sure he wouldn't catch her glimpse… They had started, after three or so months, socializing more and more in-between their cases. It was inevitable; their friendship had so quickly deepened, and the raw chemistry between them was so plentiful they could stock an entire laboratory with it. There was no sense of competition between them, of a need to feel superior or right. They each had to rescue the other at times, and no one kept score. Steed's cunning and years of experience perfectly matched Emma's high intelligence and scientific analytical abilities. It was Steed who had begun asking her out to dinner, to plays, operas, symphonies, or even just for a picnic or a walk in Regent's Park, and this time not merely to discuss their work, and not devoid of more intimate bonding. They had gone dancing a few times, and when she held him, she could feel how muscular and solid he was; it was almost like holding a piece of granite, except for its warmth and hypnotizing cologne, and the fact that granite did not make her feel so…warm herself. A few times, his hand began dropping lower down her back, abruptly stopping as if he had suddenly realized what his hand was doing. Emma squirmed on her sofa recalling how Steed felt in her arms. Had his cheek brushed against hers for a moment once and twice Emma catching his eyes close during the contact? He had almost, she was sure, when he let her off at her apartment building three nights ago, leaned over to kiss her, but she hadn't encouraged him and he hadn't pressed forward without it. Steed had brought her out of the shell her life had become, and was now awakening her libido and heating her blood. She owed him a great deal. He was an enigma, that was certain, yet to many people so was she --distant, aloof, reserved, intimidating-- and it was obvious they brought out the best of each other. She now understood enough about him that it didn't take her genius to know how much he wanted her, wanted to kiss her, to make love to her. He had never said as much, never made a move along those lines, never had leaned forward too close…Yet she knew --she had seen it in his expressive eyes-- and she knew that he knew she knew. It was also glaringly apparent from his constant flirting that he was not shy with women and had a black book full of names and phone numbers of innumerable women that would welcome him into their bed, and no doubt often did. So, Emma wondered, what held him back from overtly coming onto her? She appreciated the fact that he had not engaged her as a partner solely as a prelude to wind up in bed with her; yet, neither could deny the sheer sexual heat that almost immediately flared between them. For all his secrets, for all the hidden pain of a private past she had begun to perceive he walked around with on a daily basis, for all the cloak and dagger escapades around which his life revolved, he was the finest gentleman she had ever met. A throwback almost, to an age sixty years past. Emma was sure that only respect for her and his partnership maintained his platonic attitude; in fact, sometimes, it seemed he was a bit unsure of himself around her, a bit awkward. He would wait for her to make the first move, if she ever did. She thought that maybe the fact that she was a widow brought out his reserve, as well. He was, if nothing else, an honorable man. If she ever felt that she was ready to have a lover again, and if she ever decided that it would be Steed, she instinctively knew he would immediately and affectionately acquiesce. She instinctively realized he had placed all control for their relationship to elevate to that level solely in her hands, and her fondness for him was only increased with her knowledge of that. They got along wonderfully, perfectly, their bantering witty and playful; they had never had an argument. What more was she looking for in a man? She had never contemplated going through life a widowed spinster, but it all seemed so fast, so perfect, she could believe it, put faith in it, that Steed was a marvelous match for her, that she should take that next step… But, was she ready? It had been almost two years since Peter had died; surely that was enough time to be able to recover from that loss. Yet, Emma's stomach tightened at the thought of becoming Steed's lover; it could complicate everything, and maybe there was a risk it would ruin everything. What if they developed a physical relationship; would the Ministry allow it? Would it promote them becoming more to each other than just good friends who were excellent partners? If so, could she allow that? Everyone she had ever loved had died, early. It haunted Emma. Was she destined to be some sort of jinx, bringing death to anyone she deeply cared for? That irrational fear gripped her tightly, even pervaded her dreams at times, and, as much as she was beginning to fantasize about Steed kissing her, touching her, being inside her… she was for now resolute in her decision to keep their partnership on a purely platonic level. No matter what everyone else was beginning to gossip about, and the whispers that sprang into the air when they walked by at parties was hard to miss. She was just not willing to fall in love with someone again and risk another crushing loss, and her heart told her that if she and Steed became lovers, all her thick defenses against that happening would come crashing down like the walls of Jericho. She sighed heavily, then grinned. She would just have to add cold showers to her daily routine of life. Steed sat on his sofa in Westminster Mews, drinking a glass of tomato juice. A rainy summer day usually sent him to his club, and he had such intentions, though not for a few more hours. It was nice to just sit in his flat sometimes, in the quiet, safe and relaxed atmosphere, a haven against the grayness outside his window and so often inside his world. The morning had been slow and easy, which was much to his liking. He had trained for two hours last night and by 9:00 a.m. his appetite had kicked in. After frying up some bacon, poaching two eggs, and toasting a couple of slices of whole wheat bread, he had sipped on two cups of strong coffee whilst eating and reading The Times, and now reclined in comfort in his pants and long sleeve shirt. A couple of rounds of billiards in the afternoon would suit him fine, although he pondered, I wonder what Mrs. Peel is doing today? Her thin, strong body, perfectly formed bones in her face, and soft, flowing hair appeared in his mind, and set up certain body responses he had had to ignore for the past five months. Although he had at first been optimistic that he would be able to just see Mrs. Peel as a platonic partner, as he had Cathy Gale, he had realized after their first few cases together that she was a woman that was as attractive as she was competent and rare. His sexual desires for her had grown very quickly once he had seen just how good an agent she was, and he had reveled in how well they worked together. As soon as Mrs. Peel had felt confident, which was remarkably quickly, their bantering and friendship had been solidified, based on mutual respect and a shared charisma that was almost palpable. Their bantering--how often did it become sexual innuendoes? It was quite a bit of fun. They never argued; she never sniped at him like Cathy Gale had, never saw him poorly or with disapproval. They had the same values; they acted in concert as if their fighting criminals had been choreographed beforehand. Steed had realized immediately that even given her amateur status, Mrs. Peel could be treated fully as an equal, and when he had begun doing so, she had responded readily. Steed knew his auntie-filled childhood had prepared him to enjoy the company of a strong woman, but it was more than that with Mrs. Peel. She was more than strong, she was… enchanting. Those cheekbones! So high, so lovely… He had deliberately chosen to refer to her as Mrs. Peel, although she had early on stated that "Emma" was fine. However, he was loathe to bring such verbal intimacy into their public personas; and even if they ever did become more than just partners… Steed sighed deeply… then it would be even more important for people to not know how much they really cared for each other. Partners were dangerous enough to each other just because villains knew that the loyalty of people committed to work together could be used against them if one was captured; if their enemies ever knew they were even more than partners to each other… no, it would be just too dangerous. Already, Steed knew, people were talking about them, but no one had any proof of their rumors and if people never had any the gossip would disappear or at least stay at a low enough level to not spread through-out either their spy or social communities. He hoped, anyway. Of course, Steed was always called Steed by everyone, so no one could see any intimate influence in Mrs. Peel calling him that. Steed hated the distancing of "Mr." Steed relied in his profession heavily on his ability to disarm opponents by amiably cozying up to them, creating in them a belief that he was harmless, even somewhat foppish, thus setting them up for the stunning blow of his eventual inescapable attack. "Mr." Steed would crimp his style to a large degree, impinging upon his desire to promote the least violent resolutions of the situations he investigated. However, the further step to "John" was absolutely out of the question; Steed refused to allow anyone but family members and a very small circle of old friends to refer to him by his Christian name. Maybe, one day, in bed, Mrs. Peel would call him that… Steed wondered how well Mrs. Peel was doing regarding the loss of her husband. She knew he wanted her, to touch her, caress her, run his hands through her hair… but he was sure she also knew that he never would make any move in that regard without her clear welcome. He had worked hard at reclaiming his gentleman's soul, coming back from years of, well, years when he hadn't been by any definition of the term been a gentleman. He had no intention of acting towards Mrs. Peel, a woman he had --even in their short time together-- grown to consider with utmost esteem, in any other way. It was all in her court, and Steed would act according to her dictates. It was not that he envisioned being with Mrs. Peel in any permanent relationship; he had given up on the idea of marriage long ago, and realized his fate was either to die or grow old alone in service to his country. But, just to kiss those lips… Steed was well aware that his effusive charm and handsome face and figure regularly won him any number of women desirous to enjoy the pleasures he lavished on them, and he acknowledged the wolfish reputation he had in that regard without shame or egotism. A thoroughly voracious flirt, Steed was liable to wind up in bed with a woman on the spur of any moment, open to experiencing anything with them except the discussion of his numerous scars. But in terms of actually fostering a steady relationship with a member of the softer, delectable sex, Steed rarely courted that sort of couplehood even given his innate advantages in the female department. For one thing, Steed was rather picky about his women and needed intelligent, beautiful, witty, cultured, fun women -like Mrs. Peel-- to elicit a desire to experiment with a more serious commitment. Every now and then one appeared and Steed tried to stay faithful, but his half-hearted experiments never amounted to more than a month or two of monogamous fun. Steed just wasn't good at keeping himself attached to any one woman. Perhaps it was an easily established tendency to boredom; perhaps it was his two straying eyes, noticing someone new whenever there was someone new worth noticing; perhaps, he granted himself, it was some anxiety or concern of being tied down too firmly. He always knew where the door was in any woman's apartment, and more than once, when asked to solidify a relationship in some formal way, made quick use of it. It just wasn't for him, he told himself; settling down. Becoming monogamous. Not for him. Yet, he truly felt that Mrs. Peel was something beyond the typical woman, and deserved to be treated better than he may have usually treated other women. She was by no means just a one night stand; nor was she someone that he only wanted to sleep with because of her beauty. Steed was attracted to her for all her attributes: she was lovely, yes, but also extremely intelligent and capable. But more than that, she had a private aspect to herself and her life that Steed related to, and although knew many found her to be icy, cold and distant, Steed had frequently seen the playfulness and warmth that lived within her blossom magnificently, and he prided himself that maybe he was the impetus that brought those softer aspects out of her. The way be fostered his playfulness. She was complex, daring, unique; she fascinated him. The way she had taken over her father's company at twenty years old, and had succeeded beyond measure in that nasty corporate world. The way she fought, like a panther stalking its prey in some African veldt. The way she wore those utile and tight-fitting catsuits. The way, sometimes, she smirked at him with an unmistakable look of affection. He admired everything about her. They were such excellent partners… and friends… would they be more? Not a committed twosome, but occasional lovers, enjoying each others' bodies as much as they enjoyed each other's presence. People and their endless wagging tongues! More and more Steed truly did not understand why it was so difficult for people to keep quiet, so vital for them to spread whatever morsel of interest about someone they learned. Maintaining secrets was a habit, a virtue, to be cultivated and honored, Steed firmly believed. But so few people looked upon it thusly. Even among his intelligence friends he rarely felt comfortable baring any aspect of himself beyond what was absolutely required for the situation at hand. Although he would never condescend to mentioning it to anyone, he was fully aware of all the departmental musings about him, his past, his sex life, and held himself tightly in check to not add fodder to their bleatings. But, Mrs. Peel. He already had faith that as surely as his heart was beating he could trust her to keep her lips sealed, no matter what she uncovered about him. He was beginning to believe she was the only one he could trust so completely. She was truly the most singular and wonderful woman he had ever imagined he'd meet. Perhaps, Mrs. Peel might like to see a movie tonight… and, there, in the privacy of the dark theatre, he could just take her hand in his… Maintaining a gentlemanly demeanor had rarely been so difficult for Steed. He finished his tomato juice and decided that getting out and socializing at his club was the best cure to take his mind off his physical yearnings, maybe adding in a stop to delicious Darlene afterwards. As he stood, however, the phone rang. Steed answered it, and after the normal amount of "I sees," he hung up the phone. He smiled broadly. The day wasn't looking so gray anymore. Mrs. Peel was needed. Chapter Two Emma Peel could not have been happier to see the face of a sharply dressed Steed at her door. For a moment she marveled at the sudden twists and turns encompassing her new life; there she had been lamenting her ennui, and now, she was sure a new case had come her way. "Hello, Steed," she said, waving him in. "Come in." "Good morning, Mrs. Peel," her colleague answered stepping briskly inside. Obviously whatever had happened had an urgency to it. "I hope I'm not ruining any plans you had, but it seems we're needed." Mrs. Peel crossed her arms as she leaned against a wall. "Oh? What's the matter." Steed took his bowler off and held it in same hand as his umbrella, sitting down on the arm of her sofa. Speaking bluntly, he said, "Trouble." "Trouble?" Steed's eyes widened. "Big trouble." "Dear me. What sort of 'big trouble'?" "Well, embarrassing big trouble, actually. A rogue agent; good man gone bad, who turned a few other agents to his criminal agenda. Happens very rarely in the Ministry, unlike in certain other our of security agencies, but when it does, it's so…discomforting to the uppity-ups." "I can imagine," Mrs. Peel agreed blandly. Steed certainly had his own unique way of describing things. "Who is it? This rogue," she asked. "Oscar Kenneth Forbes. Been an agent for, oh, fifteen years, I'd say. Eton, Cambridge, cousin to the Earl of Cathcart. Had more background than scruples, if you ask me. Worked with him only once, as I really didn't like the chap, I'm sorry to say. Bit too out for himself, self-serving. Well, about two years ago that unfortunate side to his personality got the better of him and he began a relationship with the other side that was most unsavory and, frankly, traitorous. Then he decided to use his spying skills in a series of robberies of jewelry stores and even a bank. Somehow he attracted a few agents that decided such a use of their Ministry skills was not unbecoming to them, either; he has, it seems, a masterful ability to manipulate others into his schemes. Should have just gone into politics, I always thought. Anyway, we were able to uncover their nefarious little activities, and rounded up all the rogue agents, we thought. But, Oscar escaped from our grasp before we could corner him, taking with him his younger brother Terrence, who had developed into as much a reprobate as his treacherous elder brother and had been jailed in the past for innumerable odious crimes." "Did they defect?" "No. Just disappeared. Not to our vodka drinking comrades, as far as our sources inside were able to discover. Just Poof! Gone." Steed snapped his fingers for effect. Mrs. Peel knew he enjoyed doing so and she had to admit he exhibited an impressive snapping force that was quite above average, sounding like a rifle shot. "A few times in the past we thought we had them in our sights, and we closed in on them, but they disappeared at the last minute, as if…" "As if someone had tipped them off?" Steed nodded his head at her perspicacity. "As if someone had tipped them off… from inside the Ministry." "Oh, dear." "Very oh, dear. However, our luck may have changed once more yesterday." "They were sighted again," Mrs. Peel intuited. Steed smiled at her, and a flush of heat passed through her. "Mrs. Peel, you are right as ever. Been spotted, of all places, in Alberta, Canada." Steed paused for a moment in thought. "Makes sense, really. It's a very large country, with very few people in it. A good place to lose oneself in. Terrence was seen, oddly enough, by an Ministry clerk in Calgary who was there visiting relatives, and who just happens , conveniently, to have a photographic mind regarding, well, photographs. The clerk recognized him from an old black and white photo hung on the Wanted Wall by his office water cooler. The enterprising fellow immediately contacted the department head, the department head me, and me, you. No more than five people, so far, are aware of this information. We aren't sure there's a leak, but it does look that way. Forbes absconded with quite a lot of money from those robberies, so he has enough funds to buy information from anyone with loose-lipped loyalties." "Well, I shall tell no one but my plants, keeping things absolutely hush-hush on my end. We're supposed to bring them back?" "Yes, exactly. There's quite a few people who are still rather indignant at Oscar for causing the deaths of three good agents in Moscow and the loss of a network in Hungary. Myself definitely included. Not to mention the two agents he wounded in his escape. Did I mention he and his brother are expert snipers? What a lovely fraternal similarity they have. And, also, Oscar is a bit of whiz with bombs. We are to bring them back, or, if necessary, leave them there in a 'much less animated state of being', as the Colonel so awkwardly put it." With a feeling of mirth, Mrs. Peel wondered how so many eccentrics wound up in the high places of British security forces. "When do we leave?" she asked, pulling herself back to the immediacy of the assignment. Steed looked at his watch, tapping it once or twice. "In… three and a half hours. A direct flight to Calgary. First class, of course. I believe they serve sirloin steak on the flight. I imagine that's enough time to have you to pack for both city and mountain adventures. Forbes was always one of the best survivalists in the department. He and his brother may head into the woods if they learn of our approach." He stood abruptly. "Well, I have a bit of packing to do myself. I shall meet you back here in two and a half hours in a cab. No reason to leave the Bentley in the airport carpark for who knows how long. Poor girl gets homesick, you know." Emma returned to her previous musing of peculiar gents in The Ministry --a man in a bowler driving a female Bentley named Bessie, whose umbrella may contain a sword, a camera, or a flask of brandy, could broach the title of eccentric himself. Steed continued, "And, you may want someone to come and water those plants you confess to." "It's not confession," she bantered, raising her head in an air of pristine rectitude. "I sinneth not." Steed's eyebrows pulled together in dismay, and he shook his head gently from side to side. "No? Pity. And at so young an age." Mrs. Peel scrunched her lips and narrowed her eyes together making her consternation and amusement evident. "Good-bye, Steed," she said, needing time to pack. "I'll be ready and willing when you return." "Well, then," he grinned, and she understood that he had not just perceived her statement solely in relation to their assignment. "I'll be able and waiting." The flight over the Atlantic and onwards through the provinces of Canada was smooth and uneventful; even still, Mrs. Peel felt a wave of excitement coursing through her veins. As she read her French book with the aid of the overhead light during the inflight movie, Steed napped in the aisle seat by her left side. She put the book down on a whim and studied Steed. His face relaxed completely when he slept, to an almost boyish image, and one would never know looking at him then who he was or what he did in life. But yet, twice in the last six months he had napped by her during an assignment, on watch or travelling like they were now, and he had awoken with a cry of, what? Pain? Horror? Anguish? Of course, he had said nothing after forming an abashed grimace, and she had not pressed him for details. She wondered what she might read if she ever gained access to his file record in the Ministry archives. She decided that if she noticed him beginning to have such a nightmare now, she would awaken him before anyone could notice his growing agitation. Mrs. Peel looked at his hands, resting on his lap. They were solid and strong, and betrayed his air of man about town by having hard calluses on the palms. As if someone else possessed her suddenly, she found herself reaching over and touched the back of his right hand, lightly rubbing her fingers back and forth, just to feel his skin…And then, his lids opened and he looked straight into her eyes, a gentle yearning illuminating his countenance. She withdrew her hand with a flash as if she had touched a red hot coal, mumbled, "Sorry," and returned to her book clenching her jaws as she attempted to act natural. She saw from the corner of her eye Steed's right hand twitch once, as if he had to forcefully command it to stay put, and then everything settled down again. She kicked herself the whole rest of the flight, denigrating herself as an idiot for such a careless action. She was not yet ready to make him her lover, why had she acted like she was? It was neither fair to Steed nor helpful to herself. Steed, meanwhile, in his guise of sleeping, felt like a crumb of bread had been given to him the starving man. Although Steed maintained his closed eyes resting position, and Mrs. Peel kept her head over her open book, he was not able to sleep, and she was not able to read. They arrived safely in Alberta and both acted as if nothing had occurred out of the ordinary as they deplaned. The eleven hour flight landed them in a seven hour earlier time zone so they arrived at 7:00 p.m. Canadian time, though slightly fatigued from it now being 2:00 a.m. in London. They passed through customs with no delay and drove to their hotel in a hire car. They got separate rooms with an adjoining door, and bade each other good-night, setting plans to meet for breakfast in the hotel restaurant at 8:00 a.m. the next morning. Although they both eventually fell asleep, a great deal of tossing and turning preceding their release into the sands of Morpheus. The next morning after a repast of omelets and coffee, Steed and Mrs. Peel drove to the city offices of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Mrs. Peel was dressed in a beige pantsuit. Steed wore an immaculate suit of grey, with white tie, his grey bowler and umbrella by his side as usual. "Bowler and brolly are a bit out of place, wouldn't you say?" Mrs. Peel joked as he maneuvered through the streets as if he had lived in Calgary all his life. "Class and style are never out of place, Mrs. Peel," he answered lightly. "You could give it all up to become a wheat farmer," she grinned, waving her arm in the car to encompass the whole of Alberta. "Certainly not. Too much dirt underneath the fingernails," Steed said. "Well, then, perhaps you could raise cattle." "I'm allergic to hay." Mrs. Peel sat chewing on her bottom lip for a minute, her eyes narrowed in thought. "Well, then," she said, giving up. "I suppose you'll just have to continue chasing after dangerous masterminds and diabolical criminals." "It's diabolical masterminds, and dangerous criminals, if you don't mind getting the terminology correct," Steed amended. "And with you by my side, Mrs. Peel, I would even go after my Auntie Elda, the one who carries an axe to Church." Another auntie, Mrs. Peel ruminated, looking at Steed's emotionless face and wondering what was really the truth surrounding his apparently innumerable aunts. Aunt Elda made how many in the last six months, seven, eight? She shook her head; some day in the future, she would demand to meet just one of them. Although, she had to admit to herself, she found his quirky little descriptions of these fictional or, God forbid, non-fictional aunts utterly hilarious and endearing. If he ever gave up being an agent, he could certainly hire himself out as a remarkable story-teller. They arrived at the RMCP a little after 10:00 a.m., and parked in the visitor's parking area. Stepping to the central desk area in the foyer, Steed showed an identification card to the woman guarding further entrance into the office complex. Told to please wait a minute, the woman made a brief phone call, and they were soon met by a black haired, middle-aged man, of medium height and build who shook hands with Steed, smiled at Mrs. Peel, and introduced himself as Sgt. Walter Gerrard. He amiably ushered them a large office at the end of a hall consisting of a desk, sofa, and a couple of cushioned chairs. Two other men were already there: an older man, silver haired with a studious, alert aspect to his face who sat at what was obviously his desk, and a younger man, a bit pudgy with hard, dark pupils, leaning against the edge of the desk with his arms tightly crossed in front of him. "Steed, Mrs. Peel, let me introduce you to Captain McCulloch and Sgt. Eddie Ewing," Mr. Gerrard said, as all three of them entered the room. After all introductions had been satisfied, a few of the requisite questions about their trip perfunctorily answered, Steed and Mrs. Peel rested comfortably in the chairs, while the agents sat on the sofa to their side, and the captain completed a little circle by staying at his desk. The five of them then got down to business. "I understand that a man has been sighted in our city that you English are after," the Captain began. Steed hid his internal wince at not exactly relishing being referred to as "you English," letting the comment pass. He launched into a few sketchy details of Forbes' past history, just enough to convince their Canadian counterparts that Oscar and Terrence Forbes were very dangerous, but not enough to compromise the damage Forbes had done in The Ministry. Then he acknowledged that an agent of theirs in Calgary had espied one of the brothers at a bar in town just two days previously. Mrs. Peel sat quietly, complacently letting Steed, in his higher position of authority, run the show. "Which bar?" Ewing bluntly asked. Steed glanced at the Mountie, his face smoothly non-reactive, and paused for a moment before speaking. "Forgive me, but I should rather not tell," he finally said. Then he turned back to Captain McCulloch and assumed his most professional manner. "I am sorry for the secrecy, but the less that is known about us and our investigation, the better our chance for success. You have been in contact with our department, Captain, and I assume we have been granted the freedom to move around Calgary, and, if necessary, other areas of Canada, as the need arises." The captain frowned at those words. "Yes, that's true. But, I have to say, I don't really like it." "I can assure you, Captain, that as soon as we have located the brothers Forbes we will contact you to aid us in making their capture as quick, efficient, and uneventful as possible." "Good," Ewing interrupted. "We have a relatively calm city here, Mr. Steed, and we don't want to turn it into a bloodbath. You James Bond types always seem to stir up trouble wherever you go." Steed sighed. Outside of England it seemed there was a pathetic dearth of manners and tact. "Ewing, shut up," Gerrard said, adding. "Sorry Mr. Steed, Mrs. Peel." Ignoring Ewing, but not willing to let his rudeness pass entirely without mention, Steed commented to the Captain, "The trouble was stirred up, as your sergeant so politely stated, two years ago by Forbes. Mrs. Peel and I are here to settle matters, not create them. I hope our association can be one of friendly cohesion, devoid of unnecessary acrimony." Steed stood up and Mrs. Peel followed. "We shall contact you as soon as possible," he said and then he and Mrs. Peel left the office.   The phone rang later that afternoon in the living room of a small nondescript house in Calgary, jarring Oscar Forbes out of his intensely concentrated gun cleaning ritual. Scowling at the interruption, he put down the oiled cloth, laid his gun gently upon it, wiped his hands on his pants and then answered the phone. "This had better be good," he snarled into the phone. "Listen up," the voice said on the other end. "There are two agents from England here looking for you; someone spotted you or Terrence at a bar. A Steed and Mrs. Peel. Saw them today at the RCMP offices." Oscar's face twisted into a dark frown. "Damn. Alright, we'll take care of it. Good-bye." "Not so fast, Forbes," the voice demanded. "I'm still expecting some money from my last little tip to you. This one I think is worth at least $500. You better pay up, or you may find yourself a little less happy in Calgary." Lousy little copper, Oscar thought. I'm really getting tired of him, of Calgary, of this whole set-up. "Tell you what, Ewing," Oscar said. "You help Terrence and me out tonight, and how about we settle the balance at $2000?" It was an offer Oscar knew Ewing wouldn't pass up, as, due to his gambling bills he just couldn't. "Alright, I'll do it. But you better have the money there for me to pick up, or you'll regret it." "It'll be there. I'll call you later this evening," Oscar said, and then hung up the phone. Well, at least when he's dead, he won't have to worry about his debts, Oscar thought, baring his teeth in the closest mimicry of a smile he could attain. Terrence walked into the living room, eating a sandwich and carrying a bottle of beer. "Who was that?" he softly asked his elder brother. Terrence sat down on the sofa, putting his plate down on the wooden coffee table across from Oscar, who sat drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. Terrence didn't like the look of Oscars eyes, full of hate and spite, and once again thought he could see an odd twitch in one lower lid, as if Oscar didn't like the world he saw and just wanted to close himself away from it all. Terrence was, frankly, growing more fearful of his brother, who had become increasingly unpredictable and violent, even to him. His arm still was sore and bruised from the punch Oscar had inflicted on it three days ago for, what, merely playing his radio too loudly? And just yesterday, waving that knife at him for forgetting to buy some bread? Terrence had always looked up to and respected Oscar, and had joined with him in England for those robbery capers, but, it seemed to him that Oscar was becoming rather, well, crazy. He thought about returning to England, but Oscar had threatened him several times that if he left Oscar, Oscar would track him down and make him regret his desertion. Oscar picked up his gun and began cleaning it again, lovingly caressed the barrel with the oiled cloth. "Ewing," he said. "Two Ministry agents are in town looking for us." Terrence's breath caught, and he stopped chewing, stunned at Oscar's words. "How did they find us?" "Pure damn, bad luck. Some visiting agent saw either you or me at the Crystal Bar." His appetite suddenly gone, Terrence put the sandwich down and asked, "What are we going to do?" Oscar looked at him with eyes that seemed to have lost all human feeling. "We're going to kill them. And then we're going to kill Ewing. And then I'm going to call my English contact and ask him why I wasn't warned of this earlier. And then we're going into the woods for awhile till things settle down and we plan our next move." More killing, Terrence thought, feeling like his body had just turned completely numb. Oscar seemed to be deciding to kill people almost as a whim, as if doing so was no more important than raking one's lawn. However, he knew better than to question his brother about it. "The woods?" Terrence asked. "What woods?" Oscar leaned forward and reached under the top of the coffee table, ripping a piece of paper that had been taped to its underside. "The Gold Bug. Poe." he said to Terrence. "Hidden right in plain sight. Pretty good, eh?" Terrence missed the reference completely, and not wanting to irritate his brother by showing his ignorance, he gave a short laugh, hoping that would appease Oscar. Thankfully it did, and Oscar handed the folded piece of paper to his brother. "Those are the latitude and longitude readings of a little piece of land in southeastern British Columbia, where I have a cabin. That's where we'll be going in a couple of days. Memorize the coordinates and head that way as soon as possible in case we get separated. Burn the piece of paper. I know you're not very good with numbers, so I'll give you till tomorrow afternoon to be able to recite the numbers back to me. By the way, I'll kill you if you lose the paper." That last sentence was said so matter of factly as Oscar, done cleaning the gun, began to slowing reload it, that Terrence believed Oscar really meant it. He looked down at the paper, his stomach tightening up so much he regretted the few bites of food he had put in it. I should just run, I should just run, he thought, but he knew he would stay with his brother. His very scary brother.   At 10:00 p.m. that night, Mrs. Peel, dressed in a low cut red dress and high heels, strode into the Crystal Bar, a large establishment on the edge of a lower middle class area of Calgary. A beautifully long bar in mahogany traveled the entire length of the room, the only real remnant illustrating the bar's once wealthy clientele. Otherwise the tables, chairs and booths making up the rest of the furniture were rather scratched and worn. The bar was not overly crowded, since it was a Wednesday night, and most of the neighborhood men were at home, watching TV and trying to relax for the work day tomorrow. Emma looked around the room fearlessly, scanning the patrons as if she was looking for one man in particular, who would have hell to pay if she found him. Her eyes then fell on a wiry built man of about thirty-five, with already thinning black hair, who sat by himself in a booth by the back of the bar nursing a beer. Terence Forbes. Noticing her focus on him, he blatantly leered at her, looking her up and down with the most predatory eyes Emma had ever seen. Their nonverbal connection lasted a few moments, then Emma turned and strolled to a stool by the bar ordering a scotch. The man stood up, straightened his shoulders and followed her to the bar, sitting next to her. "So, you like the way I look, huh?" the man slurred, his mouth a crooked smile, alcohol emanating strongly from his breath. Mrs. Peel almost choked on her drink. Come on, Emma, you can do this, she assured herself. Just a little acting. You agreed with Steed it was the best was to go. Walk in, notice Terrence, seduce him and get him to take her back to his home or flat, Steed following closely behind. She tightened her body against shaking from disgust and continued in her role. She had done it with Prendergast; she could do it here with Forbes. Emma gave him a sly look and tilted her head in agreement. "I like the way you look." "So, you feel like staying here long talking, or, maybe, you got other ideas on your mind?" he asked, raising his eyebrows suggestively. After having spent so much time with Steed, the epitome of a noble gentleman these last six months, Emma wondered silently what kind of Englishman was Forbes? Shocking lack of grace and charm. An embarrassment to the whole national character. But, instead, she joked, "Just on my mind? I think yours is pretty full of ideas itself." She could almost see him drooling. "Come on," he nudged her shoulder. "Finish your drink. We can exchange ideas at my place." She finished the scotch and let him gallantly pay for it. Then they left the bar and began walking down the street to his car. It was an old green Buick. He opened the passenger side door for her, then slightly staggered around the car and got in behind the steering wheel. He put his hand way too high on Emma's thigh for her comfort, started the car and pulled away from the kerb. As they drove down the street he suddenly turned to her, his face hideously deformed and said, "You know what, Mrs. Peel, I suddenly have another idea. Guess what it is." Mrs. Peel froze, her stomach turning into an ice cube. "How about this?" another, deeper voice said raising behind her, and she felt the steely hard muzzle of a gun rest against the back of her head. "Drive off, Terence." Oscar Forbes. They had been waiting for her. Emma's heart began to race as she realized she and Steed had been betrayed. Steed wasn't called Cat's Eye Steed for nothing. Driving his hire car a block away from the car Mrs. Peel had entered he noticed immediately when a second figure had risen from the back floor of the car, placing a gun against Mrs. Peel's head. Instantly, he turned his car down a side street and praised himself briefly for having spent an hour driving around the bar earlier in the day learning the layout of the roads by heart. Steed always made it a point to make his enemies territory as familiar to himself as possible; the easier to catch them and escape from them. In this case, his mind was feverishly on catching. Oscar Forbes was way too dangerous to just wait and see what he had planned for Mrs. Peel. Steed had to act now. Turning right he accelerated his car down a parallel street until he glimpsed that he had passed the car with Emma in it. He speeded passed a few more roads, going through stop signs and causing two cars to break and spin to miss him, then turned right again and drove back onto the original road coming to a crashing halt forty feet directly in front and perpendicular to Emma's car. The Buick slammed to a stop, sliding into the side of Steed's hire car, crunching the side, and Emma, at that moment, chopped the gun from Oscar Forbes hand, opened her door, and rolled out of the car. Terrence, panicking, backed the car up, hitting a parked car, then turned the car around a hundred and eighty degrees and flew off in the opposite direction. Steed waited until Mrs. Peel was in their car, then screeched off after the Forbes brothers. "Are you all right?" he asked, as he honked loudly and drove through a red light, causing a car to veer into a lamp post. Steed looked in his rear view mirror, "Dear me," he said. "I'm fine," Mrs. Peel said. "But, Steed, how did they know I'd be there? Terrence called me by name. We've been betrayed." Steed's face grew grim at those words. Betrayal was the most unforgivable, unpardonable crime to him. "We'll deal with that later. First, I want those brothers." Their chase had taken them into an increasingly worse section of the city. Buildings became more ramshackle, windows were covered with boards, and an aura of grime pervaded the streets. Although Terrence had been unable to shake Steed from his tail, Steed had not been able to gain much on the other driver, either. Suddenly Steed's chance to overcome them came when another car darted out of a side street in front of the Forbes'. The Buick tried to swerve around, but clipped a car parked on the other side of the street. Terrence braked and over-corrected so that the Forbes vehicle spun around once before going up a kerb and crashing through an abandoned store front on the left side of the street. Steed came to angled stop right next to the Buick. "Get Terrence," he told Mrs. Peel as they both flew out of the car. "I'll take Oscar." Steed ran to the back door of the Buick as Oscar opened it up, gun in hand. Kicking the door, it closed on the traitor's forearm, and he screamed and dropped his gun, which fell under the car. Steed yanked open the door again and grabbed Forbes by his shirt, pulling him out brusquely and thrusting him back against the side of the vehicle. Holding his neck in a vise grip with one hand, Steed punched him viciously several times in the face with his other. As Oscar sagged to the ground, Steed found the gun under the car and put it in his pocket. Mrs. Peel met Terrence coming out of the driver's door, his head bleeding from having struck the windshield in the accident. Holding a handkerchief to his head, he let fly a roundhouse with his free hand. Deflecting his punch to her face with a forearm block, she kicked him in the groin, and as he bent double she flipped him over her shoulder. He landed hard on his back, his bloody handkerchief falling to the ground next to a folded piece of paper. Mrs. Peel picked up the paper and put it in her bra as Terrence, stunned for a moment, rolled quickly to his side and began to rise, using the car hood for leverage. Mrs. Peel raised her hand to chop the side of his neck, when a bullet flew into the wall of the building to her right. "Mrs. Peel, get down!" Steed yelled. He darted to the front of the car and met her at the bumper as another bullet shattered the driver's side window. "Where's it coming from?" Mrs. Peel asked. "And from whom?" "No doubt it's our friendly little betrayer. They must have radio'd him from their car where they were headed. I'm sure you noticed a handset in the front of the car." Steed stared up the street and pointed, "I thought I saw a gunshot flash from across the street by the corner bench. Look, someone is squatting behind it." They ducked down fully behind the Buick as another volley of ten shots spattered around them chipping bricks and imbedding into the side of the car. "My goodness me, the shooter's got dreadful aim," Steed said, observing the wall behind them. "Look at how the bullets spread out all around us." As they lifted their heads back up they viewed the Forbes brothers running far down the street. Steed's lips compressed into one thin line and he stood up as he saw a third figure running away further down the street. He and Mrs. Peel moved away from the protection of the car. Then his eyes narrowed as Oscar stopped about one hundred feet away and turned back towards them. Sirens pierced the distance as Oscar waved at them a few times. "What is he doing?" Mrs. Peel asked. Steed didn't answer but just stared at Oscar's actions as he took something out from where it had been taped to his right ankle. As Oscar began to raise an antennae, Steed's eyes widened, and grabbing Mrs. Peel, he threw her over the bonnet of their hire car, following her in massive leap. Both of them landed in a perfect shoulder roll, and as they stood up Steed yelled "Run!" with such urgency that Mrs. Peel was off down the street beside him before she could even think. In one great spurt of speed they made forty feet before Oscar pressed a button and the Buick exploded in a deafening roar behind them. Mrs. Peel had to admit that Steed was very comprehensive in his setting up a new assignment. Reclining in a cushioned chair in a nice but simple motel in a quiet middle class area of Calgary, she was immensely thankful that Steed's orderly precautions were something he did by rote, without fail, in every new city he wound up in. He had studied the main roads in the city of Calgary on the plane before his nap. After meeting with the RCMP, they had devised their plan to have Emma meet Terrence, and then Steed had spent some time driving all around the area of the bar memorizing the layout of the roads for a radius of a half mile. They had next stopped at a store to buy Mrs. Peel the clothes and shoes she wore into the bar. After that Steed had checked them into separate rooms at this motel across town from their more upscale hotel, using aliases as he signed them in. Then he had dropped her off at her hotel room, and had brought a few of their clothes back to the motel. "Getting the second motel in an alias is just a habit I can't and don't want to break. Has saved my life a number of times in the past, and no doubt will save it in the future as well. I like to be prepared, and set up my safety net before I get pushed off the trapeze wire," he had said, after returning from his errand to the motel. They had needed that safety net. The explosion had been noisy, but aside from the force of it knocking them onto the rough and dirty ground, causing some bloody skin scrapes, it hadn't had the strength to do any more serious damage to them. However, it had wrecked their hire car, sitting so close in proximity to the blast. Hobbling to their feet, they had continued running for several blocks until they by chance were able to flag down a taxi. Steed had stopped the cab eleven blocks from the motel, and they had walked the rest of the way, trying to maintain as casual an appearance as possible while being alert to every person they saw and every car that passed. Zipping passed the TV watching front desk clerk had not been difficult, and then they were safely ensconced in their rooms. After showering and a change of clothes they had met in Steed's room to go over the chaos of the night and figure out their next move. They had decided that from now on they were on their own; they could not trust the RCMP. With Steed's strong inkling someone in The Ministry was also involved --some unknown Ministry person who had been allied with Forbes previously, and who had never been discovered, was still loyal to him and giving him Ministry information-- he wanted to avoid an attack from any of those who knew which hotel they had checked into, so they had agreed to stay at the motel. "It looks like we're on our own, Mrs. Peel," Steed said, smiling, looking directly into her pupils. It was obvious to both of them the idea was not unpleasant to either of them. "Would it be condescending of me to say that you were most impressive tonight?" She nodded her head gently up and down a few times, "A little." He nodded back at her. "Do forgive me then. Now, are you done in for the evening or have you a bit more energy left?" he asked. "What do you have in mind?" she asked, blinking her eyelids playfully, much more interested in his answer than she had been of Terrence Forbes'. And for a moment, she wished that he really would say what was deeply in his mind. But, she knew he wouldn't if she didn't make the first clear move. Knowing that, she sat still in her chair. Steed paused for a second watching her, and then his cheerful, yet determined, professional self took over again. "What I have in my mind is one thing," he answered. "What you had secreted so intelligently in your, uh, lingerie is another." With that he pointed to the small desk in the corner of the room, where the paper Mrs. Peel had found on the ground by Terrence lay unfolded. Written on it was a small string of numbers. Mrs. Peel got out of the chair and walked over to the desk, glimpsing down at the paper she had handed to Steed before she had showered. "It must be some sort of code," she said. "Well, actually," Steed said, standing next to her, "I think they're coordinates." "Latitude and longitude?" "Yes. I always like to know the latitude and longitude of the place I'm going on assignment and the surrounding areas of interest," he said. "These are near Kamloops in British Columbia." He unfolded a map with coordinates on it he took from a dresser drawer. "Memorizing coordinates? Another habit?" she asked. "Another habit. Makes it easier to radio for assistance. So easy to mispronounce town names under duress." Mrs. Peel studied Steed as he focused on the map, impressed by him and increasingly understanding his record of success was won through honest and diligent work. Beneath his societal air of insouciant slothfulness lay a highly organized and disciplined man, with a shrewd and cunning intelligent mind devoted to rigid and extensive preparations. Combined with a limitless activity level he ensured the highest possible degree of safety for himself and his partner. As much as Mrs. Peel knew she was a very good amateur agent, she was struck by the professional knowledge and expertise Steed employed in all areas of his work. Pointing to an area on the map, Steed said. "Well, if I'm right, and I have good reason to believe I am, these are the coordinates for southeastern British Columbia. Mountainous and isolated. It may be our next stop if the Forbes decide to leave town. I doubt Terrence would think we have this paper, if he realizes he lost it. Even if he did, I doubt they'd think we would know they're coordinates." He stood up and looked at her. "I do so hope you're not afraid of bears." "I'm more afraid of exploding cars," she quipped. "Those should be in short supply in the woods," Steed assured her. "How do you know the description of the area of the coordinates?" Mrs. Peel asked. "I've been to southeastern BC. In that area," Steed said, pointing at the map, before folding up the paper and putting it in his pocket. "You've been there? When?" Sometimes Mrs. Peel wondered if there was any place on Earth Steed hadn't visited. "Oh," he shrugged. "Years ago." Mrs. Peel had come to understand that "years ago" to Steed could indicate anything from two to thirty years in the past, and was a phrase he used when he wasn't particularly interested in further discussion of the topic at hand. He no doubt had his reason for being secretive, and from experience she knew it could be anything from a plan to pleasantly surprise her later to just plainly being reticent about sharing a private part of his history. She let the comment go. If he didn't feel like talking about it, she would not be inconsiderate in attempting to pry. Mrs. Peel straightened up, her muscles a little sore from being tossed to the ground by the explosion. She arched her back in a stretch, her hands resting on her hips. "Feeling a bit stiff, Mrs. Peel?" Steed asked. Like a light turning on in her mind, she became aware of being in Steed's motel bedroom, at night, with the silent city seeming not only outside but very far away. He was looking at her, his square patrician face and half-lidded eyes showing an interest to rub her body until all her tense muscles were soft and yielding. She looked away for a moment, thinking, Why can't I just let us… be together? But, a sudden knot of fear took her, fear of love, of loss, of unbearable grief. With more of an effort than she thought it would take, she returned to the cold, safe distance of platonic friendship. "A little," she said. "A good rest should have me fully recovered in the morning." Steed stood still studying her for a second longer than comfort dictated. Then turning swiftly he sauntered across the room, opened up his door, and as Mrs. Peel crossed the threshold into the hallway, he bowed low and murmured in her ear, "Other good things aid recovery, too, you know." Then he closed the door, leaving Mrs. Peel standing rather lost in the hallway for a minute or two, until her firm reason returned and she went to bed alone. The next morning they read the paper as they sat in a diner a couple of blocks down the street from the motel. The headlines read "Mountie Killed Last Night" and went on to describe the bludgeoning death of Sgt. Edward Ewing in a street not too far from where, in another article, a car explosion was reported. "Terrence and Oscar killed Ewing, didn't they?" Mrs. Peel asked Steed as he finished his orange juice. "I think so, yes. One or the other or both," he answered. "Probably got into some sort of argument, I imagine." "They'll have to leave town now. It'll be too hot for them here, with all the Mounties out trying to solve the death of one of their own." "I believe you have the situation figured out clearly," Steed said. "It looks like we are heading into the forests of British Columbia." He stood up. "Well, shall we go? We have a number of things to do first, without being seen, before we depart to the wooded province to our left." Mrs. Peel finished her coffee, and stood, leaving the paper on her chair. "What's first on the list?" she asked. "Need you ask? A plentiful supply of mosquito repellant," Steed said, dropping a generous tip on the table and then heading for the cash register. Chapter Three After their decision at breakfast to follow the Forbes brothers into British Columbia, Steed took Mrs. Peel to a bank and using a different alias from his fake motel name, withdrew three thousand dollars from a bank account in that name, placing the money in his small luggage case, which he began to swing as if it was his umbrella. "The bank. Another habit?" Mrs. Peel asked, pointing behind them as they left the establishment. "Another habit," he answered, looking for a cab. "It's always so awkward having no money to escape with, so I like to wire a money draft into a bank in whatever city I'm going to on assignment. Credit cards can be traced." "It must be hard remembering all those aliases. How many do you have?" Steed began counting on his fingers; when he got through all ten, he looked at her and said, "I'm afraid I'll need my toes." "Don't bother," Mrs. Peel said. "I get the picture." That day they did a great deal of shopping. They bought a used car, then spent time at sporting good stores. Mrs. Peel looked at Steed rather suspiciously as he bought one two man tent. "Have no fear, Mrs. Peel. I've purchased two sleeping bags," he assured her, though, in his eyes she could see amusement at her concern. "An English gentleman doth not forgo his airs even when resting in a small space next to a lovely lady." She allowed the purchase by simply not vocalizing any disagreement with it and had to admit to herself that the idea of snuggling up to Steed in a tent, the two of them far from anyone else, seemed like a wonderful way to stay warm. She let the thought pass. The day after they drove west leisurely and then turned south soon after crossing over into BC, stopping two hundred and fifty miles from Calgary at the town of Radium Junction. It was a small town of fifteen hundred people, boasting for its only tourist attraction a small hot springs, which even then, in July, the supposed height of the tourist season, was almost empty. In Steed's charming and innocent way he learned from a gas station attendant where they might be able to buy or rent a couple of horses to ride into the wilderness. Meeting a rancher ten miles away, they were given the loan of two horses using their car and four hundred dollars as a down payment. A nonchalant couple of inquiries regarding the Forbes' did not uncover any information about them. They drove back to the ten, had a rather unpalatable dinner and spent the night in separate rooms in one of the motels there. Dressed in casual clothes, the next morning they arrived at the rancher's at 8:00 a.m. It was a sunny and windless day, perfect for taking a long horseback ride. They packed up the horses with their supplies and rode into the woods, heading for the coordinates on Terrence's paper. Traveling west for a few hours, crossing the mountain range that ran north to south, they then turned north, covering about twenty-five miles, for the later half of the day walking their horses in a wide, flat valley between two two thousand feet mountain ranges. Evergreens, larch, and aspens decorated the land, and Steed pointed out two deer he spotted on the sides of the meadow. It was not a very warm summer so far, and in the northern latitude and the higher altitude of BC, they had to wear light jackets even in the daytime. With the twilight gaining on them, they knew that when the sun totally set, it would probably be a chilly night. In the silence of isolated nature, the gentle clopping of their horses hooves lulled Mrs. Peel into a meditative mood, enhanced by Steed's own pensive countenance. It had been a frenetic last several days, a true whirlwind of activity, and now, finally, having had a whole day to enjoy the clouds, the trees and the birds, Mrs. Peel felt that she was able to shake some of the tension from her bones. Their lunch by a bubbly brook had been positively paradisiacal. Mrs. Peel grew aware that Steed knew where they were going, that he was familiar with the lay of the land. She enjoyed catching glimpses of him out the corner of her eye for Steed was so very comfortable on a horse; he seemed to actually become part of the animal, their movements smoothly merging into one form. For all his city breeding and love of civilized accoutrements, it was remarkable to her how adaptable he seemed to be to any situation, no matter how far removed he was from his staid clubs and uncorked champagne bottles. Of course, she was pretty adaptable herself, and she hadn't missed Steed's eyes glancing at her. With the sun getting lower and the air growing cool, both Steed and Mrs. Peel knew it was time to stop and set up camp. Yet neither mentioned that impending actuality, the idea of having just the one tent preying on both their minds. It made good sense to them just have the one tent, keeping them together for protection's sake, but now, in the face of being so close together for the whole night, and yet not allowed to touch each other, they procrastinated stopping the horses. Emma knew she was the one who had made the hands off rule, and was feeling more and more a schizophrenic split between the needs of her body and the fear in her mind. Terrence Forbes and his friend were lost. Having misplaced the paper with the latitude and longitude markings on it before he had memorized them, Terrence had tried to remember the numbers but had obviously failed. He had never passed a math class in his life and hated numbers. Terrence had been much too scared to tell Oscar of his mishap. So, when Oscar had said, after killing Ewing, that he was leaving that night for their cabin, and had ordered Terrence to come early the next morning with Clyde, a pretty good thief and carpenter who was their accomplice at times, Terrence had said, Sure, no problem. The last words Oscar had barked at Terrence before he drove off was a grim warning calmly and menacingly informing Terrence that he'd regret the day he was born if he didn't show up at Oscar's cabin within three days after killing the Mountie. Terrence had been wandering around the damn hills for two days now, laden with a seventy pound backpack complete with rifle and handgun, hoping he would come upon Oscar's cabin by chance. His luck had been terrible. Today was the third day. He was overdue at the cabin. "Jesus, Terrence, another night lost in the woods?" Clyde complained at his side, kicking his backpack in irritation as they sat on a thick tree trunk fallen on the ground. "Shut up, Clyde. I'm doing the best I can." "A monkey could do better than this," Clyde muttered, lighting up a cigarette. Terrence sat hunched over, his face rigid, a dark mood suffusing him. He had begun to hate everything --Oscar, Clyde, the woods, Canada… just everyone and everything. He longed to be back in England. Just when Terrence felt the bleakest he ever had, something caught his eyes that made him brighten up like a child on Christmas morning. Grabbing his binoculars out from his pack, he laughed out loud. There down below him, three hundred feet away, he saw two familiar faces riding through the clearing. This was an excellent way to get back on Oscar's good side. Steed pulled up his reins near some level ground by a grove of trees, thirty feet away from a meandering creek they had been following in the meadow. He frowned a bit as he realized he had underestimated how far they could travel in a day in this mountainous land, and, seeing the last spot of light fall below the horizon knew they had made it as far as they could for the day. He turned to Mrs. Peel with what, he knew, was a sheepish grin, and said, "We better stop for the night and set up camp. I hoped we might be able to get to a ridge access, where there are trees all the way to the top we can climb up, instead of the precipitous rocky crests we've been seeing, but I can't exactly remember how far away it is, and I don't want to ride about once the sun sets." Steed smiled at his partner. "I am rather loathe to risk injury to ourselves or the horses traveling in the pitch dark." Mrs. Peel noticed Steed paused with his mouth slightly open, as if he was going to say something else but then decided against it. Instead, he just swung gracefully off his horse. Mrs. Peel got down as well. The first bullet went clean through the head of Steed's horse, zipping so close to Steed's ear that Steed heard the projectile whiz by. The horse pitifully whinnied once, than fell to the ground, dead. Steed collapsed to his knees in reflex, yelling, "Mrs. Peel, get down!" rather needlessly, as Emma had already dived to the grass and rolled a few times until she was kneeling behind a tree. As a second shot killed her horse, Steed arrived at the tree next to her. "Bad luck, this," he whispered to her in the largest understatement so far of their acquaintance. "It must be one or both of the Forbes brothers. It appears their sniping reputation has certainly not been exaggerated. Quite good shooting given the lack of much light. Must have the sight of an eagle." A bullet smacked into the tree protecting Steed, sending wood chips everywhere, and he crouched down further. Mrs. Peel looked over at her horse, laying lifeless on its side fifteen feet away. "I think I can make it to the rifle," she said. They had one gun and one rifle for the two of them, both packed away on Emma's horse. "Don't try it," Steed said, holding her arm, his tone losing all of its bantering quality. "These men would have no compunction about shooting a woman." As if to emphasize his point, another bullet tore through a small branch protruding on Emma's tree, and it fluttered down to her feet. She ducked, and then after a moment, sat up and looked at Steed three feet away. Steed's eyes narrowed to pinpoints as he stared up the mountain side. "I think I know where the shooter is." Try as she might, Mrs. Peel could not hide all the fear in her voice, "Steed, we can't just sit here. He'll figure out we aren't armed, and then just come down and kill us. Let me try for the rifle." "No," he said firmly. "Let him think we're trapped, waiting for a free moment to get our weapons. Meanwhile I'll maneuver up the hillside, using the trees for cover, and take him by surprise." He turned to her, his old carefree tone returning, "That's how I took out a machine gun nest once, you know." "And what will you use as a weapon?" "My wits, my fists, and a rock. Or a stout tree limb." "A stout tree limb against a rifle. That's like thinking chain mail will suffice against a hand grenade." "Oh, ye of little faith," Steed said. "I haven't survived this long without some modicum of skill." "And what will I be doing in the meantime?" Mrs. Peel asked, unconvinced of his plan and growing more assured that getting the rifle was the correct choice for the situation. Proving her point to herself, that he didn't have a chance without a weapon, another bullet hit Steed's tree, directly in front of his face. Steed closed his eyes as bark chips flew into his face. He wiped his face clean. "You stay here, and act as if I'm here, too. Look this way and keep talking as if I was still by your side," he directed. Before Mrs. Peel could continued her protestations Steed shimmied over to the next tree. He kneeled behind it taking a moment before he rushed out from the coverage of the grove. On a whim he turned back to Mrs. Peel to give her a quick wave good-bye, when, to his horror, Steed saw her stand poised ready to run from the safety of the tree's thick trunk. Steed was moving through the air before her and as she dashed out from behind the tree halfway to the horse, Mrs. Peel was stunned by his forceful impact into her side. Tackled as if she was on a rugby field, she was unable to maintain her momentum and crashed down to the ground with Steed landing ungallantly hard on top of her. Mrs. Peel's breath was knocked out of her, and as she struggled anxiously to regain a normal breathing pattern, she heard a hoarse croaking from the almost immobile Steed, the scratchy sound nevertheless filled with urgency, "Mrs. Peel!! Are you all right?" Getting her wind back, she gasped, "I'm fine." "Then crawl back… to your tree," he grunted, as he struggled to move off her, lifting himself heavily by his arms, pulling his right leg under him, and then scurrying the last few feet to Emma's horse as she scrambled back to the protective trees. As she moved she glanced to her right and saw where a bullet had entered a tree directly where she had been, at the level of her standing torso. Steed had saved her life. Steed unpacked the rifle from behind the saddle, ducking as a bullet hit the poor dead beast. He didn't linger long in the scanty protection the horse's body afforded. As Emma watched, he looked at her, saying in a rough voice, "Now, please, stay where you are. I've got the rifle and need to do a bit of sharp shooting. I've got the eyes of an eagle as well. I'll be back soon." He left, staggering a bit as he stood. Emma watched him walk away toward a better angle of fire, pleased with herself that at least she had enabled Steed to have a weapon to fight with from afar instead of relying on hand to hand combat with an armed opponent. As the long minutes ticked by, however, the carelessness of her action hit home and Mrs. Peel began to shake uncontrollably, castigating herself severely, for almost throwing her life away so stupidly. She could have gotten them both killed. Mrs. Peel reviewed Steed saving her life over and over in her head. The bullet had been aimed perfectly, if Steed hadn't knocked her down… Suddenly, another gunshot pierced the night, and she snapped back to the present, but no bullet flew her way. Oh my God, Steed… A second shot rang out. Then nothing. For too many minutes, nothing. Discarding her fears for her life, Mrs. Peel stood up grabbing hold of a stout limb, and ran to the edge of the copse, walking towards the hillside, desperately searching the now dark woods for any sign of her partner. Hearing a rustle she raised the thick stick, and she ran to the noise. Steed appeared, a little hunched over, and limping on his left leg. "Don't attack, Mrs. Peel," he said. "I'm on your side." "Steed!" she said, throwing the limb away. "Are you all right? What happened? I heard shots." She noticed he was sweating a little and his face was a bit drawn. "It was Terrence and some unknown accomplice. I got close enough to see them and... well, they won't be a problem to us anymore." He didn't fill in the rest, but just added, "I was rather unhappy to learn they were on foot. As we are, now." "Should we set up camp here?" she asked. "No, the shots may have attracted brother Oscar. We need to gather what we can and walk up that way." He pointed straight north, his arm a little shaky. "Not too much further, I think, we come to that spot where the mountain isn't so rocky, where there's trees, and we can walk up to the top, over the ridge. There's another valley on the other side. That's where we need to go." "Why?" "Because that's where I have a cabin." "So close to Oscar's hideout?" "Well, he's about ten miles away, I think. Not too many cabins in this area, which is a twenty-five mile radius, as it's private land with no road access. Public land surrounds the private land, and no cabins are allowed on public land. Terrence must have been lost; don't know why he was on foot. Didn't think we'd run into either Forbe. Mistake on my part. Thought we'd reach my cabin safely and use it as the central point of operations." "Well, at least we're safe, now." Steed paused before answering. It seemed that lengthy narrative had made him oddly breathless. "Yes." Mrs. Peel looked at him, shaking her head. "I believe it was Sherlock Holmes who told Dr. Watson 'I'll never get your limits.'" "Yes, in 'The Sussex Vampire'," Steed answered. "But you are much too pretty to be Sherlock Holmes. Shall we get going?" They collected what they could from their horses, put backpacks on and started walking off, Mrs. Peel leading with an torch. There was a full moon that night, though thick clouds were rolling in, hiding it every now and then. Steed moved stiffly a few paces behind, not trying to hide his limp, which he had explained to Mrs. Peel was a sprained ankle, and which seemed to be causing him increasing discomfort. He had adamantly and stubbornly refused to have Mrs. Peel look at his ankle, or brace it, but had allowed her to carry the added weight of the rifle and gun. Mrs. Peel frowned in aggravation at his refusal of medical help as she forged a path through the valley. They walked silently, only an occasional snapped twig and their breathing giving their presence away. They found the right access when a flash of moonlight illuminated the top of the mountain to their left and the outline of a forest of trees was visible. It was luckily only one mile from the dead horses. They began to climb up the tree-lined side of the mountain to the ridge. Mrs. Peel noticed Steed's breathing getting more and more labored. No doubt he had injured his ankle more severely than he had admitted and was loathe to acknowledge his pain. Steed used tree trunks to pull himself up the hill, slipping once or twice, grunting loudly, and Emma noticed his legs shook when he stood up. It seemed like he made it up the hill using sheer drive and determination. "Shall we rest for a moment?" she asked, once they had reached the zenith, turning to watch Steed hobble along five feet behind her. "No. Keep. Moving," he said in tremulous, clipped tones. But she couldn't ignore the fact that he walked almost doubled over, limping badly, holding onto trees for balance. "Down. There," he pointed, his arm wavering badly as he tried to hold it up. She turned back to the lead, worry and anger colliding like two trains inside her. How bad was his ankle? Was it broken? Why couldn't he admit how bad it was? How much further did they have to go in the chill air before they could stop for the night? She strode on resolutely, her iron will preventing her from continually casting her eyes behind her, cursing the inexplicable stoicism of men, deciding that if Steed wanted to suffer in peace, then she would just let him struggle onwards in his intransigence. Suddenly, a loud, long moan behind her sent a burst of anxiety charging down from her head to her feet, wiping all irritation from her mind. She spun around and saw Steed bent over, leaning against a tree, head hanging low, his right arm wrapped around his side, his left arm grasping a low-lying branch. His breath came in short spurts, his inspirations jerky and uneven. Mrs. Peel approached him slowly, her eyebrows knit together in a questioning anxiety. "Steed?" she asked, shining the beam of the torch onto his face; her eyes and mouth opened wide when she saw how pale he was. Drops of perspiration poured off his face. With enormous effort Steed lifted his head up, and he saw the limitless concern suffusing Mrs. Peel's face. Forcing air into his lungs, he pushed off from the tree, dragging his left leg behind him as he stumbled forward. To Mrs. Peel's horror, he made only two steps before he fell to his knees and then pitched forward landing on his right side. She rushed to his side, and kneeling by him saw him shivering terribly, his eyes closed, his arms rigidly crossed in front of his abdomen. His teeth were clenched tightly. Before she could move her mouth to speak, Steed reached out with his right arm grabbing a hold of her jacket sleeve, and said, his voice gurgling harshly, "Mrs. Peel. Find cabin. Due north. Key twin rocks." Then, as his eyes rolled back in his head, he whispered, "I'm sorry," and passed out. Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic, Mrs. Peel repeated to herself. She took off her backpack for ease of movement, then removed the backpack from his back and leaned it against a tree. She took off her jacket and covered Steed with it and, rolling him onto his back, placed a towel from her backpack under his head as a pillow. Then she moved to Steed's left foot to examine just how bad the injury was. It had to be broken, shattered somehow; nothing else would explain why… She held his boot in one hand reaching with her other for the lace to untie it, and paused in mid air as she realized the boot was sticky. Sticky? Unable to see at all without the torch, she focused the beam on his boot. Her bones turned into icicles as she questioned what she was looking at. Blood? She put the boot down, touched the thick liquid and lifted