Carter's Recourse - 39. Chapter 39

He frowned and looked down at Will laying on the messy bunk beside him, his eyes bright despite the pain, watching his reaction with a smile. "You get used to that..." Will explained.

The police sirens were still evident in the distance, and so far they hadn't bothered to check 'Pikey Park', not thinking it would be the kind of place where a soldier and a foreign government official would take refuge. Ernie had popped his head around the door once to toss a first aid kit in, and West tried not to think about the "property of the Hailsham Community Centre" sticker on the back, he was just grateful to get it.

He'd done his best with Will's arm, but it would need a doctor to stop the bleeding. The best West could manage was to clean and dress the wound. He blew out a sigh, as the sound of bottles smashing erupted from outside as a group of the kids began jeering and yelling at each other. And he looked up at the window and out over the makeshift campground; tucked in between industrial buildings, it was really nothing more than a vacant lot that they had just moved into.

Ernie was waiting by the gate, smoking and watching the police cars scouring the area looking for his grandson. A couple of other young men were with him, in case of trouble, all dressed in the same fashion. Adidas running pants, polo shirts and Burberry caps with graffiti printed across them, a large, cheap, gold chain around their necks, all under training jackets worn open and carelessly. They lounged around, a couple of them hawking up and spitting, trying their best to look inconspicuous, and failing miserably.

Will struggled to sit up, West reaching out a hand on instinct to push him back down to the bed. "Stay," he warned absently, still evaluating the situation they were in.

"We should make contact with the police," Will murmured. "They..."

"We can't go to the police," West finished, turning his blue eyes down on the man that had literally changed his life for the better because it had been the right thing to do; now it was West's turn to repay that debt. "They could be in on it... they're all in on it."

"What are you talking about?" Will coughed again, trying to think straight despite the blood loss. "What's going on?"

West looked through the door as the small police car with its yellow and blue reflective checks pulled up and a couple of yellow-jacketed police officers stepped out, walking up to Ernie, who stepped forward to meet them.

"It's MI-6, they're trying to... change or stop your vote tomorrow," West hissed, ducking down and slipping the Browning from his pocket. He didn't have a hope-in-hell's chance and he knew it; they had no plan, Will was badly hurt and West had no idea who he could turn to.

"Change my vote..." Will murmured, turning his head to look where West was staring. "Put the gun away," he said calmly.

"But..." West turned, his jaw setting.

"Put it away, soldier." Will reached out with his good hand and pushed the gun down. "Take off your shirt..."

"What?" West was looking again out the partially open door as the police officers started towards the circle of caravans.

"West, trust me... trust my granddad." Will shifted, pulling up the duvet so it covered the the blood-stained sheet, hissing in pain as he took off his own shirt and kicked off his shoes. "Pants, too," he nodded. "Ball them up and stick them under the bed."

West shook his head again and followed Will's lead, balling his uniform up and tossing them beneath the bed, shifting around looking for a place to stick the gun. He spied a biscuit tin, pulled it open and slipped the gun inside, returning it to the shelf.

"Now what?" West asked.

Will rolled his eyes as he shifted back painfully on the bed to make room, keeping his hurt arm under the duvet. "Do I need to spell it out?"

West glanced behind him again, uncertainly, and clambered into the small bed, wrapping a protective arm around Will staring into his eyes, noting the mild amusement in Will's despite the fact that he looked like death reheated.

"Try to look enthusiastic," Will chided, smirking. "It's really not that bad..."

West nervously glanced behind him and reached out a timid hand to touch Will's ribs, slipping a hand up gently, hoping to god it would look believable when...

The door banged open and the policeman stuck his head inside, stopping and blinking at the two men in an obviously compromising position. The policeman balked, blushing as he stepped back.

"I-I'm sorry..." he started.

Ernie leaned his head around the door. "Billy, what'd I tell you about that? It's the middle of the day, for Christ sakes..." He turned back to the officer, "As you can see no soldiers or wounded men here, officers... Now how about you piss off?"

The officer backed up a bit, as one of the kids moved forward threateningly. "What you lookin at, twat?"

"Nothing, I assure you." The officer looked startled at the sudden change in the young kid's demeanour.

"Are you takin the piss?" The kid stepped forward, a couple of his friends doing the same.

"Don't be absurd." The officer held his hands up a bit, looking as if he was suddenly acutely aware that he was badly outnumbered, his partner was already hurrying back to the car. "Now look, I don't want any trouble..."

The kid spat on the ground and lifted his hands. "Come on then, let's fight to see who's the 'ardest, then."

"No," the police officer shook his head. "Look, if you see anything call it in..."

Ernie laughed. "You came to the wrong place for that," he said as he reached out to adjust the police officer's cap on his head and pat him on the shoulder, guiding him back to his car. "How's about you go back to your station and make yourself a good cup of tea, and wait for that call?"

The officer glared at the old man and the number of people around him as he climbed into his car with a frustrated look, barking at his partner to start driving. The car swept off in a burst of lights and sirens, off to keep searching.

Ernie turned and clapped the bold young kid on the shoulder with a smirk as he turned to walk back up into the camper, pulling the door shut behind him, looking down at where West was sitting in his underwear, and Will was smirking at him.

"You..." Ernie said wagging his finger at Will, "what the hell did you do to get the old bill down on you?"

Will shifted to sit up, resting against the wall, cradling his bloody arm, and Ernie caught the extent of what had happened, pulling out a battered and taped pair of glasses as he leaned down to get a better look.

"What the hell were you playing at?" he asked, turning Will's arm a little as he pulled open the makeshift dressing.

"Someone shot me," Will replied calmly.

"I can see that," Ernie shook his head. "I was asking what you did to deserve it?"

Will coughed and looked down as his grandfather examined his arm. "I gave a speech... you think it was something I said?"

"Smart mouth." His grandfather reached into the first-aid kit and pulled out a couple of things, looking around him as he fished out a sewing kit. "I take it you're not up for going to see a doctor."

"I don't think I can..." Will replied, glancing at West. "Apparently I have half the country after me."

"Well," Earnie said thoughtfully as he dug around the caravan for something, "you know you can stay here as long as you need to."

"I can't stay," Will said. "I have to..."

"You're going nowhere like that," his grandfather said tugging out an iron and studying it thoughtfully. "What's so important you can't wait till things die down?"

Will looked over at West and back to his grandfather. "I have to vote... I'm a politician..."

"What?" His grandfather paused looking back at his grandson that he hadn't seen in years.

"You know, if you had a phone," Will said coughing again, "or a stable address where I could send a Christmas card..."

His grandfather snorted. "If I had a phone, it'd just get nicked... a politician? What town council?"

"Canadian Minister without Portfolio," Will supplied.

"No wonder someone wants to shoot you," his grandfather snorted plugging in the iron, and Will looked at it curiously, noting that West was wincing in anticipation. Why would he...

Will looked back at the iron, "Oh, hell no..."

"I have to stop that bleeding," his grandfather said matter-of-factly.

West caught Will's other shoulder as Will began to back up, stark terror seeping into his face. "Will... he has to..."

"Look..." Will said, suddenly desperate. "Can't we just bandage it... and get to an airport... I can get the hell out of this country, five hours and, bam, doctor..."

Ernie leaned out of the door to his caravan and called for the other kid to come give him a hand; the young guy walked in, nodding as Ernie explained what he needed in a low tone. Will closed his eyes...

* * *

"What do you mean you lost him?" Sir Nigel asked into the phone. "You were told to wound him enough so that he would miss that vote. Did you do it?"

"I hit him," the field operative reported dutifully, "I know that, just, he up and vanished right there. Like Houdini."

"Politicians don't just vanish, especially not one whose face is plastered across every television station and newspaper from here to Scotland. What about that soldier, Harding, where is he?"

"We lost him as well," the field operative replied simply.

"You...lost... him..." Sir Nigel shook his head--he had men at the airports, and others down at the channel tunnel; there was no way Carter was going to get out of the country, not without being 'picked up for his own safety' by either the police or his men. It was supposedly a simple plan--cut Carter down mid-speech, and keep him in hospital for two days, ensuring that he missed the key vote. But as usual simple plans had a way of getting complicated when introduced to the real world.

"For god sakes find him," Sir Nigel replied, slamming down the phone.

* * *

Johnson gaped at the screen, sitting heavily down on the edge of his desk; a manhunt was scouring England for the shooter, the minister was missing. Everything had gone to hell in a hand basket all because the British had done the unthinkable.

Johnson needed to think--if Carter was dead they'd have reported it, wouldn't they? Or at least lied that he was in critical condition in a hospital. The fact that they had lost him... Johnson glanced over to where CSIS puppy was sitting, probably working through in his own mind what had happened.

Johnson looked up and nodded to the newcomer and O'Neill, the ex-marine, as they both reached down to hold Highmore in place as Johnson stepped forward, his hands pushing back his long coat so he could rest them menacingly on his hips.

"Where is Carter?" he demanded coldly.

* * *

"Go to hell,' Andrew replied, looking up at his captor.

"Where is Carter?" Johnson repeated, and Andrew felt the marine's hand tighten on his shoulder.

"I don't know..." Andrew replied. "Knowing him, he's halfway back here by now."

"So CSIS had a way to get him out of England?" Johnson asked, stepping forward.

"He doesn't need CSIS," Andrew responded. "He has friends, contacts... he used to live in England."

"And you think he's with one of those contacts?" Johnson demanded.

"I think he's already so far away from you that he's safe," Andrew said, hoping to god he was right.

"But that's just it," Johnson said pulling out Andrew's cell phone and holding it up. "He's going to have to surface before tomorrow, and who do you think he'll call first?"

"JTF-2..." Andrew smiled. "Yeah, that's right, they've already rescued one of his family members from you, you sick son of a bitch... You think you have enough firepower to stop that?"

* * *

Johnson ignored him turning Andrew's cell phone over in his hand as he walked back to the window, looking up the road towards the Peace Tower clock, thinking. Everything was still in hand... he was still in control...

He looked down at the dancing red dot on his jacket. And he swallowed, the CIA team were sending him a final warning, that their patience was wearing thin and his time was running out.

He glanced at his watch--he had thirty five hours until the vote...

He looked up out of the window again, this time looking at the three people on the rooftop across from him, two of them staring up at him with binoculars, the third playing with a laser sight, dancing it across his chest.

Johnson smiled and turned his back on his former colleagues. He walked across to the elevator, snapping his fingers for the newcomer to follow him. He needed a coffee and maybe a conversation with the Ambassador would yield some light on what the hell MI-6 was playing at.

* * *

The former marine shook his head as the elevator doors closed, walking back to the television and carrying it with him towards the palates, leaving young Yani, sitting with his computer at the desk, to watch the prisoner.

Andrew waited until the television began to drone with the distinctive voice of a baseball commentator, before he looked up at the young guy. Sitting up in his chair, "I need to go to the washroom."

Yani blinked and looked up. "What?"

"Washroom," Andrew said firmly. "Or I piss all over the floor."

"Take him." The marine turned, sneering, as he shifted to get comfortable.

Yani sighed as he closed the laptop, pulling out his gun and carefully walking forward with the keys to gingerly unlock Andrew's handcuffs. He pressed the muzzle of the gun carefully to the back of Andrew's head, just enough pressure to make it an uncomfortable reminder not to try anything stupid.

Yani secured the cuffs again behind Andrew's back as he prodded him forward towards the washroom.

Andrew played docile, stepping into the dimly lit toilet and up to one of the urinals where he looked at Yani expectantly. "Are you going to undo me? Or are you going to hold it for me?"

Yani chewed his lip, debating what he should do; he set the gun down on the counter and reached out to undo Andrew's pants, freeing him and stepping back again, chewing on one of his nails.

"Thanks," Andrew said firmly, glad of the chance to relieve himself, looking over at the young man. "You're a good guy..."

"Look, just shut up and take a leak," Yani said, recovering his gun and fiddling with it anxiously.

Andrew continued to pee, leaning forward to rest his head against the tiles and sighing dramatically. "I needed this," he said, glancing again at Yani. "Not just this, but to stretch my legs, I feel like my arms are on fire."

Yani nodded mutely, swallowing and looking back at the door, anxious for it to be over.

"You don't have to do this, you know that, right?" Andrew straightened up. "You don't want to do this, and if you help we can protect you..."

"S-shut up," Yani stammered, lifting the gun again, and Andrew noted it wavered slightly.

"Think about it," Andrew insisted, turning.

"No," Yani said, reaching out for Andrew's arm to lead him back.

"Hey," Andrew said nodding down, "do you mind?"

Yani blanched as he looked down, turning red as he nervously tucked Andrew away, zipping up the slacks and guided him back through the doors, just as the ex-marine was crossing the floor to find out what was taking them so long.

Yani shook his head as he re-secured Andrew to the chair, sitting down behind his computer; but every so often, he would dart a searching glance at the prisoner, as if mulling over his choices.

* * *

Marc stared at the police officer on his doorstep. "What?" he repeated, trying again to swallow what he was being told.

"The British Government are assuring us they're doing all they can," the police officer reassured.

Marc shook his head in active disbelief. "Like hell they are." He stepped back from the door and glanced at Blake as he went searching for a bag; he upended the books out of his book bag and started to stuff clothes into it from his closet.

Blake looked the policeman up and down, before shaking his head to focus. "Well, what should we do?"

"Do?" Marc looked up. "I'm going over there, that's what I'm doing..." He gave up trying to pick clothes and grabbed whatever was readily available.

"Sir, we need you to stay by your phone." The police officer shook his head. "An inspector is on the way; if the Minister contacts you, we need to know where we can direct people to help him."

"I can't just sit here." Marc slung the bag up onto his shoulder and fished out his wallet, counting through the money, knowing he wouldn't have enough. He tugged out one of Will's credit cards, there for emergencies; he had forgotten to give it back. Well this counted as an emergency...

"Mister Lawrence..." the officer stepped forward, "please wait for the Inspector."

"Marc..." Blake moved away from the door to catch his frantic roommate. "What are you going to do? Search the whole of England for him? If you stay here you'd be doing him the most good."

Marc's head sagged, his beige ball cap hiding the fear in his eyes as he balled his fists in frustration. "I have to find him."

"Sir, please," the officer insisted, thankful as the Inspector walked into the room, a couple of detective constables in tow, glad that the RCMP were going to handle the situation.

"Mister Lawrence." The Inspector, a tight-lipped woman, with her hair swept back into a severe style that made her look to Marc like an old school teacher, looked right at Marc.

There was something about the way she said it, sounding so matronly and calm, it caused Marc to stop, and set his bag down. "You're going to make sure he's okay, right?" Marc asked, desperate to hear...

"Yes," the Inspector reassured. "And you're going to help me do just that. But I need you to keep calm--do you drink tea?"

"Tea?" Marc asked, a little dumbstruck.

"Yeah, he does," Blake nodded.

"Good" The Inspector fished through her bag and pulled out some teabags carefully wrapped. "We're going to have a pot, and you're going to tell me everything I need to know about William Carter." She picked her way through Blake's apartment, and Blake scurried to pick up and straighten a few things out. It was like having his mother come; he was very self-conscious suddenly over how much of a bachelor he was.

The Inspector found her way to the kitchen while her officers began to set up some equipment by the phone, and she smiled warmly at Marc. "I'm Inspector Calhoun," she nodded to him, holding his eyes with hers as she set about filling and plugging in the kettle. "How long have you been engaged to William?"

"Will," Marc corrected absently, blinking and trying to think. "Almost a year. We've been together for three."

"That's nice," Calhoun replied; her smile warmed Marc again, there was something about her that just put Marc at ease, probably the reason she had been selected for the job. "Do you have any recent pictures of Will?"

"He has tonnes," Blake replied in the process of cleaning off the couch to make it presentable. "You can't get the camera out of his hands."

"Can you get me the best one?" the Inspector asked Marc as she turned out the teapot and gave it a wipe down. Smiling again as Marc dashed off to comply.

* * *

Templeman had official command of the situation; he was the senior-most member of MI-5 on the scene and since the shot, it was now a matter of domestic terrorism, and that placed it squarely in his control.

There had been complaints from the local police, but Templeman wasn't about to be dissuaded because he happened to step on a few toes. He had a job to do, and that meant that he needed all the resources and information to run through his people, not running to someone else and begging for table scraps.

He walked across the town centre to where one of his team, sitting on the back of the surveillance truck, was closely examining a shell casing recovered from the roof of the shopping centre opposite.

"Anything?" Templeman asked leaning on the side of the van.

"Nothing," the young operative reported. "It's a professional round, big contractor but could have come from anywhere. But what I don't get is, the gun that fired this would be used by a professional..."

Templeman swept his eyes up to the roof and back over to the stage. "...and pros don't miss at that range."

"No, sir," the operative replied. "They missed on purpose."

The amount of blood on the street heading for the shopping centre said that the Minister had gone that way--surveillance footage confirmed it--but after that the trail vanished as it hit the warren of lanes that connected to the old railway line. The forest area was perfect to hide in, if that was where Carter went, but so far all the searches up as far as Hellingly and down as far as Polegate had turned up nothing, not even a sign of blood. Carter had to be somewhere else.

"Company," the operative said, nodding over to where a couple of black cars were shown through the police cordon of the high street and drew up behind the van. Templeman felt his chest tighten as Sir Nigel and several of his intelligence officers stepped out of the car. The de facto head of MI-6 was going to make life extremely difficult for Templeman, especially if he really was involved in the mess.

Templeman moved away from the van and intercepted Sir Nigel. "Sir," he nodded.

"Templeman, right?" Sir Nigel asked as he slipped on a pair of sunglasses and gestured for a couple of his men to carry out his prearranged orders. "We're going to assume command here."

"I'm sorry?" Templeman asked incredulously.

"I am taking command here," Sir Nigel repeated. "This is an international matter..."

"That happened on Domestic soil," Templeman fired back. "This is MI-5 and you know it..."

"I suggest you lodge a complaint with your superiors, I am sure they will agree with the Foreign Secretary." Sir Nigel gave a wolfish smile as he walked past Templeman towards the podium, turning his head to look to exactly where the sniper had been.

Templeman seethed, turning to fall into step beside Sir Nigel, "We have Minister Carter's Staff over there, we're trying to find out as much as we can as to where the Minister could have gone..."

"Your report an hour ago said something about a British soldier getting him to safety?" Sir Nigel stopped and looked down at the pool of blood dry now under the summer sun; it had run off the podium and had pooled at the foot of the memorial. "And given the blood loss, he couldn't have gone far on foot."

"We believe the soldier is Captain Harding out of Catterick Garrison, he served under Carter's father in the second Gulf war..."

"Has it occurred to you that Captain Harding could be a part of the attempt to kidnap the Minister?" Sir Nigel turned, his eyebrow raised.

"Really?" Templeman asked, feigning surprise, he'd actually expected that from the spy master. And had he not sat across from the captain on that train from Catterick he might have agreed, but he'd seen into West's eyes and knew it was rubbish.

"I'll alert my men to the possibility that it is a kidnapping..." Templeman began. "The Canadian Embassy's protection detail is on its way down as well..."

"I instructed them to go back to the Embassy," Sir Nigel replied. "Just in case someone tries something against the Ambassador, we're more than capable of handling this without them getting in the way." He walked around the podium, again looking up at the rooftop. "When we find Minister Carter, he is to be taken immediately to protective custody where he will get medical attention."

"Right," Templeman nodded.

"Under no circumstances is he to be taken anywhere else," Sir Nigel warned. "We need to get to the bottom of this, and avoid a diplomatic incident if he is hurt further."

"Yes sir," Templeman said; the orders were reasonable, given the circumstances, but it was the way Sir Nigel said them, the hunger in his face, that made Templeman all the more certain that Carter needed to get as far away from him as possible.