Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I have just borrowed them for my - and your - pleasure.

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 34

Potter’s expression darkened instantly at the sight of the sealed hypodermic syringe and the vial. “And just what were you about to do with these?”

“He asked for them,” protested the driver, easily reading the other’s man thoughts. “Before passing out again. I swear...” Handing over the small objects, he added emphatically, “I sure won’t do it meself... Is ‘e diabetic or somefin’ ?”

The younger agent knelt by Steed and turned him on his side. Undoing the cuff of a soiled sleeve, he exposed a chafed, blood-smudged wrist. His fingers probed lightly, moving as if on their own. The pulse was a tad fast but reassuringly strong... Potter’s thumb stroked lightly across the clammy brow and gently drew up an eyelid. He froze a moment at the thinness of grey rimming the oversized pupils.

Hospital or not?

Potter looked over his shoulder to the ministry van where two agents were watching him. One colleague, ready to give him back-up, had assesssed the scene played out over Steed and re-holstered his own firearm. The other, a technician, was clearly awaiting some directions.

“First-aid gear and the bug sweeper” announced Potter. “And ring us a medic.” The lorry driver was still looking at him expectantly. As in response, the agent’s gaze dropped to the syringe and vial lying next to Steed on the damp grass. Instructions were boldly printed on the labeled vial, nearly taunting in their simplicity. Potter took a deep breath and briefly closed his eyes, aware of the first-aid kit softly dropped next to him. Injecting one’s partner with an unknown drug wasn’t exactly a contingency covered in field training.

What would he want me to do?

Praying inwardly that he would not regret his decision, Potter rolled up the stained sleeve further up and reached for the vial. He silently thanked heavens that the muscular forearm, bared and slack across his lap, offered him an easy vein. The sting of disinfectant tickled his nose as he swabbed the skin with an antiseptic pad. Competently, he filled the syringe to the line thickly inked across its graduated glass body. His jaw tightened unconsciously when the needle pierced the skin. Sweat beaded on his brow as the plunger slid steadily home.

Meanwhile, the lorry driver had brought out a coarse blanket and pillowed it under the dark head with unexpected gentleness. Affecting to busy himself with the lighting of a cigarette, he started to pace the length of his vehicle. Outwardly absorbed with the task of cleaning and bandaging Steed’s wrists, Potter didn’t miss the signs of his growing agitation. “You’d rather be on your way, eh? Give us a moment longer.”

As if on cue, a stirring of limbs got their full attention.

The scent of crushed grass, the scratchy feel of wool bunched under the nape of his neck, the sensation of open air... The world was growing solid and real again under Steed. The younger agent leaned over, his voice hoarse with more than a shade of relief. “Back to the land of the living, are we, old chap?”

Thankful for a heart that was no longer trying to pound its way out of his chest, Steed latched onto the voice as he fought his way back to full consciousness. His hand rose automatically to his left temple while he felt himself being helped to a sitting position. Familiar eyes, clearly worried, bore into his.

“We read two signals while following you, Steed... If Mrs. Peel isn’t with you, who’s now carrying the second bug?”

Steed’s brow furrowed as the meaning of Potter`s words sank in.

Meanwhile, Potter had grasped the electronic sweeper offered by the other ministry agent. He bounced to his feet, impatient to set about the task of scanning the content of the lorry.

“How long?” Steed’s commanding tone stopped him in his tracks. At the sight of Potter’s widening eyes, he elaborated. “How long was I unconscious?”

“No more than 10 minutes, I should think.”

Feeling steadier which each breath, Steed cautiously drew himself up. He took seom shuffling steps and, over Potter’s protest, lifted himself clumsily into the lorry box. The ministry technician, automatically taking charge of cleaning up the scene, had hoisted back the gunman’s corpse and laid it out onto the stretcher Steed had himself recently occupied.

Steed leaned over and looked consideringly at the assassin`s features. Something niggled vaguely at his memory, a fleeting impression. He pushed the thought aside. This was no time to waste over the dead.

Inches away and outwardly all business over Warner’s body, Potter slowly released a breath of relief at Steed’s loss of interest. He suddenly straightened up, two fingers holding a slender silver cylinder extracted from one of Warner’s jacket’s pockets. Steed’s eyes narrowed in recognition. The sweeper’s hum had risen to a high pitch. Potter nodded in grim silence. They watched as he gingerly unscrewed the pen’s body and tipped it to let the earring fall in his palm. The technician was already at his side, a bag open to receive the objects. It would be promptly tagged and set aside for forensics.

The sight of the pen had stirred in Steed a call to action. Sweeping aside residual aches, his mind was now setting on the only possible course.

“Potter”, he announced with the steely civility reserved for unarguable decisions, “you shall board the lorry and convey my regrets to its reception committee. I’m borrowing your team and returning to Expefarmax.”

And at that, he leaned into the door and jumped back to the ground. His landing was rather heavier than he might have wished but it confirmed gratifyingly the return of control of his limbs.

“Steed”, protested Potter with genuine alarm, “you are in no condition to face those thugs.” Heedless at first of the sharp gaze raised back at him, the junior agent leaned out the door to better argue. “For one thing, this is basically a communication support team...”

Under Steed’s deepening glare, Potter’s last words tumbled out as if drawn by the sheer force of the other man’s will. “...and, of course, the lads can call for backup on the way.”

Steed brightened fractionally. “Good thinking, Potter. You might need the help. Willis will be at the other end of this. He’ll likely be disappointed, so do watch your step.” He leaned a moment against the door frame. “And ask Mother to save me a seat at his interrogation.”

It seemed a long silence but Potter relented and closed shut the lorry box on his bedraggled partner. Steed walked forward and signaled to the lorry driver that he should take to the road. A bit stiffly, he moved to join the rest of the team in the ministry van. Unquestioningly, the technician fell in step behind him.

The ministry driver wrinkled his nose incredulously when the rumpled agent appropriated the front seat with nonchalant authority. “Ah well,” Steed bowed in acknowledgment. “I apologize for my choice of aftershave and the change of travel plans, gentlemen, but we must absolutely turn around. Back to the farm, in fact.”

A voice rose from the back seat. “And what about Potter?”

Steed shifted in his seat to accommodate a set of bruises and settled himself more comfortably. “Be kind enough to let Mother know that my partner is on his way to drop a couple of parcels on Willis’ door step. Assistance with their unwrapping will be welcome.”

“And us?” muttered the driver.

The sidelong glance from Steed was designed to quell resistance but his tone was mild. “I don’t know about you, but I could definitely use a spot of breakfast.” A thermos of tea and sandwiches appeared from the back seat. Gratefully, he tucked in.

-o0o-

Most of the staff had received a pre-registered, early morning phone call instructing them no to show up. Throughout the Expefarmax complex, a skeleton crew was now moving with the precision of a well-rehearsed routine. Throughout the well-tended outdoor plots and in the greenhouses, lethal bursts of ultra-violet radiation were sterilizing rows of carefully nurtured seedlings and dishes of germ cultures. Elsewhere, sophisticated instruments were rendered useless by the removal and destruction of critical components. It was a pity to contemplate the destruction of so many strains of cultivars and equipment, but everyone had been reminded regularly that this day would come. As an employer, Phermagott had kept his word scrupulously and paid generously. A substantial reward had been promised for winding down their operations, and everyone present got on with the task.

In his office, Phermagott congratulated himself on his foresight. Each specialist hired had only ever been trained and left to work on a small part of the entire process. Without the benefit of his own, wholly original DNA amplification techniques, the crops left standing across the kingdom would not reveal their secrets for years. Let the fields and his associates fall in the hands of the British authorities and scientists. They would go broke before finding the key to his future wealth. Protecting the pecuniary value of his last two years of research was the finest part of his plan.

The well-oiled door of the Chubb safe opened smoothly, revealing three passports, a make-up kit, currency and a handgun. He distributed the items between his wallet and various pockets of his suit. His hand hovered over his desk. A last call would ensure transport to a small airport and, from there, to a port where he had secured the services of smugglers to slip out of the country. He held back, aware of the euphoria rising in him. There was one act of destruction he intended to leave to the end, more as a distraction than a precaution.

The warren of subterranean rooms and galleries concealed powerful explosive charges. Setting them off would cause the collapse of the above-ground structures. He could trigger them from his car within a half-mile radius, as long as he interrupted first the powerful source of interference used to shield his operations from the Ministry's surveillance. This he wanted to do himself, and it required a last trip to the control room.

In the semi-darkness, the technician was going through a precisely outlined list of operations. Above him, the bank of monitors was already lifeless. Phermagott looked for the correct switch and flipped it. Automatically, his stare was drawn to the tracking screen: the signal from Mrs. Peel's emitter should have instantly become visible. He blinked once, twice, at the featureless screen. He flipped the switch back on and off again. Still no signal. Frowning, he turned to the technician. “Have you turned off the tracking system?”

“No, sir, that’s further down the list.” The young man waved tellingly at the rows of pilot lights and buttons. “I have my hands full, keeping an eye on these, and following the sequence you requested...”

Phermagott gritted his teeth. “Well, our guest, Mrs. Peel, has been wearing an emitter. Am I mistaken or is it not being tracked at the moment?”

The technician set aside his list. He repeated exactly Phermagott's actions and agreed that no signal was being detected. The head scientist winced but held his tongue. Striding out of the room, he called to one of the security guards still patrolling the length of the hallway. “Draw your gun”, he gritted, doing the same. Emma Peel might have merely discarded the bug with the thought of evading the Ministry's watchers, but there was no sense in being careless.

Together, they reached the bottom of the stairs and turned into the hallway to her room. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of the emptiness ahead of them. Someone should have stood station at her door. He paced briskly up to the door, found it unlocked and, without opening it, nodded curtly to his bodyguard that he should go in.

The small room was deserted but for the Expefarmax employee sprawled unconscious on the white tiles. A quick frisking revealed that he was also weaponless. Phermagott eyed with distaste the thumb-sized bruises purpling the neck of the man. There was no time to waste hunting or subduing a hostile hostage. He coldly assessed her options. Without means of reaching the Ministry, Mrs. Peel couldn’t get out unless she coerced someone into letting her past the security system. His staff could not bypass it without alerting the security personnel. No alarm had been sounded, which left concealment in the faint hope that the grounds would eventually be stormed by Ministry agents or even a Special Branch squad led by an irate Willis.

“Upstairs,” he told the guard urgently, turning on his heels. “Let's seal up the basement and be done.”

Aware that the floor was about to become a death trap, the guard did not miss a beat. Lifting his colleague in a fireman's carry, he hurried to catch up to his superior.

-o0o-