This story copyright © 2002, 2003, 2004 Mia McCroskey

Characters from The Avengers and Scarecrow and Mrs. King and other sources are the property of their respective owners.

[an error occurred while processing this directive] people have read this story since April 2004

Many thanks to Pat for correcting my French and offering some other useful advice!

The Stampedes

Steed Feels the Pressure Mounting

Emma Goes for a Ride

Chapter 8

The truck, which had been motoring steadily for about an hour, stopped with a clank of the canisters. Steed waited for it to move again as it had several times during the trip. But this time the engine was shut off. End of the road, Steed thought as he stifled a cough. He was sick, there was no doubt about it. He tried to recall what Tara had said about the virus. How long do I have before I go mad? A few days? Maybe less.

The truck has left the ferry some time ago and everything had been so quiet Steed had drifted off. He'd been awakened by the sound of the loading door slamming shut. He realized that he'd heard voices -- probably the customs agent speaking to the driver. He chastised himself for not staying alert -- he might have made contact with the agent and gotten the shipment seized. But the truck was starting up again before he could gather his wits, and then it was too late.

This time Steed was wide awake when the loading door rolled up with a rumble. Steed climbed to his feet for a better view through the tall canisters. Two men began unloading, speaking very little as they worked. He couldn't really tell if they were the same men as before. They removed the tall cylinders row-by-row, taking two away, then coming back for two more. Steed timed them between trips. They were away for an average of twelve seconds. Steed had no way of knowing whether they left sight of the truck, but he had no choice. As the men reached the row in front of him, he lay down and put his hands behind his back as if he was still bound and unconscious.

"'ere ‘e is, then," one of the men said as he shifted one of the canisters directly in front of Steed. They were different men, then, not the Frenchmen from before. So at least they wouldn't hold a grudge.

"Still out cold," the other said. "That's convenient."

Steed felt the familiar movement of the truck as the men rolled their canisters on handcarts down the loading ramp. The instant they disappeared around the side of the vehicle he rose and crept to the truck door. It was parked in a u-shaped loading dock surrounded on three sides by the wings of a large building. His watch said it was mid-day, but there was no one else around and the sides of the building facing the loading dock were windowless. The men had gone to the right toward an open door. He went left, heading across the loading area to another door. It was not locked.

He was shocked to find himself winded after the short dash. He closed the door and looked up and down a corridor that ran parallel with the outside wall. There were windows in the corridor looking into inner rooms -- the one immediately across from the door he'd come in was dark, but he could make out desks and other office furniture. An inner door let in to the office. He tried it and it opened. He felt a tremendous need to go to ground -- find a hiding place to rest. Never mind that he'd been "resting" for the last day and a half.

Another door in the office opened to reveal a custodian's closet. Steed gathered the strength required to shift several boxes of cleaning supplies. By moving them away from the corner he created a relatively concealed hiding place. He closed the closet door, which appeared to have been cannibalized from somewhere else: it did not fit very well.

No sooner had he closed it than the office door opened and the lights came on. He slipped into his hiding place and waited.

Emma climbed into the Lotus and slammed the door. She grabbed the top of the steering wheel with both hands, gripping it tight, then releasing her right hand and pounding the wheel once. Hard. She leaned back in her seat and took a deep breath, watching the members of the ministry team through the windscreen as they climbed into the two black sedans that they'd come in.

Three Willows was a dead end. There was no sign of the virus canisters, no evidence that the feedlot did business with Agricultural Technologies. And no sign of Steed.

The other two Willow connections had also been false leads -- teams had visited both and reported their results to the ministry. Emma started the Lotus and pulled out ahead of the sedans, quickly losing them on the winding road leading back to the highway and, eventually, to London. She returned to the ministry, barely pausing to show her identification in the reception area and striding purposefully to the bullpen where the coordinating agents were working. It was late in the evening; only a few desks were illuminated by individual lamps.

"Lady Emma," Agent Smythe beckoned to her from a desk. He handed her a note. "You had a call from Nelson in Paris. He left this phone number, for Francois De Courcelles."

"Thank you," she glanced at the note and saw that it contained a Paris phone number -- that was all. De Courcelles certainly had covered his tracks. She turned back to Smythe. "I would like to review a copy of the case file."

"All right," Smythe swiveled in this chair then rose. "We've continued to compile additional reports since this morning -- each new datum is reproduced and filed here," he lead her to a bank of filing cabinets. She looked skeptically at the carefully labeled drawers as Smythe went on, "Complete case files are compiled and updated for each team, here," he pulled out one of the drawers and walked his fingers through the files within. He extracted a thick file and held it out to her. "This is your copy."

"Thank you," she said, sliding the folder into her tote bag. "I'll be at Steed's."

Emma ate take-out curry as she read through the file. Reports from the agents eliminated one after another of the possible feedlots and events. She had to admit that they had covered a lot of ground that day, but in the end her clues from Pauline Duchamp were the most concrete information anyone had gathered. When she'd read through everything she tried De Courcelles's Paris phone number -- intentionally calling late to catch him at home. There was no answer. She lit a fire and moved to the sofa to start at the beginning of the file again.

Half way through she set it aside. She was too tired and worried to focus on the dry words on the pages, and her mind was wandering. She stared at the fire, momentarily lost in the yellow and red ribbons of flame. Then she noticed a cardboard box on the floor at the edge of the hearth. The word "Christmas" was written on the side in Steed's neat hand. She swung her feet to the floor and examined it.

The top flaps were tucked under one another, but it was not sealed. Shrugging away any guilt over snooping -- Steed had always welcomed her to make herself at home -- she pulled open the flaps. A coil of artificial pine garland studded with pine cones and bits of holly surrounded a pair of angel figures and other Christmas decorations. So here's Steed's holiday display. Rather minimal.

She lifted the decorations out of the box and set them on the hearth. Then she rose and cleared the mantle of its clock and framed photographs. There was one of her and Steed holding croquet mallets at a garden party. It had been a friend of Steed's party, and they had been an unbeatable team on the lawn. There was a top seeded tennis player who turned out to be a very sore loser. She smiled at the memory, touching Steed's hands in the photo with her index finger. Then she placed it with the rest of the pictures in the box. She arranged the garland on the mantle with the angels and bright red ball ornaments. Tucking the box under the armchair, she settled back on the sofa to regard her work.

"Much better," she said. And the simple decorations did make her feel better -- hopeful, in a way. They implied that Steed was expected to return, that he would be pleasantly surprised, that the holidays would go on and they would be together. But none of that will happen if you don't help him, she told herself. She picked up the file and tried to focus.

"Begin feeding the supplement to them immediately," a French accented voice said. "The tests suggest that a few may advance more quickly, but you can butcher them early and use them as you wish, so long as we have enough for the banquet."

The ill-fitting closet door allowed Steed to hear quite well.

"Sure, Mr. De Courcelles. We'll add it to this afternoon's mash," an English man replied.

"Bon. Your lab is prepared for the blood tests?"

"We've scheduled staff round the clock -- samples to be taken every hour. We'll have no out-of-control animals here."

"And where have you put the Englishman that my people put in the truck?"

"Ah, well, about him, sir. I've got my boys looking for him now."

"What?" De Courcelles's voice rose an octave and several decibels.

"My boys said he was there, tied up and unconscious, when they were unloading. But when they went back for him he was gone. Must not have been unconscious after all . . ."

"Indeed."

"But he can't have gone far -- if he's tied up and all . . ."

"IF he's tied up. Your men are imbeciles. Let me see the truck," De Courcelles's voice grew fainter as he spoke, probably leaving the office.

Steed grimaced. They'd find his untied bonds in the truck. Then his grimace became a smile -- any sane man would have taken off at a dead run if he could. They were not very likely to search for him in their own office.

The men returned some minutes later and Steed listened to De Courcelles berate the other man for his sloppy operation and vow not to leave the premises before the beef was ready for the banquet. Good boy, Steed thought. Won't have to track you down later.

The outer door opened and closed, then Steed heard the sound of the telephone being dialed. He was suddenly preoccupied with stifling a coughing fit, and only able to concentrate on listening again after De Courcelles started speaking.

"-- she's dead," the Frenchman was saying. "Oui. At the Peel estate."

Steed stiffened, staring blankly at the boxes of floor cleaner that concealed him. She's dead? Not my Emma. He shuddered, pressing a fist against his forehead. Get a hold of your self, man. You have to get out of here.

"No, our man was caught, but his backup took care of it. He saw the body removed-- Oui-- Oui-- D'accord."

A rattle indicated that the receiver had been hung up, then a chair scraped on the floor and creaked. Steed felt impossibly hot, his clothes constricting. He loosened his tie, which was already nearly undone, and tried not to breathe heavily. Perhaps I'm dreaming. A fever dream, he let his eyes close, realized he was letting go, realized he wanted to. Emma.

Emma started awake, realizing that the file she had been holding had slipped to the floor. Still reclining on the sofa, she rolled groggily onto her side and reached down to gather the scattered papers. A sheet from the middle of the long list of feedlots lay at the top of the pile. In the middle of the page, McCormick Purveyors, 11 Willow Alley, Salisbury popped out at her. She snatched up the sheet and brought it closer to the lamp. Willow Alley. She sorted through the rest of the papers to find the alphabetical listing of data from the ministry's computer. She found the Ws. Willow Alley wasn't listed. Reaching around the end of the sofa she found the telephone and dragged it to the floor. She dialed the ministry and asked for the coordinating agent.

"Good morning, Philip Decker here."

"Agent Decker, this is Emma Peel-- Good morning," she frowned, then brought her wristwatch to her eyes. It was four a.m. Not what she considered morning. "Yesterday I asked for all references to ‘Willow' in the files --."

"Yes, Mrs. Peel, there's a note here. Agent Ellison referred to the sorted data list."

"I see. Well, I have here a reference to ‘Willow' in the file that I was not given yesterday. Tell me, Agent Decker, did your computer not consider street addresses to be references?"

"No, ma'am. That is, I don't believe street addresses were input into the sort field . . ."

"Indeed. Well I am going to McCormick Purveyors. If De Courcelles is there, you'll want a team there, too."

"McCormick Purveyors," Decker repeated, then paused. "Oh yes. Here. They're rated moderate, Mrs. Peel. We don't have a team scheduled to go there until this afternoon."

"I see. They'll be rather late then, if it is the right place."

Emma hung up the telephone receiver and swung to her feet.

Steed was certain that his head was in a vice. He opened his eyes to darkness and breathed deeply through his mouth several times, but the vice did not open. His legs were cramped under him and he couldn't believe he'd fallen asleep in such a position. Then he remembered. Emma. A cough racked him, his lungs rattling and phlegm rising in his throat. When the cough subsided he froze, listening. Silence.

He used the boxes to heave himself to his feet, then waited several minutes for circulation to return. While he endured the tingling in his toes he assessed his condition, and his situation. Feverish. Dehydrated. Splitting headache. Alone behind enemy lines. He stretched first one leg, then the other. A few challenges. He stepped to the closet door and cracked it open.

The office and the hallway beyond were dark and quiet. Steed went to the desk and picked up the telephone receiver. He preferred to handle things his own way, but he also knew he couldn't rely on his reflexes or strength. He needed help.

The dial wouldn't turn. Holding the receiver aside he bent to peer at the instrument. A small cylindrical lock in the first hole prevented the dial from rotating. Bloody hell! He hung up the receiver and turned toward the office door.

The next door down the corridor opened into an employee canteen. He made a beeline for the sink and filled a mug with water. He nearly choked on the first gulp, then downed three more mugs. Finally he looked at the mug, which had been sitting by the sink.

"McCormick Purveyors," he read the logo on the side. Then stifled a laugh at himself. If he had been able to call the ministry, what would he have told them? I'm in a dark office in an unknown feedlot? He really did need some help.

He refilled the mug once more, drained it, and went back to the corridor. He already felt better. What did De Courcelles say? They're analyzing samples in the lab every hour, and he isn't leaving until the beef is ready. We'll see about that.

The streets of London were very still as Emma navigated the Lotus through them to the outskirts and then south on the highway. The sky was turning grey when she pulled over along Willow Alley -- which was, it turned out, lined with willow trees on each side -- just down the road from a large building with a McCormick Purveyors logo on it. Cattle stood in large paddocks to either side of the road beyond the willows.

She left the car, top down despite the winter cold in case a quick getaway was necessary, and trotted up the road using the willows for cover. You're being paranoid, she told herself as she studied the front of the building from behind the nearest tree. The windows were dark. There was one car parked in front, also dark. She darted across the open space out front and tried the front door. Locked.

She skirted the building, climbing a paddock fence and grimacing at the squishy ground on the other side. Over another fence a door in the side of the building was ajar. She peeked in to a dimly lit hallway, then entered.

The laboratory was the fourth door down the hall, Steed soon discovered. He stepped inside to the brightly lit room, blinking his eyes. The light hurt them more than it should, forcing him to squint. He almost missed the short, stocky man who stepped out from behind a storage cabinet across the room.

"Who are you?" he asked, accent identifying him as François De Courcelles. Steed drew himself up, knowing he looked disheveled.

"John Steed. Pleasure to meet you," he strode purposefully toward De Courcelles, extending his hand. De Courcelles recoiled, eyes widening.

"Non!" he said, "you are ill!"

"It seems so," Steed said. "That's one of the things I want to discuss with you." Summoning all of his strength, he clasped his hands and thrust his left elbow into De Courcelles's abdomen.

She'd taken five steps when a rough looking man wearing work clothes and a cowboy hat stepped out of a side door. He looked her up and down, a sly grin splitting his face, and reached for her. She dodged under his arms and drove her shoulder into his chest. He reeled back. She followed him, raising both hands to chop at either side of his neck. He staggered, and she followed up with a solid punch to his jaw. He collapsed on the floor. She bent to pick up his hat, started to put it over his face, then changed her mind and put it on her own head.

"Ooooff!" De Courcelles bent over from the blow, and if Steed had had the strength to follow it with another the Frenchman would have been finished. But Steed's own head felt as if it was exploding, and he staggered back, clutching it with both hands. He felt De Courcelles grasp his shoulders and shove him toward the metal lab table. His head hit the edge and he fought to regain his balance as De Courcelles landed a punch to his stomach. He doubled over, another coughing spasm destroying any chance he had to retaliate. De Courcelles's next blow was to the back of his neck. He lunged, grabbing De Courcelles around the waist in an attempt to knock him off balance. De Courcelles stayed upright, wrapping strong horseman's hands around Steed's throat. What airway he had left in his swollen head was instantly restricted.

A gunshot sounded, then another. De Courcelles's grip loosened and Steed caught himself on the table, pulled himself upright. De Courcelles had fallen to the ground. Steed looked toward the source of the gunshots, still squinting at the light.

Emma blew on the muzzle of first one gun, then the other, then pushed the hat to the back of her head with one of them. Steed couldn't help returning her sassy grin. Then another fit of coughing racked him.

Emma hurried to him, bracing his shoulders and looking into his face.

"Mrs. Peel," he said between ragged breaths.

"Oh no," she said.

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