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fredbassettTitle : One of Our Chickens is Missing
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 15
Characters : Stephen/Ryan, Vicky Thornton, Amanda Thornton, Colonel Morton & others.
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word count : 8,000
Summary : Set in my main series. Ryan is in Cumbria, staying with his ex-wife and family, recuperating from a head injury, but things end up not quite as restful as intended.
A/N : Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lukadreaming ’s birthday. You wanted more Stephen/Ryan, so I hope this fits the bill and that you have a very lovely day! With thanks to my Evil Twin, munchkinofdoom for the beta.
Ryan glanced at his watch. It was just after 6pm and they were due at Colonel Morton’s in an hour. Stephen was lying on the sofa in a loose-limbed sprawl, a palaeontology journal spread out on his chest. His long-lashed eyes were closed and one arm was curled loosely over his stomach, resting on bare flesh where his tee-shirt had ridden up. Stephen looked younger and more vulnerable in sleep. Ryan was reluctant to disturb him, but they needed to shower and change before leaving the cottage and it was almost a 20 minute walk, so they had to make a move now or they’d be late.
Stephen had a hunter’s instincts and the moment Ryan put his book down and stood up, his lover was awake, staring up at him and smiling slightly. “Was I snoring?” he murmured, with the huskiness of sleep in his voice.
“Like a pig,” Ryan grinned. “Come on, lover boy, we need to make ourselves vaguely presentable.”
“The colonel said casual,” Stephen said, grabbing the proffered hand and allowing Ryan to pull him onto his feet and into a warm kiss.
“There’s a difference between casual and your normal just-shagged-senseless look,” Ryan pointed out.
Stephen laughed, making Ryan want to do considerably more than just kiss him. “If I drive we’d have time for a quickie,” he wheedled.
Ryan swatted his lover’s arse. “Nope, we’re walking. I need the exercise.” He planted a light kiss on Stephen’s nose. “And it’ll work up an appetite for later.”
Twenty minutes later, as they closed the cottage door, they were greeted by the sound of hooves clattering onto the grey flagstones of the stable yard. Ryan’s 12-year old daughter, Vicky, on her grey pony, Lady Penelope, came in at a brisk trot. Behind her, on a sturdy black fell pony that Ryan had been amused to learn was called Parker, rode a lad a year or so older than Vicky, with a mop of unruly brown hair escaping from under his riding hat.
The pair of them brought their ponies to a halt and slithered off with more speed than style. Ryan gave Vicky a hug and the boy solemnly shook hands with Stephen and smiled at Ryan. Ryan smiled back and shook the lad’s hand. Declan Richards had spent ten days trapped in the Cretaceous with his daughter and Ryan both liked and respected the lad, and it was looking increasingly like he might be potential boyfriend material.
“Nice lad,” said Stephen with a grin as they headed out of the yard in the direction of the public footpath that would take them to Colonel Morton’s house.
Ryan laughed. “I like him, so there’s no point trying to wind me up, Hart. I’ll leave it to Greg to play the heavy-handed step-dad.”
“He likes him too,” Stephen said. “They’re great kids. It’s been good spending time with Vicky.”
“It’s been brilliant,” Ryan agreed. “I wonder how long it’ll be before Lester orders us back to the ARC?”
“You’re still recuperating,” Stephen said firmly. “I don’t fancy even Lester’s chances of getting past a coalition of Ditzy and Amanda. They’re capable of presenting a united front even if they are 250 miles apart.”
“But they can’t do without you for much longer.”
“According to Cutter, I have a large amount of accrued leave, and he seems determined to make sure I take it. The anomalies have been fairly quiet. Cutter’s even found time to get a couple of papers written. I’ve promised to sort his reference lists out for him and I can do that by email.”
“I’m not going to argue,” Ryan said. “I haven’t spent this long with Vicky since she was a baby.”
“It’s good of Amanda and Greg to have us here.”
Ryan nodded. Their daughter’s disappearance and subsequent rescue had broken the ice that had built up during his marriage to Amanda and since then they’d been rebuilding a different relationship, aided by the good humour and common-sense of Amanda’s husband, Greg Thornton. He’d ensured that Vicky had continued to receive the letters and presents Ryan had sent to her in their years apart, even though he’d been certain they were all being consigned to the bin by his ex-wife. Ryan had missed four years of Vicky’s life and was determined to make up for lost time.
The footpath to Colonel Morton’s house wound up the side of a small stream overhung with trees. The autumn evening was warm with only a light breeze to ruffle the golden leaves above them and send the occasional one spinning lazily down to the path. Their route climbed steadily up but Ryan was pleased to note that his breathing remained steady and he was showing no signs of any ill-effects from the head injury that had led to his enforced break from the anomaly project.
At a junction in the path, they climbed out of the steepening gully up a set of rough-hewn wooden steps that led them onto a wide dirt track. A tall yew hedge on their right signified that they had almost reached the Colonel’s house and a five-barred gate stood open across the end of a neat gravel drive that led up to an imposing old farmhouse with a slate roof. An immaculate ex-army Land Rover was parked in an open barn and a black Range Rover was standing in front of the house.
“That’s Calum Richards’ car,” Stephen remarked as they made their way up the drive.
Detective Inspector Calum Richards had worked closely with the anomaly response team during the disappearance of Ryan’s daughter and her classmates. His own nephew, Declan, Vicky’s pony-riding companion, had been one of the missing children. It had also become clear during the search that the anomalies and the creatures they all too frequently disgorged were an open secret amongst many of the local people, but as Cumbria was both the second largest county in England and one of the most sparsely populated, the conspiracy of silence was by no means as unbelievable as it might have first appeared.
The door to the farmhouse stood open and the sound of their boots on the gravel drive had announced their approach as Colonel Morton called out, “Come in!” before Ryan had time to pull the chain on the old iron bell hanging inside the porch.
The door led straight into a comfortable-looking room where a fire blazed in a huge open hearth in spite of the fact that it was still a warm evening.
“Smoke keeps the blasted midges at bay,” the colonel commented, coming to his feet and smiling warmly at his visitors. “You know Richards, I take it?”
Ryan and Stephen both smiled and nodded, exchanging firm handshakes with the two men. Ryan had done a small amount of digging into their host’s background after it became clear that he knew the nature of their work. Oliver Morton had served with the Parachute Regiment, completing several tours of duty with 1 Para as part of the Special Forces Support Group, and he had an impressive list of covert operations to his name that even Ryan’s contacts hadn’t been able to say much about. But it had become clear very quickly that Colonel Morton wasn’t the sort of man to be fazed by the idea of dinosaur-hunting. The twinkle in the old man’s eyes when he shook Ryan’s hand signalled that he was also fully aware of Ryan’s enquiries and had almost certainly been making his own.
“How’s the head?” the policeman asked, earning points from Ryan by not avoiding the subject of his recent injury.
“Still in one piece,” Ryan replied. “But I’m reliably informed I gave everyone a nasty scare.”
“How long are you staying?” The policeman’s manner was casual, but not quite casual enough to fool Ryan.
“At least another week, I hope,” he replied, accepting a glass of dry sherry from the colonel. “Is there a problem in the offing?”
“Buggered if I know,” Calum sighed. “But apparently someone has nicked one of Mrs Duggan’s fancy chickens.”
Ryan took a sip of exceedingly good sherry and commented quietly, “And it takes a Detective Inspector to investigate the theft of a chicken?”
“It does when someone has also had a go at pinching Kim Cordingley’s pony.”
“The small, stripy pony?” queried Stephen.
“That’s the one. The track to the Burton’s farm is the one that runs past here.”
“Heard a four by four on the track late last night,” Colonel Morton commented. “Thought it was Jim.”
“What happened?” Ryan was starting to catch on. If he remembered correctly, the pony was actually some sort of early horse that had arrived through an anomaly a couple of years ago, but he was buggered if he could remember what the so-called chicken really was.
“One of Jim Cordingley’s dogs raised merry hell and he went out to take a look. He found the barn door open but didn’t see anyone. They must have parked the vehicle somewhere on the lane and done the last stretch on foot. There’s a set of tracks that definitely don’t belong to anything from Tarn Beck Farm.” Calum Richards finished his sherry and put the glass down. “Let me know if you see anyone hanging around, Colonel.”
The old man nodded. “Strangers stand out around here and there are no public footpaths crossing Jim’s land, so if someone is playing silly buggers it won’t go unnoticed.”
“I’ve told the lads in Kendal to give priority to any calls from around here, so if you see or hear anything and you can’t get me, let them know.”
Ryan and Stephen shook hands with the policeman again and the colonel saw him to the door. More drinks were poured and the conversation veered away onto other topics, including some that no doubt contravened several sections of the Official Secrets Act. Colonel Morton was an entertaining host and clearly held no prejudices against same-sex relationships. His wife was away visiting her sister in Leeds, but the colonel proved to be a good cook, producing pheasant casserole, baked potatoes and a selection of home-grown vegetables.
At 11pm, Ryan and Stephen set out under a starlit sky to make their way back to Tarnthwaite. They kept to the main track, even though it took them back by a longer route. By the time they got back to the cottage, Ryan was tired, but lacked the nagging feeling of exhaustion that he’d experienced in the immediate aftermath of his stay in hospital.
Stephen slid into bed beside him and pillowed his head on Ryan’s shoulder. A long-fingered hand roamed down over Ryan’s stomach and settled on his cock. With tantalizing slowness, Stephen stroked him to hardness and Ryan shifted position so that he could return the favour. They traded lazy kisses, open-mouthed, tongues tangling while their hands went to work elsewhere. In a matter of minutes, Ryan gasped into Stephen’s mouth and came with a warm rush. A moment later, Stephen followed him over the edge and Ryan held him through the resulting tremors. A handful of tissues dealt with the mess and afterwards Ryan slipped easily into sleep, wrapped comfortably around Stephen’s lean body.
* * * * *
“Could you feed Harvey tonight?” Amanda asked, glancing over at the Labrador lying asleep in his basket near the Aga, as she handed Ryan a plate loaded with an impressive fried breakfast. His ex-wife, in collaboration with Stephen, had decided he needed feeding up but Ryan wasn’t objecting. “I had my brother on the phone earlier. My mother slipped over in the bathroom last night and she’s fractured a bone in her wrist. I’m going to drive over to Leeds and bring her back with me tomorrow. Greg’s in London and he can’t cancel his arrangements for tonight. There’s a dinner with some big-wig over from the States.” She glanced at her daughter. “I’m sorry, darling, I’m going to put your sleep-over off until next week.”
“Mum!” Vicky’s voice was loaded with outrage. “It’s all arranged! We’ve done the cooking and everything!”
“We can freeze the food until next weekend,” Amanda offered.
“It’s half-term next week,” Vicky grumbled, clearly not in the least bit mollified by her mother’s suggestion. “Declan’s going to his Gran’s, Becky’s going to Brittany and Josh won’t be here then either.”
Ryan noticed his daughter blinking back tears. She’d been excited about the sleep-over all week. He raised his eyebrows questioningly at Stephen and received an amused grin and a slight nod in return. Vicky caught their exchange of looks and her expression changed from disappointed to hopeful in a heartbeat.
“You have no idea what you’re letting yourselves in for,” Amanda cautioned, immediately cottoning on to the change in her daughter’s expression. “That lot make the Sergeant’s Mess in Hereford look like a model of decorum.”
“We’ll cope,” Ryan said, ruffling his daughter’s hair. “It’s about time we earned our keep.”
Amanda smiled. “Thanks, Tom.” She hesitated for a moment, then added, “Stephen, are you sure this is OK? I don’t want that pack of little horrors wearing him out.”
Stephen grinned. “We’ll be fine. They can’t be worse than a pack of marauding raptors.”
Amanda rolled her eyes. “Don’t bet on it. I’ll leave contact numbers for all their parents and don’t hesitate to call for reinforcements if you need them. There are no posthumous medals for heroic last stands in the parenting business. I’ll put fresh sheets on our bed for you; all the other rooms are taken.”
By the time breakfast was over, Ryan had received a series of instructions of ever-increasing complexity for the care and supervision of a bunch of 12 and 13 year olds. His ex-wife had taken on an unsettling resemblance to his CO on the day he’d taken his first patrol out in hostile territory. Stephen’s evident amusement was doing nothing at all to help matters.
Eventually, Amanda burst out laughing and said, “Oh Tom, if only you could see your face. I’m winding you up. They’re a nice bunch of kids.”
“They barbequed a dead dinosaur last year,” Ryan pointed out.
“They’re a nice bunch of kids who just happen to have the occasional Lord of the Flies moments. You’ll be fine.”
“Not if they decide I’m Piggy,” muttered Ryan.
* * * * *
To Ryan’s surprise – and relief – the evening passed off relatively uneventfully, although the kids had demanded a demonstration of unarmed combat techniques that had involved the rearrangement of a large number of sofa cushions to act as an impromptu crash mat. Their time in the Cretaceous had instilled an interest in survival techniques in all of Vicky’s friends, and it was clear to Ryan that they were a tightly-knit group who enjoyed the times when they could get together and reminisce about their experiences and let off steam in a way they couldn’t in the presence of anyone who didn’t have their knowledge of the anomalies.
He just hoped that they’d refrain from practising some of their new-found combat skills at school. They’d also watched DVDs, pointing and laughing unmercifully at numerous inaccuracies in Jurassic Park, quizzed him and Stephen about the most recent anomaly incursions, and stayed up until nearly midnight, shamelessly wheedling extra time through a variety of distraction techniques.
When they’d finally succeeded in packing the lot of them off to bed, Ryan poured a couple of beers for himself and Stephen and slumped down on a chair in the kitchen. Amanda hadn’t been far wrong when she’d compared the experience to a night in the regimental mess. The only difference was he’d had to endure this particular character-building exercise stone-cold sober.
Stephen stood behind him and massaged back of Ryan’s neck. “Headache?”
“No,” Ryan said truthfully. “Just knackered. But don’t let that stop you.” He leaned back, enjoying the gentle massage.
“No hot sex for me tonight, then?”
“With a bunch of kids in the house and us sleeping in my ex-wife’s bed? Nope, tonight we stay celibate, sunshine. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.”
Stephen laughed. “I’ll hold you to that, soldier boy. Come on, finish that beer before the little darlings wake up and demand another combat demonstration. I’m convinced this lot need riot troops on standby, not babysitters.”
“Harvey’s got the right idea.” Ryan gestured at the chocolate Labrador asleep in a basket on the kitchen floor next to the Aga. Once he’d finished hoovering up any leftovers from tea, the dog had remained supremely oblivious to the children – and the adults – and their antics. Sensing he was the object of someone’s attention, the dog thumped his tail a few times and then promptly went back to sleep.
Ryan finished his drink and stood up. He caught a flash of concern in Stephen’s blue eyes and pulled his lover close for a kiss that tasted not unpleasantly of beer. “Don’t worry, I’m fine.”
Halfway down the corridor to the bedroom, the house phone starting to ring. Ryan exchanged a puzzled glance with Stephen and bolted for the bedroom door to grab the handset, wondering which set of anxious parents had decided to phone up at such an ungodly hour to check on whether their offspring was safely tucked up in bed for the night.
“Ryan, is that you? Oliver Morton here.” The colonel’s tones were as clipped as ever and Ryan noted that the other man offered no apology for the lateness of the call. “I’ve just come back from a walk on the fells – couldn’t sleep. Never can with Jeannie away. There’s a van parked up on the track to the Cordingleys’. I’ve called Richards but there’s been a major pile up on the Kendal bypass and another one on the M6. He hasn’t got anyone spare to go chasing horse thieves – if that’s what they’re up to. I was wondering…”
“…if we’d take a look?” Ryan finished for him. “Amanda and Greg are away, sir, and we’ve got the house full of Vicky’s friends.” Calum Richards’ nephew was 14, technically old enough to be left in charge of the others, but Ryan didn’t fancy the explaining he’d have to do if he went haring off with Stephen in the middle of the night leaving the children to their own devices. “I…” Ryan wasn’t exactly sure what he’d been about to say next, but the sound quality changed abruptly, leaving him holding a phone that suddenly seemed to have gone dead. “Colonel? Colonel Morton?”
Ryan put the receiver down and waiting a moment for it to ring again. When it didn’t, he promptly punched in 1471 to see if it had the number stored. It did and he pressed 3 to call the colonel back. All that greeted his efforts was the continuous tone of an unavailable number.
“Trouble?” From the guarded look on Stephen’s face he already knew the answer to that question but was waiting for Ryan to elaborate.
“There’s a van parked on the track to the Burton’s farm. The colonel couldn’t sleep and was out for a late walk.” Ryan pressed redial again on the phone but greeted by exactly the same tone. Number unavailable. “Someone’s cut the fucking phone line.”
Stephen’s eyebrows shot up. “Ring the police.”
“The colonel’s already done that. There’s been two major smashes, one on the bypass, another on the motorway. There’s no one free for this.”
A tentative knock on the bedroom door drew Ryan’s attention. He opened it to find Vicky standing in the corridor wearing a pair of pyjamas festooned with Dalmatian puppies. “Daddy?” The look on her face said quite clearly that Vicky was now old enough to know that phone calls in the night rarely bode well.
“Everything’s fine, sweetheart,” Ryan said quickly. “That was nothing to do with your mum and dad. Don’t worry.” On impulse, he asked, “Vicky, the track past Colonel Morton’s house up to the Cordingleys’ farm, does it go anywhere apart from the farm?”
Vicky shook her head. Intelligent blue eyes stared steadily up at Ryan and she demanded, “Is someone after Kim’s pony again?”
Trust the local kids to know everything that was going on. “The colonel saw a vehicle parked on the track somewhere between his house and the farm.”
“Then they’re after Merry,” Vicky declared. “We’ve got to do something, Daddy.”
“If we block the track, they can’t take him anywhere.” That suggestion came from Declan, hovering in the corridor behind Vicky.
A quick glance told Ryan that the kids had all heard the phone ring and had cottoned on with alarming speed to what was happening. “We need to call the farm,” Ryan said, ignoring that suggestion for the moment, even though it did sound eminently sensible. “Vicky, what’s the number?” He passed her the handset and watched while she punched in the numbers from memory.
A moment later, his daughter pulled a face and held out the phone to him. The same continuous tone that he’d got when trying to ring the colonel back told Ryan that someone had cut the phone lines to Tarn Beck Farm as well as to the colonel’s house. Whoever was after the girl’s pony meant business.
“Do you know their mobile numbers?” he demanded.
“There’s no signal on the fells, sir,” one of the boys chimed in.
Vicky stared up at him determination radiating from her. “Daddy, Declan’s right, we need to block the track.”
“Less of the ‘we’, missy,” Ryan said automatically. “If Stephen and I go out to take a look around, I want your word of honour that you’ll all lock yourselves in the house until we can get one of the other parents here. Deal?”
“Deal,” grinned Vicky triumphantly.
With a feeling that he’d just been expertly manipulated, Ryan looked at the massed ranks of children and asked. “So how are we going to block that track?”
“Bring a tree down,” Declan said. “Kim’s dad said there’s a big one about to come down anyway. He was going to do it next week and let us watch.”
“Mr Thornton’s got a chainsaw in the garage,” a lad with a shock of blond spiky hair told him. Ryan thought the boy’s name was Josh.
In for a penny, in for a pound. “Get dressed and show me,” Ryan ordered.
The children all scattered back to their bedrooms and a mad scramble for clothes began. Ryan took the stairs two at a time and grabbed the note Amanda had left him with the parent’s phone numbers. He’d met most of the parents at the Thorntons’ bonfire night party and opted for ringing Declan’s. He knew the lad’s father was Calum Richards’ elder brother, a dependable, no-nonsense man who ran a chain of garages throughout South Lakeland.
John Richards went up even further in Ryan’s estimation when the man simply heard him out and said, “I’ll be with you in ten minutes. Call Jamie’s dads. They’re both sound lads. If Calum’s lot are tied up, we’re on our own.”
While Stephen went out to the garage with Vicky and Josh to get the chainsaw and anything else that might be useful, Ryan rang Jamie Baxter’s house to drum up more reinforcements. Again, the conversation was short and to the point. It seemed that losing your kids through an anomaly was an experience that put everything else into perspective, including calls for help in the middle of the night.
In just over the predicted ten minutes, two cars pulled into the yard behind the Thorntons’ house and disgorged John Richards and his wife Sophie, followed by Sam Baxter and a man called Jeremy, whose surname Ryan couldn’t remember. Sophie and Jeremy immediately took charge of the children, relieving Ryan of his feeling of nagging guilt and freeing him to start thinking properly.
“There’s a chainsaw and ropes in the back of the Range Rover,” Stephen said. “Declan’s told me which tree we’re aiming for. If he’s right, providing the buggers haven’t scarpered already, there’s no way they’ll get even a 4x4 past it and certainly not a van.”
Exactly 20 minutes after receiving the telephone call from Colonel Morton, Ryan was driving out of the yard, heading for the bottom of the track to Tarn Beck Farm. At Stephen’s assistance, Ryan stopped the vehicle as soon as the metalled part of the road ended and the dirt track began. By the light of a torch, Stephen examined the tyre marks before returning to announce that he thought a heavy vehicle had driven up the track but not returned. It looked like they weren’t too late after all.
Declan had provided accurate directions to a tall, dead tree, heavily twined with dark green ivy. The tree’s roots were already starting to pull out of the slope on one side of the sunken track. It was listing badly and Ryan could understand why Kim Burton’s father had been intending to bring it down in a controlled manner.
Ryan tossed the car keys at John Richards. “Back it up enough that I won’t catch it with the branches. Once this bugger’s down we can do the rest on foot.”
The chainsaw started on the second pull. Ryan quickly cut a wide notch at the base of the dead tree, ordered the other men to stand clear, and then cut through the remainder of the trunk. The tree creaked and fell, its branches dragging others down with it in a rush of falling leaves and twigs. The tree landed with a crash across the road, angled across the gully in such a way that no vehicle would succeed in getting past it, not even a four-wheeled drive. He stashed the chainsaw behind another tree and slithered back down the slope.
“Torches off,” he ordered. “There’s enough moonlight to see by and we don’t want to advertise the fact that we’re here. If you hear a vehicle, get under cover. First objective is to check the colonel is all right.”
By unspoken agreement, Stephen took the lead. Ryan knew and trusted his lover’s stealth skills. Stephen could move quickly and silently, even in darkness, his senses fully attuned to what could now easily be a hostile environment. John Richards and Sam Baxter followed behind them, keeping to the darker shadows at the side of the track. The ground sloped up steeply on either side as the track cut up the hillside. If they heard something coming towards them, getting under cover wouldn’t be easy. Ryan felt uncomfortable going into any sort of dangerous situation unarmed, and the thought of borrowing Greg Thornton’s shotgun had crossed his mind. But escalating horse-theft to an armed confrontation hadn’t seemed the brightest idea at the time, although now, moving towards an unknown number of opponents with civilians in tow, Ryan was starting to regret those scruples.
A few paces ahead, Stephen held up his hand in warning. Ryan moved quietly to his side and waited while his lover cocked his head to one side, listening intently. A slight nod signified that Stephen considered it safe to move onwards. They reached the gateway to Colonel Morton’s house without incident. The house was in darkness. Ryan hoped that whoever had cut the phone lines had simply left things at that, but they needed to be sure. Leaving Stephen and the other two men to keep watch in the gateway, Ryan approached the house, keeping to the grass by the side of the lawn and avoiding the gravel driveway.
“Good timing,” said a quiet voice from behind a large bush. “If you hadn’t made it, I was about to fly solo.”
Ryan turned around, adrenaline coursing through his system. “Sorry, sir, we had to arrange some babysitters.”
Colonel Morton nodded. “No one’s been sniffing around here. Looks like the buggers decided that cutting the phone lines was enough. There’s a man up by the van. I don’t know how many more there are.”
“How far is it to the farm?”
“Just under a mile. The van is about half way there but they won’t get it any higher. The last bit’s rough going in places.”
“Can we get close to them without being seen?”
The moon came out from behind a cloud and Ryan saw the colonel’s answering nod. He didn’t like the idea of leaving hostiles behind them, so he wanted to neutralise the two men with the van before going any further. With Colonel Morton to direct them, they made quick progress parallel to the track, but higher up the slope. The old man moved as silently as any of them and Ryan knew instinctively that in spite of his age, he would still handle himself well in a fight if push came to a shove, which he sincerely hoped it wouldn’t. With five people making their way through the undergrowth, Ryan had little hope of a totally silent approach, but so far their group had done well, and if their luck only held out a while longer, he’d be pleased.
Colonel Morton touched Ryan’s arm lightly, bringing him to a halt. The small footpath they were following was now coming close to the main track a short way above where the van was parked. Ryan could see a white van parked to one side of the track, facing down hill. The rear door were open and a man were standing by the back, smoking. The dull glow when then he took a drag on his cigarette gave away his position. Ryan liked it when the opposition had at least one hand occupied. It would make him fractionally slower going for a weapon if he was armed. It also looked like the noise of the chainsaw and the crash of the falling tree hadn’t carried this far up the track.
Ryan dropped back and waited while the other four men made it to the junction of the path and the track without giving away their presence. The plan – such as it was – had been agreed back at the colonel’s house. Stephen, followed by John and Sam, would their way further up the track, shielded by a slight bend from the eyes of the men by the van. They would then provide the distraction Ryan would need to enable him to get the drop on the van driver. The colonel would wait at the junction to be on hand if Ryan needed help.
Ryan guessed that at least two men had gone up to the farm, maybe more, and judging by the time that had elapsed since Colonel Morton had first seen them, there was a very good chance that they’d already be on their way back so time was now of the essence. He crossed the track, slipping unnoticed into the shadows on the other side and making his way to the front of the van.
The man was expecting someone to come back down the track and so when he heard footsteps and muffled voices, all he did was straighten up and take a step away from the van, cigarette still in hand. The minute his attention was engaged, Ryan made his move. He dropped the man with a hard blow to the back of his neck, then followed it up with a sharp jab to the solar plexus, driving the breath from his lungs and taking any fight straight out of him.
Ryan clamped his hand over the man’s mouth and hissed, “Shut the fuck up or I’ll hurt you even more!”
In a matter of moments he had the man’s arms behind his back, secured with a cable tie. Ryan flipped the man over on his back and quickly searched him for weapons. He was shocked but not wholly surprised to discover a semi-automatic pistol in a shoulder rig and a flick-knife in the man’s pocket. The gun was an ex-Russian army Makarov, standard issue in the Soviet Union until the early ‘90s. Enough of them had found their way onto the streets in the UK to cause the police a severe headache.
Ryan ejected the magazine on the gun, checked that it was fully loaded with eight rounds, and rammed the clip home again, pulling back the slide to load a round into the breech and then flicking on the safety. The Makarovs had a bad reputation for accidental discharge if dropped on their muzzles and Ryan wasn’t intending to take any chances. The revelation that at least one of the men was armed had upped the stakes in this particular game. A quick search of the man’s pockets revealed another full ammunition clip, but nothing by way of identification. He carried a cheap mobile phone, no doubt an untraceable pay-as-you go job, but Ryan turned it off and pocketed it, just in case.
The man glared up at Ryan, trying to drag air back into his lungs, a mutinous expression on his face.
Ryan debated stopping to question him, but the knowledge that the thieves were armed had changed the ball game. “Gag him,” he told the colonel while he went around to the front of the van to grab the keys from the ignition. As an afterthought, he pulled the flick-knife from his pocket and used it to stab both front tyres. With the tree across the track and two tyres out of commission, there was no chance now of a rapid escape.
“We’ve found Etty Duggan’s chicken,” Colonel Morton commented as Ryan opened the rear doors. A large wire cage held something with brightly coloured feathers, a beady-eyes stare, long legs and a wicked-looking beak. Some people really did have a strange idea of what made a suitable pet, but Ryan had to presume that the beast was friendlier than it looked.
With the man safely stowed in the back, Ryan locked the door. Much as he wanted to go straight up to the farm, he knew that the chances were that Jim Cordingley and his family had already been neutralized in some way – hopefully with non-lethal force – so charging up there would almost certainly be counterproductive.
Better to wait for the men to come to them.
* * * * *
Ryan had given very explicit instructions and made it clear that he expected them to be followed to the letter. He’d sent John Richards and Sam Baxter a little way further up the track with orders to make their way to the farm as soon as the remaining men had passed them. They were not, under any circumstances, to break cover until it was clear to do so and it was then their job to get to Tarn Beck Farm and see what state the Cordingleys had been left in.
The lack of ability to communicate with the rest of the world worried Ryan. They could clear the track of the tree quickly enough with the chainsaw if medical assistance was needed by anyone, but with landlines to both the colonel’s house and the farm severed and surrounded by a mobile phone dead zone, summoning medical help if they needed it wouldn’t be easy.
The sound of boots and hooves scuffling on the stones of the track drew Ryan’s attention. A muffled curse followed almost immediately. It sounded like the merychippus was proving to be a handful. As far as Ryan could tell, two men were struggling to subdue the creature. His suspicion was confirmed as soon as they came into view on the track. They’d got a head-collar on the horse, and with one man leading it and the other delivering a series of whacks on its striped rump, they were contriving to make awkward progress down the track. The animal stood about a metre and a half tall at the shoulder – even his daughter’s attempts to educate Ryan on the subject of ponies weren’t sufficient to enable him to convert that into hands – and had a short, spiky mane. Ryan had to admit that it didn’t look very different in shape to Vicky’s sturdy fell pony but, according to Stephen, the feet were the real give away. Instead of one hoof it had three toes and right then it was using them all to good advantage and digging them into the dirt track.
While the men were fully occupied, Ryan gave a quick nod to Stephen and they made their move. The horse chose exactly the same moment to make its own bid for freedom, sinking down on its haunches and striking out with its front feet, causing the man holding its head to jump sideways, swearing fluently in a broad Mancunian accent. The horse promptly turned and bolted, dragging the rope attached to its halter out of its captor’s hands. Its helter-skelter flight left confusion in its wake. One of the men saw Ryan’s approach and reacted with impressive speed, clearing a handgun from a shoulder-holster in a move that reeked of long practice and firing without hesitation. At the same time, Ryan ducked sideways, reflexes and instinct taking over from conscious thought as he dragged the Makarov from his jacket pocket and thumbed off the safety. The bullet went wide, but the sharp crack of displaced air close to his ear told him it had been a close call.
The second man was on the ground, grappling with Stephen. Ryan trusted his lover to look after himself in a fight and for the moment his highest priority was the man with the gun.
“Armed police!” The colonel’s voice was loud and authoritative, but in answer the gunman promptly turned and fired in his direction.
Ryan swung his own pistol up, steadying the unfamiliar weapon with both hands and squeezed the trigger. The Makarov bucked strongly but the shot was good, taking the gunman in the shoulder and sending his answering fire wide. Ryan closed the gap rapidly, slamming the man forwards and clubbing his already-injured shoulder with the butt of the pistol. That drew a howl of pain and Ryan heard the clatter of the other gun on the stony track.
Then, with the pistol shots still ringing in his ears, Ryan heard the intimidating sound of a pump action shotgun being loaded. The distinctive metallic double-click gave away the third gunman’s position. It looked like he’d been following the other two and the horse down the track. Ryan threw himself to the ground and rolled. The blast went over his head but his own return of fire went equally wide.
The sudden crack of knuckles against bone, followed by a pained grunt told him that someone had just got the upper hand in the fight on the track. He hoped it was Stephen, but in the darkness it was hard to tell. A moment later, a slim figure that he recognised as his lover slammed a fist hard into the man on the ground and sprinted into the cover of the trees.
Ryan’s roll had brought him up against the side of the van. He was on his knees in an instant, squeezing off two shots from the semi-automatic, keeping up the mental tally of spent ammunition. A fire-fight in the dark wasn’t exactly his idea of fun, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“Armed police!” yelled the colonel again, signalling his position to Ryan as well as to the gunman. “Lay down your weapons!”
The shotgun fired a second time, this time in Colonel Morton’s direction. Ryan was under no illusion that the gunman would now have to reload. A shotgun taking more than two shells was illegal in the UK, but anyone working in a group with someone carrying a Makarov wouldn’t exactly be concerned about adhering to the gun laws. There were too many possible variants of what the man might be carrying to allow Ryan to calculate the number of shots available, so he was going to have to work on a worst case scenario, which meant that at least another eight shots was a very real possibility. Ryan already had fewer bullets than that available before he’d need to change clips so he would have to make every one count.
With the colonel doing a good job of running interference for him, Ryan worked his way to the back of the van and around the other side, between it and the trees. The shotgun lacked the penetrative power of a rifle so the van itself would provide all the cover he needed, but Ryan needed to close this encounter down fast. They were facing three assailants. One was injured but possibly in possession of a weapon again and Ryan was unsure of his current position. The one Stephen had been contending with lay unmoving on the track, and the third – the man with the shotgun – had ducked behind a tree.
It was starting to look unhealthily like a stand-off.
Ryan bent down and picked up a large rock from the edge of the track. An underarm throw took it into the trees on the other side. A shotgun blast followed immediately, then a second later he heard a dull thump of something hard impacting on a human skull. A grin formed on Ryan’s face. It sounded very much like Colonel Morton had just put the rounded handle of his blackthorn walking stick to good use.
In the silence that followed, Ryan heard the harsh breathing of the man he’d shot in the shoulder. With three of his companions out of action the odds were now stacked against him.
“Put your gun down and lie on the ground!” It was the colonel’s voice again, calm and in control, pressing home his advantage in the confusion of the situation. “Now!”
Outnumbered and injured, the gunman sank to his knees, hands spread and empty. It looked like he hadn’t actually managed to retrieve his weapon. Ryan moved out from behind the van and delivered a hard kick between the shoulder blades that knocked the man down onto his face and drew a whine of pain from him. Stephen stepped out of the trees, blood streaking his face from a cut on one cheekbone, but otherwise he appeared uninjured.
Ryan held out a handful of cable ties. “Let’s get these buggers immobilised.” He allowed himself a small smile and called out, “Thanks, Colonel. That sounded very convincing.”
The old man chuckled. “Jeannie’s addicted to The Bill. Knew all that telly watching of hers would come in handy for something.”
* * * * *
“Sit down, Stephen!”
Ryan was amused to note that Vicky was doing a very good job of emulating one of her mother’s more disapproving expressions as she stared up at Stephen and gestured crossly to one of the kitchen chairs.
Stephen obligingly sat down and allowed one of Vicky’s friends to clean the cut on his bruised cheekbone with antiseptic. Becky’s mum was a doctor and Stephen had told him about the professional job the young girl had done cleaning and bandaging Blade’s leg.
It was 4.30am and they’d been back at Tarnthwaite for no more than an hour. The kitchen was crowded with excited children and adults, making tea accompanied by endless rounds of bacon sandwiches while they awaited a call from either the hospital or the police.
Ryan had been correct in his assessment of the situation. This time, the thieves had gone in hard and fast. The farm dogs had simply been ignored and the fact that they were chained up in their kennels had almost certainly saved their lives, although one had apparently got a little too close for comfort and had been knocked out by a vicious kick. Jim Cordingley had been overpowered immediately and, along with his wife and daughter, had been left in the house, bound hand and foot. Like his dog, Jim had taken a nasty blow to the head and had been barely conscious when John Richards and Sam Baxter had reached the farm.
By the time the tree had been dragged clear of the track, the ambulances had arrived to take the Cordingleys and their attackers to hospital, under the watchful eyes of a grim-faced Calum Richards.
Ryan gratefully accepted a cup of tea liberally laced with whisky. The adrenaline had ebbed from his system, but he had surprised himself by still feeling relatively alert. He had a strong feeling he wasn’t that far off being fit enough for a return to active duties after all, if the aftermath of the night’s activities was anything to go by.
The sound of a car pulling up in the yard drew Ryan’s attention. John Richards glanced out of the window and confirmed that it was his brother.
“Jim’ll be fine,” the Detective Inspector announced as soon as he stepped into the kitchen. “Tina and Kim are fine as well. Kim was more worried about Merry and Jasper than anything else.” In answer to a babble of questions from the children, he waved them into silence and said, “Merry’s tucked up for the night with the police horses and the vet says the dog’s probably got a bit of a headache, but that’s all. Now would some kind person pour me a cup of tea while I have a quick chat with Tom?” He caught Ryan’s eyes and nodded towards the yard.
Ryan followed the policeman outside while Becky went back to ministering to Stephen’s cut. In answer to Ryan’s raised eyebrows, Calum nodded. “It’s the truth, they’re all fine, or as fine as anyone can be when they’ve been held at gun point by the dregs of Moss Side.”
“They meant business,” Ryan commented. “That was a lot of weaponry to nick a fancy chicken and a kid’s pony. They knew how to use it as well.”
“They’ve all got form,” Calum confirmed. “We’ve got a positive ID on the lot of them. The one you put a hole in is ex-forces, dishonourably discharged for putting three blokes in hospital after a pub fight. One of them ended up with brain damage. The others have got a string of convictions as long as your arm as well. I didn’t want to say anything in front of the kids, but Jim and his family got off lightly.”
“So who sent them?”
The policeman fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette and took a long pull of smoke before answering, “They’re not saying. Their story is that they thought they’d make a mint on the animal collecting market, selling something a bit different. My guess is they’ll stick to that story. They’re going down on charges of assault, possession of firearms and theft, so it’ll be a while before any of them are back on the job market, but I’m guessing you’d prefer to know who put them up to this, wouldn’t you?”
Ryan hesitated for a moment and then said quietly, “Does the name Ed Mason mean anything to you?”
Calum Richards shook his head. “How did you find that out or shouldn’t I ask?”
“You don’t want to know,” Ryan told him. He’d been alone with the man he’d shot for no more than two minutes, but it had been long enough. It hadn’t taken much pressure on the man’s injured shoulder to elicit the information Ryan had wanted.
Calum took another drag on his cigarette and didn’t press the point. “I’ll need statements tomorrow, but that’ll wait, and I won’t be pressing for details.” He smiled ruefully at Ryan. “And I imagine you thought you were coming up here for rest and recuperation.”
“I certainly wasn’t expecting to be pulling this sort of all-nighter.” Ryan laughed. “Come on, if you’re lucky they’ll have made you a bacon butty.”
Ryan hoped he might actually get to curl up in bed with his boyfriend sometime before dawn. After the night they’d had, he strongly suspected that he and Stephen would now be heading back to the ARC rather more quickly than they’d originally intended. He needed to talk to Lester and it looked very much like they had some digging to do.
Ed Mason, whoever he was, appeared to be doing a lot more than just collecting unusual animals. He was targeting animals trapped out of their own time and Ryan wanted to know how he knew where to find them.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 15
Characters : Stephen/Ryan, Vicky Thornton, Amanda Thornton, Colonel Morton & others.
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word count : 8,000
Summary : Set in my main series. Ryan is in Cumbria, staying with his ex-wife and family, recuperating from a head injury, but things end up not quite as restful as intended.
A/N : Written for
lukadreaming ’s birthday. You wanted more Stephen/Ryan, so I hope this fits the bill and that you have a very lovely day! With thanks to my Evil Twin, munchkinofdoom for the beta.Ryan glanced at his watch. It was just after 6pm and they were due at Colonel Morton’s in an hour. Stephen was lying on the sofa in a loose-limbed sprawl, a palaeontology journal spread out on his chest. His long-lashed eyes were closed and one arm was curled loosely over his stomach, resting on bare flesh where his tee-shirt had ridden up. Stephen looked younger and more vulnerable in sleep. Ryan was reluctant to disturb him, but they needed to shower and change before leaving the cottage and it was almost a 20 minute walk, so they had to make a move now or they’d be late.
Stephen had a hunter’s instincts and the moment Ryan put his book down and stood up, his lover was awake, staring up at him and smiling slightly. “Was I snoring?” he murmured, with the huskiness of sleep in his voice.
“Like a pig,” Ryan grinned. “Come on, lover boy, we need to make ourselves vaguely presentable.”
“The colonel said casual,” Stephen said, grabbing the proffered hand and allowing Ryan to pull him onto his feet and into a warm kiss.
“There’s a difference between casual and your normal just-shagged-senseless look,” Ryan pointed out.
Stephen laughed, making Ryan want to do considerably more than just kiss him. “If I drive we’d have time for a quickie,” he wheedled.
Ryan swatted his lover’s arse. “Nope, we’re walking. I need the exercise.” He planted a light kiss on Stephen’s nose. “And it’ll work up an appetite for later.”
Twenty minutes later, as they closed the cottage door, they were greeted by the sound of hooves clattering onto the grey flagstones of the stable yard. Ryan’s 12-year old daughter, Vicky, on her grey pony, Lady Penelope, came in at a brisk trot. Behind her, on a sturdy black fell pony that Ryan had been amused to learn was called Parker, rode a lad a year or so older than Vicky, with a mop of unruly brown hair escaping from under his riding hat.
The pair of them brought their ponies to a halt and slithered off with more speed than style. Ryan gave Vicky a hug and the boy solemnly shook hands with Stephen and smiled at Ryan. Ryan smiled back and shook the lad’s hand. Declan Richards had spent ten days trapped in the Cretaceous with his daughter and Ryan both liked and respected the lad, and it was looking increasingly like he might be potential boyfriend material.
“Nice lad,” said Stephen with a grin as they headed out of the yard in the direction of the public footpath that would take them to Colonel Morton’s house.
Ryan laughed. “I like him, so there’s no point trying to wind me up, Hart. I’ll leave it to Greg to play the heavy-handed step-dad.”
“He likes him too,” Stephen said. “They’re great kids. It’s been good spending time with Vicky.”
“It’s been brilliant,” Ryan agreed. “I wonder how long it’ll be before Lester orders us back to the ARC?”
“You’re still recuperating,” Stephen said firmly. “I don’t fancy even Lester’s chances of getting past a coalition of Ditzy and Amanda. They’re capable of presenting a united front even if they are 250 miles apart.”
“But they can’t do without you for much longer.”
“According to Cutter, I have a large amount of accrued leave, and he seems determined to make sure I take it. The anomalies have been fairly quiet. Cutter’s even found time to get a couple of papers written. I’ve promised to sort his reference lists out for him and I can do that by email.”
“I’m not going to argue,” Ryan said. “I haven’t spent this long with Vicky since she was a baby.”
“It’s good of Amanda and Greg to have us here.”
Ryan nodded. Their daughter’s disappearance and subsequent rescue had broken the ice that had built up during his marriage to Amanda and since then they’d been rebuilding a different relationship, aided by the good humour and common-sense of Amanda’s husband, Greg Thornton. He’d ensured that Vicky had continued to receive the letters and presents Ryan had sent to her in their years apart, even though he’d been certain they were all being consigned to the bin by his ex-wife. Ryan had missed four years of Vicky’s life and was determined to make up for lost time.
The footpath to Colonel Morton’s house wound up the side of a small stream overhung with trees. The autumn evening was warm with only a light breeze to ruffle the golden leaves above them and send the occasional one spinning lazily down to the path. Their route climbed steadily up but Ryan was pleased to note that his breathing remained steady and he was showing no signs of any ill-effects from the head injury that had led to his enforced break from the anomaly project.
At a junction in the path, they climbed out of the steepening gully up a set of rough-hewn wooden steps that led them onto a wide dirt track. A tall yew hedge on their right signified that they had almost reached the Colonel’s house and a five-barred gate stood open across the end of a neat gravel drive that led up to an imposing old farmhouse with a slate roof. An immaculate ex-army Land Rover was parked in an open barn and a black Range Rover was standing in front of the house.
“That’s Calum Richards’ car,” Stephen remarked as they made their way up the drive.
Detective Inspector Calum Richards had worked closely with the anomaly response team during the disappearance of Ryan’s daughter and her classmates. His own nephew, Declan, Vicky’s pony-riding companion, had been one of the missing children. It had also become clear during the search that the anomalies and the creatures they all too frequently disgorged were an open secret amongst many of the local people, but as Cumbria was both the second largest county in England and one of the most sparsely populated, the conspiracy of silence was by no means as unbelievable as it might have first appeared.
The door to the farmhouse stood open and the sound of their boots on the gravel drive had announced their approach as Colonel Morton called out, “Come in!” before Ryan had time to pull the chain on the old iron bell hanging inside the porch.
The door led straight into a comfortable-looking room where a fire blazed in a huge open hearth in spite of the fact that it was still a warm evening.
“Smoke keeps the blasted midges at bay,” the colonel commented, coming to his feet and smiling warmly at his visitors. “You know Richards, I take it?”
Ryan and Stephen both smiled and nodded, exchanging firm handshakes with the two men. Ryan had done a small amount of digging into their host’s background after it became clear that he knew the nature of their work. Oliver Morton had served with the Parachute Regiment, completing several tours of duty with 1 Para as part of the Special Forces Support Group, and he had an impressive list of covert operations to his name that even Ryan’s contacts hadn’t been able to say much about. But it had become clear very quickly that Colonel Morton wasn’t the sort of man to be fazed by the idea of dinosaur-hunting. The twinkle in the old man’s eyes when he shook Ryan’s hand signalled that he was also fully aware of Ryan’s enquiries and had almost certainly been making his own.
“How’s the head?” the policeman asked, earning points from Ryan by not avoiding the subject of his recent injury.
“Still in one piece,” Ryan replied. “But I’m reliably informed I gave everyone a nasty scare.”
“How long are you staying?” The policeman’s manner was casual, but not quite casual enough to fool Ryan.
“At least another week, I hope,” he replied, accepting a glass of dry sherry from the colonel. “Is there a problem in the offing?”
“Buggered if I know,” Calum sighed. “But apparently someone has nicked one of Mrs Duggan’s fancy chickens.”
Ryan took a sip of exceedingly good sherry and commented quietly, “And it takes a Detective Inspector to investigate the theft of a chicken?”
“It does when someone has also had a go at pinching Kim Cordingley’s pony.”
“The small, stripy pony?” queried Stephen.
“That’s the one. The track to the Burton’s farm is the one that runs past here.”
“Heard a four by four on the track late last night,” Colonel Morton commented. “Thought it was Jim.”
“What happened?” Ryan was starting to catch on. If he remembered correctly, the pony was actually some sort of early horse that had arrived through an anomaly a couple of years ago, but he was buggered if he could remember what the so-called chicken really was.
“One of Jim Cordingley’s dogs raised merry hell and he went out to take a look. He found the barn door open but didn’t see anyone. They must have parked the vehicle somewhere on the lane and done the last stretch on foot. There’s a set of tracks that definitely don’t belong to anything from Tarn Beck Farm.” Calum Richards finished his sherry and put the glass down. “Let me know if you see anyone hanging around, Colonel.”
The old man nodded. “Strangers stand out around here and there are no public footpaths crossing Jim’s land, so if someone is playing silly buggers it won’t go unnoticed.”
“I’ve told the lads in Kendal to give priority to any calls from around here, so if you see or hear anything and you can’t get me, let them know.”
Ryan and Stephen shook hands with the policeman again and the colonel saw him to the door. More drinks were poured and the conversation veered away onto other topics, including some that no doubt contravened several sections of the Official Secrets Act. Colonel Morton was an entertaining host and clearly held no prejudices against same-sex relationships. His wife was away visiting her sister in Leeds, but the colonel proved to be a good cook, producing pheasant casserole, baked potatoes and a selection of home-grown vegetables.
At 11pm, Ryan and Stephen set out under a starlit sky to make their way back to Tarnthwaite. They kept to the main track, even though it took them back by a longer route. By the time they got back to the cottage, Ryan was tired, but lacked the nagging feeling of exhaustion that he’d experienced in the immediate aftermath of his stay in hospital.
Stephen slid into bed beside him and pillowed his head on Ryan’s shoulder. A long-fingered hand roamed down over Ryan’s stomach and settled on his cock. With tantalizing slowness, Stephen stroked him to hardness and Ryan shifted position so that he could return the favour. They traded lazy kisses, open-mouthed, tongues tangling while their hands went to work elsewhere. In a matter of minutes, Ryan gasped into Stephen’s mouth and came with a warm rush. A moment later, Stephen followed him over the edge and Ryan held him through the resulting tremors. A handful of tissues dealt with the mess and afterwards Ryan slipped easily into sleep, wrapped comfortably around Stephen’s lean body.
* * * * *
“Could you feed Harvey tonight?” Amanda asked, glancing over at the Labrador lying asleep in his basket near the Aga, as she handed Ryan a plate loaded with an impressive fried breakfast. His ex-wife, in collaboration with Stephen, had decided he needed feeding up but Ryan wasn’t objecting. “I had my brother on the phone earlier. My mother slipped over in the bathroom last night and she’s fractured a bone in her wrist. I’m going to drive over to Leeds and bring her back with me tomorrow. Greg’s in London and he can’t cancel his arrangements for tonight. There’s a dinner with some big-wig over from the States.” She glanced at her daughter. “I’m sorry, darling, I’m going to put your sleep-over off until next week.”
“Mum!” Vicky’s voice was loaded with outrage. “It’s all arranged! We’ve done the cooking and everything!”
“We can freeze the food until next weekend,” Amanda offered.
“It’s half-term next week,” Vicky grumbled, clearly not in the least bit mollified by her mother’s suggestion. “Declan’s going to his Gran’s, Becky’s going to Brittany and Josh won’t be here then either.”
Ryan noticed his daughter blinking back tears. She’d been excited about the sleep-over all week. He raised his eyebrows questioningly at Stephen and received an amused grin and a slight nod in return. Vicky caught their exchange of looks and her expression changed from disappointed to hopeful in a heartbeat.
“You have no idea what you’re letting yourselves in for,” Amanda cautioned, immediately cottoning on to the change in her daughter’s expression. “That lot make the Sergeant’s Mess in Hereford look like a model of decorum.”
“We’ll cope,” Ryan said, ruffling his daughter’s hair. “It’s about time we earned our keep.”
Amanda smiled. “Thanks, Tom.” She hesitated for a moment, then added, “Stephen, are you sure this is OK? I don’t want that pack of little horrors wearing him out.”
Stephen grinned. “We’ll be fine. They can’t be worse than a pack of marauding raptors.”
Amanda rolled her eyes. “Don’t bet on it. I’ll leave contact numbers for all their parents and don’t hesitate to call for reinforcements if you need them. There are no posthumous medals for heroic last stands in the parenting business. I’ll put fresh sheets on our bed for you; all the other rooms are taken.”
By the time breakfast was over, Ryan had received a series of instructions of ever-increasing complexity for the care and supervision of a bunch of 12 and 13 year olds. His ex-wife had taken on an unsettling resemblance to his CO on the day he’d taken his first patrol out in hostile territory. Stephen’s evident amusement was doing nothing at all to help matters.
Eventually, Amanda burst out laughing and said, “Oh Tom, if only you could see your face. I’m winding you up. They’re a nice bunch of kids.”
“They barbequed a dead dinosaur last year,” Ryan pointed out.
“They’re a nice bunch of kids who just happen to have the occasional Lord of the Flies moments. You’ll be fine.”
“Not if they decide I’m Piggy,” muttered Ryan.
* * * * *
To Ryan’s surprise – and relief – the evening passed off relatively uneventfully, although the kids had demanded a demonstration of unarmed combat techniques that had involved the rearrangement of a large number of sofa cushions to act as an impromptu crash mat. Their time in the Cretaceous had instilled an interest in survival techniques in all of Vicky’s friends, and it was clear to Ryan that they were a tightly-knit group who enjoyed the times when they could get together and reminisce about their experiences and let off steam in a way they couldn’t in the presence of anyone who didn’t have their knowledge of the anomalies.
He just hoped that they’d refrain from practising some of their new-found combat skills at school. They’d also watched DVDs, pointing and laughing unmercifully at numerous inaccuracies in Jurassic Park, quizzed him and Stephen about the most recent anomaly incursions, and stayed up until nearly midnight, shamelessly wheedling extra time through a variety of distraction techniques.
When they’d finally succeeded in packing the lot of them off to bed, Ryan poured a couple of beers for himself and Stephen and slumped down on a chair in the kitchen. Amanda hadn’t been far wrong when she’d compared the experience to a night in the regimental mess. The only difference was he’d had to endure this particular character-building exercise stone-cold sober.
Stephen stood behind him and massaged back of Ryan’s neck. “Headache?”
“No,” Ryan said truthfully. “Just knackered. But don’t let that stop you.” He leaned back, enjoying the gentle massage.
“No hot sex for me tonight, then?”
“With a bunch of kids in the house and us sleeping in my ex-wife’s bed? Nope, tonight we stay celibate, sunshine. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.”
Stephen laughed. “I’ll hold you to that, soldier boy. Come on, finish that beer before the little darlings wake up and demand another combat demonstration. I’m convinced this lot need riot troops on standby, not babysitters.”
“Harvey’s got the right idea.” Ryan gestured at the chocolate Labrador asleep in a basket on the kitchen floor next to the Aga. Once he’d finished hoovering up any leftovers from tea, the dog had remained supremely oblivious to the children – and the adults – and their antics. Sensing he was the object of someone’s attention, the dog thumped his tail a few times and then promptly went back to sleep.
Ryan finished his drink and stood up. He caught a flash of concern in Stephen’s blue eyes and pulled his lover close for a kiss that tasted not unpleasantly of beer. “Don’t worry, I’m fine.”
Halfway down the corridor to the bedroom, the house phone starting to ring. Ryan exchanged a puzzled glance with Stephen and bolted for the bedroom door to grab the handset, wondering which set of anxious parents had decided to phone up at such an ungodly hour to check on whether their offspring was safely tucked up in bed for the night.
“Ryan, is that you? Oliver Morton here.” The colonel’s tones were as clipped as ever and Ryan noted that the other man offered no apology for the lateness of the call. “I’ve just come back from a walk on the fells – couldn’t sleep. Never can with Jeannie away. There’s a van parked up on the track to the Cordingleys’. I’ve called Richards but there’s been a major pile up on the Kendal bypass and another one on the M6. He hasn’t got anyone spare to go chasing horse thieves – if that’s what they’re up to. I was wondering…”
“…if we’d take a look?” Ryan finished for him. “Amanda and Greg are away, sir, and we’ve got the house full of Vicky’s friends.” Calum Richards’ nephew was 14, technically old enough to be left in charge of the others, but Ryan didn’t fancy the explaining he’d have to do if he went haring off with Stephen in the middle of the night leaving the children to their own devices. “I…” Ryan wasn’t exactly sure what he’d been about to say next, but the sound quality changed abruptly, leaving him holding a phone that suddenly seemed to have gone dead. “Colonel? Colonel Morton?”
Ryan put the receiver down and waiting a moment for it to ring again. When it didn’t, he promptly punched in 1471 to see if it had the number stored. It did and he pressed 3 to call the colonel back. All that greeted his efforts was the continuous tone of an unavailable number.
“Trouble?” From the guarded look on Stephen’s face he already knew the answer to that question but was waiting for Ryan to elaborate.
“There’s a van parked on the track to the Burton’s farm. The colonel couldn’t sleep and was out for a late walk.” Ryan pressed redial again on the phone but greeted by exactly the same tone. Number unavailable. “Someone’s cut the fucking phone line.”
Stephen’s eyebrows shot up. “Ring the police.”
“The colonel’s already done that. There’s been two major smashes, one on the bypass, another on the motorway. There’s no one free for this.”
A tentative knock on the bedroom door drew Ryan’s attention. He opened it to find Vicky standing in the corridor wearing a pair of pyjamas festooned with Dalmatian puppies. “Daddy?” The look on her face said quite clearly that Vicky was now old enough to know that phone calls in the night rarely bode well.
“Everything’s fine, sweetheart,” Ryan said quickly. “That was nothing to do with your mum and dad. Don’t worry.” On impulse, he asked, “Vicky, the track past Colonel Morton’s house up to the Cordingleys’ farm, does it go anywhere apart from the farm?”
Vicky shook her head. Intelligent blue eyes stared steadily up at Ryan and she demanded, “Is someone after Kim’s pony again?”
Trust the local kids to know everything that was going on. “The colonel saw a vehicle parked on the track somewhere between his house and the farm.”
“Then they’re after Merry,” Vicky declared. “We’ve got to do something, Daddy.”
“If we block the track, they can’t take him anywhere.” That suggestion came from Declan, hovering in the corridor behind Vicky.
A quick glance told Ryan that the kids had all heard the phone ring and had cottoned on with alarming speed to what was happening. “We need to call the farm,” Ryan said, ignoring that suggestion for the moment, even though it did sound eminently sensible. “Vicky, what’s the number?” He passed her the handset and watched while she punched in the numbers from memory.
A moment later, his daughter pulled a face and held out the phone to him. The same continuous tone that he’d got when trying to ring the colonel back told Ryan that someone had cut the phone lines to Tarn Beck Farm as well as to the colonel’s house. Whoever was after the girl’s pony meant business.
“Do you know their mobile numbers?” he demanded.
“There’s no signal on the fells, sir,” one of the boys chimed in.
Vicky stared up at him determination radiating from her. “Daddy, Declan’s right, we need to block the track.”
“Less of the ‘we’, missy,” Ryan said automatically. “If Stephen and I go out to take a look around, I want your word of honour that you’ll all lock yourselves in the house until we can get one of the other parents here. Deal?”
“Deal,” grinned Vicky triumphantly.
With a feeling that he’d just been expertly manipulated, Ryan looked at the massed ranks of children and asked. “So how are we going to block that track?”
“Bring a tree down,” Declan said. “Kim’s dad said there’s a big one about to come down anyway. He was going to do it next week and let us watch.”
“Mr Thornton’s got a chainsaw in the garage,” a lad with a shock of blond spiky hair told him. Ryan thought the boy’s name was Josh.
In for a penny, in for a pound. “Get dressed and show me,” Ryan ordered.
The children all scattered back to their bedrooms and a mad scramble for clothes began. Ryan took the stairs two at a time and grabbed the note Amanda had left him with the parent’s phone numbers. He’d met most of the parents at the Thorntons’ bonfire night party and opted for ringing Declan’s. He knew the lad’s father was Calum Richards’ elder brother, a dependable, no-nonsense man who ran a chain of garages throughout South Lakeland.
John Richards went up even further in Ryan’s estimation when the man simply heard him out and said, “I’ll be with you in ten minutes. Call Jamie’s dads. They’re both sound lads. If Calum’s lot are tied up, we’re on our own.”
While Stephen went out to the garage with Vicky and Josh to get the chainsaw and anything else that might be useful, Ryan rang Jamie Baxter’s house to drum up more reinforcements. Again, the conversation was short and to the point. It seemed that losing your kids through an anomaly was an experience that put everything else into perspective, including calls for help in the middle of the night.
In just over the predicted ten minutes, two cars pulled into the yard behind the Thorntons’ house and disgorged John Richards and his wife Sophie, followed by Sam Baxter and a man called Jeremy, whose surname Ryan couldn’t remember. Sophie and Jeremy immediately took charge of the children, relieving Ryan of his feeling of nagging guilt and freeing him to start thinking properly.
“There’s a chainsaw and ropes in the back of the Range Rover,” Stephen said. “Declan’s told me which tree we’re aiming for. If he’s right, providing the buggers haven’t scarpered already, there’s no way they’ll get even a 4x4 past it and certainly not a van.”
Exactly 20 minutes after receiving the telephone call from Colonel Morton, Ryan was driving out of the yard, heading for the bottom of the track to Tarn Beck Farm. At Stephen’s assistance, Ryan stopped the vehicle as soon as the metalled part of the road ended and the dirt track began. By the light of a torch, Stephen examined the tyre marks before returning to announce that he thought a heavy vehicle had driven up the track but not returned. It looked like they weren’t too late after all.
Declan had provided accurate directions to a tall, dead tree, heavily twined with dark green ivy. The tree’s roots were already starting to pull out of the slope on one side of the sunken track. It was listing badly and Ryan could understand why Kim Burton’s father had been intending to bring it down in a controlled manner.
Ryan tossed the car keys at John Richards. “Back it up enough that I won’t catch it with the branches. Once this bugger’s down we can do the rest on foot.”
The chainsaw started on the second pull. Ryan quickly cut a wide notch at the base of the dead tree, ordered the other men to stand clear, and then cut through the remainder of the trunk. The tree creaked and fell, its branches dragging others down with it in a rush of falling leaves and twigs. The tree landed with a crash across the road, angled across the gully in such a way that no vehicle would succeed in getting past it, not even a four-wheeled drive. He stashed the chainsaw behind another tree and slithered back down the slope.
“Torches off,” he ordered. “There’s enough moonlight to see by and we don’t want to advertise the fact that we’re here. If you hear a vehicle, get under cover. First objective is to check the colonel is all right.”
By unspoken agreement, Stephen took the lead. Ryan knew and trusted his lover’s stealth skills. Stephen could move quickly and silently, even in darkness, his senses fully attuned to what could now easily be a hostile environment. John Richards and Sam Baxter followed behind them, keeping to the darker shadows at the side of the track. The ground sloped up steeply on either side as the track cut up the hillside. If they heard something coming towards them, getting under cover wouldn’t be easy. Ryan felt uncomfortable going into any sort of dangerous situation unarmed, and the thought of borrowing Greg Thornton’s shotgun had crossed his mind. But escalating horse-theft to an armed confrontation hadn’t seemed the brightest idea at the time, although now, moving towards an unknown number of opponents with civilians in tow, Ryan was starting to regret those scruples.
A few paces ahead, Stephen held up his hand in warning. Ryan moved quietly to his side and waited while his lover cocked his head to one side, listening intently. A slight nod signified that Stephen considered it safe to move onwards. They reached the gateway to Colonel Morton’s house without incident. The house was in darkness. Ryan hoped that whoever had cut the phone lines had simply left things at that, but they needed to be sure. Leaving Stephen and the other two men to keep watch in the gateway, Ryan approached the house, keeping to the grass by the side of the lawn and avoiding the gravel driveway.
“Good timing,” said a quiet voice from behind a large bush. “If you hadn’t made it, I was about to fly solo.”
Ryan turned around, adrenaline coursing through his system. “Sorry, sir, we had to arrange some babysitters.”
Colonel Morton nodded. “No one’s been sniffing around here. Looks like the buggers decided that cutting the phone lines was enough. There’s a man up by the van. I don’t know how many more there are.”
“How far is it to the farm?”
“Just under a mile. The van is about half way there but they won’t get it any higher. The last bit’s rough going in places.”
“Can we get close to them without being seen?”
The moon came out from behind a cloud and Ryan saw the colonel’s answering nod. He didn’t like the idea of leaving hostiles behind them, so he wanted to neutralise the two men with the van before going any further. With Colonel Morton to direct them, they made quick progress parallel to the track, but higher up the slope. The old man moved as silently as any of them and Ryan knew instinctively that in spite of his age, he would still handle himself well in a fight if push came to a shove, which he sincerely hoped it wouldn’t. With five people making their way through the undergrowth, Ryan had little hope of a totally silent approach, but so far their group had done well, and if their luck only held out a while longer, he’d be pleased.
Colonel Morton touched Ryan’s arm lightly, bringing him to a halt. The small footpath they were following was now coming close to the main track a short way above where the van was parked. Ryan could see a white van parked to one side of the track, facing down hill. The rear door were open and a man were standing by the back, smoking. The dull glow when then he took a drag on his cigarette gave away his position. Ryan liked it when the opposition had at least one hand occupied. It would make him fractionally slower going for a weapon if he was armed. It also looked like the noise of the chainsaw and the crash of the falling tree hadn’t carried this far up the track.
Ryan dropped back and waited while the other four men made it to the junction of the path and the track without giving away their presence. The plan – such as it was – had been agreed back at the colonel’s house. Stephen, followed by John and Sam, would their way further up the track, shielded by a slight bend from the eyes of the men by the van. They would then provide the distraction Ryan would need to enable him to get the drop on the van driver. The colonel would wait at the junction to be on hand if Ryan needed help.
Ryan guessed that at least two men had gone up to the farm, maybe more, and judging by the time that had elapsed since Colonel Morton had first seen them, there was a very good chance that they’d already be on their way back so time was now of the essence. He crossed the track, slipping unnoticed into the shadows on the other side and making his way to the front of the van.
The man was expecting someone to come back down the track and so when he heard footsteps and muffled voices, all he did was straighten up and take a step away from the van, cigarette still in hand. The minute his attention was engaged, Ryan made his move. He dropped the man with a hard blow to the back of his neck, then followed it up with a sharp jab to the solar plexus, driving the breath from his lungs and taking any fight straight out of him.
Ryan clamped his hand over the man’s mouth and hissed, “Shut the fuck up or I’ll hurt you even more!”
In a matter of moments he had the man’s arms behind his back, secured with a cable tie. Ryan flipped the man over on his back and quickly searched him for weapons. He was shocked but not wholly surprised to discover a semi-automatic pistol in a shoulder rig and a flick-knife in the man’s pocket. The gun was an ex-Russian army Makarov, standard issue in the Soviet Union until the early ‘90s. Enough of them had found their way onto the streets in the UK to cause the police a severe headache.
Ryan ejected the magazine on the gun, checked that it was fully loaded with eight rounds, and rammed the clip home again, pulling back the slide to load a round into the breech and then flicking on the safety. The Makarovs had a bad reputation for accidental discharge if dropped on their muzzles and Ryan wasn’t intending to take any chances. The revelation that at least one of the men was armed had upped the stakes in this particular game. A quick search of the man’s pockets revealed another full ammunition clip, but nothing by way of identification. He carried a cheap mobile phone, no doubt an untraceable pay-as-you go job, but Ryan turned it off and pocketed it, just in case.
The man glared up at Ryan, trying to drag air back into his lungs, a mutinous expression on his face.
Ryan debated stopping to question him, but the knowledge that the thieves were armed had changed the ball game. “Gag him,” he told the colonel while he went around to the front of the van to grab the keys from the ignition. As an afterthought, he pulled the flick-knife from his pocket and used it to stab both front tyres. With the tree across the track and two tyres out of commission, there was no chance now of a rapid escape.
“We’ve found Etty Duggan’s chicken,” Colonel Morton commented as Ryan opened the rear doors. A large wire cage held something with brightly coloured feathers, a beady-eyes stare, long legs and a wicked-looking beak. Some people really did have a strange idea of what made a suitable pet, but Ryan had to presume that the beast was friendlier than it looked.
With the man safely stowed in the back, Ryan locked the door. Much as he wanted to go straight up to the farm, he knew that the chances were that Jim Cordingley and his family had already been neutralized in some way – hopefully with non-lethal force – so charging up there would almost certainly be counterproductive.
Better to wait for the men to come to them.
* * * * *
Ryan had given very explicit instructions and made it clear that he expected them to be followed to the letter. He’d sent John Richards and Sam Baxter a little way further up the track with orders to make their way to the farm as soon as the remaining men had passed them. They were not, under any circumstances, to break cover until it was clear to do so and it was then their job to get to Tarn Beck Farm and see what state the Cordingleys had been left in.
The lack of ability to communicate with the rest of the world worried Ryan. They could clear the track of the tree quickly enough with the chainsaw if medical assistance was needed by anyone, but with landlines to both the colonel’s house and the farm severed and surrounded by a mobile phone dead zone, summoning medical help if they needed it wouldn’t be easy.
The sound of boots and hooves scuffling on the stones of the track drew Ryan’s attention. A muffled curse followed almost immediately. It sounded like the merychippus was proving to be a handful. As far as Ryan could tell, two men were struggling to subdue the creature. His suspicion was confirmed as soon as they came into view on the track. They’d got a head-collar on the horse, and with one man leading it and the other delivering a series of whacks on its striped rump, they were contriving to make awkward progress down the track. The animal stood about a metre and a half tall at the shoulder – even his daughter’s attempts to educate Ryan on the subject of ponies weren’t sufficient to enable him to convert that into hands – and had a short, spiky mane. Ryan had to admit that it didn’t look very different in shape to Vicky’s sturdy fell pony but, according to Stephen, the feet were the real give away. Instead of one hoof it had three toes and right then it was using them all to good advantage and digging them into the dirt track.
While the men were fully occupied, Ryan gave a quick nod to Stephen and they made their move. The horse chose exactly the same moment to make its own bid for freedom, sinking down on its haunches and striking out with its front feet, causing the man holding its head to jump sideways, swearing fluently in a broad Mancunian accent. The horse promptly turned and bolted, dragging the rope attached to its halter out of its captor’s hands. Its helter-skelter flight left confusion in its wake. One of the men saw Ryan’s approach and reacted with impressive speed, clearing a handgun from a shoulder-holster in a move that reeked of long practice and firing without hesitation. At the same time, Ryan ducked sideways, reflexes and instinct taking over from conscious thought as he dragged the Makarov from his jacket pocket and thumbed off the safety. The bullet went wide, but the sharp crack of displaced air close to his ear told him it had been a close call.
The second man was on the ground, grappling with Stephen. Ryan trusted his lover to look after himself in a fight and for the moment his highest priority was the man with the gun.
“Armed police!” The colonel’s voice was loud and authoritative, but in answer the gunman promptly turned and fired in his direction.
Ryan swung his own pistol up, steadying the unfamiliar weapon with both hands and squeezed the trigger. The Makarov bucked strongly but the shot was good, taking the gunman in the shoulder and sending his answering fire wide. Ryan closed the gap rapidly, slamming the man forwards and clubbing his already-injured shoulder with the butt of the pistol. That drew a howl of pain and Ryan heard the clatter of the other gun on the stony track.
Then, with the pistol shots still ringing in his ears, Ryan heard the intimidating sound of a pump action shotgun being loaded. The distinctive metallic double-click gave away the third gunman’s position. It looked like he’d been following the other two and the horse down the track. Ryan threw himself to the ground and rolled. The blast went over his head but his own return of fire went equally wide.
The sudden crack of knuckles against bone, followed by a pained grunt told him that someone had just got the upper hand in the fight on the track. He hoped it was Stephen, but in the darkness it was hard to tell. A moment later, a slim figure that he recognised as his lover slammed a fist hard into the man on the ground and sprinted into the cover of the trees.
Ryan’s roll had brought him up against the side of the van. He was on his knees in an instant, squeezing off two shots from the semi-automatic, keeping up the mental tally of spent ammunition. A fire-fight in the dark wasn’t exactly his idea of fun, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“Armed police!” yelled the colonel again, signalling his position to Ryan as well as to the gunman. “Lay down your weapons!”
The shotgun fired a second time, this time in Colonel Morton’s direction. Ryan was under no illusion that the gunman would now have to reload. A shotgun taking more than two shells was illegal in the UK, but anyone working in a group with someone carrying a Makarov wouldn’t exactly be concerned about adhering to the gun laws. There were too many possible variants of what the man might be carrying to allow Ryan to calculate the number of shots available, so he was going to have to work on a worst case scenario, which meant that at least another eight shots was a very real possibility. Ryan already had fewer bullets than that available before he’d need to change clips so he would have to make every one count.
With the colonel doing a good job of running interference for him, Ryan worked his way to the back of the van and around the other side, between it and the trees. The shotgun lacked the penetrative power of a rifle so the van itself would provide all the cover he needed, but Ryan needed to close this encounter down fast. They were facing three assailants. One was injured but possibly in possession of a weapon again and Ryan was unsure of his current position. The one Stephen had been contending with lay unmoving on the track, and the third – the man with the shotgun – had ducked behind a tree.
It was starting to look unhealthily like a stand-off.
Ryan bent down and picked up a large rock from the edge of the track. An underarm throw took it into the trees on the other side. A shotgun blast followed immediately, then a second later he heard a dull thump of something hard impacting on a human skull. A grin formed on Ryan’s face. It sounded very much like Colonel Morton had just put the rounded handle of his blackthorn walking stick to good use.
In the silence that followed, Ryan heard the harsh breathing of the man he’d shot in the shoulder. With three of his companions out of action the odds were now stacked against him.
“Put your gun down and lie on the ground!” It was the colonel’s voice again, calm and in control, pressing home his advantage in the confusion of the situation. “Now!”
Outnumbered and injured, the gunman sank to his knees, hands spread and empty. It looked like he hadn’t actually managed to retrieve his weapon. Ryan moved out from behind the van and delivered a hard kick between the shoulder blades that knocked the man down onto his face and drew a whine of pain from him. Stephen stepped out of the trees, blood streaking his face from a cut on one cheekbone, but otherwise he appeared uninjured.
Ryan held out a handful of cable ties. “Let’s get these buggers immobilised.” He allowed himself a small smile and called out, “Thanks, Colonel. That sounded very convincing.”
The old man chuckled. “Jeannie’s addicted to The Bill. Knew all that telly watching of hers would come in handy for something.”
* * * * *
“Sit down, Stephen!”
Ryan was amused to note that Vicky was doing a very good job of emulating one of her mother’s more disapproving expressions as she stared up at Stephen and gestured crossly to one of the kitchen chairs.
Stephen obligingly sat down and allowed one of Vicky’s friends to clean the cut on his bruised cheekbone with antiseptic. Becky’s mum was a doctor and Stephen had told him about the professional job the young girl had done cleaning and bandaging Blade’s leg.
It was 4.30am and they’d been back at Tarnthwaite for no more than an hour. The kitchen was crowded with excited children and adults, making tea accompanied by endless rounds of bacon sandwiches while they awaited a call from either the hospital or the police.
Ryan had been correct in his assessment of the situation. This time, the thieves had gone in hard and fast. The farm dogs had simply been ignored and the fact that they were chained up in their kennels had almost certainly saved their lives, although one had apparently got a little too close for comfort and had been knocked out by a vicious kick. Jim Cordingley had been overpowered immediately and, along with his wife and daughter, had been left in the house, bound hand and foot. Like his dog, Jim had taken a nasty blow to the head and had been barely conscious when John Richards and Sam Baxter had reached the farm.
By the time the tree had been dragged clear of the track, the ambulances had arrived to take the Cordingleys and their attackers to hospital, under the watchful eyes of a grim-faced Calum Richards.
Ryan gratefully accepted a cup of tea liberally laced with whisky. The adrenaline had ebbed from his system, but he had surprised himself by still feeling relatively alert. He had a strong feeling he wasn’t that far off being fit enough for a return to active duties after all, if the aftermath of the night’s activities was anything to go by.
The sound of a car pulling up in the yard drew Ryan’s attention. John Richards glanced out of the window and confirmed that it was his brother.
“Jim’ll be fine,” the Detective Inspector announced as soon as he stepped into the kitchen. “Tina and Kim are fine as well. Kim was more worried about Merry and Jasper than anything else.” In answer to a babble of questions from the children, he waved them into silence and said, “Merry’s tucked up for the night with the police horses and the vet says the dog’s probably got a bit of a headache, but that’s all. Now would some kind person pour me a cup of tea while I have a quick chat with Tom?” He caught Ryan’s eyes and nodded towards the yard.
Ryan followed the policeman outside while Becky went back to ministering to Stephen’s cut. In answer to Ryan’s raised eyebrows, Calum nodded. “It’s the truth, they’re all fine, or as fine as anyone can be when they’ve been held at gun point by the dregs of Moss Side.”
“They meant business,” Ryan commented. “That was a lot of weaponry to nick a fancy chicken and a kid’s pony. They knew how to use it as well.”
“They’ve all got form,” Calum confirmed. “We’ve got a positive ID on the lot of them. The one you put a hole in is ex-forces, dishonourably discharged for putting three blokes in hospital after a pub fight. One of them ended up with brain damage. The others have got a string of convictions as long as your arm as well. I didn’t want to say anything in front of the kids, but Jim and his family got off lightly.”
“So who sent them?”
The policeman fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette and took a long pull of smoke before answering, “They’re not saying. Their story is that they thought they’d make a mint on the animal collecting market, selling something a bit different. My guess is they’ll stick to that story. They’re going down on charges of assault, possession of firearms and theft, so it’ll be a while before any of them are back on the job market, but I’m guessing you’d prefer to know who put them up to this, wouldn’t you?”
Ryan hesitated for a moment and then said quietly, “Does the name Ed Mason mean anything to you?”
Calum Richards shook his head. “How did you find that out or shouldn’t I ask?”
“You don’t want to know,” Ryan told him. He’d been alone with the man he’d shot for no more than two minutes, but it had been long enough. It hadn’t taken much pressure on the man’s injured shoulder to elicit the information Ryan had wanted.
Calum took another drag on his cigarette and didn’t press the point. “I’ll need statements tomorrow, but that’ll wait, and I won’t be pressing for details.” He smiled ruefully at Ryan. “And I imagine you thought you were coming up here for rest and recuperation.”
“I certainly wasn’t expecting to be pulling this sort of all-nighter.” Ryan laughed. “Come on, if you’re lucky they’ll have made you a bacon butty.”
Ryan hoped he might actually get to curl up in bed with his boyfriend sometime before dawn. After the night they’d had, he strongly suspected that he and Stephen would now be heading back to the ARC rather more quickly than they’d originally intended. He needed to talk to Lester and it looked very much like they had some digging to do.
Ed Mason, whoever he was, appeared to be doing a lot more than just collecting unusual animals. He was targeting animals trapped out of their own time and Ryan wanted to know how he knew where to find them.
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no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 09:05 pm (UTC)I've always loved the idea of communities knowing about and dealing with thr weirdness the anomalies produce in their own way. First the Mitchells in the Forest of Dean, and now this lot in Cumbria! :)
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Date: 2011-01-20 09:13 pm (UTC)