Torchwood: Fanfic: Any port in a storm

[m_findlow]

Title: Any port in a storm
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Jack, OC
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 1,033 words
Content notes: Spoilers for BigFinish audioplay "The Conspiracy", and written as a sequel to my own fic "On the run" and "Backed into a corner"
Author notes: Written for oneill's prompt "Any, any, I'm my own backup" at fic_promptly
Summary: Jack needs a safe place to hide out and regroup.

I sidle up to the bar and lean on the counter. 'Tequila, please.'

Yeah, yeah, I know the golden rule. Don't drink on the job. But let me tell you something - if you're on the run from a global organisation of aliens bent on the destruction of the entire planet, the key is to not stand out. The guy who walks into a bar and orders water is gonna attract a whole lot more attention than some Joe throwing back tequilas. Today however, I think I've earned it.

So, if I'm meant to be in hiding, why go to a bar, you ask. Believe it or not, if you want to not be found, crowded places are best: busy markets, bustling nightclubs, conferences, football matches. Anywhere where it's gonna be really hard for someone to pull a gun on you without being seen. The more crowded the better. Whilst you're surrounded, you're safe. It's when they get you alone down a quiet alleyway that you're in real trouble.

The bartender slides the glass across the counter. As expected, the local tequila is good. The view is pretty nice, too. A shame it has to be under these circumstances. Sipping drinks on a bar backed onto a Spanish beach would, at any other time, be better than a holiday. No time for holidays now, though. This is most definitely work.

I check the news feeds on my phone, locking it down to local Cardiff reports. Of course, there's the front page headline. "George Wilson brutally murdered in hotel room. Distraught daughter uncovers grisly body." No mention of suspects, though. That's good. Kate's not stupid enough to put me up for the crime, knowing I got away. Ianto's done a good enough job of scrubbing the CCTV and switching my DNA profile so that the police can't trace the blood in the hotel room back to me. Plus, my fingerprints will be all over that room, not to mention dozens of earlier patrons, but Kate isn't taking any chances. It's not the police I'm worried about, it's the Committee. Perhaps they think they've dealt with me, trying to frame me for the crime, but now they've just pissed me off.

More people are beginning to filter into the bar. They're walking in off the beach and looking for a way to end their evening. For me, it's only just beginning. Tonight, this is my office.

Why Spain? Why in particular, this little seaside town? Well, if you're on the run from Cardiff, why not go somewhere warm, where the booze is good, the ladies are pretty and the olives are delicious. Plus, just fifteen miles from here is a little town where George Wilson did his last non-British speaking tour. Turns out good old George wasn't a fan of the European circuit. Seems he thought the British were easier to persuade. Perhaps it's because the UK has the highest per capita number of conspiracy theorists and other crazies in Europe.

But if you're gonna try to convince the masses - break into that lucrative European market - why go to a tiny little town like that? Why not Madrid, or Barcelona. Nope, San Cibrao, population thirty thousand. Not exactly what you'd call a crowd puller, assuming they spoke any English at all in a town that size. So, why go there, unless you had business of a different sort? More to the point, if your daughter had business there, and you speaking was just a convenient front. There's something nearby that The Committee don't want anyone to know about. Me? I'm a curious guy. The more you try to hide something, the more I wanna know what it is. And now that they've forced my hand, well, that only makes me want to find out even more.

The other nice thing about being in a crowded bar is that no one notices when what looks like a complete stranger sits down at the bar right next to you and hands you three fake passports and twenty thousand euros. My one phone call has paid dividends.

'In trouble again?' he asks.

'Always,' I reply. I just hope I'm not in as much trouble as I think.

'I knew you'd come calling in that favour one day.'

'Believe me, I appreciate it. I didn't have time to get my affairs in order before leaving.'

'Thought I'd be dead before you came calling.'

That's funny. The two of us, old hats from another lifetime. He's not the only one who thought my favour might outlive him.

He tips the bartender and orders a double malt, looking away from me as he swirls the amber liquid in the glass and ponders the next question. 'You got backup?'

I throw back the rest of my tequila and consider ordering another. 'I'm my own backup.' I don't even have a plan yet. All I have is a cheap motel room in a seedy part of town flush with backpackers and a laptop with a dead battery. Of course I reached out to the only amigo I know round these parts who could help me out. It pays never to forget anyone.

'That's too bad,' he says, already making to leave, having downed the drink in two gulps. The trick to a good meeting is not to hang around long enough to look like you're having a meaningful conversation. I've got what I needed. What else is there to say? There's no guarantee I wasn't followed here, but then again, they'd have to be good. That's the nice thing about small planes at private airfields. Aviation regulations don't require them to log a flight plan, turn on their radar transponders, and most fly well below commercial airspace. A Cessna can go from Cardiff to the northern Spanish coast without any questions asked.

Before I can thank him, he's gone. Disappeared into that same crowd that keeps us both hidden in plain sight. At least now I've got options. But first, it's a trip tomorrow morning down to a little township tucked in the mountains to find out what The Committee are hiding. The sooner I can stop them, the sooner I can go back home.