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.

There was a purity about her that he admired. It might have been youth, or conviction, or innocence of how the world really operated, but something about her touched him in a way that he thought he’d forgotten. He found a joy with her, just with her company. Their passion carried through to the bedroom, where she was an uninhibited and enthusiastic partner. She was on top of him, riding him hard, her fingers scratching his chest and her head thrown back. His body seemed to be slow to respond, his limbs leaden and a deep lassitude dulling his thought. The light behind her seemed to grow brighter and brighter, filling his vision, burning into his mind. Shudders started to wrack her, and she cried out his name:

"Peter! Oh, God, Peter!"

"Peter?"

"Peter? Can you hear me?"

He opened his eyes. The light was still there, the intensity burning into his head like flame. He tried to raise one hand to block the light, and the handcuff around his wrist clanked against the metallic bedframe. The other arm was swathed in bandages and immobilized in a sling.

Tom Quinn’s face appeared above him, swimming alarmingly. "Peter? You need to wake up."

Peter tried to bring his surroundings into focus, but not much was visible beyond the bed he was cuffed to. There were patches taped to his chest, with wires running to monitors that beeped with reassuring regularity. An IV dripped a clear fluid steadily into a tube that ran to his arm.

"Peter?"

It took a few tries for his voice to work. "Tom," he managed to croak. "Where?"

"You’re in the infirmary at Thames House." That made sense, really. They couldn’t have risked admitting him to a regular hospital. "Our doctors have patched you up a bit. They haven’t been able to remove the bullet yet. We…ah…needed you with your faculties about you."

Monte Cristo. Oh, shit. "How long?"

"Since you were wounded?" A tired nod. "A couple of hours."

Think, dammit! He needed to think…His mind was moving slowly. Everything had an odd, surreal quality.

He looked at the IV going into his arm. "Morphine?"

"Something like that."

"It’s good shit."

That actually produced a ghost of a smile on the pale features of Tom Quinn. "Glad you appreciate it."

"Peter, we’re running out of time. You’ve got to give me the key to Monte Cristo. We’ve got to stop it."

It sounded so reasonable when he said it. So simple. God, he really was high. He had to concentrate. He was involved in a deadly game. One he couldn’t afford to lose. He licked dry lips.

"Could I have some water, please?" There was a rustling, then a hand appeared and gave a glass to Tom. He held it and angled the straw for Peter to drink.

So, they weren’t alone. Others were there, in the shadows, beyond his sight.

He sipped the water slowly, feeling it quench his thirst, playing for time, trying to center himself. He’d been trained for this, interrogation under the influence of narcotics. He needed every bit of that training now.

"Better?" Tom asked. He nodded, and the glass disappeared.

"Now, Monte Cristo. How do I stop it?"

"Where’s Andrea?"

"Peter…"

"Nothing’s changed, Tom. Deal’s still the same. Andrea, the child, the plane, the money. Then I give you the keys to Monte Cristo, not before." He allowed his head to sink back onto the cushion, the effort to force himself back draining him.

"Peter, we can’t…"

"Yes, you bloody well can. We’ve already had this discussion."

"You don’t…"

Harry Pearce’s voice cut in abruptly. "I’m sorry, Peter. She’s dead."

The silence was a sudden, oppressive thing.

"What?"

"The girl is dead."

"That can’t be. You’re lying. "

"She continued her activities with that anarchist group after she thought you’d been killed."

"No…"

"They were planning a number of strikes to create…"

"You’re lying!" Peter shouted, lunging, trying to reach him, get out of the bed, anything to move, to stop what he was hearing. "You’re fuckin’ with me! I warned you…"

"There was a raid. The target was the German. He had a gun."

"Peter, you must stay still!" Tom Quinn struggled to force Salter back onto the bed. Blood began soaking through the bandages on his shoulder. Harry continued in the same even, sad tone.

"Shots were exchanged. She ran into the crossfire. I think she was trying..."

"…no…" Peter whispered, no longer struggling. "Andrea…Oh, Christ."

Peter turned stricken, horror-filled eyes on Tom, his fist knotted in the front of his friends’ shirt. "It’s a lie, isn’t it, Tom?"

"I’m sorry, Peter."

Peter released his grip on Tom’s shirt and pushed at him, turning his face away. "Let go of me."

Tom still had one hand on Peter’s good shoulder. "Peter…"

"Get your fuckin’ hands off me!" Salter yelled. He tried to bring his hand up to cover his eyes, and again the handcuffs stopped him. Bound as he was, he couldn’t even cover his face to hide the tears.

"You bastards! You fuckin’ bastards! That’s why you played that game on the dock."

"That was Six. I’m afraid I didn’t know about their little farce, or about the girl."

"And that’s supposed to excuse it? You sodding bastards killed her! She was an innocent…"

"She was an anarchist."

"She was little more than a child!" He paused, looking away into the shadows, seeing a laughing young woman with bright eyes and dark hair. "She was all I ever wanted."

"Peter, I need the key to this virus, and I need it now. You *will * give it to me."

"Fuck you, Harry."

"You’re not my type. You will give me the key to Monte Cristo, and I will see to it that you’re charged with espionage, and not treason. You’ll go to prison instead of in front of a firing squad."

"That’s hardly a motivation, really."

"How about this, then?" Harry held up a photo in front of Peter’s face. It was of a toddler in the arms of a young woman Peter didn’t recognize. The child was beautiful, with curly, sandy-brown hair and green eyes.

His eyes.

"What…"

"Your son. The girl gave birth two months before she was killed in the raid. The child was there. I believe she ran into the crossfire trying to protect him."

Peter’s hand shook as he reached out to grasp the photo.

"M-my…My son?"

"Your son. He’s been placed in foster care with a young family in Birmingham. They plan to adopt him." Harry leaned in, his eyes boring relentlessly into Salter. "What kind of a life will he lead, if your little virus goes off? If our files are destroyed? What if some terrorist sets off a biological agent because we didn’t have the information in hand to stop him? What if his Mum takes him on a train and a bomb goes off because we lost the records on known members of a terrorist cell? If you don’t feel the call to protect your country any longer, if the people no longer mean anything to you, does the life of your own son?"

Tom placed his hand on Peter’s shoulder. "Peter. What do you think Andrea would tell you to do?"

Peter’s mind was reeling. A son. His…theirs… She was dead…Oh, God.

"I want to see him."

"Stop the virus."

"I…"

"Stop the virus. Purge it from our systems. Then we’ll let you see the child."

"I don’t bloody trust you, Harry. Fancy that…"

"You’re not in a position…"

"Look. There’s a disk hidden in your friends’ flat." He looked at Tom. "Where you and I had our first chat. It’s in the hall closet, top shelf, on the left, up against the wall. That program contains the anti-virus software you need to purge your systems. I get my son, and we get a flight out of the country. Then you get the password."

"There’s not enough time. We only have four hours left…"

"You’d best hurry then."

"Peter, you’re in no condition to…"

"Bullshit, Tom. I’ve been shot before, you know, and worse than this. Patch me up and take me to my son, or bring him to me, or Monte Cristo will open the doors of the Bastille."

************************************************************************************************

Her name was Leigh, and she and her husband, David, had been given foster care of Martin almost a year ago. He was a merry, bright child, and they both were looking forward to the day when the adoption would go through and he would be their son in the eyes of the law as clearly as he was already their son in their hearts.

They were playing in the front yard when she saw the two strangers looking over the hedge. Martin had just started to walk, and the most wondrous thing in the universe was to watch him toddle from David’s arms into hers. The two men standing on the other side of the hedge were watching the procedure with rapt attention. One of them looked oddly familiar. She scooped up the toddler and moved to the hedge.

"Hello. Can I help you?"

One of the men was rather battered-looking. His arm was in a sling, and a coat draped over his shoulders. He looked like someone who had been ill, or was ill. He was staring at Martin in a way that made her clutch him closer to her. The second man was tall and pale, but he had a pleasant smile.

"Oh, no, thank you. We live down the block. Saw you and this young chap here. How old is he?"

"16 months."

"He’s a fine boy," the other man said softly. He reached across and gently stroked the baby’s cheek.

"Thank you."

His eyes never left the child’s face. "You’re very lucky."

"Yes, we are."

"I imagine you love him very much."

What a strange thing to say? "Of course we do."

The man smiled and odd, sad smile. "Then, he’s very lucky too." He swayed on his feet, and the first man steadied him.

"Are you all right?" she asked, concerned, and strangely disturbed at the same time.

"Oh, yeah. Had a bit of a bash up with the car. Just starting to get out again."

"And you’ve been on your feet for far too long already." The first man admonished him. "Time for us to get back."

"Yes, of course," the bandaged man replied absently, he had gone from staring at the child’s face to staring at the tiny hand that was clutching his finger. He leaned in and gently kissed the baby’s hand, then smiled at the child.

"You take care."

"*You * take care now." Leigh said as the two men turned away. The taller, younger man now steadying the older one.

She was halfway to the door when the resemblance between the baby and the bandaged man struck her. She turned quickly. The street behind her was empty.

Harry Pearce was waiting in the car when Tom appeared around the corner, half leading, half-carrying Peter Salter. He pulled up and Tom helped the injured man into the back, then sat next to them. Harry turned the car back towards London.

"You knew, didn’t you?"

"What’s that, Peter?"

"That I could never give that child the life he’ll have with those people."

"Yes."

"I really do hate you, Harry. You’re a sanctimonious prig. Do you know that?"

"It’s been suggested before"

Peter Salter stared out the window. There really were no choices left to him, and no reason for him to continue to fight.

"The code is Mercedes’, 321, abort. Run the anti-virus disk, enter the code. It will shut down Monte Cristo and restore your systems."

"Thank you, Peter." Tom was relaying the information into his mobile.

"I must say, I’m surprised." Harry said.

"Oh?"

"I thought you’d still be negotiating…trying for your freedom, exemption from prosecution."

Salter went back to staring out the window. It would be dark soon. The sunset was lovely. He never used to notice things like that. Andrea had taught him… "Doesn’t matter. I’ll never see the inside of a courtroom. You know that. There’ll be an accident…Or I’ll die suddenly in my sleep, or some bastard will stick a shank into me. Might be best that way, after all." The car pulled off the main road and went down a dark, tree-lined, narrow track, then stopped.

"Or, something more direct."

Tom Quinn got out and came to open the door for Peter, helping him out.

"Walk with me, Peter."

Peter looked around, then walked down a narrow trail. Tom followed him. Harry stayed behind with the car.

"That’s far enough."

He turned slowly. "It’s you then, is it, Tom? You’re going to pop me?"

"You’re a dangerous man, Peter. Too dangerous. You’ve proven that."

"Yeah, well. I suppose I have."

"You’ve shown us vulnerabilities in our systems and processes. There would always be a danger to us as long as you’re alive."

"Nah. C’mon, Tom. You and I both know that there’s already a hundred programmers at work to ensure that no one ever has this kind of access again. You lot should be giving me a sodding medal."

Tom pulled his automatic from under his coat. "No. Not a medal."

To his credit, Peter stood steady, facing his friend.

"Shit."

"Turn around."

"No."

"Peter, turn the fuck around!"

"So you can say I was trying to run?" He gestured at his bandaged shoulder. "Will you tell them I tried to overpower you?"

"No." Tom said. "Nothing like that."

He pulled the trigger.

The gun went off, and the bullet whizzed past Peter’s ear. He shut his eyes and flinched, but otherwise remained frozen in place.

It took a few moments to find his voice again. "Tom? What the fuck?"

Tom Quinn pulled an envelope from inside his jacket, and threw it on the ground. "There’s two passports in there with your face on them. One’s an American. One’s French. You can pass as either. There’s a couple of hundred Euros, too. Disappear, Peter. Never try to contact me, or anyone in Five again. Change your name. Be out of the country by this time tomorrow, and never come back. If I ever see you again, or if I ever find out that you’re behind some plot against this country, I will put a bullet in your head. I’ll do it myself, and I’ll do it without the slightest bit of hesitation." He looked at his friend for a long moment. "This is your payoff, Peter. For all your years of service. For your betrayal by Siviter and Six. For Andrea, and what might have been. For our friendship, and all it’s meant to me. You’ve got your life."

"Don’t blow it."

He turned and walked away.

Harry was leaning against the car, smoking a cigarette when Tom came out of the woods. He didn’t stir as Tom came up next to him.

"Is it done, then?"

Tom’s eyes were cold and remote, and Harry wasn’t quite sure he liked what he saw there.

"Peter Salter is dead."

"You’re sure? You made sure of him?"

"I’m sure."

"Tom…"

"Shut up, Harry." He got into the car. Harry ground out his cigarette and got behind the wheel.

"It was the right thing to do, Tom. There wasn’t any other solution."

"Just shut the fuck up and drive."

The End

10/11/2005