Ben was unconscious.Nikolas drove him to London, and Andrea Gillian was waiting for them.She examined Ben—the only explanation Nikolas could give for his lack of consciousness was that he’d sustained a bang on the head.She could find nothing, but she stayed by the bedside, holding one of Ben’s hands.There was nothing maternal about Andrea Gillian.She was holding the hand like she might have once held a cadaver’s—professionally, thoughtfully.
She had Nikolas tell her the whole story.She was the only one of the ANGEL team who had her Nikolas Mikkelsen lie-radar permanently on.Consequently, he never bothered lying to her anymore, so he told her the truth.She narrowed her eyes and continued to study Ben’s limp fingers.Suddenly, she stood up and straightened her pencil skirt.“Give him time.”
Nikolas folded his arms.She was too small to bully as he did everyone else with his daunting physicality.“Time?”
“Hmm.There’s nothing physically wrong with him.It’s possible they’ve given him some kind of drug…to make him more compliant.”Nikolas thought back to the rolling, severed head, and wondered if his English had finally let him down.Compliant?Didn’t that mean…?She briskly snapped her medical bag closed and left.
Nikolas turned on the news and flicked between channels.No one knew anything.They’d not known where the feed of Ben Rider had been coming from or why it had cut out.He was reported as missing.
Nikolas had a thought, dialled a number, and had a brief conversation with a man at the other end.
Within an hour there was more breaking news.Ithadn’t beenex-Special-Forces-expert Ben Rider, so their unconfirmed sources were telling them.A man had called anonymously to say he’d been on a course with a professional look-alike.Thisman had gone missing.Suddenly, everyone was saying it hadn’t really looked like Ben Rider at all—blond hair, thinner.Definitely thinner.Ben hadn’t made any TV shows since they’d returned from Russia, and hewasthinner now than in his documentaries.And, of course, the most important thing as far as identification went—Ben Riderwasn’t gay.There was some considerable discussion and laughter about this, and Katie from Essex with the orange skin and cocaine nose got another five minutes of fame telling the world how special Benjamin was to her and denying coyly they were soon to make an announcement.
Nikolas phoned John back and thanked him.They had a brief chat about what had happened.John had gone for his final talk with the good doctor.He’d apparently passed the course with flying colours.Mark appeared to think so too.They were going to come out at the end of the term—just before the holidays so the kids had time to get over it before the start of the next.You know what kids are like.Nikolas didn’t but was gracious enough to listen to John’s rambling for a while until he got him back on track.Yes, they’d had their final interviews, packed and gone home.They’d thought it strange not to see Nigel or Justin before they left, but assumed they’d already departed.
Nikolas wondered, as he snapped his phone shut, whether plans to recruit from the course had been put on permanent hold once the maniacs had got hold of Ben Rider and the ultimate stunt had occurred to them.
* * *
Squeezy returned to London the following morning.He let himself into the house at six a.m.and immediately put the kettle on, leaning on the counter, his shoulders hunched.Nikolas was at the kitchen table.
“He still out of it?”
“Yes.”
“He okay?”
“No injuries.No.”
“Okay.Good.Fuck.”
“Yes.Fuck.”
They both knew.They both knew but weren’t saying it.They were soldiers—had been.Still were in many ways, and they knew the impact of stress on the brain.People assume soldiers are inured to horror, doing whatever they’re ordered to do without a qualm.Perhaps they are in some ways.You can get desensitised to the consequences of war.But Ben hadn’t been at war.He’d left that a long way behind him.And these men hadn’t been combatants—even terrorists who surrendered their right to be treated as fellow soldiers.They’d been actors.Actors.Christ, Nikolas sank his head into his hands—maybe one had been on the cancelled episode ofEast-fucking-Enders.Actors.And Ben had killed three of them.
Squeezy brought two mugs of tea to the table and sat down opposite Nikolas.
“I need to go see Tim.He’ll be worried.”
Nikolas nodded.“What did you do with the last one?”He didn’t say living, because that only emphasised that three were dead.It didn’t need spelling out.
Squeezy only gave him a look.Nikolas hadn’t been asking after the man’s welfare.He nodded, glad it had been done satisfactorily.
Nikolas put a hand out and laid a finger lightly on Squeezy’s wrist.“Thank you.”
It was clearly the very last thing Squeezy had been expecting to hear.Nikolas opened his mouth to ask what Squeezy knew about the older therapist, Grantley, when a voice from the doorway exclaimed, “Squeezy?Fuck me.You’re back?What are you doing here?”
They rose as one.Ben came into the kitchen, his face a mixture of surprise and wry confusion.“What the fuck?Squeezy?”
Squeezy hugged him then stood back.Nikolas folded his arms, his heart rate returning to normal for the first time since he’d crashed through the window at the mill.“How are you feeling?”He longed to fold Ben in an embrace so tight they would meld together, but he wouldn’t in front of Squeezy.
Ben winced and laughed a little.“I don’t know.I’m…I feel a bit weird.”He gave Squeezy a mock punch.“You bastard.”
Nikolas flicked his gaze over Ben, head to foot.There was something wrong.He touched Ben’s arm lightly.“Sit down.There’s tea.”
“Oh, ta.”Ben straddled a chair.Squeezy frowned briefly and caught Nikolas’s eye.Nikolas put a hand to Ben’s head.
“You weren’t—?”
