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The sound of waves lapping against the dock pilings filled the still, damp night air as Bodie and Doyle crouched in the shadows outside the derelict warehouse. The building loomed before them like a dark monolith, its broken windows casting jagged reflections of the dim harbour lights. The tip off Doyle had received suggested somewhere inside were two men with a history of violence and a string of armed robberies to their names.
"Not exactly the Ritz, is it?" Bodie muttered, his tone laced with sarcasm as he surveyed the crumbling structure.
"Keep it down," Doyle hissed. His green eyes flicked toward the warehouse, alert and cautious. "If they're in there, they'll hear us coming a mile away."
Bodie gave a small shrug, his usual bravado unshaken. "Let 'em. Save us the trouble of sneaking around." Then he gestured to his feet. “Brand new these trainers, and I don’t much care to ruin them treading in whatever unholy sludge is an inch thick on the floor of that building, because I’m not paying £2.50 at the cleaners just to…”
Doyle shot him a look, rolling his eyes at his partner before he walked towards the entrance of the warehouse, leaving Bodie and his unfinished rant. The latter quickly caught up with his partner and they moved forward in sync, keeping to the shadows, their weapons drawn. The old wooden door creaked as Doyle eased it open, and they slipped inside, the darkness swallowing them whole.
The interior of the warehouse was a maze of rusting machinery, stacked crates, and cobweb-strewn beams. Water dripped steadily from somewhere above, every glass panel in the ceiling smashed, the plinking drops echoed ominously. The smell of mould and oil was thick in the air.
"We should split up," Doyle whispered, his voice barely audible. "We’ll cover more ground that way. But stay sharp, Bodie. These two have been on the run for days, and that makes them dangerous."
Bodie nodded. "I'll keep my wits about me, Mother," he said with a smirk. Doyle shook his head but didn’t argue. They moved in opposite directions, their footsteps almost silent on the damp concrete floor. Bodie peaked cautiously around an open door and slid inside a large darkened room, he had barely walked more than a few steps inside when his foot slid in some kind of dark green sludge. He paused, as the substance leaked through the soft lining of his trainer to make his foot inside damp and felt a disgusting squidge against his toes. He let out a small curse aimed at his partner, and then was back on task.
Bodie kept his movements deliberate, his sharp eyes scanning every shadow, every nook and cranny. The faint glow of light flickered somewhere ahead, and he moved toward it, his instincts on high alert. He was nearly at the light, which appeared to be from a torch, when something shifted in the darkness behind him. He started to turn but was just a fraction too late to react.
A brutal blow to the side of his head sent him stumbling. Before he could recover, two figures emerged from the shadows, their faces twisted with malice. One of them swung a metal pipe, catching Bodie's weapon arm, with a yelp his gun clattered to the ground. He lunged to retrieve it, but the second man kicked him hard in the ribs, driving the air from his lungs.
Panting, and a little disorientated from the whack to his head, Bodie fought back fiercely, landing a solid punch on one man and knocking him off balance. But the other was relentless, putting in a couple of blows with the pipe until Bodie was forced to his knees. His vision blurred, and blood trickled from a gash above his eye. His strength was fading fast.
"Bit of a tough bugger aren’t ya" one of the men sneered, his voice a guttural growl. "But not tough enough."
They overpowered him quickly, wrenching his arms and binding his hands behind his back with coarse rope. “Told you I heard a noise.” One of them said as he pocketed the gun while the other hoisted Bodie to his feet. Bodie struggled, but a sharp punch to his stomach doubled him over. Leaving him further winded and coughing to catch his breath.
One of the men eyed Bodie carefully. "Well, there’s probably another one round here somewhere, “he gave their surroundings a glance. ”I wonder if your mate’s as cocky as you are," he added with a cruel laugh.
They dragged Bodie toward a small, dank basement at the back of the warehouse. One of the men shoving a grimy sweaty hand over his mouth when he became too noisy. The air was even colder and damper here, the smell of rot almost overpowering. They shoved him into a chair and secured him tightly.
In another part of the warehouse Doyle moved through the shadows, his senses tingling with unease. He’d found no sign of the suspects and, worryingly, no sign of Bodie either. The silence was unsettling. He pressed the button on the side of his radio. "3-7 come in." No answer. There was static, interference from the thick walls. He tried again. “Bodie?.”
Silence. Something was off.
His grip tightened on his weapon as he doubled back, moving faster now. His partner’s radio silence and the ominous feeling gnawing at his gut told him something was wrong. Very wrong.
In the basement, Bodie sat slumped in the chair, his breaths shallow. His captors stood over him. Light shone from a single torch, hanging from a beam, and a few broken ceiling panels which filtered in the orange artificial light from the wharf-side. It cast the two faces as grotesque; unwashed, greasy hair, one with dark unkempt stubble, the other covering his bald head with a woollen beanie, and both dressed in dirty, stiff looking, and smelly, camouflage gear. The pair grinned smugly.
Bodie was unfazed. "Listen fellas, you might as well give up now," he rasped, his voice hoarse from his rough treatment, but defiant. “My partner will have already radioed for back-up. This place will be swarming with agents in minutes."
The men laughed with unfettered confidence. "We’ll be ready," the one with the stubble said with a sneer. He was missing a tooth. “Besides, I have always wanted to go out in a blaze of glory.”
But their bravado was premature. Doyle was already closing in, moving with stealth and purpose through the warehouse. The dim light filtering into the building through the nearby broken windows creating long shadows, as a distant ship’s horn sounded across the river. Doyle pressed his back against a rust-streaked support beam, his breath steady despite the rising tension. His hands clutching his gun - prepared for action - and his eyes scanned the gloom ahead.
Then he heard it: muffled voices.
“Not so tough now, are you?” a man’s voice jeered, sharp and mocking, cutting through the ambient creaks and groans of the aging walls. There was a dull thud, quickly followed by another, then a grunt of pain which echoed off the walls.
Bodie.
Doyle’s jaw clenched. He moved quickly, listening as the voices grew clearer.
"You're supposed to be the big, bad CI5, eh?" a voice with a harsh Manchester accent snarled. His tone laced with disdain. Another dull smack echoed, and Doyle flinched involuntarily.
“Where’s the fight now?” The first voice again, a Londoner, almost laughing. “Maybe we’ll teach you a couple of lessons about snooping where you don’t belong, eh?”
Doyle crouched lower, moving toward the sounds as quietly as possible. His radio was a dead weight on his hip, only emitting only bursts of static when he had tried to signal for backup. He cursed under his breath, realising interference was cutting off communication. He was on his own.
Doyle crept closer, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He tilted his head in concentration, the echoes making it harder to pinpoint exactly where the voices were coming from. Crates piled haphazardly created a stealthy path across the otherwise open floor, but in turn blocked his view as he approached the voices. He strained his ears, every muscle in his body tense.
Another sound reached him—a wet cough, then Bodie’s voice, hoarse and strained. “You’re all talk. That the best you’ve got?”
A bark of laughter, followed by a sharp crack of flesh against flesh. Doyle winced. Bodie’s bravado, while unshakable, was only going to make things worse.
He edged around a stack of rusting barrels, his footsteps nearly silent on the damp concrete. There was the smell of body odour and unwashed clothes mixed with the decay of the building as Doyle got closer. Peering around one of the barrels, he spotted them.
Bodie was tied to a chair, his head slumped slightly forward, blood trickling from a cut above his brow. His hands were bound behind him. The two suspects—grimy men in stained camouflage jackets—stood over him, the one with a stubbly beard was holding a length of pipe and the other what looked like Bodie’s own weapon – Cowley was going to have a field day about that.
“How did you find us here anyway? Somebody talk?,” the man with the pipe said, tapping it lightly against Bodie’s arm. “Just give us the names, and maybe we’ll think about lettin’ you limp out of here.”
Bodie laughed, though it came out more like a cough. He knew the men had no intention of letting him go. “If you think I’m telling you anything, you’re even stupider than you look.”
The pipe wielder raised his arm threateningly above his head. “Tell us who grassed us up?”
Doyle nearly leapt out of his cover, but forced himself to be still, pushing down his anger. He couldn't risk getting caught out before he had a clear shot. One wrong move, and Bodie’s life might be forfeit.
The man with the gun stepped closer to Bodie, pressing the muzzle against his temple. “Maybe you need more motivation,” he sneered.
Doyle’s grip on his weapon tightened. He had to act fast. Every instinct told him to charge in guns blazing, but the odds were against him. Instead, he silently shifted his position, moving to a better vantage point. The shadows and piled crates were his ally, and let his training take over. He would only have one chance.
Doyle moved cautiously, every muscle coiled like a spring. The grimy floor of the warehouse was littered with debris—broken pallets, rusted nails, shards of glass— so he had to step carefully. Apart from the noise of the villains holding his partner, the damp air carried the creak of shifting wood and distant lapping waves from the river. He kept his focus sharp, his weapon ready, his breathing controlled.
But then it happened.
So focused on the threat to his partner, he caught his boot on the edge of a loose piece of corrugated metal, leaning haphazardly against a packing create. It slid to the ground with a metallic clang that reverberated like a gunshot through the cavernous space. Doyle froze, cursing inwardly as both men turned sharply toward the noise.
"Oi! Who’s there?" the man with the gun barked, his grip on the weapon tightening as he swung it toward the shadows where Doyle was hiding.
The pipe-wielding thug sneered. "Sounds like you’re mate wants to join the party," he said to Bodie, who realised the element of surprise had just vanished.
His concealment blown, Doyle stepped out into the dim light, his weapon raised, his expression cold and dangerous. “Drop it,” he commanded, his voice firm and unwavering. The tone of a man who wasn’t bluffing.
The man with the gun hesitated, his arm twitching. His thug partner, however, grinned, gripping the pipe tighter.
“Well, well,” the stubbled man said mockingly. “Looks like your boyfriend came to save you.” He glanced back at Bodie, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Isn’t that sweet?”
Doyle didn’t blink. As much as he wanted to send his partner a reassuring glance, his focus remained on the man with the gun—the more immediate threat. “This is how it’s going to go,” he said, his voice steady, his aim dead-centre on the man’s chest. “You let him go, now, and maybe you walk out of here breathing. Or…” he paused for only a second, “…I put you down where you stand. You’re choice.” He said with a light shrug of his shoulders.
The man in the beanie holding the gun barked out a laugh, though it sounded more nervous than confident. “You’re outnumbered, fella. And you’re not gonna risk shooting us with your mate ‘ere in the crossfire.”
Doyle’s lips curled into a humourless smile. “You don’t know me very well.” He took a deliberate step closer, his eyes locked on the man’s. “I’ve got a clean shot on you right now, and I don’t miss.”
Bodie tensed, his eyes flicking between the man with the gun, who looked nervous and his partner, resolute with his green eyes steely and unbetraying in their focus. One tiny signal from him and Bodie was ready to help in anyway he could.
The pipe-wielding thug took a step closer to Bodie. “You’re bluffing.”
The air between all the men was thick with tension, the silence broken only by the distant creak of the docked trawlers and the trickle of water dripping down the basement walls. Doyle’s gaze was locked on the gunman when something shifted in his periphery—a glint of metal catching the faint light coming through the broken floor above.
In one fluid motion, the pipe-wielding thug dropped that weapon and produced a knife, pressing the blade against Bodie’s neck. A thin line of blood appeared where the edge kissed his partner’s skin.
“Don’t even think about it,” the thug growled, his voice low and threatening. His free hand grabbed a fistful of Bodie’s shirt, pulling him closer to him. Bodie grunted, his jaw tight as he stared straight ahead, unwavering despite the blade at his throat.
“Now,” the gunman sneered, stepping closer to Doyle, emboldened by the shift in power. “Looks like you’re not holding all the cards, after all.”
Doyle’s aim wavered ever so slightly as he calculated his options. The gunman was still a threat, but the man with the knife was the more immediate danger to Bodie’s life. His mind raced. One wrong move, and the man would slit Bodie’s throat before he could pull the trigger.
“Go on then, pretty-boy,” the knife-wielder taunted. “Take the shot. Let’s see who bleeds out first—him or me.” He angled the knife slightly to emphasis his point.
Bodie tilted his neck to try and relieve the pressure as the knife bit further into his skin. He gave Doyle a subtle look, a flicker of something in his eyes. It was a warning, but also an unspoken trust.
Doyle swallowed hard; his throat dry. “Put it down,” he said, his voice steady despite the hammering in his chest. He was a trained professional. “This won’t end the way you think it will.”
“Won’t it?” the knife-wielder sneered. He pressed the blade harder, drawing another bead of blood. Bodie tensed but didn’t cry out. The twitch of his eye the only indication of pain.
“You’re in over your head,” Doyle continued, his tone sharp. He kept his weapon raised, though his grip felt heavier than ever. “Think about it. You kill him, and you’re dead before his body hits the ground.”
The gunman smirked, shaking his head. “I think you’re the one who needs to think, mate. One wrong move, and your partner’s just a memory.” He snorted out a mocking laugh as he added, “and after he’s bled out, we might just leave one small piece of you to remember him.”
The knife-wielder chuckled darkly. “What’s it gonna be, hero? You gonna risk it?”
Doyle hesitated. His finger twitching minutely against the trigger, as he fought against every instinct screaming at him to act. The logical side of him knew the CI5 playbook—negotiation, distraction, de-escalation. But the sight of Bodie, bloodied and vulnerable, made it hard to think straight.
“You’ve got ten seconds,” the man with the knife said, his voice like poison. “Put the gun down, or I start carving him up. Piece by piece.”
“Doyle,” Bodie croaked, his voice rough but steady. “Take the sh….”
“Shut up,” the thug barked, shaking him roughly, causing another trickle of blood to slide down his neck. Bodie hissed.
Doyle’s jaw clenched. His arm muscles tight, a small ache building in the limbs. He couldn’t show weakness, but every second felt like a lifetime. He adjusted his aim ever so slightly, to ease the pressure, keeping his focus razor-sharp.
“You’re making a mistake,” Doyle warned. His voice dropped to a near growl, cold and lethal.
The men laughed, their confidence growing as Doyle’s hesitation lingered.
“Looks like the tough guy’s got a soft spot,” the gunman said mockingly. “I guess there’s some truth to the rumours about you special forces types”
The knife-wielder leaned in closer to Bodie, his grin feral, and his evil dark eyes boring into Doyle’s. “What’s wrong, mate? Don’t like seeing your boyfriend in a tight spot?”
Doyle’s mind raced, searching for an opening, a way to flip the odds. He’d been in impossible situations before, but this felt different. He wasn’t sure he could chance it—not with Bodie’s life on the line.
“Five seconds,” the knife-wielder hissed.
Doyle’s heart pounded as the countdown ticked closer to zero, the knife’s edge biting deeper into Bodie’s skin. The clock was running out, and every fibre of his being was screaming not to surrender. But the glint in the thug’s eyes, the growing pressure on the blade, and the blood already seeping from Bodie’s neck told Doyle he had no other choice.
His gaze locked with Bodie’s. It was a fleeting, desperate exchange, one that spoke volumes without a single word. Bodie’s eyes, despite the pain and danger, were clear. They told Doyle one thing: Don’t do it.
But Doyle couldn’t risk it. Not like this.
“Alright!” Doyle barked, his voice hitching with frustration. “Alright. You win.”
The joint smirks on the men’s faces widened as Doyle let out a maddened growl and slowly lowered his weapon. With a reluctant flick of his wrist, he tossed the gun across the room, where it clattered against the damp concrete and skidded into the shadows and through a gap in the floor.
“There. Happy?” Doyle spat, his hands raised to show he was unarmed. He glanced at his partner with an imploring look. Bodie slumped slightly, but the gaze he returned was sympathetic.
“Ecstatic,” the gunman said, his tone dripping with mockery. He stepped forward, tucking the gun into his waistband so he could grab the agent. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
The knife-wielder chuckled, finally easing the blade slightly away from Bodie’s neck but keeping it close enough to remind them both of who held the power. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a bonus,” he said. “Two for the price of one.”
Doyle’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his frustration barely contained. He glanced at Bodie, who gave him a faint nod of his head—a silent acknowledgment that Doyle had done the only thing he could.
The thug with the knife gestured with a jerk of his head. “Tie him up. Same as the other one.”
The beanie clad man gave Doyle a cruel grin. “You’re gonna regret stepping into this, hero.” He grabbed a length of frayed rope from nearby. “But I’ll admit—it’s gonna be fun watching you squirm.”
Doyle didn’t resist as the man approached, his every instinct screaming at him to fight back. But he couldn’t—yet. Not with Bodie still so vulnerable. The thug shoved him roughly to his knees and began binding his wrists. Doyle tried to tense his wrists, to maybe give him a chance of freeing himself later, but the man pulled the rope tight enough to cut into his skin.
“Smart move, not fighting,” the man sneered, leaning close enough for Doyle to smell the sour stench of his breath. “Makes it easier for us.”
“Does it now?” Doyle said, his tone flat but edged with cold defiance. He caught Bodie’s eye again, his expression a silent promise: I’ll get us out of this. Doyle wasn’t sure what kind of plan ‘B’ Bodie could be forming, but he knew he probably wasn’t going to like it.
The man in the beanie finished securing Doyle’s wrists, leaving him on his knees on the damp ground and approached Bodie, crouching in front of him with a cocky grin. “All quiet now,” he said. “Not so mouthy after you’ve had a knife at your throat, eh?”
Bodie’s lip curled into a faint, bloodied smirk. “I’ll save it…For later,” he said hoarsely.
The thug laughed and stood, turning back to Doyle. “Oh, I like this one. He’s got spirit. Shame it won’t last.”
The two men exchanged gleeful looks, as the one in the beanie dragged Doyle across the damp floor into a position opposite Bodie and gave him a kick to the side which doubled him over. Doyle wheeze as pain laced through his ribs. Then the man stepped back to admire his handiwork.
Bodie and Doyle were both bound and seemingly helpless, but there was a defiant spark in their eyes which told a different story.
“We’ve got plenty of time,” the knife-wielder said, flipping the blade in his hand. “Let’s see what it takes to break ‘em.”
The man in the beanie nodded. “This’ll be fun.”
Doyle’s mind was already racing, his body tense with anticipation. He glanced at Bodie. He was battered, the stark red on his neck where the knife had cut him looked fiery and painful, the blood trickled down his neck staining his collar – another cleaning bill to moan to Doyle about. He chastised himself for getting caught. At least they had called in their location before entering the warehouse, but the check had been off the books, and not a priority order from Cowley. How long before HQ would notice their disappearance and send back-up? Not soon enough, he feared.
The knife-wielder crouched in front of Doyle, his smirk wide and malicious. “Not so tough now, are you?” he taunted, his hand flicked out to slap Doyle across the face with a sharp crack that echoed in the warehouse. Doyle’s head jerked to the side, he tasted the tang of blood in his mouth, but he said nothing. He tightened his jaw as he forced himself to stay composed.
“Cat got your tongue?” the thug sneered, grabbing a handful of Doyle’s hair and yanking his head back. Doyle winced, the pain sharp, but his glare remained defiant.
“Bet you’re used to giving orders, huh?” the man continued, his voice dripping with mockery. “Doesn’t feel so good being on the other side, does it?”
Doyle didn’t respond, his silence only serving to frustrate the man further. The thug’s sneer twisted into a scowl, and he drove his fist into Doyle’s stomach with a brutal punch. The air rushed out of Doyle’s lungs, and he doubled, coughing and gasping for breath as the pain radiated into his abdomen.
“Fucking, coward!” Bodie’s voice, hoarse but fierce, cut through the room like a whip.
The man in the beanie turned to Bodie, with a raised eyebrow and a cruel smile playing on his lips. “What’s that? You got something to say?”
Bodie straightened as much as his bonds would let him, his blue eyes blazing despite the blood and bruises on his face. “Yeah, I’ve got something to say,” he growled. “Takes a real big man to rough up someone who can’t fight back. Bet you make your mum proud.”
The lightly bearded thug holding Doyle’s hair released him and stood, turning toward Bodie with a dark chuckle. “You’re just full of it, aren’t you?” he said, shaking his head. “Want a turn, then? Maybe we should shut you up for good.”
“Go ahead,” Bodie shot back, his voice dripping with venom. “Wouldn’t be the first time some two-bit thug thought they could scare me. And just so as you know, you’re not very good at it.”
The man strode toward Bodie, his smirk widening. “Big mouth for someone tied to a chair.”
Doyle, still catching his breath, realised what Bodie’s play was immediately. His partner’s goading had shifted the men’s focus, leaving their guard down. It was reckless, sure—but it was also buying him time to figure out his next move.
The thug with the knife leaned closer to Bodie, the blade glinting menacingly in the faint light. “Keep talking,” he said. “Let’s see how funny you are when I start carving you up, like the pig that you are.”
Bodie grinned through his split lip, his expression defiant. “Come up with that all by yourself, did you? Or do you two just share the one braincell?”
The insult landed, and the thug’s grin twisted into a scowl. “Oh, you’ll regret that,” the knife-wielder snarled, raising the blade. Doyle’s heart sank, bile rising in his throat as he watched helplessly. The thug loomed over Bodie, the knife poised to strike. Doyle’s mind screamed at him to do something, anything, but bound and on his knees, the man with the gun close at his side, there was nothing he could do but watch.
The blade came down—but not into Bodie’s chest as Doyle had feared. Instead, it slashed through the ropes securing him to the chair. The man yanked Bodie forward, dumping him unceremoniously onto the cold, grimy floor. He landed hard on his side. “Oof,” the air rushed from his lungs as he was unable to put out his hands to lessen the impact.
“Get up!” the man barked, though he gave Bodie no chance to comply. A hard-toed boot struck Bodie squarely in the stomach, forcing a painful grunt from him as he instinctively curled in on himself. Despite the punishment, and coughing hard to catch his breath, Bodie’s glare was fierce, refusing to give the thug the satisfaction of seeing him in pain.
Doyle strained against his bindings, his wrists burning as he struggled, but the second man was on him in an instant. The man in the beanie grabbed Doyle roughly by the collar, pulling him back and gripping his arms tightly. “Don’t even think about it, curly,” he growled into Doyle’s ear.
Bodie wheezed, trying to recover from the blow, but the thug with the knife wasn’t done. He crouched down, gripping Bodie by the hair and pulling his head back. “Still got something to say, tough guy?” he sneered, the knife hovering dangerously close to Bodie’s throat again.
“Plenty,” Bodie rasped, his voice hoarse but defiant. “Like how you must be compensating for something, waving that knife around like a big man.”
The thug’s expression darkened, his knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip on Bodie’s hair. “Keep talking,” he hissed. “I’ll enjoy shutting you up.” Grabbing Bodie roughly by the arm he shoved him unceremoniously back onto the chair.
Doyle twisted against the man holding him, his mind racing. The situation was going downhill fast, and every moment they spent under these men’s control brought them closer to Cowley laying a wreath at their funeral. He needed to act—but how? His brain whirled through possible escape scenarios in which he had been trained – all those long arduous sessions with Macklin - but both men were on high alert now, and Bodie was in their sights. The training seemed useless right now.
The man holding Doyle leaned in, his voice low and mocking. “You’re not going anywhere, mate. Just sit tight and enjoy the show.”
Doyle clenched his jaw tighter, the frustration and helplessness burning in his chest. He knew Bodie was deliberately drawing their attention away from him, and though he trusted his partner’s instincts, the cost was becoming painfully clear. Every insult, every jab, every ounce of resistance Bodie gave only seemed to amuse the thugs more, fuelling their cruelty.
The knife-wielder grinned, his grip on Bodie firm as he yanked him forward by the front of his shirt. “You two are close, aren’t you?” he drawled, his tone mocking and cruel. He had noticed the intense gaze they had given each other when he held the knife to Bodie’s throat. “Partners in everything, I bet. Inseparable you could say.”
Bodie’s jaw was set, his blue eyes blazing with defiance. “Closer than I reckon you’ll ever be to another human being,” he bit out, his voice sharp despite the strain.
The thug’s grin widened, his eyes narrowing as he grabbed Bodie’s jaw, forcing him to turn his head toward Doyle. “That right?” he sneered. “What d’you think, hero?” he called to Doyle. “You and this one got something special? Is that why you’re so desperate to save him?”
Doyle’s teeth ground together as he held the thug’s gaze, refusing to let the taunts rattle him. He stayed silent, letting his blazing green eyes forward his sentiment.
The man laughed, a harsh, grating sound, and turned back to Bodie. “Your partner’s got fire,” he said, his tone almost conversational. “Maybe we should see how far he’s willing to go for you.”
Behind Doyle, the man holding him cackled with malevolence. “Go on, mate, give it to ‘im.”
The knife-wielder ignored his partner’s laughter, his focus entirely on Bodie. With a casual flick of his wrist, he dragged the knife down the front of Bodie’s shirt, slicing it open. The fabric fell away, revealing the bruises already forming on Bodie’s torso. The thug’s grin turned feral as he ran the flat of the blade against Bodie’s skin, just enough to make him flinch but not enough to cut.
“Not so cocky now, are you?” the thug taunted, his voice low and menacing. “Or maybe this is what you want. Maybe your partner likes seeing you like this.”
Bodie’s lip curled in a sneer, his voice steady despite the blade at his chest. “You’ve got a filthy imagination, mate. Bet it’s the only thing keeping you warm at night.”
The thug’s expression twisted, his amusement giving way to irritation. He pressed the knife a little harder against Bodie’s chest, just enough to leave a shallow cut and quickly repeated the action. Bodie hissed through gritted teeth as the blood trickled freely.
Doyle couldn’t hold back anymore. “Enough!” he snapped, his voice echoing in the warehouse. “You touch him again, and I swear, I’ll end you.” He didn’t know at that moment just how he was going to do that, but Ray couldn’t just sit back and watch his partner being carved up.
The man holding Doyle tightened his grip, pulling him back sharply. “You’re not exactly in a position to make threats,” he said, his voice dripping with a satisfied glee.
Doyle didn’t care. His eyes were locked on Bodie, his mind working furiously. The thugs were focused on humiliating them, playing their sadistic games—but that focus could be their weakness. If he could just find the right moment.
For now, though, all he could do was wait.
The knife-wielder moved behind Bodie, his grip firm and cruel as he yanked the already-torn shirt down over Bodie’s shoulders, exposing his arms and chest fully to the cold, damp air. Bodie gritted his teeth, his breathing controlled, but Doyle could see the tension in his frame. Despite the bindings and the situation, Bodie refused to show weakness.
The blade hovered near Bodie’s throat, glinting ominously as the thug kept him still. With his other hand, the man trailed his filthy fingers down Bodie’s chest, lingering over the defined muscles, the bruises and the faint scratches left by the knife. His touch was slow and mocking, meant to humiliate.
“They keep you fit in this CI5, don’t they,” the man sneered, his voice oily with contempt. “Bet you and your partner have some… private workouts, don’t you?” His hand moved lower, hovering over the waistband of Bodie’s jeans. “What do you think, hero?” he called to Doyle, turning his head slightly but keeping his grip on Bodie tight. “Is this what gets you both going? Bet you’ve seen what’s under here. Want me to take a peek?”
Doyle’s blood boiled, his muscles straining against the ropes as he glared at the thug with pure, unfiltered rage. His fists clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms, but he forced himself to stay silent. Every fibre of his being screamed at him to lunge, to tear the man away from Bodie and beat him senseless. But bound and held as he was, he couldn’t act – where the hell was their back-up.
The thug laughed at Doyle’s silence, his grin widening. “Oh, he’s mad, alright,” he said, his filthy hand still lingering dangerously close to Bodie’s groin. “Don’t worry, mate. I’m just having a bit of fun. Nothing you haven’t done before, right?”
Bodie, despite the position he was in, managed a low, derisive chuckle. “Must be hard for you…” he said, his voice hoarse but biting. “…being this pathetic. Struggle to get a bird do you? So you get your jollies wherever you can, eh?”
The thug’s grin faltered for a split second before he yanked Bodie’s head back by his hair, the knife pressing harder against his throat. “Careful, mate,” he snarled.
Doyle’s jaw clenched, his eyes burning with fury as he locked eyes with Bodie. His partner’s gaze, though tired and pained, held the same fire it always did. It was a silent message, one Doyle understood: Hold on.
The man in the beanie, still holding Doyle, cackled as he watched the scene unfold. “This is priceless,” he said, his grip tightening. “You two really are something. Real partners in crime, huh? They let that sort of thing go on in CI5 do they?”
Doyle ignored him, his focus entirely on Bodie and the man with the knife. The rage in his chest was a firestorm, but beneath it, his mind was sharp, calculating. He just needed one opening. One moment to turn the tables. And when it came, these bastards would regret every second of this nightmare.
The knife-wielder smirked as he kept the blade pressed against Bodie’s throat, his other hand drifting lower with cruel deliberation. Slowly, he reached for the button of Bodie’s jeans, flicking it open with a practiced, mocking ease. His eyes locked on Doyle, enjoying every flicker of anger and frustration that crossed the other man’s face.
“Nothing to say?” the thug taunted, his voice low and oily. “No witty threat about how I have my hands on your partner? Bet you wish it was you instead. Or maybe…” He leaned in closer to Bodie, his breath hot and rancid against his ear. “Maybe he likes to watch.”
Bodie held still, his jaw tight, but when the man’s hand slipped inside the open fly of his jeans, he flinched—a small movement, barely perceptible, but enough to give the thug a surge of confidence. A cruel grin spread across his face, emboldened by the small crack in Bodie’s resolve.
“There it is,” he murmured, his tone thick and venomous. “Looks like these tough CI5 fellas are full of crap after all, aren’t you?”
Doyle’s body tensed, the sight of Bodie’s flinch and the thug’s disgusting touch igniting a white-hot rage inside him. His teeth clenched so tightly he thought they might crack, and his muscles strained against the ropes biting into his wrists. He wanted to shout, to lunge, to do anything to stop this, but the knife at Bodie’s throat held him in check, and he knew it would just feed the men further, that’s exactly what they wanted.
The second thug, still gripping Doyle felt his small movements. He cackled. “Oi, would you look at ‘im,” he jeered, shaking Doyle slightly with an unencumbered glee. “Looks like he’s gonna explode.” He ruffled Doyle’s hair.
Doyle pulled his head away sharply and turned his piercing green-eyed glare to the man holding him, his voice a low, venomous growl. “When I get loose,” he said, his tone like ice, “you’ll find out how just how much fun it is when I explode.”
The man with the knife chuckled. “Big words for someone tied up,” he said, his grin mocking. “Gotta say though, this is turning out to be a hell of a lot more fun afternoon than we planned.”
The knife-wielding thug’s grin widened, a grotesque expression of power and cruelty, as he continued his assault on Bodie. His hand moved with deliberate cruelty—rubbing, tugging, and squeezing his penis with just enough force to cause pain. Despite his iron resolve, Bodie couldn’t stop his reactions to the pinching and burn of pain in such a sensitive area. His body squirmed against the rough treatment. He kicked his legs out and tried to wrench his hips to the side to shake off the hand as a hiss and grunts of discomfort escaped his clenched teeth.
His writhing just seemed to spur the man on, he pulled Bodie’s penis free of his trousers and kept pumping the shaft with a tight and firm grasp. The hand was rough with callouses and the skin clammy but otherwise dry, the friction produced nothing but jolts of burning pain in Bodie. “Sick Bastard!” He spat, drawing in long panting breaths.
“Oh, is that all?” the thug sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. “Bit of a let down, strapping looking stud like you. Bet your partner here thought you’d put on more of a show too. Guess you’re not as impressive as he hoped, eh?”
Doyle’s vision blurred with red, the man’s taunts hitting a nerve as sharp as any knife. He pushed against the ropes holding him, hoping for any kind of loosening, his rage increasing with every second he was forced to watch the assault on his partner. “You’re dead,” he growled through gritted teeth, his voice low and filled with venom. “You hear me? Dead.”
The thug ignored him, his focus still on Bodie. With a cruel smirk, he thrust his hand back into Bodie’s jeans grabbing his balls in a fierce grip. Licking his lips in perverse delight he twisted them with a quick violent action, his dirty nails digging into the soft skin, eliciting a sharp cry of pain from the agent—a sound that cut through the air and pierced Doyle like a dagger.
“Pathetic,” the thug said, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Your tough guy act really doesn’t hold up, does it? What a disappointment. How do you even look at him, mate?” He shot a glance at Doyle, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Must be embarrassing for you,” the man continued his taunts, "maybe you put up with him because he's a half decent shag….” He flicked his tongue across his bottom lip and sneered at Doyle. “Let’s find out.”
Doyle’s heart hammered, as he watched the sickening display unfold. The knife-wielder leaned forward and forced his greasy lips against Bodie’s, holding him still with bruising force. Bodie gagged as then man thrust his tongue inside his mouth, jerking his head in a desperate attempt to pull away, but his captor’s iron grip on his jaw made escape impossible. When he was finished with devouring Bodie’s mouth the man pulled away and snorted with extra cruel intent, making sure to flick Doyle a malicious and taunting eye. The thug then grabbed Bodie by the shoulder and shoved him onto the grimy warehouse floor.
Doyle’s chest burned with helpless fury, twisting against his bonds, sending further trickles of blood down his wrists as he watched the man send his boot into Bodie’s side with enough force that he almost certainly cracked a rib. Bodie’s face contorted and the sharp cry he let out before he curled in on himself with wrecking coughs, confirmed to his partner that the damage was serious.
The man wasn’t finished with his torment, flipping Bodie onto his stomach he quickly straddled his legs. Putting the knife down so he had the used of both of his hands. “Let’s see the merchandise.” He said lecherously.
Time seemed to slow for Bodie as, still struggling for breath, and with sharp waves of pain throbbing in his side, he felt his jeans being tugged down and the full weight of the man on his back. The man struggled with one hand, fumbling with the fly of his trousers, as the other grabbed at Bodie’s exposed buttocks, trying to force them apart. Jagged fingernails scratching into the skin as the man tried to thrust forward.
The sight of Bodie prone on the ground, jeans being yanked down and the man straddling him with such brutal intent, was too much for Doyle. His captor, still holding him roughly by the arms, leaned forward for a better view of his accomplice’s degradation. His cruel chuckle filled the air like nails on a chalkboard. “Your partner’s gonna get it now?” the man sneered, oblivious to the storm about to be unleashed from Doyle.
It was the distraction Doyle needed. With a sharp, savage twist, Doyle jerked his body to the side, slamming his head into the thug’s face. A loud crunch followed as the man yelped, blood spurting from his broken nose. Stumbling back, the thug released his grip, giving Doyle an opening.
The next couple of minutes were pure chaos. Doyle dropped to the ground, whipping his bound hands under his body to bring them to the front. While low, and with the thug still struggling with watering eyes and blood pouring from his face, attempting to pull the gun from his waistband, Doyle kicked out at the back of his knee. The force of the blow sent the man sprawling with a pained yelp, his gun clattered to the ground and skidded a few feet away. Doyle made a move to help Bodie, aiming squarely for the hulk on his back. Leaping forward, he had gone barely two steps before a hand snatched his ankle and sent him sprawling to the ground. The man was still disorientated and in pain, but his rage fuelled some savage blows down on Doyle.
The man on top of Bodie momentarily stilled upon seeing the fight break out. “What the fuck are you doing? get him under control!”
Bodie, verging on shock and panting hard, let his training kick in and seized his chance at the distraction. Gritting his teeth he surged to one side with all his energy, twisting beneath the weight of his captor, who tumbled off and landed hard on the concrete. Caught off guard by the sudden fight breaking out and with his trousers falling around his knees the man failed to see the foot which smashed into his chest. The would-be rapist gasped as all the air left his lungs and crumpled back on the damp floor. Bodie rolled away and got to his knees. He used the same manoeuvre Doyle had to reposition his hands in front, though he grimaced at the pain which shot through his ribs at the movement.
“Bo-Day!” Doyle’s voice rang out, urgent and commanding as he wrestled with the other thug, gasping as the man drove an elbow into his side. “Get the gun!”
Bodie’s chest heaved. His body, cut and bruised, was radiating in pain, but his instincts were as sharp as ever. He locked his eyes on the gun lying amidst the debris. Ignoring the ache in his body and the rage threatening to consume him, he lunged for it, snatching it up in one swift motion. Dragging himself to his feet, he turned with deadly precision, the barrel now pointed at the man who had violated his space and dignity. The stubble-face man glanced over to the knife still laying on the floor.
“Move…” Bodie growled, panting hard but his voice low and lethal, “…and I’ll make sure it’s the last thing you do.”
The thug hesitated, his hands half-raised as he gauged the fury blazing in Bodie’s eyes. He saw his finger was poised on the trigger and he was just waiting for an excuse to fire. He knew better than to test the limits of a man who’d just endured what Bodie had and sagged back to the ground.
At the same time, Doyle fought like a man possessed. His bound hands wrapped around his captor’s neck, using the very rope meant to restrain him as a weapon. The thug clawed at Doyle’s arms, his gasps growing weaker as Doyle tightened his hold with the ferocity of a predator.
Finally, with one last effort, Doyle drove the man backward, slamming his head against the concrete floor. The thug groaned before going limp, unconscious. Doyle drew in lungsful of oxygen from the exertion and then scrambled to his feet. Bodie.
He turned, taking in the sight of Bodie standing over his assailant. The gun in Bodie’s hand glinted coldly in the dim light, and his knuckles were white with the intensity of his grip. Bodie’s chest heaved, his torn shirt revealing the dark bruises and smooth red cuts from the knife. He had tugged his jeans up his thighs as best he could to cover himself, but they still hung low on his hips. He was dishevelled but still intact, a testament to how close this had come to being far worse.
“You alright, mate?” Doyle asked, his voice hoarse but steady as he approached.
Bodie remained silent, not removing his gaze from the man kneeling before him. His breathing laboured but his hands unwavering and with an intense glare which gave Doyle cause for concern.
“Bo-day” His tone was warning as he put himself shoulder to shoulder with his partner. Giving him the reassurance of his presence, confirming that the ordeal was over.
Bodie held the pause a moment longer. His blue eyes scathing and penetrating deeply into the disgusting excuse for a human in front of him. He felt the slight nudge of his partner against him and relented. “Yeah,” he said, dropping the gun slightly but keeping it aimed at the man “but, I’ll be better once this scum is locked up,” he said, his voice taut with barely restrained fury.
Doyle nodded, stepping up beside him. “Let’s make sure of it.”
Together, they worked quickly to untie each other and then used the rope to bind both men tightly. The assailants groaned in protest, but neither dared fight back, pained and cowed by the raw determination etched into the agents’ faces. With the scene secure, Doyle placed a steadying hand on Bodie’s shoulder, grounding him in the moment.
“We got ’em,” Doyle said softly, his voice filled with quiet reassurance. “It’s over.”
Bodie closed his eyes briefly, his body trembling with the aftermath of adrenaline, he put one hand against his side where the pain from his ribs increased with every breath. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice heavy with exhaustion and relief. “We got ‘em.”
Sounds from the city outside filtered in to break the oppressive silence of the warehouse, both men knew the battle wasn’t entirely behind them. The bruises and scars on their bodies would fade, but the memory of this evening— an assault almost so viciously realised —would linger far longer.
Doyle, cast a wary glance toward the bound thugs to ensure they were staying put, and found his discarded radio. He moved a few paces away, searching for a spot where the crackling static of interference would clear. Finally, near a window where the weak light filtered through the grime-streaked glass, the signal broke through.
“4.5 to Alpha, priority one,” Doyle said into the radio, his voice tight but firm. “Bunnings Warehouse at Wharf 9, Southside Docks. Two suspects in custody. Request immediate backup and medical assistance. And tell Cowley to get down here. He’ll want to see this.”
As the adrenaline continued to ebb, Bodie staggered slightly, his breath coming in heavy, ragged gasps – and not just because of the physical pain. He bent forward, gripping his knees briefly to steady himself, swallowing back a brief wave of nausea. He pulled in a slow steady breath and refocused. His hands moved to his dishevelled clothing. His shirt hung in tatters – one of his favourites now ruined - exposing the angry red marks and purple bruises on his chest, and his jeans were still half-open - he hadn’t had time to fix them completely – now a glaring reminder of what had almost happened.
Doyle heard the dispatcher confirmed the call, and satisfied help was on the way, he snapped the radio back into his jacket pocket before turning to Bodie. His partner was still trying to compose himself, but his trembling hands betrayed him. Bodie fumbled with the button of his jeans, his fingers too unsteady to work the small fastening. Each attempt ended in a frustrated exhale as his body faltered with the calm exterior he desperately tried to maintain.
Doyle stepped in without hesitation. “Hold still,” he said quietly, his voice laced with a mixture of concern and authority.
Bodie glanced up, his expression briefly vulnerable, but he nodded, swallowing thickly. Doyle’s hands, steady despite his own residual adrenaline, deftly fastened the button on Bodie’s jeans. He gave a small tug at the waistband, straightening them before glancing up at his partner.
“You alright?” Doyle asked softly, his eyes searching Bodie’s.
Bodie gave a curt nod, but his voice was hoarse. “Yeah…fine…just…” His hesitated, not being able to find the right words. “Just the adrenaline y’know.” He caught Doyle’s scrutinising eye concern. “I’m fine.”
Doyle didn’t push, but the look he gave Bodie made it clear he wasn’t fooled. He shrugged off his own jacket, the bomber style was worn and slightly frayed at the cuffs, and draped it over Bodie’s shoulders, covering his exposed chest. “Here. Just until we get out of this dump.”
Bodie looked down at the jacket, then back at Doyle, his lips quirking in a faint approximation of his usual smirk. “Don’t tell me you’re getting all sentimental on me, sunshine.”
“Shut up and keep it on,” Doyle replied, his tone gruff but tinged with warmth. He placed a steadying hand on Bodie’s shoulder, squeezing lightly before stepping back as the distant wail of sirens began to echo through the docklands.
Minutes later, backup arrived, the warehouse quickly swarming with CI5 agents and police.
Cowley entered the warehouse with his usual deliberate stride, the polished click of his shoes echoing against the cracked concrete floor. The smell of damp and rust lingered in the air, mingling with the acrid tang of sweat, blood and fear left behind by the night’s events. His sharp eyes swept the scene, cataloguing every detail with the efficiency of a man who had been privy to more than one vile crime scene in his career.
The bound suspects, bloodied and subdued, were being hauled to their feet by two CI5 agents. Cowley’s lips pressed into a thin line at the sight of them. The anger simmering beneath his cool exterior wasn’t just professional. It was personal. These men had dared to attack his operatives, his people.
Then his gaze fell on Bodie and Doyle, standing near the edge of the chaos. Doyle, jacketless and slightly dishevelled, was the picture of controlled tension. His green eyes flickered between the scene and his partner, his body positioned protectively near Bodie, ready to intervene at a moment’s notice. Bodie, by contrast, stood stiffly, his usually confident posture diminished. He clutched Doyle’s jacket around his shoulders, the fabric loose and incongruous over his battered form. His shirt was torn, his torso exposed, revealing the angry red cuts and bruises on his skin. His jeans stained as if he had been crawling across the grimy warehouse floor. His hands, Cowley noticed, trembled faintly as he held the jacket closed at the front.
Cowley’s chest tightened as he took it all in. He prided himself on being a hard man, driven by duty and results, but there were moments—like now—when he felt the full weight of responsibility for the people under his command. Bodie was one of his best—a razor-sharp operative with unshakable loyalty and skill honed through a life few could survive. Seeing him like this, stripped of much of his usual bravado, was a punch to the gut Cowley hadn’t been prepared for.
He approached the two men with a purposeful step, his expression neutral but his eyes heavy with unspoken concern. As he drew closer, the tension between Bodie and Doyle was palpable. Doyle stood almost rigid, his focus on his partner, his protective instincts simmering just beneath the surface. Bodie, on the other hand, seemed to shrink under Cowley’s gaze, as if the weight of the moment was catching up to him.
“What the hell happened here?” Cowley asked, his voice low but carrying an unmistakable authority.
Doyle stepped forward immediately, his tone clipped and professional despite the faint edge of emotion. “They jumped us, sir. Bodie—” He hesitated, his eyes darting briefly to his partner, who was standing silently, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor. “- they went after him. It got... ugly.”
Cowley’s jaw tightened, and his eyes shifted to Bodie. His expression darkening as he took in the visible signs of the assault. Apart from the bloodied lip and bruise on his cheekbone. He again saw the subtle tremor in the younger man’s hands, the way his shoulders were drawn in as if he were trying to disappear into the jacket. The bruises and marks on Bodie’s exposed chest told a story Cowley didn’t need to hear in full to understand. They stain on his jeans beginning to make sense. He’d seen the aftermath of such things before. Too many times.
He stepped closer to Bodie, his expression softening just enough to be noticeable. “And you?” he asked quietly, his voice losing some of its usual gruffness. “Are you fit to stand, or is this just more of your bloody stubbornness?”
Bodie looked up, meeting Cowley’s gaze for the first time. His eyes were shadowed, his usual spark dimmed. But even now, he forced a faint, lopsided smile. “Still standing, sir,” he said hoarsely. “Takes more than a couple of bastards to knock me down for long.”
Cowley’s lips twitched in something close to a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He placed a hand on Bodie’s shoulder, firm but not harsh, and felt the slight tension there—an uncharacteristic fragility he’d never associated with the man before.
“You’ve got nothing to prove to me, lad,” Cowley said quietly. “We’ll get them locked away, no question on that,” he said, his tone resolute. “But there’s no shame in being human. So, I expect you to take the time to get yourself sorted.”
Bodie’s expression flickered, the faint mask of bravado cracking under Cowley’s steady gaze. He nodded, swallowing hard, his grip on the jacket tightening.
Cowley straightened, his attention shifting to Doyle, whose posture was taut with barely restrained emotion. “Good work, 4.5,” Cowley said, his tone returning to its usual clipped efficiency.
Doyle gave a curt nod, but his eyes lingered on Bodie, concern etched into every line of his face.
Cowley’s gaze softened again as he looked between the two of them. These weren’t just his agents—they were his responsibility, and despite his gruff demeanour, he cared for them more deeply than he ever let on. Especially Bodie, who’d somehow managed to penetrate his tough Scottish exterior more than most. He almost reminded Cowley of a younger version of himself: brash, determined, and carrying a hidden weight. Although with his insistence for horseplay and sarcastic wit Cowley sometimes viewed him as a troublesome schoolboy. He certainly looked more like one currently.
“Take him to hospital,” Cowley directed his order at Doyle, his tone firm but not unkind. “Make sure he’s looked at properly. And you—” He shot Bodie a stern glance. “No arguments,” out of the corner of his eye he caught a smirk from Doyle which was quickly smothered by his hand, “and then both of you take two days off. I’ll see you first thing Thursday morning for debriefing.”
Doyle gave a sharp nod, his hand already moving to guide Bodie toward the waiting vehicles. Bodie followed without protest, his steps unsteady at times, but resolute.
As Cowley watched them go, his jaw tightened again. The sight of Bodie’s battered form and the haunted look in his eyes would stay with him. But so too would the quiet determination in Doyle’s actions and the unspoken bond between the two of them. Whatever had happened tonight, they had survived it together. And as long as he had anything to say about it, they always would.
Doyle glanced sideways at his partner as they walked towards the gold Capri, his hand still resting lightly on Bodie’s arm to steady him. The tension of the warehouse began to fade slightly, replaced by the familiar rhythm of their camaraderie.
“After we get you sorted at the hospital the first pints on me, sunshine,” Doyle said, his voice warm but tinged with exhaustion.
Bodie turned his head to look at him, a glint of humour finally surfacing in his eyes despite the bruises darkening his face. “Oh, is it now? I’ll just add that to the list then, shall I?. You owe me at least a dozen pints….” He paused glancing down at his feet, “and a new pair of trainers.” He waggled one foot for effect, showing the tan trainer now stained with a thick layer of disgusting sludge on the side. “Twenty-five quid from the Intersport in Oxford Street.”
Doyle scoffed. “15 quid from Clapham market you mean,” He knew his partner well enough to know when he was trying to bluff him. His subsequent incredulous expression of innocence confirming it.
“Yeah, alright,” he relented, “how ‘bout we call it even. You’re still buying the first pint though and I promise to save your arse in the next pub brawl.”
“Oh, the one you plan on starting, is it?.” Doyle laughed softly, the sound cutting through the lingering tension like a balm. “Yeah, well, if I’m buying the first pint, you’re getting the next round. That’s fair.”
“After tonight the only fair thing is to get blindingly drunk, pick up a couple of birds and stay in bed until Cowley calls us back in.” Bodie quipped, though the wary, tired look in his eyes betrayed the lingering effects of the ordeal.
Doyle stopped and turned to face him, his expression softening as he noticed the way Bodie clutched Doyle’s jacket tighter around himself. “You’ll get your bloody pint,” he said quietly, but with a hint of a smile. “And maybe a steak dinner if you behave.”
“Now you’re talking,” Bodie replied, his smirk growing and his stomach growling at the thought.
Doyle rolled his eyes and gave Bodie a light shove toward the Capri. “Get in before I change my mind and leave you to the wrath of Cowley’.”
Bodie glance up as the controller stepped away from the warehouse, his face stern and thunderous. “Yup, coming,” Bodie replied, settling into the passenger seat with a wince as his damaged ribs pulled tight and his whole body ached, but still managing to look smug. As Doyle climbed in beside him, Bodie glanced over with a small, genuine smile. “Thanks, Ray.”
Doyle didn’t look at him, instead turning the key in the ignition. “For the pint? Or for saving your sorry hide?”
“Both,” Bodie said, his voice quieter now, but no less sincere.
Doyle gave him a sideways glance, his expression softer than usual. “Anytime, mate. Anytime.”
Seconds later the Capri roared to life and sped along the wharf, the warehouse growing smaller in the wing mirror. A place they were both happy to leave behind.
END