Rating: FRM

Summary: Tom Quinn’s haunted by his past, but some of his ghosts won’t stay dead.

Disclaimer: I don’t know who "Spooks" belongs to. The BBC? Whoever you are, Peter, Tom, and the others belong to you. I’m just messin’ around. Don’t sue me. I’m already broke!

Feedback: Welcome and cherished at kapantaleo@aol.com

Thanks: To the lovely Antonia, for helping me with Peter’s accent, (Hey, it ain’t easy for a Connecticut Yankee!) and for being the bestest of betas, ever! Also, thanks to Michamon, who found the typos I made while I was fixing the typos I made.

People who saw him stalking through Thames House took one look at him and melted out of his path. Perhaps it was the scowl on his face. Perhaps that he was even paler than usual. He was uncharacteristically disheveled; clothes rumpled and two days’-worth of stubble on his face. Regardless, even the most cheery of his colleagues thought it prudent not to get in his way.

He walked into Harry Pearce’s office without knocking. Harry was glaring at his computer, mumbling to himself as he pecked at the keyboard: "Access code, password…" The screen went blank for a moment. Then a graphic of an ancient, barred cell door slamming appeared and repeated itself again and again.

Harry hadn’t turned, or acknowledged Tom’s intrusion, but now he spoke to him without looking away from the taunting screen in front of him.

"Four fucking days, and not a bit of progress on the bloody thing. All the assets we employ, all the hackers that we hire out of university, and none of them can crack this bloody program."

"Danny, Zoe and I might have some information for you there, Harry."

The look Harry shot at him would have terrified a lesser man. Or one a little less pissed off. "If this is one of Danny’s sodding pranks…. He’ll be sacked this time for sure." He took a good look at Tom’s livid face. "Are you all right? You look terrible."

"Think about it, Harry. Monte Cristo. Someone who feels they were unjustly imprisoned. You’ve got to have some idea…"

"Could be any one of a hundred, Tom. You know that…"

"Someone who feels betrayed, like Edmond Dantes."

Harry gave him a long look. "I think you’d better sit down and tell me what’s on your mind."

Tom remained standing. "Peter Salter."

The shocked look was barely a flicker. Oh, Harry was a pro. No doubt about it.

"Peter Salter is dead, Tom. He killed himself while in your custody. You saw the whole sorry mess."

"Did I?"

Harry got up and closed the door to his office, then returned to sit facing Tom Quinn. He was again calm and composed.

"Tom. Peter Salter is dead."

"You sold him out to MI-6."

"He was on a long-term deep cover…"

"I know about faking his suicide, Harry."

Harry’s eyes narrowed. "I don’t know what you’re on about, Tom."

"Stop fucking with me!"

Harry shot to his feet, banging his hand on his desk. "I think you’re forgetting to whom you’re speaking!"

"You and Siviter faked his suicide. Then Jools took him to be a private assassin for Six."

"Tom…"

"How *could * you, Harry? Peter was one of us. A hero. A legend. A friend!"

"Peter was a traitor, and better off dead to the world than exposed."

"They abandoned him, Harry. They took him in to hit a target and then left him behind with enemies closing in."

"That’s impossible…"

"He was captured. Do you know what the Iraqi’s do to prisoners of war who assassinate a powerful Mullah?"

"They would never leave…"

"They did. And he was captured. They tortured him."

"Tom. He’s dead. Siviter told me he was killed in the line of…"

"They cut off his fucking fingers, Harry!"

"An ugly way to go…I’m sorry, Tom. I know you were friends."

"He’s alive."

Harry froze. "What’s that?"

"Peter Salter is alive. I talked to him a couple of hours ago. He’s our Dantes’. You know he’s a sodding computer genius. He has the key to Monte Cristo. He’s got us all by the balls."

Tom’s voice was even as he leaned across the desk to glare at Harry. "And he’s really pissed-off."

The tension in the room was thick enough to be cut with a knife. Everyone was on edge, and no one was happy with the company they were keeping. Tom, Harry, and Zoe sat on one side of the table. Danny was home from hospital with a mild concussion. Jools Siviter and his right-hand henchman, Niles Waldron sat on the other. The significance of the seating was lost on no one. In the center of the table sat the mobile phone that Peter Salter had given to Tom, connected to two-way speakers and a bank of sophisticated tracking equipment.

Tom was staring at Niles Waldron. If he despised Siviter, then he hated Waldron. Siviter was aloof, condescending, devious, and a totally political animal. Waldron was just an animal. He carried out delicate bits of MI-6’s dirty work on Siviter’s orders. He was cold and calculating, whether he was assassinating a target, getting pictures of foreign dignitaries in compromising positions, or carrying out some personal agenda. He was completely ruthless.

Right now he looked angry. Tom was fairly sure that, if someone had been running an operation of Siviter’s in Iraq, then Waldron was at the center of it.

He had no trouble believing that he left Peter Salter behind to die. Right now, he looked annoyed to learn that he had failed, and Salter had escaped.

Siviter and Harry had been arguing for the better part of an hour. MI-6 wanted Salter caught, the key to the virus extorted or beaten out of him, and then to have him die a painful and messy death.

Harry and Tom were certain that they could bring Salter in and get him to cooperate. They needed to have the virus purged from their systems as soon as possible, and if that took negotiating with Salter, then so be it. The MI-5 contingent maintained that Salter was owed a chance to get out, if only because of the service that he had so long performed for his country. He had been left under, too deep for too long, and had gone astray. Then he had been used and betrayed.

They owed him for that. The heated debate over jurisdiction and strategy was cut short when the phone rang.

Tom let it ring twice, exchanged a look with Zoe to ensure the tracking equipment was up and running, then picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Hello Tom."

"Peter"

"Who’s with you?"

"With me?"

"Oh, come on, Tom. We both know the drill. Don’t be shy, you lot. Chime in."

"Peter, this is Harry Pearce."

"Harry. I’m sure you’re surprised to hear from me. Probably not as surprised as dear old Jools, though."

"Quite," answered Siviter. "I was astounded when dear old terrier Tom here called to say that you had escaped from those Iraqi insurgents. Terrible cock up, that was. A remarkable feat, Salter. Most exceptional."

"Yes, I’m sure the news that I didn’t just die as planned was quite a shock, you dickless prat. Not that your bully-boy didn’t do everything in his power to assure that I became a war statistic."

Waldron slammed his hand on the table and leaned in to snarl into the phone. "Salter, you bastard! When I catch you you’re going to wish those towel-headed maniacs had done for you!"

"Waldron….Oh, yes, I’ve been expecting you. Siviter, you’d better be sure to keep your mad dog on a tight leash. If anything should happen to me, the security of the realm is going to be set back into the dark ages."

"Peter, this is Harry again. Let’s all just calm down and look at this like reasonable men. Tom has told me what happened, and I can certainly understand how you feel."

"Do you have full movement in your arm, Harry? Can you hold a teacup steady in your hand? Has anyone put out burning cigarettes on your balls lately? Believe me, you’ve got no *fucking * idea of how I feel!"

"Peter, listen…"

"No! *You * listen! And listen well, because I’m not going to repeat this and give you a chance to trace this call! I’ve told Tom what I want. You have four hours to get the money, Andrea, and the child. I’ll call you then with further instructions."

"Peter…"

"Four hours, and don’t fuck with me." The computer screens flickered, and the locked cell door image was joined by a clock counting down. 16 hours.

"I get what I want, I give you the key to kill the virus. Fuck with me, and Edmond Dantes has his revenge in 16 hours."

The line went dead.

Six hours later Tom Quinn was stamping his feet on a dingy Liverpool dock, shivering in the damp and cursing the clinging fog. Peter had called with instructions meet him here with Andrea and their child. The money was to be wired to Peter’s Swiss bank account. Peter would give them the disc that contained the encrypted counter-virus. He would give them the access code to the disc when the private jet carried them out of British airspace.

It was bloody insane. Someone was going to end up dead. As a matter of fact, Siviter and Waldron were quite open about wanting someone dead. They talked about it endlessly, dwelling fulsomely on the various gory ways they’d like to see that accomplished. He and Harry were less than happy to have Six involved at all, but the director had given them no option, as the MI-6 computers were in danger as well.

Bloody strange bedfellows.

A car pulled up. Niles Waldron got out. After scanning the shadows, he opened the door for Jools Siviter, who rose smoothly to his feet and strolled over to where Harry was leaning against a crate, smoking a cigarette.

"Harry."

"Jools."

"A merry chase that bastard has led us."

"Bah! Only six changes in location? You’re getting soft. Were you able to find her?"

Siviter gazed out over the water. "Everything is on game plan."

Harry gave him a suspicious look. "Just what…"

The mobile phone in Tom’s pocket buzzed.

"Quinn."

"Hello, Tom. Got the girl?"

"Do you have the disc?"

"Turn around."

Tom turned, and saw Peter Salter coming up a ladder and stepping onto the dock behind them. A shiny CD was clutched in one hand. Waldron’s gun cleared its holster in a heartbeat to take aim on Salter. Tom and Harry’s were an instant behind. Harry’s gun went on Peter as well. Tom’s covered Waldron.

Peter seemed unimpressed. He held the disc out at arm’s length over the water.

"No, no, no, old thing," he purred sweetly at Waldron. "Pop me and the anti-virus goes for a swim. It doesn’t take well to water."

"Bloody well worth it," Waldron snarled.

Harry turned his gun on Waldron. "Stand down, Niles."

"He’s a fucking traitor!"

"*I said bloody stand down!* He’s got a knife to our throat. Now, put it away."

"Do it, Waldron!" Tom shouted.

Waldron lowered his weapon.

"Well. That was bracing," murmured Siviter.

"Ponce," spat Tom, lowering his gun also. Then he turned back to Salter, who was still holding the disc over the water. It was in his maimed left hand. That didn’t inspire confidence in Tom.

"Peter…"

"Where is she, Tom?"

"Listen to me…"

"No! You listen to *me *! Where’s Andrea and the baby?" He waived the disc over the water. Harry’s eyes were glued to that CD.

"Calm down, old chap," said Siviter. "She’s here."

"Where?"

"First, let’s discuss…"

"Shut it! There’s nothing to discuss. You get the disc when I get my family. You get the password when our plane is in the air. That’s the deal."

"I always knew you were a sodding traitor!" snarled Waldron. "Holding the whole bloody country for ransom."

"Not the country. Only the people who betrayed me and left me to die."

"Peter, please." Tom said quietly.

"I’m sorry, Tom. I want to see them now."

"Peter..."

"*Now!*"

"Niles," Siviter said, making a gesture at the car.

Never taking his eyes from Salter, Waldron backed up to the car and opened the door to the back seat. A woman in a dark coat, hat, and with a blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms got out.

The look of longing that came over Peter’s face was almost painful to watch. Then a smile that quickly lightened his face and crinkled the corners of his eyes.

"Andrea!" he cried, taking a few steps towards her.

He stopped as he realized that she was not moving towards him.

"Andrea?" He froze. "Take off the hat. Let me see you." The woman didn’t respond, seeming to struggle with the bundle in her arms. "Lose it! Now!"

She raised her head, and Tom caught just a flash of a pale face. Peter saw it too, and it was enough for him to know that he’d been had.

"Fuckin’ hell! It’s a trap!" he shouted, backing away. "You played me! You bastards! You bloody bastards!"

Waldron pulled his gun and shot Salter all in one motion.

Time and motion seemed to slow for Tom as he saw Peter fall, blown off his feet by the force of the bullet striking him. Tom’s own voice sounded strange to himself as he screamed his denial. He brought up his own gun, pointing it at Waldron, and found Waldron turning his handgun on him.

Mexican standoff.

Peter Salter was dragging himself towards the edge of the pier. Siviter was on the ground with his arms over his head. Harry seemed unsure whether to shoot Salter or Waldron.

"Drop it!" Tom shouted.

"*Fuck * you!"

"Drop it, or I swear I’ll blow your sodding head off!"

Waldron smiled an odd smile. "You don’t have the balls." He started to squeeze the trigger. Then he staggered forward as Harry’s gun sounded and a red hole appeared in his chest.

"I do." whispered Harry.

There was a *splash * as Salter rolled himself off the edge of the pier.

"Peter!" Tom shouted, holstering his gun and running to the edge.

"Get him!" Harry roared, right behind him.

Tom tore off his coat and went over the edge.

The water was shockingly cold, like ice and fire stabbing one at the same time. He surfaced, gasping.

"To your left!" Harry shouted. Tom dove again, swimming blind in the inky blackness. He came up again, slinging water from his eyes.

"Can you see him?"

"You’re too far over! He went in here!" Harry pointed closer to the pier, more to Tom’s right. He dove again. He wasn’t sure if it was instinct or fate that brought his hand into contact with Peter Salter’s’ coat, but he clutched it and kicked for the surface. Peter was a sodden, motionless mass as he got his shoulder under him and hauled him up the ladder. Harry was there to help pull him over the edge and lay him out on the dock.

"He’s not breathing." Harry gasped. He snapped open his mobile and shouted for Thames House to get an ambulance to the dockside. Operatives from Five and Six were suddenly swarming around them. Hand-held lights illuminated them in harsh, white light as Tom tore open Peter’s blood-soaked coat and shirt. He pinched his friends’ nose and blew into his mouth, and after a few breaths was rewarded as Peter sucked in air, choked, and started spewing harbor water.

Harry was on his knees next to them, systematically searching through the fallen man’s pockets. He looked at Tom. "Nothing."

Tom leaned over Peter, supporting his head and shoulders against his knee, trying to make it easier for him to breathe. "Easy, Peter. Just take it easy. Can you hear me?"

Salter was choking, struggling for breath. He lay limp and still, cradled against Tom.

"Peter? Can you hear me? Do you understand?" Still choking, Peter nodded.

"Listen, then. I know you, Peter, and I know that you’d never go into anything like this without a backup plan. I *know * that you really wouldn’t let our computers crash and endanger thousands of people. Tell me how to purge this virus. It’s not too late!"

"Ah…Tom…" Peter coughed and shivered in Tom’s arms, his eyelids fluttering. Tom began to worry about shock as he pressed his palm against the wound that was high up on Peter’s chest, just under his collarbone.

"Where’s that sodding ambulance!" Harry bellowed.

"Come on, Peter! Hang in there. Tell me. I swear to you, I’ll do everything I can to help you, but you’ve got to tell me."

"S-such…bloody c-cock up."

"You can fix it Peter! Tell me!"

"M-my family…Andrea…Just…wanted…Normal life."

Harry suddenly toppled out of the way, and Tom felt a foot connect with his chest, knocking him backwards. Jools Siviter stood over Peter, pistol in hand. He pointed it at the wounded man. The operatives from Six and Five leapt apart, hands going to weapons and looking to their leaders for guidance.

"You must have a master of that disc somewhere. You will tell me where, now."

Peter had curled on his side when the support Tom was providing so suddenly disappeared. He looked up at the barrel of the pistol, still choking on water. He seemed undisturbed by the gun. "Fuck you," he managed to gasp out.

Siviter kicked the wounded man over onto his back then brought his foot down on his shoulder. Salter cried out in pain.

"Tell me..." He applied more pressure as Salter writhed on the ground.

"Where is it?" He ground his foot back and forth. Peter was screaming, legs thrashing as he tried to get away from the source of the excruciating pain.

"Jools, for God’s sake!" Harry shouted, scrambling to his feet.

"Leave off!" Tom yelled.

Siviter dropped to one knee and pressed his pistol to Salter’s forehead.

"Where’s the bloody disc?"

Salter was trying to curl into a fetal position, tears, mucus, and blood running down his face. Siviter grabbed him by his chin and jerked his head around, giving it a shake for good measure.

"Where?!"

Peter’s chest was heaving. His eyes sagged closed. He looked utterly defeated.

But looks can be deceiving.

"Wh---where’s…Andrea? My…family?"

Sivitar shoved the gun in Peter’s mouth. He never got a chance to pull the trigger, as Tom grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him, and caught him with a crushing uppercut to the jaw. Siviter was knocked upwards and back, and he toppled to the ground.

Peter actually managed to grin. "Thanks for that, Tom." Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he lost consciousness.