Title: Backed into a corner

Jack's mind was a blur as reality came crashing back down on him. His torso still ached, though at least it was no longer torn apart by bullets. He pushed himself up off the ground, wincing loudly as his spine continued to knit itself back together, one agonising disc at a time. Thank you bone shattering gunshot, he thought ruefully. As he turned over, now on his knees, he saw George Wilson's body, lying there, dead as dead could be. Jack swallowed down the lump in his throat. Had he caused it, or was this always going to happen? George was a good pawn, but like every piece on a chess board that wasn't the queen, it had a limited usefulness, and pieces like George were often sacrificed in the game to consolidate a position.

The muffled sound of police sirens began to ring out. Even from up here on the fifth floor of the hotel, Jack could tell they were approaching, circling in on this spot. A tip off no doubt, that there'd been gunfire and possibly injuries. There was no such thing as a silent gunshot, let alone several. He had to go. He couldn't be there when they arrived.

Taking one last look around the room, he knew what the police would find, and what they'd assume had happened. They'd find George Wilson, dead in his own hotel room. They'd find blood, Jack's blood, and lots of it, pooled on the plush carpet where he'd slowly bled out before Kate Wilson had put that last bullet in his head which had ended it. They'd find the bar fridge empty of all but a bottle of water and a chocolate bar, the tiny empty bottles of liquor littered in a pile on the table. And then? Then there'd be Kate Wilson, crying and sobbing, putting on the performance of her life for the police. 'Dad was innocent. People didn't always like what he had to say. He'd been clean and sober for months. It was the stress of all the haranguing he put up with that must have pushed him to drink again. For every person that respected his long career as a journalist and believed him, three more thought he was a crackpot conspiracy theorist.'

'Was there anyone person in particular that didn't like what he had to say?'

'Yes, actually come to think of it, there was,' Kate would say as she dabbed a kleenex under her eyes. 'A tall American man that came to Dad's oration here in Cardiff just two days ago. He was very keen to get a one on one interview with him, but even after that he didn't seem satisfied.' They'd cut the interview short and the man, Jack Harkness, had been less than impressed at being dismissed for asking questions that had been off list. She'd been very careful in prepping Jack for the interview, letting him know where the boundaries were and not to cross them.

'And what of it? How did Mr Harkness take the dismissal? Did he call again? Ask for a second interview?'

'Worse. He showed up here at the hotel, twice, demanding answers to his questions. Dad brushed him off, telling him he wouldn't stand for lickspittles like him, trying to pen slanderous articles in their so-called prominent magazines. We deal with this kind of thing all the time. It's not new. Tall poppy syndrome. I just... I never thought anyone would hurt my Dad.'

The police detectives would nod sympathetically. 'Mr Harkness is known to us,' they'd say. 'He likes to think of himself as being above the law.'

They'd keep their preliminary observations brief and sanitised for her benefit. She'd nod and agree with their conclusions. There must have been a struggle. That would explain Jack's blood soaking into the carpet. 'Dad would have done his best to fight him off.' He must have grabbed the gun, tried to take it off Jack, before it went off, wounding Jack. That would have set him off. Being shot by his own gun would have sealed George's fate. Jack Harkness wouldn't have hesitated after that. 'I met him. There was something about him that just didn't sit well with me. Charming but dangerous. I just can't believe that he'd have come here in the middle of the night and...' She couldn't say the words, simply covering her face with her hands and sobbing silently into them. Every last sob and tear delivered to perfection.

As Jack bolted down the emergency fire stairs, he cursed himself. What had happened here was no accident. It wasn't even that Jack had turned up on an otherwise uneventful speaking tour, keen to get an interview. This hadn't been a reaction to any of his investigations. This, he realised with a sickening feeling, had been planned right from the very beginning. This was all a carefully laid out plan to ensnare Jack and to take team Torchwood out of the equation. From the interview, to the staged suicide of that poor kid Sam, leading him all the way back here to confront George, every minute of it had been orchestrated to get him here now, primed as the key suspect in the murder of George Wilson. The Committee knew that Jack and Torchwood were only thing standing between them and what the Committee wanted. Only Torchwood had the means to stop them. Just like George Wilson, Jack had been just another pawn in a much larger chess game.

The police would be quick to close in on him. A high profile man like George Wilson would spark a media frenzy. Like him or loathe him for being a raving lunatic, a madman with a gun was everyone's enemy, and the police had no love for Torchwood. Some would say this had been a long time coming - that Torchwood would go too far - finally proof that they murdered people who got in their way, but they'd take Jack down if it was the last thing they did.

With the amount of blood he'd left behind however, he had them at a slight advantage. They assumed he was injured, badly so. They didn't know about his special gift of regeneration. They'd be looking for him in places where he might hole up or seek treatment. They'd hit every hospital and clinic within fifty miles. Worse they'd connect him with Torchwood, because even the police were privy to enough of the city's goings on to know that Jack and Torchwood were almost one and the same. His team would be hauled in for questioning, their own apartments searched and a careful eye placed on all of them. They were guaranteed to be complicit in what Jack had done, and harbouring him. Perhaps that had been part of the Committee's ploy as well, to take the rest of his team out of action.

It was true that he could head straight for the hub. No one could get to him there, but then he'd be a prisoner. This thing was too big for him to be stuck in one place unable to do more than run a few computer searches. He had one chance to get out of the city right now and he had to take it. If they thought he wouldn't get far, he'd get as far away as he could. He knew someone with a charter plane that he could call in a favour. No customs, no passport control, and a flight plan that would be registered without his name on it. Once he was out of the country and out of reach, the police would give up. A few phone calls made, a few ears bent and a handful of extradition orders prepped and ready to be executed if need be. All a waste of time of course. Jack knew how to stay under the radar. Even if Interpol instigated a manhunt, it would be as if Jack Harkness had fallen off the face of the earth.

He burst out of the fire escape door, spilling out into the alleyway behind the hotel amidst a cluster of dumpsters and bins full of dirty towels and bedsheets, awaiting the early morning laundry collection. The sirens were loud now, pulling up out the front. He pressed himself against the wall, keeping out of sight next to a dumpster until he was sure there wasn't a second car about to cordone off the end of the alley.

When he pushed away from the wall, he saw the large wet stain he left imprinted on the grey concrete. The back of his coat was soaked in blood from his earlier injuries. Damn it. He couldn't take it off, his pale blue shirt underneath would be in just the same state, only far more noticeable. He'd have to make do, hoping no one noticed the dark patch. He'd need a change of clothes, maybe a laptop, and a way to get out to the airfield. Three things he knew his team could be relied on to provide him, but only if he was quick. He had maybe an hour before the police realised he was still alive, on the run perhaps, and began to close off transportation routes. Given the hour, it would be enough time to make the morning television as well; his face splashed all over local media.

He hailed down the first black cab that glided along the quiet road at the other end of the alley, jumping in quickly.

'What's with all the emergency vehicles?' the cabbie asked him.

'They reckon someone got shot at the hotel. I'm not sticking around to find out. I thought Britain was supposed to be gun free,' Jack replied, acting every inch the bewildered American tourist.

'Where to?'

'I've got a cousin here in Cardiff. We were supposed to meet up for lunch. Hope he doesn't mind me visiting him a bit earlier than planned. I'll blame the jetlag.' Jack gave the address. Ianto's address. He also made sure not to lean back into the upholstery, guaranteed to leave a stain that might raise questions later.

Confused was putting it mildly when describing Ianto's reaction to Jack turning up at his apartment at six am, covered in blood and rushing around the flat like a man on a mission, grabbing clothes and laptops and car keys. He kept the details brief whilst Ianto was just barely rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The less Ianto knew at this stage, the better. He could be relied upon for the world's best poker face if the police asked him whether he'd been in contact with Jack. And them lack of information would only add to the surprised and perplexed look on his face as the police peppered him with questions.

'Can't talk now, Ianto. No time to explain.' Once he was aboard the plane he could take a breath and backtrack, leaving a few instructions for the team on a secure line.

He was out the door with barely a peck on the cheek, a silent promise that he was coming back, and a rush of guilt that he was leaving yet again. He was ten steps behind the Committee and needing to play catch-up fast. He slid into the driver's seat of the borrowed car and floored the accelerator, praying that he wasn't being watched right now and about to fall any further into whatever machinations the Committee had planned for him.