Prologue

I buried my daughter today.  No one came except them -- the only friends still alive.  Amanda was beautiful, as always, holding me tight, even in these desperate times smelling of expensive perfume.  Nick and Duncan helped carry the wood coffin to the van.  All coffins are wood now.  There are no burials, only cremations.

There was actually a line at the crematorium, many others bearing the same terrible burdens, faces lined with grief and uncomprehending despair.  I know it was a sign of their regard that the Immortals came with me to this place, for they are in deadly danger everywhere.  Even I, who knows everything about this horror, found myself staring at Duncan's bowed head and hating him for being alive, for never, ever being vulnerable to the virus that is wiping us out -- a virus designed for an Immortal madman for an Immortal psychopath.

The moment passed, of course.  It isn't Mac's fault that Vencken was insane.  Immortals work shoulder to shoulder with mortals, desperately seeking the cure.  It may be too late.  Chaos has reached the highest levels of the government; the surviving free press talks of coups, but from whom, or where?  It does not matter, I suppose -- not for me, anyway.  I found the rash this morning -- just a little under my arms, but it's there. If I mention this to Mac, he'll whisk me off to one of those labs and pump me full of drugs, but I'm too old for that, and too damn tired.

I don't know how he does it, burying friends and loved ones generation after generation.  The sorrows of a mortal lifetime weigh me down.  Could I go on each time?  It is a truth I've no interest in discovering . . . .

Exhibit 2A:  Fragment of hard copy
Dawson, Joseph: Watcher
CBNA Blue File A8:614D.9

When they came for him, he didn't at first understand.  Methos had been so long in the dark, in the silence, that the commotion of their arrival completely overwhelmed him.  There were dozens of men, or so it seemed -- large, loud and not over-gentle as they hustled him into the solar glare of the corridor.

"Get a move on, Immie scum!"  And then: "Damn it, he's goin' down!"

It had been too long.  Methos' tiny cell, wretched diet, and the pervasive malaise of despair had left him weak.  Endless strings of days with only the sound of his own voice made him stupid and slow.  He tried to get his legs under him and walk as they demanded, but he could not open his eyes against the brilliance of the lights. When he ran into something, they hit him and jeered, but not, it seemed, with the same venom he remembered from his trip into this hell.  Oh, gods!  How long had it been?

By the time they reached the elevator, he could see a little -- concrete walls, cracked and stained with moisture, letters in faded paint, "Exit."  A man stood waiting, the elevator doors open.  He was thin, almost cadaverous.  His uniform hung on him; over his left breast was a badge.  Methos' eyes were flooded with tears; he could not make out the name, but the face was familiar.  His jailer.  There had been many of them, some worse than others.  This one he had rarely seen.

In the elevator, his strength gave out.  Backed into the corner, the ancient Immortal folded quietly to the floor and sat, hugging his knees, spinning head bowed.  It never occurred to him to ask what all this was about, what they meant to do with him.  He was an Immortal.  It was certain to be unpleasant.

The elevator stopped, the doors slid open. Someone kicked him and he interpreted that as a command to rise.  Out he stumbled, into a place filled with crashing metal, shouting voices and sunlight!

The corridor was thick with mortals most in guard uniforms.  Heads turned, conversations stalled as they pulled him along.  A wall of bars loomed before them, the grey paint chipped and smudged.  It slid apart with an echoing bang.  The men pushed him through.

Now there were fewer people.  He saw suits, a little different from those he remembered, but still recognizable.  Not hundreds of years, then.  One of the guards ran ahead and threw open a door on the left.  Before Methos quite knew what was happening, he was inside and they were out.

The room was large, the walls painted blue, and carpet on the floor.  Methos could feel the softness through the holes in his shoes.  Most of the far wall was window, its glass darkly tinted, giving only a glimpse of forested hills.  And he was not  alone.    There was a large man sitting at a desk.  Before him was a plaque that said "Warden P. Royce, Ph.D."   So.  The boss.

Two men stood behind him.  Tailored suits, silk shirts -- money, and lots of it.  One gazed out the window.   The other stared at the prisoner, dismayed.  Methos looked down at his prison uniform of gray shirt and trousers.  It was worn so thin in places, one could see skin beneath it.  Out of his confusion and fear came anger.  What the hell did they expect?  These were the same bloody clothes they'd given him when he'd walked through the doors!  His only source of water had been a thin, icy trickle from the tiny sink in his cell.  But he'd tried, damn them, doggedly washing the fraying garments, washing himself, doing whatever he could to remind himself that he was a man.

"What year is it?"  His voice was a thread, atrophied with disuse.  The warden told him.

Gods. Forty years.  Methos looked around.  There was a chair by the door.  Uninvited, he sat, placing his shaking hands carefully on his knees.  His heart pounded and he was dizzy with hunger.  There was no sense of time in the cell.  He might have eaten two days ago -- or last week -- but he said nothing.  Asking could turn into begging all too easily.

The man at the window turned around and said suddenly: "He's in horrible shape. How long will it take to get him back on his feet?"

There was embarrassed harumphing from the warden.  "I'm not sure, Mr. Setter," he replied finally.  "Pretty quickly, I'd think - some food, a little exercise . . ."

"Who won?" Methos interrupted.

They stared at him.  "What?"

"The war," Methos repeated, voice gathering strength.  "Who won?  It is over, isn't it?"

"We did."  The first man spoke.  He had a round face and tiny, pointed beard.  He glared into Setter's faint, derisive smile.   "The Sacramento treaty was a victory for the CBNA."

"If you say so, Derrick."  Setter wasn't interested.  "I don't like this idea.  I didn't like it when you brought it up and I don't like it now.  Whoever draws this assignment will have to fight this bastard every step of the way -- be on twenty-four hour watch!  He ran with MacLeod, for Christ's sake!  Put him back in his hole. We don't need him.  We can find the Highlander on our own."

Derrick sneered.  "Then where the hell is he, Setter?  We're tired of promises.  We think you need bait and your superiors have agreed."

MacLeod was still alive?  Methos' heart banged painfully.  He forced himself to pay more attention.

Setter bent his snake smile on Derrick: "Fine.  The boss says go with it, we go with it, but my people aren't easily replaced.  Making sure they come back in one piece is my job.  Yours is getting us the equipment we need to keep the Immie in line once he's feelin' frisky again."

"We'll uphold our part of the contract," was Derrick's stiff reply.

"Good, then start reclaiming this wreck. Your bosses want this operation up and running in two weeks."

"TWO WEEKS"  Both Derrick and the warden gaped.

"He's Immortal isn't he?"  Setter sneered across the room at the prisoner's unprepossessing figure.  Methos dropped his head, let his shoulders slump, presenting as abject an image as he could.  It was easier than he liked.  He heard Setter snort.  "Get him out of here."

They called guards who took Methos away -- ten in all; he was remotely flattered.  They walked down one hall, then another, up elevators and into a newer part of the prison.  He felt no other Immortals.   He saw no other prisoners.

His new cell was in an otherwise empty block.   There was a mattress on the sleeping bench, and a new uniform folded on it.  The guards took him down an echoing corridor to the showers, also empty, with cobwebs on some of the fixtures.  No hot water, but the cold was clean and plentiful.  Afterwards, they handed him a tube of something that turned out to be facial depilatory.

"Has shaving gone out of style?" he asked his guards, but they just scowled at him and looked away.

The depilatory stung, but wasn't too bad.  Bare-faced and clean -- really clean -- for the first time in decades, the Immortal was taken back to his cell.  Wonder of wonders, food awaited.   He had peas, bread, and some sort of vegetable protein under a lot of gravy.  There was even a sweet, although Methos was hesitant to identify it as anything other than apple-ish.  None of it was very good, but the sheer abundance made up for that shortcoming.

Sated, dead tired, he should have fallen asleep on his soft bed soon after, but his thoughts kept circling around the warden's office and the revelations therefrom.  MacLeod lived -- and was still hunted, although the war was allegedly over.  Or was it?  He remembered the interchange between the bearded man and Setter.  Maybe CBNA's victory was not so complete as he feared?  Maybe the hatred wouldn't be so virulent.  Maybe his kind's foolishness hadn't led to their own extermination..  Methos smiled bitterly into the dark and believed none of those things.

The dream came as it always did, quietly, creeping up through the unconscious to unfold in those last few hours before waking.  She moaned and stirred in her sleep, seeing him through the mists.  He never had a face, but her heart always sang when she saw him.  They made love, his mouth finding all her intimate, sensitive places, his fingers playing her like a fine instrument.  In her bed, she writhed in abandon, wanting him to bring her to that shattering climax he so skillfully elicited.  And even though she'd had the dream over and over, she was never ready for the sudden explosion of fear that overwhelmed the lust and the love, that sat her up, screaming, in the wan light of dawn.

Duncan watched the kid standing outside the casino, hands in his pockets, face a bit too thin -- and felt a curious twist in his heart.  There was nothing of Richie in the fine features or straight, dark hair of this youth, but he had that same ragged, on-the-edge look -- scared, angry and alone in a hostile world.  And, like Richie, this one would be Immortal.

The Highlander had been watching the casino for almost three hours, wary of CBNA agents.  Las Vegas was the only truly neutral city left in a divided country, taking no stand on the legitimacy of either the Old Democracy or the Corporate Territories.  The money from either was welcome.

Such careful surveillance had become the Highlander's habit in these dangerous times.   He'd been standing in the casino across the street, observing who came, who went, and who lingered.  Now,  when he should be counting entrances and exits, he found himself wondering what ill- advised stunt the kid would pull.

A man came out of the casino.  The boy said something to him and was rebuffed.  He ducked his head and stepped back.  So - the kid was a whore.  Duncan sighed and set down his drink.  There were thousands of kids like that boy, orphaned or abandoned, growing up among adults as desperate as they and not inclined toward compassion.  That was the legacy that Vencken had left the mortals he'd so feared.

MacLeod lingered a while longer.  The boy was finally successful, disappearing into the casino with a pudgy, middle-aged man.  Shaking his head, the Highlander waited a bit longer, then crossed the street and went in himself.

He showed the clerk a bored, pleasant smile along with his credit card.  His heart was pounding and he wondered if there were still surveillance cameras.  The clerk took his card, his counterfeit OldDem I.D. and ran him through the computer.  It was an antiquated system, a Pentium Quantum, and it took a while.  New computers were hard to come by, what with Macrobyte being chief among the members of the CBNA.

"Welcome to the Imperial Palace, Mr. Richardson.  Enjoy your stay."

The hotel was much as he remembered it, although signs of the war were still visible.  There were fewer machines and more card tables in the casino.  On the stairwell walls, the paint was flaking, and the carpets were covered with newer runners to hide threadbare patches.  He had reserved a room on the ninth floor overlooking the street under his new alter ego - Duncan Richardson.  He liked to see what was going on.

Letting himself in, Duncan locked the door, threw his bag on the bed.  Shedding his jacket, he went to the window.   Perhaps not as large, nor as bright as it had been, Vegas was still a shout in the desert.  From nine stories up, he could see the city's electric brilliance spreading out before him, an echo of the dying sunset.  Rumor was that Vegas bought a lot of electricity under the table from the CNBA.

He thought about Paris, where he'd much rather be.  Too dangerous currently.  The European Board held most of France, and their police were thick in the city's charming streets.  None of his old haunts were safe, now or in the foreseeable future.  He needed a new home, and one where he could live quietly, inconspicuously, until the madness had run its course.

Leaving the view, MacLeod crossed to the television and flicked it on.  There were a few pirated stations from California, some local programming.  As he sat on the end of the bed, he heard something above the commercial on the screen - a scream, muffled and distant.  He frowned into the gloom, then got up and walked to the door.

Outside, the corridor was empty.  For a moment, he considered turning up the volume, but instead, he stepped outside.  Another cry, clearer out here.  Nearby, in the other direction, a door opened, then shut, lock falling into place with an emphatic click.  MacLeod, anger rising, walked quietly in the direction of the sound.  He heard a third scream - this one desperate and filled with pain.  Locating the likely room, he banged on the door.

There was sudden silence. He banged again.  A voice shouted hoarsely: "Go away!"

Grimly, MacLeod knocked again.  After a moment, the lock was tripped and the door cracked open.  An angry face looked out.  "What's the matter with you, damn it . . .?"

"A little loud," MacLeod said pleasantly, then kicked in the door, breaking the chain and sending the man stumbling backwards.

The boy from the street was huddled in a corner, hands bound, naked body covered with angry welts, many of them bleeding.  He was sobbing - harsh, soft sounds torn from deep inside.

"What the hell are you doing?" the man was enraged.  MacLeod ducked as a long, tensile steel rod came at him, caught it and wrested it easily from the bastard's sweaty hand.

"You're making too much noise," MacLeod replied, still congenial.  He broke the metal rod in two and threw it aside.  "Untie him."

"Hey, I'm paying good money . . . "

"To kill a child?"  There was an edge in the Immortal's voice and the man began to look uneasy.  MacLeod towered over him.

"He's a whore.  What the fuck do you care . . .?"

MacLeod's response was to push the fool out of his way and slice the captive's ropes with his pocket knife.  The boy gathered his freed hands to his chest, shaking like a leaf.

"Get out!" spat the man, beside himself with rage.  "Get out, both of you, or I'll call the cops!"

MacLeod, who was in no hurry to involve the police, nodded.  Leaning over, he grasped the boy by the arm and pulled him to his feet.  Tangled hair fell into eyes drowned in pain.  The boy's mouth was bruised and swollen, another bruise, livid, adorned his cheek.  He hung in MacLeod's grip, dazed,  terrified.  The little fool.

With the man shouting profanities after them, the Immortal dragged the struggling lad back to his room, shutting and locking the door.  The boy scrambled across the bed, and got caught in the coverlet trying to leap away.  Entangled, he fell heavily.  Desperately rolling over, he managed to knock over another chair before coming up against the wall.

Duncan watched these antics, back against the door, arms folded over his chest.  Panting, the youth stared at him, shot a glance at the window (I don't think so, boy, it's nine stories down), and abruptly gave up.  He slumped against the wall, head down, hugging himself.

"Drugs?" MacLeod asked drily.

The raven head lifted sharply.  Green eyes flashed.  Jaw jutted.  "No."

"Supporting an aging mum, are we?"

MacLeod was treated to a look of blistering resentment.  "What do you want?"

"A little gratitude, considering you were screaming your head off a minute ago -- or was that what he paid for?"

The bravado vanished; the boy shook his head.  "No, sir.  He said --.said he liked the rough stuff, but I didn't  -- no one -- I'd never have . . ."  He swallowed, trembling again.  "I left my clothes in there."

"I know.   How much was he going to pay you?"

Hope leapt in the fine-boned face.  "Twenty bucks.  I -- I'll do you for half that, seeing as you got me out of some real trouble."

"I don't ‘do' bairns," MacLeod said harshly.  The youth flinched and shrank back.

"Are you a cop?"

"No.  Just a guy who doesn't like to see kids hustling.  What's your name?  Where are your folks?"

"Name's Gabe, and I haven't got any folks."

"No one?"

"Look, mister, thanks for saving my ass back there, really.  But if you don't want me, I've gotta go."

"Turn more tricks?"

The chin came up again, but his eyes were bleak.  "Gotta eat, don't I?"

MacLeod reached into his pocket and dug out a fifty.  He brandished it between thumb and forefinger.  The boy's eyes lit up.

"I'm hungry," the Highlander said, "and I'd like some company, Gabe.  Just the talking kind of company.  This is yours if you can keep my attention over dinner."

The boy blinked.  "My clothes. . ."

"I'll take care of that.  Deal?"

A wary nod.   MacLeod threw a blanket at him.  "I'll be back."

To his surprise, Gabe didn't run off, but was still sitting,  wrapped in the blanket, when he returned.  The boy took the jeans and pullover, both ridiculously expensive from the casino store, and with stammered thanks, vanished into the bathroom.  MacLeod heard the shower.

Over lavish room service, the Highlander extracted his story.  Gabe was a military brat -- his folks stationed in Fort Davis.  His father had fought for the Old Dem in the war.  Eight months ago, an accident took them and he was set adrift.  A series of misadventures, artlessly recounted, brought him to Vegas.

The tough veneer, not terribly convincing from the start, collapsed altogether under the tall Scot's genuine interest and courtesy.  Gradually, it emerged that this had been Gabe's first experience as a prostitute and, he confessed, likely to be his last.  MacLeod listened, and smiled behind his hand as rolls, pieces of meat and cookies slipped into the pocket of the new shirt.  When the last bit of cheesecake had gone, Gabe gave him a wide, shy grin, made all the more poignant by the bruises.

"Thanks, Mr. Richardson. You're really great.  I appreciate it and your helping me and everything.  But I have to go now."

MacLeod brought out the fifty dollars and watched the thin face crumple.  It was an effort for Gabe to meet his eyes as he took the money, shame and gratitude looking back at the Highlander.  Then he was running out the door.  When he was gone, the Immortal picked up his wine glass and stared moodily into it.

Never again.

Chapter Two

The Hunter was, at first glance, unremarkable.  A closer look would note the honed physique, a curiously flat gaze. Up and down the gleaming table, executives kept a nervous hush, watching as she took the seat at the far end -- well removed from them.  One of two security guards held her chair.  She laid her attache on the table, aware that every sensor in the room was focused on her.  Opening it, she picked up the cable and connected it to her primary neural jack.  She preferred wireless communication with her Companion, but there were too many sensors in this place.

"Good afternoon, Hunter Gytha.  Thank you very much for coming."

The young woman nodded.  She set her hands neatly in her lap.  The two men behind her watched every muscle twitch.  That was fine.  Clients were always edgy.  The bigger the exec, the guiltier the conscience.  Gytha nodded to Erich Ransom, a Macrobyte VP, whose conscience must be very uneasy, indeed..

"My pleasure.  Who's the target?"

This was more abrupt than was comfortable for the well-fed, well-protected elite of the CBNA' biggest corporation.  Ransom's mouth tightened, but Gytha wasn't an ordinary Hunter.   He knew it, and she knew it.

"Duncan MacLeod," he said.

She almost laughed and was saved at the last minute by the notion of a dozen cameras digitizing her reactions, downloading them into some damned profiling program.  "He's dead," she said neutrally.  "Killed in Washington thirty-five years ago."

There were looks back and forth across the table.  Gytha held her half-smile, and wondered what the hell was going on here.

"We have reason to believe that he wasn't; that he, in fact, escaped to Europe.  The company hired to eliminate him filed a false report, fabricated evidence and generally committed rampant fraud."

Had it been a lesser entity feeding her this fable, Gytha would have walked out.  As it was, she sat and watched Ransom narrowly.  "And your proof?"

On the surface of the table in front of her,  a flickered on, displaying a crowd.  A circle had been drawn around one man.  The picture was replaced by an enlarged image of the face.  It was strong-featured, handsome - the gaze direct.

"Two months ago, Los Angeles, at one of those damned unification demonstrations."

She queried Lis.  Her computer answered promptly.  Confirmed.

"Our intelligence says he's in Texas or Oklahoma -- or possibly Wyoming."

"All three of those states are Old Dem," she reminded them coldly.  "They do not recognize the Board's authority."

"Then you'll have to be careful, won't you?  Oh, there's one more thing.  Bring him back alive."

She did laugh then, caught by surprise.   The sound died away in the tense silence.

"This time, there must be no doubt," the Vice President added grimly.  "We intend to initiate fraud proceedings against CanAmerica."

Gytha leaned back in her chair, conscious of the earth shifting.  Power games among the rich and powerful could get very, very dangerous, especially these days.  There was a schism opening in the Corporate Board of North America, and it was already making the higher-ups of her Department nervous.  She sent Lis a command to compile a report on the current Macrobyte political grid.   Aloud, she said:  "There was no mention in your proposal of covert activity.  Management will require hazard pay -- and a five hundred thousand credit retainer to a legal firm of the Department's choice."

Without a flinch, Macrobyte Corporation agreed to what totaled a million in fees and expenses.

"You'll give me all the intelligence you have?"

"Of course -- and more."  Ransom smiled tightly.  "We'll give you bait."

Gytha's brows rose.  On the other side of the room, a door opened and three men came in.  Two were guards, the third was an Immortal in a grey coverall with a number stenciled over the left breast.  Sunlight fell through the tall windows to glint on short, dark hair, glance off the heavy steel manacles around his wrists.

The Immortal looked at none of them.  Instead, he stared out over Carmel, head up, disdainful. Gytha, however, was a Hunter.  She saw the tension in the set of his shoulders, the muscle that leapt in a straight jaw.  He was afraid.

"This is Methos."

It was like getting punched in the stomach.  For a moment, Gytha simply stared.  Every mortal child growing up after the war had heard of Methos, the most ancient of Immortals and the right- hand of MacLeod.  Evil beyond belief, was the claim about this tall, rangy creature.  Reputedly, MacLeod had a sense of honor; Methos believed in nothing.  She said: "You can't be serious."

"Hunter."  A thin, sharp-featured woman leaned forward, looking down the table at her.  "The Immortal is implanted with the most advanced of our restraints, a BT-VI death spiral.  If your brain activity ceases, small beads of kael-19 explosive imbedded along the Immie's upper spine will  decapitate him instantly.  In addition, he's wearing class 9 controller.  You set the range and intensity levels. We have the control hardware available for immediate installation.  You can download the manual at your convenience, make whatever adjustments you deem necessary.  Believe me, he will be no threat."

"What kind of transceiver?"

"MS 95XL with 250 Ghz boost capacity.  Complete this mission successfully, Hunter, and we'll upgrade it to make it your primary unit."

Gates! Only the top of the line neural transceiver, with a range of damn near twenty miles!  Gytha schooled her features with an effort.  The Immortal was staring at her as if she'd crawled out from under a rock. She smiled at him and he looked away.   "Fine.  We have a contract."

While Ransom beamed, Gytha took a disk from her attache.  She set it in the drive next to her table-monitor.  At the other end, Ransom did likewise.  Copies went in all directions, to the Department, to Lis, to the central files.  Returning it, she took out another.  "Files on the target, please."

After that it was champagne and handshakes.  Someone took the Immie away.  The sun slid further toward the sea, filling the room with a ruddy glow.  When a fussy man ordered the windows to darken, Gytha packed up Lis and left, heading down to one of Macrobyte's lower levels and the labs.

Macrobyte owned Biogen, Inc. The techs who laid her down on the table and went to work on her implants were thorough professionals.  She felt the icy touch of the anesthetic and drifted awhile in its glow.  Before she realized it, they had her sitting up and drinking some hideously sweet juice.  It wasn't until the drug had worn off completely that Gytha could feel the transceiver, a new noise in her head.

One of the techs handed her a small, blue, metal case.  She opened it.

"Backups for the operating software and manual are on the disks," he explained.  "The base-ware is already installed, of course.   Instructions for customizing are in the manual.  We recommend you process the entire thing.  Good luck."

The Department had apartments for its field agents in Monterey.  It was prime real estate, overlooking the coast, set back from the road by a short, cypress-lined drive.  Not large, there were only four rooms and a bath.  The building was so old it boasted a shallow bathtub in the style favored when water was actually scarce.  Most importantly, it was quiet and private, and just what Gytha needed after that meeting.  She set down her case and removed Lis.

[Gotta present for you.]

A vibration ran through her.  Her Companion was as excited as a computer could get about peripherals.  Like Gytha, Lis knew that once this job was done, the transceiver not only stayed, it went mainline.   No more hunting about in the field for phone lines or satellite dishes.  No more having to direct-cable for the big downloads.

Gytha found the injector.  Tucking Lis under her arm, she made sure of all the locks, checked the windows and drew the drapes.

[Gotta input some data on the target.  This is going to take some power, sweets.  I'm putting you on external.]

Plugging Lis into the wall socket, Gytha took the injector and disks and flopped down on the couch, laying the computer across her belly.  Hooking the link-cable between them, she felt Lis' presence brighten as a direct connection was made to the main processor.  Gytha dropped in the disks, then pressed the injector against her wrist.  Trank's familiar languor overtook her, loosening her muscles, softening edges, narrowing her focus until there was nothing to see but a single thread of light.

Loading disk one.

There was a pause while Lis processed it, then diverted the appropriate files.  Data came down the thread in a rush that was almost painful.  The trank's hold on her deepened, turning off consciousness to circumvent what the docs called "download psychosis."  Scary if you weren't tranked, but really nothing a good night's sleep couldn't cure.  Folding her hands over Lis, Gytha fell into the liquid dark.

Duncan settled easily into the restless, renaissance city.  He bought a house in an exclusive district near downtown.  Almost a hundred years old, it sprawled across twenty-eight hundred square feet, faux pink adobe after the style of the late twentieth century.  Palm trees, flowering shrubs, and a fountain gave it a gardened, sheltered feel.  High walls with electronic surveillance kept out the desperate.  The place had cost a small fortune by today's standards, but Duncan had stopped worrying about money long ago.

Sometimes he hung about in the casinos, watching the people come and go, playing a few hands of poker with men who talked freely after too many drinks.  Other times he drove out into the empty mountains and put himself through rigorous training regimens. Marking time, it was - wasting days only Immortals could afford.   Relief from his boredom came unexpectedly.

Night and a thick, dusty blanket of heat lay over Las Vegas when MacLeod pulled up to his gate.  A car passed, headlights raking the wall.  To the west, in the distance, Vegas' eternal lights bloodied the black arch of desert sky.  He reached for the gate control on his dash and stopped.

Beside the gate, where flowering shrubs grouped, he caught a flicker of movement. Calmly laying his hand on the wrapped sword lying on the seat beside him, he waited.  The lurker was mortal.  Challenges were few and far between these days.  Most of his kind had the good sense to see their present predicament as a genuine threat and simply avoided each together.  The wheel would turn, as it always did, and the Game begin again.  In the meantime, it was smart to keep in practice.

Finally, a figure stepped into the spotlight.

"Gabe?"   Duncan put the window down - but only halfway.  The boy smiled diffidently and approached the car, hands in the pockets of his threadbare jeans.

"Sir?  Could I talk to you a minute?"

How the hell did the boy find him?  Duncan looked narrowly around, but there was no one else in sight.  He nodded and switched the gate control.  It opened and he drove through.  But as he did, the night came alive with masked figures, swarming around his car.  Through the windshield, Duncan saw knives and clubs in the headlights.  Smiling grimly, he whisked his sword from its wrapping and fell sideways across the seat as one of the thugs smashed in his window.

"Hey, buddy!  Come on out!  We won't hurt you!"  Laughter echoed around the car.  "All we want is your money!"

A hand reached down to pull open the inside latch.  Duncan kicked.  There was a startled curse and the door flew open.  The Highlander was out, sword up and swinging.  Two men went down screaming and, in that moment of pandemonium, he broke free of the crowd around the car and dove into the bushes.

"God damn it!  Find him!"

Duncan moved quietly along the house, watching the invaders.  There were four still standing.  Gabe huddled by the car, looking frightened.  Forcing back his anger, the Highlander concentrated on his immediate target -- a short, heavy man with a stocking over his head who was poking a long stick into the bushes.  Hunkering down, the Highlander waited until the man had moved past; then he was up, sword cutting cleanly through spine and ligament.  The body fell with a thud.  On he moved, catching hold of the balcony and hoisting himself up.  Toward the front of the house, he heard crashing as they attacked the door.  He ran through the darkened halls to wait beside it.

The door burst inward, two armed men moving warily into the house.  He killed one, running him through the side, then, as the other turned, raising his gun, Duncan sliced his hand off at the wrist.  Howling, the thug fell backwards.  Another swift slice and the scream was abruptly cut off.

Coldly furious, MacLeod wiped clean his blade and slipped, ghostlike, through the dark.  Gabe still waited by the car, but seeing the Highlander advance, turned and raced toward the street.  Returning his blade to its sheathe, he trotted after the boy.

Gabe never once looked behind -- as if he expected Duncan to give chase.  The Highlander began to be curious, the jog wearing away his anger.  When the youth turned off the road and ran down an alley, Duncan followed.  The close-set buildings opened into an expanse of crumbling parking lot.  Looming against the sky was an abandoned factory, surrounded by outbuildings in various state of ruin.

Gabe veered to the right and disappeared into a long shed.  Duncan slowed, but did not follow.  He drew his sword and moved around the deteriorating structure.  A moment later, the boy emerged, carrying a long, steel pipe.  He looked around, but didn't see the Highlander in the deep shadows.  Squaring his shoulders, he turned and trotted toward the old factory.

MacLeod eyed the seemingly desolate structure without optimism.  The place was dangerous.  He searched the upper windows, watching for movement or the momentary flash of reflected light.  A moment later, he saw both.

Dropping to his haunches, the Highlander waited, following the boy's progress toward trouble.  When he was certain Gabe had drawn off any sentries, MacLeod headed after him.

Sounds of altercation reached him as soon as he was inside.  Following the noise, he came upon a loading dock, mostly empty, big hydraulic doors frozen permanently overhead.  A single bulb burned high amid the rafters, leaving most of the space in shadow.  Towers of rusting barrels, stacks of scrap steel gave plenty of cover.

In the center of the dock, Gabe was defending himself with his pipe and doing a decent job of it.  He fought with grim determination and certain natural skill, but he was smaller and lighter than his two burly opponents and already tiring.  Shedding his coat, Duncan ran noiselessly out of the shadows.

"Shit!" cried one of the men and ran at him.  MacLeod stepped neatly aside and knocked the man out with a savage downswing of hilt against skull.  The other took advantage of the moment's distraction to slash at Gabe.  His pipe clanging to the floor,  the boy yelped and fell backwards  Then Duncan was between him and the knife-wielder.  This thug was no fool.  He took one look at the sword and ran.

"Please . . ."  Bleeding hand tucked under his other arm, sides heaving, Gabe turned a white face to the Highlander.  "They're here somewhere."  He stopped, trying to catch his breath.  "Have to find ‘em . . ."

"No."  Duncan reached down and hauled the boy up by the front of his shirt.  Giving him a shake, he set him on his feet.  "Why should I believe a word you say?"

The youth returned a grim look, broke free and grabbed his pipe.

"Hey!"

And Duncan was chasing the idiot again, deeper into this trap.  Damn it!   Up a swaying, rusted metal stairway -- not even a pretense at stealth.  Duncan heard yelling behind them.  The hair stood up on the back of his neck, but there was no going back now.  Figuring this was as good a time as any for the kid to achieve Immortality, he redoubled his speed, eating up the distance between them.

Ahead, two more of the gang burst into the corridor.  Shouting, Gabe slammed his pipe at one, catching him off balance.  Duncan caught up to the boy, dispatching the other thug with a careless thrust.

"Now . . ." he began angrily, but his words were interrupted by a scream -- female.  Gabe snarled something and dashed on.  Duncan was after the boy, blade whirling, as they came upon another door, this one guarded.  Gabe didn't even pause.  Ignoring the guns raised, he threw himself at them, smashing wildly with his pipe.  The berserker attack took the guards by surprise and the first shots were wild.  By then, Duncan was there.  He took a bullet in his thigh, but that was the best they could do.

The door caved inward under Gabe's frantic weight.  Beyond was a grimy room, the floor covered with filthy mattresses.  The place stank.  Duncan looked across the room and choked, not certain whether to laugh or cry.  A man, pants around his knees, was trying to hold down a shrieking girl while two more girls pounded and kicked at him.

The boy screamed something inarticulate, pain and rage shaking his voice.  The would-be rapist scrambled to his feet, hauling at his trousers, mouth hanging open.  He didn't even have time to put up a hand in defense before Gabe's pipe smashed into his face.  Throwing it aside, the boy fell to his knees, wrapped his arms around the sobbing girl.  Duncan swore and slammed the door shut, pushing home the bolt.

"GABE!"

The girl clung to Gabe, tear-streaked face pressed against his shirt  The boy looked around wildly.  "Joan?  Michaela?"

The girls, too, would be Immortal.  Stunned, Duncan almost forgot their peril.  Triplets!   He'd never heard of such a thing among his kind.  His anger shifted into cold, clinical calm.  He went to the windows and looked down.  Thirty feet, at least. "We don't have much time before reinforcements get here.  Put her down and help me."

For a moment, the boy hesitated, but when MacLeod picked up a mattress, he understood

"Help us," he ordered the girls.

One after the other, the mattresses were shoved out the window.  MacLeod could hear company coming - shouts and footsteps growing louder.  Gabe snatched up one of the triplets  as the Highlander pushed the last of mattresses onto the heap below.

"Hurry!"  MacLeod shouted.  "Head for my place!"

"What about you?"

"GO!"

Something crashed into the door.  Turning, MacLeod flattened himself against the wall beside it.  The boy nodded, anxious, and herded his charges toward the window.  Therese was out, then the next and the next.  None made a sound - too scared, probably.   Gabe gave him one final, uncertain look and was gone, too.  The room filled with the sound of splintering wood.  Smiling grimly, MacLeod waited for his first victim.

Chapter Three

On the morning she was to begin the job,  Gytha woke to find her mailbox full, most of it from Macrobyte's security division -- new files on Duncan MacLeod.  Ransom himself mailed to say they would deliver the Immortal to her door and would she please indicate the preferred time of delivery?

The Department was sending a car.  There was also a personal communique,  - Lukas, her C.O.

[This is tricky business, girlfriend.  I saw your logout of the Macrobyte files.  Read ‘em and think hard about what lies between the lines.  You do what you've been hired to do, no less and certainly no more. I don't think I need to remind you that contract work is held in strictest confidence.]

Absolutely, he did not. The corp that had supposedly taken out MacLeod thirty years ago was none other than CanAmerica Securities, a subsidiary of Rimeny Corporation.  CAS had dislodged Macrobyte-owned rival, Guardian, Inc., largely on the strength of that killing.

There were other battles fought after ‘thirty-two, but MacLeod had been one of the Old Dem's heroes.  For all practical purposes, the war had ended that day in the bloody halls of the old capitol.  If, indeed, MacLeod was still alive and it could be proved, then Rimeny was in trouble.
.
Her car came at midday; an intern delivered the keys.  He lingered, hoping for a ride back to the complex, but she had another delivery coming.  Sullenly, he took himself off to the bus stop.  Gytha, restless, paced the room.  Her bags were by the door, Lis tucked in its satchel and under her arm.

Tires crunching on gravel drew her to the window.  A van pulled up in front of the house.  On the side was the Macrobyte logo, a stylized bird of prey against a rising sun.  Two men jumped out.  One ran around to the back and threw open the doors.  After a moment, the Immortal stepped down.  He was unbound, but the men stayed close, flanking him across the drive and up the stairs.  He stood,  expressionless, while Macrobyte security signed him over to her.

"Thanks," she said shortly.  Maybe they felt her impatience.  At any rate, the men didn't linger.   The van pulled away and Gytha looked up at the Immortal.  He smiled; not a friendly expression. It seemed a reasonable time to test her new implant.  Gytha called up the controller trigger and sent.

Shock drained the Immie's color and stole his voice.  She got some initial feedback through the link, but damped down on it, fast.  He staggered, coming up against the door, then doubled over and fell.  Gytha canceled the command.  It was several seconds, however, before he got back to his feet.

"Just so we understand each other," she said.  "Now pick up those bags.  I'm behind schedule."

He followed her out of the apartment, threw the luggage into the trunk.  She watched him look around and run his hand along the curve of the vehicle - as if everything was difficult to comprehend.

"You drive," she ordered.  The Immie stared at her for one long, unreadable moment, then got in.  She slid in beside him, wishing she dared use the time to review the new information from Macrobyte.  The hands on the wheel beside her, however, were too tense.  There was cold assessment in the eyes that flicked in her direction and back.

The ignition was keyed to her voice. "On," she commanded, and to the Immie: "Ahead, turn left, straight down the hill and north on the freeway."

This being a corporate town, the roads were outfitted with directional relays.  The car could be programmed to drive itself, but she wanted to give her jittery prisoner something to do.  Outside town, things were different.  She'd probably take the wheel then and handcuff the Immie in the back seat.

The Immie drove carefully and well.  He turned the car smoothly, precisely onto the long, gray ribbon of old Highway One and accelerated.  She leaned back and watched the artichoke fields glide past, trying to relax.

"What's your name?"

His question was unexpected and she started.  "I'm a Hunter."

"That's not a name, it's a title.  What is a Hunter, anyway?  Some new kind of corporate cop?"

That brought her brows together.  He turned his gaze back to the road and smiled faintly, bitterly.  "You'll have to forgive my ignorance, Hunter, but I've been out of circulation for some time."

And would be still if it were up to her.  Gytha shrugged.    "It's not important. You just do what you're told."

His jaw tightened, but he took the hint and said nothing more.  They followed the curve of the bay and started to come into real traffic.  The Pac Rim's militia was stationed in old Fort Ord.  Methos slowed slightly, passed a military jeep, then speeded up again.  Soon they left H-1 and, turning east onto Route 68, began to climb into the mountains.  The road promptly deteriorated, forcing the Immie to slow down.

"Where are we going?"

"Pay attention to your driving."

"Yes, ma'am!" he said meekly, then made her gasp by jerking the wheel hard, avoiding at the last minute a large box fallen in the middle of the road.  She almost hit the controller, then thought better of it.

"Sorry," said the Immie, all insincere contrition.

"I don't have a sense of humor," she informed him flatly.  "Bait me at your peril."

He sighed, shrugged and returned his attention to the road.

Ten miles north of Salinas, Highway 101 ended abruptly, the result of the Watsonville quakes.  The execs were eternally squabbling over who should restore the old interstate system, none of them willing to foot the bill for renovations more than ten miles out from their facilities.

It was slow going on the narrow, sometimes precipitous roads.  Twice they came up behind ponderous, triple-trailer semis and were forced to a crawl as the behemoths chugged and strained up the incline.  Finally, bored, Gytha ordered the Immie to pull over and trade places.  He obeyed without argument, unwinding his lanky form from the car, stretching kinks from his shoulders.  Shoving hands into the pockets of his shabby, prison jacket, he looked around, eye alight.

"Not that I'm complaining," he said simply, "but is there a reason why we don't just fly to wherever we're going?"

It was a good question.  On one hand, execs were a notoriously nervous lot.  Sensor-laden planes were not generally welcome over company land.  On the other hand, the Department was neutral.  There should be no problem gaining permission to fly through.  Like so much else about this mission, it was odd enough to make her uneasy.

"I'm sure they have their reasons," she replied.  "Now turn around and put your hands behind your back."

Around the house, and at the front door, lay the bodies of some of their former tormentors.  He'd thought the sight would bring a feeling of triumph.  It had not.  The staring eyes, the blood everywhere on the fine tiles and carpet -- God!  He'd done what he could to keep the girls from seeing the corpses and the blood -- tried not to imagine what Richardson was going to do about that!

More tired than he wanted to admit, the boy pushed aside the door and stepped out onto the damp tiles.  A breeze rustled the azaleas.  Somewhere a dog barked.  In the distance he heard sirens -- lots of them.  What if Richardson was dead?

He looked back into the house.  The girls hadn't moved, three pale heads tucked together under the blankets he'd dragged from what seemed like a dozen bedrooms in this fancy place.  Richardson would probably be mad about that, too.

None of the girls were hurt.  He'd been in time to prevent the unthinkable, thank God, but he trembled, remembering how close it'd been.  There was a bench between two potted palms.  Gabe sank onto it, swallowing at the lump in his throat, ashamed for having failed yet again to protect his young sisters.

"I'd like your story now.  All of it and the truth."

The voice at his back sent Gabe to his feet, heart threatening to burst from his chest.  Richardson!  Alive and apparently unhurt.  With his pulse hammering in his ears, he faced the well deserved anger squarely.

"Yes, sir."

The grey eyes narrowed and, in a gentler voice, Richardson said: "Inside and sit down."

Grateful for the opportunity to take weight off his suddenly unsteady legs, Gabe followed the man down a hall to the kitchen.  Richardson pointed him to a stool at the breakfast bar.  When a small tumbler of whiskey appeared before him, he found his throat almost too tight to swallow.  He got it down anyway.  The liquor burned and made him gasp.

"Who are they?"   The man leaned against the kitchen counter, arms folded over his chest.

Gabe took another sip.  "My sisters."

"Adopted?"

Startled, Gabe frowned up at him.  "No, sir."

Something moved in the man's eyes, but he only nodded.  "What were your parents' names again?"

"Margery and Sam Featherstone."

"Do you remember who your father served with?  His unit?"

Gabe shook his head, not sure where this was leading.  "He never talked about it, Mr. Richardson.  Said it wasn't young folks' business."

Richardson nodded.  "Call me Duncan," he said.

"Gabe?"

Michaela was awake, looking boldly into the kitchen.  Therese stood behind her, wrapped in one of the blankets.   Richardson -- Duncan -- smiled at them and laid a hand on Gabe's shoulder.

"T -- this is Duncan," the youth said.

"Come on in," the man invited kindly.

They obeyed, bunching up just inside the door.  "Where's Joan?" he asked.

"Still sleeping."  Michaela assessed their host with her usual fearlessness.  "I'm Mike.  What happened to the dead guys by your door?  Did you bury 'em already?"

"MIKE!"  Gabe glared at Mike, mortified, and watched the full lower lip thrust forward.

"Mike, be quiet!"  Therese hissed, clutching at her sister.  Gabe blinked.  If the bodies were gone, Duncan had been in the house for some time.  Hair rose on the back of his neck, but there was no anger in the big man's face, only slight regret.

"I'm sorry you had to see those," replied Richardson, shaking his head.  "How long were you part of that gang?"

"We were never part of it!" she retorted.  "They made us join!  What are you going to do with us now?"  The small chin tilted a bit higher.

"How old are you?"

To his relief, Gabe heard amusement in the tall man's voice.

"Twelve, and three quarters.  Are you rich?"

"Michaela!"  Therese was hideously embarrassed.  Gabe wanted to sink into the floor.  Richardson, however, just grinned.

"Hungry?" he asked.

The girl's mouth sagged, then closed with a snap.  "A little," she admitted grudgingly.

"Gabe?"

"Yes, sir."  Gabe nodded to his sisters and together, they joined their host at the counter.  From a huge refrigerator came cheese, paper-thin slices of ham, tomatoes, lettuce, all the fixings. There were two loaves of bread - one white, the other pale brown with flecks of darker brown within it.  Butter and jam appeared, and a bowl of fruit -- oranges, bananas and apples.

"Best I can do on short notice," Duncan apologized.  "What's everyone drinking?"

Joan appeared somewhere between Gabe's second and third sandwich.  She treated Richardson to one of her long stares, then smiled radiantly and took an orange.

"Are we going to live with you now?" she asked in the silence that greeted her arrival.  Gabe choked.  Mike rolled her eyes.

Therese put an arm around her and hugged her. "Silly.  He hasn't asked us."

Duncan wore an odd, stunned expression.  Gabe was nervous all over again.  He knew they would be safe with this man.  Dad would have approved,  but that kind of luck didn't happen to real life -- just in books.

"We'll talk tomorrow about what to do with you," Richardson said finally.  "Tonight, stuff yourselves and then grab those blankets and I'll show you where you can sleep."

"Can I have the princess bed?"  Therese exclaimed at once.

"I wanted that one!"  Michaela replied, voice rising.  Across the counter, dark eyes met Gabe's, twinkling.

"No brothers?" Duncan asked.  Gabe shook his head woefully.  The man nodded, all sympathy.

"You get the princess bed," he said to Therese, and before Mike could get out the expected protest, added: "I get to choose because it's my house.  Anyone have a problem with that?"

Miraculously, his sisters shut up, even Michaela.  After a moment, Duncan smiled pleasantly.  "Good.  Now - who's for ice cream?"

"Immie!"

Methos woke with a panicked start, thinking he was back at Winterborne.  It took a moment to sort himself out.  The car had stopped.  They were in the parking lot of a small, run-down motel. All around rose the lush coastal mountains, their upper slopes gilded with the last of the daylight. The air, blissfully cool and humid, smelled like rain.  One of the motel's doors, number eight, stood open.  He could see a sagging bed, cheap furniture.  Awkwardly he scrambled out of the backseat and sighed gratefully as she unlocked the cuffs.

"Bring the bags," the Hunter ordered, and went inside.

The room was what anyone would expect of such a place, dingy and none too clean, smelling faintly of mold and stale cigarettes.  Prowling around it, the Hunter poked behind the limp, threadbare curtains, lifted the bedspread to peer under the bed.

At her snapped command, he closed the door and sank into a nearby chair.  He was hungry.  Not that he was likely to get fed.  The Hunter didn't appear overly concerned with his comforts.  Maybe she thought that, because Immortals couldn't die, they didn't need food.

"Don't bother sitting down."

He lifted his head with a shadow of defiance.  Her eyes, hard and cold as emeralds, ran over him, no expression whatsoever in their clear depths.  "The uniform has to go," she said finally.  "It's too conspicuous.  Go clean up -- Macro-B sent some other clothes for you."

He blinked and watched her mouth curve mockingly at his consternation.  "Don't worry, Immie, your virtue is safe with me."

"Life is full of disappointments," he sighed, and sauntered past her into the bathroom.

Half expecting her to follow him in, Methos undressed and discarded the hated uniform.  He closed and locked the door.  The last was a small rebellion; he had no doubt she could open it easily enough if she chose.

For the first time in more years than he could remember, there was warm water, lots of it. Methos leaned against the shower wall and let it pour over him.  There was real soap and a face cloth. Gods, what luxury!  He wondered how long he could linger before the Hunter called him out.

Who was she?  Cybernetically augmented, most certainly.  He'd noticed the small metal jacks in her temples, half hidden by her hair.  She seemed to be in communication with her superiors via the computer she kept with her.   He thought about the implant wrapped around his spinal cord and the vile genius behind all of it.  Vencken's fear was more than justified.

A long time later, sated and breathless, Methos turned the shower off.  With a towel wrapped around his waist, he left the steamy bathroom.  There was no sign of new clothes.

The Hunter stretched out on the bed, plugged into the flat box on the mattress beside her.   Dark lashes lay thick on her cheeks; he could see her eyes darting beneath her eyelids.  They opened suddenly and fixed on him.  She sat up, pulling the cable from one of her temple jacks.  The sight chilled Methos.  Picking something off the bedside table, she tossed it at him.  He caught it, reflex, and found himself holding handcuffs again.

"Over there."  She gestured toward the pipe that fed a heavy, old wall heater.  "Lock yourself to it."

He stood, holding the manacles.  "I won't run.  Not tonight, anyway.  I'm too damn tired."

"I don't trust Immies in general, and you in particular," was the Hunter's cold reply.  "Put them on -- now."

As if he needed reminding, she sent pain at him, just enough to set his teeth on edge.  Dropping to a crouch, Methos did as he was told.  His hands were clumsy, shaking with anger and humiliation.  She bent and checked the cuffs.  For a moment, they were face to face.  Her green eyes had a strange, silvery sheen.

"You were MacLeod's right hand, weren't you?"

He saw no reason to admit to common knowledge.

"You knew his contacts, his burrows, his networks."

Methos gave her a round-eyed look of incomprehension.

"Where would he most likely be?"

"He's anywhere and everywhere -- maybe in the next room.  Have you looked under that bed?"

The Hunter smiled and, bending forward, yanked the towel away.  Heat crept up his neck.  In their shackles, his hands went to fists.

"Not bad," she judged, gaze moving over his chest and belly, lingering between his legs.  "But I've seen better."

He looked past her and resisted the impulse to twist away, to hide himself.  She returned to the bed and plugged in again, dismissing him.  Finding a reasonably comfortable spot against the wall, Methos tried to relax.  His stomach snarled, but hunger was old news.  His life had been full of deprivation -- unpleasant, but survivable.

Of more concern was shaking this creature and getting a warning to MacLeod.  Methos looked again at the Hunter; she was focused elsewhere.  Moving a little to give himself some light, the Immortal examined the water-pipe.  It was stainless steel, old but heavy.  There was only a slight give when he shook it.  He wasn't getting free of this without a lot of noise and effort.  So be it.  If there was one thing he'd learned after five thousand years, it was that sooner or later, everyone dropped their guard.  When that happened to the Hunter, he'd be ready
.

Morning came, overcast, the mountain shrouded in fog.  Gytha woke abruptly.  The Immie was where she'd left him, curled against the wall, sound asleep.  All entry points were undisturbed.  She got out of bed and padded, barefoot, to the window.  Moving aside the blinds, she looked out onto the parking lot.   There were two cars -- hers and an old pick-up parked in front of the office.  Across the lot was the road and beyond that, a gas station, hardware store and McDonalds.  Everything had a seedy, run-down look.

The Immie was awake, watching her when she turned around.  Methos was one of the Old Ones, she remembered suddenly.  He measured his life in millennia, not years.  It was disturbing.

It was irrelevant.  She went for a shower.

Macrobyte had sent supplies for the Immie.  When she'd bathed and dressed, Gytha unlocked him.  He vanished into the bathroom with an armload of new clothes.  The Hunter sat on the edge of her crumpled bed and booted up Lis' higher functions.  There was local phone service, so she jacked in and found mail from the Department.  There was a change of plan.  MacLeod was in Minnesota.  She was to change direction, head for Sacramento and catch a flight out of the Territories..

The Immie eventually emerged, dressed and scrubbed.  He took the bags without being told and carried them to the car.  Gytha gave her surroundings another quick check, but there was only a truck that rumbled by, disappearing around the curve of the hill.  Methos closed the trunk.

"Here."  She tossed him her card.  "Settle the bill and see if there's any coffee."

Startled, he gave her a suspicious look, then nodded and loped off across the asphalt.  With luck, he'd do as he was told and she could leave off watching him every second.  Almost she wished he would run so she could demonstrate the hopelessness of such behavior, but his signal continued strong, well within his limits.

"Open," Gytha said, and the car door unlocked.  She ran through the vehicle's diagnostics, calculated how much power she had left before the low light became an issue.  A weather check showed the clouds holding as far north as San Francisco.  The car had a gas engine switch-over, but it was for emergencies.

The Immortal was taking a long time.  Gytha checked the controller's signal.  It was strong and close, but still . . .  She left the car and started toward the office.  A figure stepped out -- a stranger -- and when he lifted his arm, she was already moving.

The bullet flew past, inches from her head.  Gytha threw herself to the ground and rolled toward a low, concrete planter.  Her gun was out and in her hand.  Another shot hit the planter, sending bits of  sharp-edged gravel in all directions.  Leaning around it, she fired and saw the man go down.  Turning, she ran.

Behind the building, the land descended sharply into a ravine.  There was a man heading toward her.  She fired at the same time he did; he missed, she didn't.  Shoving the gun into her belt, Gytha jumped, grabbing the edge of the roof and hauled herself up.  More shouts came from the parking lot.  Keeping low, she crept along the roof.

[Combat mode!] she ordered Lis.  Something tilted and, abruptly, all her senses sharpened.  She heard footsteps and heavy breathing to the right and left.  Soon they would realize she wasn't in the ravine.  Gytha slid back to the edge and looked down.  A man patrolled just below her; she pulled back, adjusted the silencer and put a bullet in his brain.  Before he hit the ground, she was rolling back to the other side.  This target had time to look up and see her before she buried another bullet.  That was four -- how many more?

An access panel caught her eye.  She opened it -- too small to be useful.  With a sharp eye in all directions, she dropped to the ground.

Behind the office there were windows, one with an air conditioner, the other open.  She saw the shadow of a man inside, an infinitesimal deviation of dark to darker.  Drawing a deep breath, she centered herself, then stepped out and fired.

The Hunter followed her bullet through the window, the sound of her landing deadened by the body beneath her.  She came up behind a cluttered desk.  There was shouting from the next room.  Cautiously, she peered over the desk-top. In the next room, she saw several men struggling.   Leaving the desk,, she planted her back against the wall beside the door, gun up and ready - waiting.

"Black's dead.  Damn it!  And there's no sign of the bitch!"

"I knew this was a fucking stupid idea!  A Hunter -- a Druid for Gatesakes!  Kill the Immie and let's get out of here!  RED!"

"Red" was probably the corpse on the floor behind her.  No more time to think about this.  She checked her cartridge -- almost spent.  Each shot would have to count.  Lis was processing sensory data, hot spots, sound, air currents, coming from the next room.  Without a direct look, the results would be less than optimum, but Gytha was running out of choices.

Probably five more men in there, one of whom was Methos.  The Hunter heard glass breaking and the crashing of overturning furniture.  She stepped into the doorway.

Time slowed.  Three of them had managed to wrestle Methos, face first, over the lobby desk.  The motel clerk was dead on the floor, eyes wide, a hole between them.  Cursing the Immortal, they held his shoulders against the wood while one lifted a sword over the dark head.

The swordsman saw Gytha first, his mouth falling open.  Her shot sent the blade spinning from his hand, the second winged one of the men holding Methos.

She threw herself back into the office as they recovered, firing wildly.  Bullets riddled the wall above her, but she'd already dropped to the floor.  Grabbing a nearby chair, she rolled it into the lobby.  In that moment of distraction, she dodged out, running toward the counter.

Methos had not let opportunity slip by; he had the sword.  Spinning, he brought the blade up and around, graceful, deadly, and very, very fast.  Steel hissed, and an attacker's head dropped from a suddenly lifeless body.   Without slowing, Methos followed through, slashing across the arm of another assailant.  The man howled and, stumbling over the fallen chairs, ran for the door.  Eyes wild, the Immortal whirled about.  He  screamed, a primitive, bloodthirsty sound that lifted the hair on the back of her neck, and hurled the blade straight at her!

Gytha shot him even as she flung herself to one side.  There was another scream, but not from Methos -- it came from the office behind her.   A man pitched out of the doorway, pierced straight through by the sword.  Heart pounding, adrenalin shrieking through her system, Gytha managed to get back to her feet.  Methos was kneeling, a bloody hand pressed against his shoulder.

[Combat mode off!  Inhibit corticosteroids.]

Stepping over bodies, she crouched beside him.  "Is the bullet still inside?"

He nodded, white-lipped.  Her heart rate was slowing, her hand shook only slightly when she moved his away.  She waited as Lis evaluated the wound.  It was nasty.  The bullet was lodged in the joint.  Methos smiled grimly.  "Do you have a knife?"

"There are analgesics in the car."

"No -- none of your drugs."

She nodded and handed over her Swiss Army.  It was an antique, in perfect condition, and much beloved.  He lifted his brows at the sight of it, smiled tightly and flicked it open.  Her protest died, unspoken, as he set the tip against the wound, unsterilized.  He drew a long, shaking breath, closed his eyes and dug.

He could not help crying out.  Face twisted with pain, he reached into the wound and pried out the misshapen lump of lead.  The knife clattered to the floor.  Hugging his arm against his side, breath coming in ragged gasps, he sagged forward.  Shaken, Gytha picked up the sword and her knife, and moved quickly around the room, searching the bodies.  Without surprise, she found nothing. That told her enough.

[Capture image,] she instructed Lis.  Going from body to body, she turned them over to get a good look at their faces.  Then she returned to Methos.

"Any idea which one was the leader?"

He lifted his head, and stared stupidly at her.  She repeated her question.  After a moment, the Immortal pointed to a bearded, balding corpse lying beside the door.

Inside her satchel was a Hunter "kitchen sink" kit.  One of the eccentric array of items was a small, sterile glass tube.  Gytha pulled it out and cut a tiny slice from the dead man's arm.  It would be nice to know just how worried to be about this.

"Can you walk?"

The Immortal nodded. In the end, however, she had to help him to his feet.  By some miracle, he managed to stay on them.  She got him into the car just in time.  Shaking, soaked with sweat, he quietly fainted.

Another car was pulling in, a battered sedan. The elderly couple inside peered curiously at her.  Gytha was in no mood for dealing with locals or their law enforcement.  She dropped the tissue sample into the glove-box.  "Reverse," she commanded, and they were out of there.

Chapter Five

It was bad, at first.  Thanks to decades of deprivation, his Immortal healing properties were sluggish, but within the hour, Methos could move his shoulder without the universe exploding.

"Did they say anything to you?" the Hunter asked.  He shook his head.

"They called each other by colors instead of names.  One of them was behind the counter, impersonating the clerk when I walked in.  By the time I figured out what was going on, there were five of them in the room."

Gods, but his senses had dulled in Winterborne's hellhole.  There had been a time when no one could have come up on him unawares, not even MacLeod.

"Didn't feel like testing the spiral?" she asked.  "Well, at least you're no hero.  If I can hope for common sense, maybe I can hope for cooperation, too?"

He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking about the deadly implant wound around his spine.  "Heroes,  ma'am, die with depressing frequency.  I'm all for cooperation, personally.  I don't suppose, in the spirit of non-aggression, I can have your name?"

This time, she did stare, nearly running off the road.  Reluctantly, the corners of her mouth twitched.  He waited breathlessly for a real smile.  He didn't get it.

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"It's Gytha."

"Ah, that has a fine old Anglo-Saxon ring."

"Anglo Saxon?"

"A Germanic people who migrated to Britain - among other-places.  Don't they teach history in Hunter school?"

"History that's important, yes."

Methos was silent, considering the implications of that.  "What's important?"

"Understanding why the world went to hell so we can keep it from happening again."

"And what are they teaching you?  That it was Immortals' fault that there was a civil war?"

Her face darkened and she scowled through the windshield.  "You deny it, Immie?"

"Absolutely."

"Do you deny the Kronos virus?"

Silence.  Then: "No," Methos said quietly.

"And do you deny that Immortals want to rule over humans?"

"That's a legend!  Do you believe King Arthur is coming back?  That the groundhog really sees its shadow?"

"Who's King Arthur?"

"Do you think he likes us?"

Gabe sighed as three pair of identical blue eyes fixed on him with sudden intensity.   "Sure. . . well, he likes you."

The girls nodded, accepting this.  No one leapt to assure Gabe that Duncan liked him, too.

"Maybe you should ask if we can stay?"  Mike produced a wistful smile that had no impact whatsoever on her brother.

"You ask.  Bat your eyelashes at him or something."

"Eeeuuuuuu!"  She was appalled.  "He's so old!"

"He wouldn't go for you.  He wants someone sophisticated."  This was so unexpected, coming from Joan, that they fell silent.  Then, purely by reflex:

"He would too!"  Mike cried.

Gabe stood abruptly and strode from the house.  Behind him, there was an angry denial, then Therese's voice, calming the other two.  By the time he reached the edge of the patio, all he could hear were giggles.

The yard descended a few feet, shaded by great, feathery palms.  At the bottom of the incline, where the land leveled, Richardson was working out.  Wearing only loose, black trousers, he was moving with slow precision, body straight, balanced on one foot, then the other.  Drop, twist -- he had a dancer's grace.  Gabe had seen his dad do that, had even been learning a bit of it himself, before the plague.

For a moment, grief and loneliness closed his throat.  Duncan's form blurred in his vision.  Anger came after the pain, as it so often did.  Anger at losing everything, of being cast adrift in a world filled with wolves.  His mom had always told him that people were basically good, but she didn't know -- hadn't seen what he and the girls had.

Duncan was like his folks.  You could trust him.  You could feel it in your heart -- but he didn't want them.  There were times, lately, when Gabe was sure Duncan actively disliked him.  Just this morning he'd  looked up from breakfast to see Richardson staring at him, black scowl on his face.

"Penny for your thoughts."

Gabe jumped and swore.  Damn!  Duncan was always creeping up on him!

"They aren't worth that much," he muttered.

"You could let me be the judge of that."

Gabe shrugged.  "Just thinking about moving on."

"Really."  Duncan's eyes narrowed slightly.  "And where were you planning on going?"

"California, maybe.  I hear L.A. isn't that bad."

"Los Angeles is a cesspool, take it from me.  You wouldn't last a week there, especially if you think you're going to turn tricks again."

"The hell we wouldn't!"   Gabe's face heated, remembering that disastrous incident.

Richardson walked past him, unimpressed, swiping a towel from a lawn chair.  "I have a better idea," he said, calm and matter-of-fact as could be.  "We're all going to take a trip to Texas."

The trouble at the motel had spooked the Hunter.  Although she said nothing, Methos noticed that they no longer drove due north, angling to the east instead.

"I have to make a stop," she replied when he asked what was up.  "We're going to Los Santos.  And do something about that shirt."

"What's in Los Santos?"

"A friend."

"You have one?  Be careful, Gytha, you're beginning to sound human."
 
Los Santos turned out to be a small, ramshackle town in the foothills overlooking San Joachim Valley.  Wooden buildings, weathered to grays and browns, grouped dispiritedly around the main street or clung, lichen-like, to the hillside.  Gytha parked the car in front of a brick building.  Leaning across him, she opened the glove box and took something out.

"I may be awhile.  Don't wander far."

Methos waited until she vanished inside the building, then got out of the car.  This town had an abandoned feel.  Most of the buildings were empty, windows broken.  Even the graffiti had faded.  The only other spot of life was a gas station with a convenience store attached.  Next door was the town library, its windows covered with plywood sheets, but its door sagging open.  There was a few more store fronts, also boarded up, and a church with a fallen roof.

He'd seen too many towns like this in the last few months before his capture.  The Kronos virus had been hideously effective.  Mortal deaths numbered in the millions.  There were bodies in the streets, horrors he'd not seen since the great plagues of the Middle Ages.  When it was over, vast stretches of the world were empty again.  Immortals called it Vencken's Revenge.  Genocide was how the mortals' spoke of it.

Methos leaned against the car, wondering how long the Hunter would be, and who the hell she was seeing here.  Like the rest of this pathetic spot, the brick building seemed mostly deserted.  Only the third story appeared inhabited, a plethora of wires and cables going into it.  The curtains at the dusty windows were shut fast, uninformative.

How long, wondered Methos idly, was his leash?  He set off along the sidewalk toward the gas station.  There wasn't much stock in the shop, and no clerk in sight.  He left and ran up the crumbling concrete steps of the library.  Poking his head inside, the Immortal was immediately assaulted by the smell of mildew.  Pushing the door all the way open, he stepped in.

Rotting planks creaked ominously underfoot.  The books were still here.  At the back, sunlight filtered through windows covered with green mold, dimly illuminating the stacks.  He started as a mouse skittered off into the shadows that gathered in the room's far corners.

Someone had camped here for a time; the floor was covered with refuse, dead leaves and discarded books.  A scorched metal wastebasket still held the charred remains of Keats, Keller, Kemp.  Kneeling,  Methos picked up Keller.  It fell apart in his hand.   Heart sinking at the ruin, he went into the stacks and found that mice had been busy there.  He pulled out four books before he found one still readable.

Sudden pain made him drop it and grab at the shelf to stay upright.  He swore,  sweat popping out on his brow.  It seemed the Hunter was finished with her business.  Retrieving the book, the Immortal ran.  She was standing by the car, pale and angry.

"Sorry," he said breathlessly.  "Got bored."

The anger faded into curiosity.  "What's that?"

"A book."  He brandished it. "Ever read one?"

"No," she replied candidly.  "Reading print is slow, clumsy and vulnerable to inaccuracies."

"You don't know how to read?"

"Why should I, when I can do a neural download?"

"Download?"

She motioned him impatiently into the car.  "I forget you've been, as you say, out of circulation.  There's no need to process data by staring at symbols.  It's fed directly into the computer which distills it and re-arranges the appropriate synapses . . ."

"Gods!"  Methos was appalled.  "‘Distill?'  You've never read works in the actual words they were written?  Does everyone do this -- neural thing now?"

She backed the car into the street and shook her head.  "Of course."

"So what have you downloaded?  Shakespeare?  Confucius?  Clancy?  Who decides what's appropriate?"

"The Department."

"Ah, the saintly Department.  Haven't you ever wondered what they're not telling you?"

The Hunter took her eyes off the road for a second, green eyes narrowed, arrested.  He watched a curious flicker move over her face.  She turned back to the road. "No," she said.

Chapter Six

An old hotel stood at the end of Eastlake.  Gytha booked a room at the front, near the side stairs.  A quick glance at the registrar showed only a handful of other signatures.  Most folk didn't go much further east.  There was nothing there but mountains and the Old Dem.  Fortunately, she'd not yet left civilization behind.  She called Dez and left the number.

The Immortal was hungry, casting wistful glances toward a cafe off the lobby.  She went to have a look.  It was small, and being long after normal dinner hours, almost empty.  There was only one other way in or out, and that was through the kitchen.

A trucker watched with open curiosity as the Hunter and her tall escort slid into a booth. The waitress appeared, making Gytha uneasy with her frequent glances at Methos before the Hunter realized the woman was flirting!  Oblivious, the Immortal was riveted by the paltry selection of dishes on the menu.  When the girl asked what he wanted, he lifted his eyes and smiled at her.

It was a nice smile.  For a moment, the Hunter was shaken by a sense of loss.  Such a smile held great power, could charm, disarm. . .

. . .and conceal treachery.

Dinner came.  They ate in silence.  The service was overwhelming.  Methos, who had ordered a beanburger and fries -- "as greasy as possible, please?" -- had his water glass refilled after each sip.   When the girl asked him for the fifth time how his burger was, Gytha was relieved to see the hotel clerk motioning at her from the door.  At last!

"I've got some calls to make." Gytha pushed her card across the table at the Immie. "Shall we try again?  Settle up, bring the bags to the room and wait for me there."

He nodded, wincing when she gave him a warning twinge.

As she'd hoped,  Dez was on the phone.  "Well?"

"That sample you brought me?"

"Yes?" Impatiently.

"It's male, mid-forties, blah-blah - and there were . . .deviations.

Gytha was frozen for a moment, receiver to her ear.  "Are you certain?"

"Absolutely.  Now that doesn't necessarily mean . . ."

"The hell is doesn't!  They were ready for a Hunter!"

"Didn't sound like that to me."

"One of them got away.   There would have been more, too, if the Immie hadn't jumped in."

"Huh.  You gonna report this?"

"Hell, yes.  I may need back up.  Thanks, Dez."

"No problem.  You watch your back."

This place had to have more than one phone -- one a bit more private.  She peered into the cafe.  Methos was starting on another burger, the waitress hovering.

When queried, the clerk admitted to a private phone in the back office.  He refused her request to use it, whereupon she brought out her ID.  Suddenly all cooperation, the man led her quickly through a curtain behind the desk.  There was a small office tucked under the stairs, windowless and smelling of damp-rot.  She dismissed him and checked once more on her prisoner.  The controller signal was strong.  Probably starting in on his third burger.  She would have to remember to demand an increase in her per diem.

Gytha pulled Lis from her side-satchel and plugged in.  The phone line was only marginally better than the public line in the lobby, signal fading in and out.  Lis was incredulous.

[You'll likely find worse before this job is through.  Just do the best you can.]

As the Hunter expected, Lucas was frantic.

[WHERE THE FUCKING HELL HAVE YOU . . .?]

[Shut up, Lucas.  We have a problem.]

["No shit - you were supposed to . . .]

She interrupted him with the story of the attack.  Afterwards, he was silent for a time.  Then:

[Where'd you get the sample tested?]

[An independent testing facility.  Lucas, he was another Hunter -- it looks like one of the Hun line.  Am I to assume we have a Conflict of Interest situation?]

Lucas didn't answer her question.  [This facility - what's its name?]

[No deal, Lucas.  It's part of my Option network.]  She ignored his annoyance.  [It's policy, damn it!]

Gytha waited for another long stretch of time.  Again, she checked on Methos, and, again, found his signal nearby.  Lucas returned finally.

[You're right.  I've talked to the Commander.  He commends your actions and says to hold for a new route east.]

She waited, bored, while Lucas scrambled.   Conflict of Interest contracts were rare, but legal.  Strict rules governed them and, once a CoI was identified, the data flow between divisions stopped.  Who would they send next, she wondered?  Another Hun?  One of the newer groups?  Her adversary was almost certainly Riminey Corp.  Maybe she'd have Dez do some research -- find out which Hunters they favored these days.

In short order, the new route information downloaded.  Gytha hung up, returning Lis to her case.  She considered pushing on, driving through the night, but when she stepped out into the lobby, she saw Methos half-way up the stairs, bags in each hand.  She passed him and unlocked the room.

There were two beds.  Methos returned her card and looked hopefully at the far one.  She nodded and he sat down on it, shrugging out of his coat.  Then, kicking off his shoes, he lay back, bunching the pillows under his head.  Gytha dug into her bag and found the cuffs.

He looked as if he would protest, but swallowed the words and held out his arm.  Long fingers clenched briefly as the steel locked into place, but when she looked into his face, it was expressionless.  She returned to her own bed and shrugged out of Lis' case.  Methos reached awkwardly down and retrieved his book from his overcoat pocket.  The springs of his mattress creaked as he looked for a comfortable position.

It had been a hellish day.  Tension ran through her body like hot wires.  She could feel Lis trying to compensate for rising corticosteroid levels.  There was trank, but not with the Immie an arm's length away.

"What are you reading?" she asked finally.

He was startled, looking up.  "Thomas Malory - . . .Le Morte D'Arthur."

"That King Arthur you were taking about?"

Methos nodded.

"What was so great about him?"

The Immortal shrugged.  "This book is folklore, really.  Arthur was reputedly king of the Britons. He ushered in the Age of Chivalry, if you believe in such things.  There's lots of violence, betrayal, love, magic . . ."

"And reading this is pleasurable?"

"Actually, I prefer Crichton but Malory is OK -- dead wrong, but a good storyteller.  Would you like to hear something?"

She shrugged, pretending indifference.  His eyes gleamed, but he turned a few pages back toward the beginning.  When he began to read, it took a moment for her to get into the rhythm.  He talked of a great warrior leading his people against a powerful enemy, but between his voice and the words, images began to fill her mind.
 

 "Then went into Wales with his warrior force,
 Swung to the south with his swift hounds
 To hunt the hart in the high country
 Of Glamorgan merrily, their mood ever joyful.
 There he set up a city with consent of his lords
 Called Caerleon, with well-crafted walls,
 Beside the splendid river that sweeps by;
 There for battles abroad he could embark at will.

"Stop!" she cried.

Methos faltered and was silent.  Her heart pounded.  For all their beauty, the images brought dark tendrils of fear.  She ignored his bewildered look, turning her back on him, shaken by unexpected direction of her thoughts.  How easy it was to drop her guard with that voice caressing her ear.  Gytha thought of the waitress, the warmth in her eyes as she took Methos' order.  Dangerous.  Dangerous.  She reached for Lis and plugged in.

[Music!] she commanded [and raise my serotonin level!].  With the safe strains of Sinatra in her head, she drifted off to sleep.

"Who's that?"

Duncan threw the suitcases down and looked over at Mike.  She was leaning over the table and had his wallet.

"It was just sitting here!" she retorted when he raised his eyebrows.  "She's pretty.  Who is she?"

Deftly, the Highlander removed the wallet from those slim, nosy little fingers, but the sight of Tess suddenly caught and held him.  He didn't often look at the pictures these days.  The other two girls sidled over, peering around him to see.

"Someone I loved very much," he said finally.  "She died."

"I'm sorry," Joan said and slipped her arm into his. Even Gabe, who was trying to distance himself from his snooping siblings, came over to have a look.  "Was she your wife?"

"Her name was Tess and no, I could never talk her into it."  He smiled sadly.  It always hurt, a precious ache that never quite went away.   Flipping the plastic sleeve, his smile brightened.

"What's her name?"

"This is Amanda, a very, very old friend."

"She looks like a troublemaker," observed Joanie.

"Very perceptive," Duncan grinned, snapping the wallet shut and putting it safely back in his pocket.  "Now -- weren't you all supposed to be packing?"

They were gone in a flurry of giggles, pushing and skipping.  The house rang with their excitement as new clothes were stuffed into new bags and the prospect of going "home" loomed.  They were engaging children, obviously raised by strict, but loving guardians.  Bruised, but not crushed by their experiences, they brought lively sunshine into MacLeod's life.  He was tempted - so tempted - to simply spirit them into the new wilderness and finish raising them himself.  Whenever he got those thoughts, however, he remembered Ritchie, and the weak moment passed.

Alone for the moment in his study, MacLeod took his strong-box from the safe and lifted its lid.  Inside were a variety of odd items, one of which was a leather notebook filled with closely- written, yellowed pages.

It had been almost thirty years since he'd looked at these names.   He reached for the phone - - and it rang.

"Duncan MacLeod?"

The Highlander went very still, stomach tightening.  There was a short silence, then the voice continued uncertainly:  "Sir, the Avon flows gently."

"And the Afton flows sweetly  - - who is this?"

Sounding equally stunned, the voice replied: "Avery Anderson, sir.  Sergeant Avery Anderson, Fifth Division, Colorado Militia.  I know this may sound strange, sir, but I have a message for you."

"From who?"  Gods, the Afton pass-phrase.  He hadn't used it since the war.

"I've never heard of him, sir, but he knew the old passwords, dialed in on one of the old lines.  Christ - most of them were disconnected ages ago!"

"Who was it?"

"He said his name was Adam Pierson and that you were to beware his return."

For a moment, MacLeod couldn't breathe.  There was a rushing in his ears.

"Where was the call from?"

"We don't know, sir.  The caller didn't stay on the line long enough to get a trace.  We're looking into it now.  Mr. MacLeod, my superiors want to know who this Pierson is and what he wants with you."

The Highlander said nothing.  His mind raced.  "How did you know where to call me?" he demanded, the least of his questions.  There was answering silence.  Duncan hung up and stared at the phone as it rang again.  Turning his back on it, he went to find the children.

"Grab your stuff," he told Gabe shortly.  "We're leaving."

"Sir?"

"You can come with me now, or stay - it's up to you."

Michaela jumped up, Joan right behind and raced to their bedrooms.  Within minutes, he had the entire crew assembled, baggage in hand, faces pale but eyes fixed trustingly upon him.  He herded them out and somehow, in the ensuing confusion of packing bags in the boot and children in the seats, they were on their way.

A howl rose from the mob, high, keening, filled with bloodlust.  It drowned out the pounding of his heart.  Methos caught his breath as his guards were pushed against him in the surge of the angry crowd; hands clawed past the burly soldiers, snatching at his hair, his clothes.  A fingernail raked across his face.  Fear closed his throat, sent his heart racing.

Ahead were the courthouse steps and another gauntlet - the press, this time.  Methos saw the forest of microphone booms and lights and shrank further into his fragile envelope of safety.  There was gunfire.  For a moment, he was certain they were shooting at him, but the crowd fell back, roaring their disappointment, and he was stumbling up the broad, marble steps.

Tall doors swung open, the deafening fury of the mob followed him through, past walls of reporters with flashbulbs blazing.  There was no escape, hemmed as he was on all sides.  Methos, who had spent millennia fading into the woodwork, was almost sick with the horror of it.  There was nothing to do but keep going, hold his face still as their hatred washed over him, walk steadily and straight toward the courtroom where his fate was already decided.

More doors banged open.  A sea of faces, all hostile, turned as he started down the aisle.  It seemed to go on forever, whispers filling the air.  Ahead, the judge was nearly invisible behind his towering desk.

Suddenly Methos was in the dock and he could hear the crowd outside the building.  They were pounding against the stone walls, the beating of their fists in rhythm with a steady chant ringing over the courtroom: "Guilty!  Guilty!"

He tried to shout above the din.  Overhead, a shadow fell across the dock as the judge looked down.  Dark hair fell around a familiar, welcome face.

Duncan!" he cried gladly, taking a step forward.  But his friend's mouth twisted into a cruel smile.   The guards pushed him back.  "Duncan?"

A blow came out of nowhere and knocked the name from his lips.  The courtroom was gone and he was back in Winterborne.  Strong hands pushed him to his knees.  Heavy boots knocked the breath from him.  Methos was shaking, horror, rage and desolation clogging his throat.

"Look at me!" It was the guttural voice of his jailer, but when Methos lifted his head, it was MacLeod's face he saw.  Another blow.  Methos closed his eyes tightly, tears burning behind the lids.  Duncan?  Why?  What have I done?

"Killer!" came the angry accusation from a thousand throats, "Murderer!  Traitor!"

"No!  I'm not!  Not anymore! Duncan, you know that!"

"You're scum," Duncan snarled.  The Highlander's hands were on him, forcing his head back down.

 Misery welled and despair so profound that, for a moment, the Immortal was shaken by it.  He heard the ominous whisper of steel leaving its sheathe, swinging through the air . . .

"IMMIE!"

Abruptly, Methos was awake, staring through wet eyes at a woman's face above him, a dark cloud of hair loose around her shoulders.  His breathing slowed; cold sweat dried on his body.  It was dawn.

"Bad dreams?"  Her mocking smile dismissed his pain.  Methos, heartsick, turned away from her.  He waited, curled on the edge of the mattress while she disappeared into the bathroom, and watched as the windows brightened behind their blinds, until his heartbeat returned to normal and the nightmare had faded.

The Hunter was in a chancy mood, the closest he'd seen to real irritability, snapping at him for taking too long in the shower, curtly refusing a diffident request for breakfast. Perhaps she, too, had slept poorly.  She put him behind the wheel when they left, the air close and heavy with thunder.

He drove into the valley, through fields whose irrigation ditches served as flood drainage since the El Nino years began.   Occasionally, they swept past agricultural compounds - walled, concrete barracks that housed small armies of laborers.   In the rear view mirror, he saw a line of rain behind them.

Gytha said nothing at all, face distant, plugged into that damned box.  They came up on a caravan of trucks carrying tomatoes.  A small boy in tattered overalls hung onto the back of the last vehicle, grinning from ear to ear.  He waved and shouted at them as Methos sped past.

"Left," she said, frowning and touching the cable connecting her with her computer.  He turned.  Ahead was a bridge and another flatbed, this one loaded with shivering workers. It swerved without warning.  Methos shouted.  The huddled figures suddenly threw aside their blankets.  Instinct made him twist the wheel to the left as bullets sprayed the car.  Too late, he saw the ravine alongside the road and tried to get the car back on the pavement.  The wheels caught, spun, and ground saturated from the recent rains crumbled.

There was a long, bewildering period of disorientation, of pain and confusion and loud noise.  He thought he might be dying again.  Then his wits returned and he pushed open the door, squirming out, tumbling headlong over rocks and weeds to the creek at the bottom of the ravine.

Head spinning, he lay half in, half out of brackish water.  A shadow fell over him.  Gytha, face bloody,  said: "Get up!"

Afraid of the controller, he did as she ordered, reeling while the world tilted and rocked.

"Damn!" he heard and then the car exploded in a fury of white light and fire.  They ran, stumbling through  marsh, bits of red hot metal and melting globs of plastic raining around them.  There were shouts overhead along the edge of the ravine.  A bullet splatted in the mud at his feet.

"Over here!"  He saw the Hunter further ahead where the stream branched, becoming two.  He bolted after her, catching her up.  There was an ugly gash on the side of her head and she held one arm against her side.

"You're hurt."

She shrugged, then gasped.  "Shut up and move."

This time, she sent, confirming that she still could.  He gritted his teeth and stumbled on.  The ravine ended. They ran across a field and into another ditch.  Threatening all morning, the rain finally caught up to them, a soft, steady downpour that added to Methos' discomfort, but would likely confound the search.

The Hunter slipped and went to hands and knees.  She was very white, but when he reached to help her up, she knocked his hands away and was so wild-eyed that, for a moment, he was frightened.

"Easy!" He held his hands open and empty of threat.  "I'm not suicidal, damn it!"

She nodded, falling against the embankment.  "Look up there.  Tell me what you see."

Rain-misted fields, freshly plowed and planted, spread in all directions.  They were nearer to the valley's end -- he could see green hills climbing into cloud.  To the left, perhaps a quarter mile away, he made out the walls of a farm compound.

"Is there a satellite dish?"

"Yes."

"We're going."

In spite of her injuries, she was out of the ditch quickly.  He had another glimpse of her head wound and his stomach turned.  Wires and small bits of metal protruded from the tissue.

The satellite dish sat outside the compound by a small shack.  Gytha sent Methos ahead to check it out.  There was no one in sight; the shack was empty.  They threw the bags on the floor and she fell back against the wall.  She took out her computer.  He hid a faint, mocking smile when she realized she couldn't attach the cable.  He waited for an explosion of rage, but it never came.

"Damn," she said mildly.  Setting it aside, she pulled the handcuffs off her belt.

"You could let me help you with that," he said, pointing to her head.

"No."

She fastened him to one of the shack's steel support poles and disappeared outside with a bag.  Methos swore and shook the pole.  It wasn't going anywhere - not without bringing the entire shack down around his ears.  He banged it with his fist and then, because there was little else to do, he settled cross-legged beside it.

Rain on the metal roof filled the hut with sound.  Gytha was back in a few minutes, shaky and the color of ash.  Curling up in the corner, well out of his reach, she wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes.  One side of her face was covered with blood.  He realized suddenly that she might die and panic shot through him.

The minutes dragged into hours.  Methos worked doggedly at his bonds, with little result beyond bruising his wrists.  The woman had not moved except, occasionally, to shudder.  The rain stopped.  Inside the hut, the air began to heat.  Finally, he heard voices drifting over the fields.  They grew louder and, suddenly, Methos felt another Immortal.  Then the door opened.

Two men and a woman pushed into the shed.  The men wore uniforms - one military, the second - the Immortal - wore prison garb.  The woman was young, very thin, a fez parked on her shaved head.  She pushed past the men and dropped to her knees beside the Hunter.  Gytha came to life unexpectedly, pushing her back with such violence that the newcomer literally fell backwards.  Then a faint, querulous : "Dez?"

"Yeah.  Yeah, it's me.  Take it easy.  Lemme get your ID."

"No . . ."  Gytha tried to push the girl away again, but her strength failed.  The girl found the small portfolio and handed it to the uniformed guard.  The Immortal had not taken his eyes from Methos.

"I'll have a truck sent, Dr. Desmond.  Our medical facilities are quite complete."

"You got a cyber surgeon?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Who's the Immortal?"  The guard asked.

"Methos," Gytha replied clearly.

"Right,"sneered Methos, rattling his handcuffs against the pole.  "That's me.  World's oldest Immortal."

The guard gave her an uncertain look, but she was done, folding quietly forward, caught at the last minute by the eccentric Dr. Desmond.  At an order from the guard, the uniformed Immortal stepped forward and lifted her effortlessly.  With another sideways glance at Methos, he strode from the shed.

Whether or not they believed Gytha's claim, no one was taking chances.  Under the large barrel of the guard's gun, Methos was detached from the pole and sent stumbling into the sunlight.  A transport waited across the field.  He was locked into the back with the other Immortal.  That man looked at him with open curiosity.

"Are you really Methos?"

The denial stuck on his lips, hearing the hope in the other's voice.   "What difference would it make if I was?" he replied finally.

"They said you were dead -- executed."

So, that's why they'd buried him alive.   Methos closed his eyes, trying to find a more comfortable spot in what was essentially a boot with a window.  The sensation of another Immortal presence was doing odd things to his head, sending prickles over his skin.

"What's your story?" Methos asked.

The other shrugged.  He was a large man, ruddy-faced, skull as bare as the Hunter's friend, hands stained from working in the earth.  "Name's Jeff and there ain't much to tell.  Took my first head fifty years ago -- spent the last twenty-eight working the fields for AGS."  He jerked his head to the left.  Through the window, Methos saw the concrete compound, the acres of farmland sweeping away in all directions.  There were men in gray scattered across the greening land, moving around a massive piece of machinery that rolled ponderously up and down.

"How many other Immortals are here?"

"None.  There was one, but they took her.  They'll come for me, too, I reckon."

"Who?"

"I dunno who they are -- scientists, I guess.  I've heard they use us for experiments."

"What sort of experiments?"

But Jeff couldn't tell him that.

The transport bumped and rolled along rough roads toward the compound.  Through the gate, past armed guards and gray-suited prisoners, they stopped in front of a long, low building faced with glass.  There was a bit of a yard around it and more guards standing at its door.

"Good luck," the Immortal said in a low voice, then, under the watchful eyes of a small guard patrol, hurried away, leaving Methos alone among the mortals once more.

He stood at the edge of the dream tonight.  No matter how she tried to bring him into focus, he would not come.  Instead, he turned and led her into the bright lights and shouting.  She resisted, of course, hating this, knowing how it would end.  She went through the same motions, running, rolling, twisting aside to avoid the hail of bullets -- and always, always, she saw him go down.  Saw the blood running across the floor, his, hers, Ramses, Aton, Isis . . .  The same horror cycling again and again, beating against her brain, insisting -- you know what to do!  But she didn't, and until she did, they would always be there, beckoning her into death.

Gabe sat beside him as MacLeod drove slowly from elegant, residential streets into the familiar desolation of the abandoned industrial district.  The boy said nothing.  His hands on the armrest were rigid.  The girls, uncharacteristically silent, sat behind them, looking anxiously through the windows until they cleared the industrial district and were on highway.

Duncan saw no one in the mirror.  Still, he knew they were there, somewhere.  Damn!  Watchers!  And they'd promised after Joe died that he would be left alone.  Stepping on the accelerator, MacLeod headed for the southern desert.  They were uncomfortably visible out here, but so was any pursuit

"Duncan?  Sir?"

MacLeod eased back a bit, forced himself to relax.

"What's going on?  It -- it isn't the gang, is it?"

Gabe's ready-made explanation was tempting.  MacLeod shook his head.  "Not your gang, anyway.  Some old business of mine.  Don't worry about it."

He'd watched the television coverage of Methos' trial, seen the video recording of the execution -- a beheading and a Quickening that had gone to waste inside a containment chamber.  For years afterwards, MacLeod had been unable to shake those hideous images.  Five millennia of experience, wit and intellect banished from the world in seconds, and for no other reason than jealous fear.  The call had to be a fake.

Gradually, as miles stretched behind them and the way stayed clear, his mood lightened.  If it was a trick, it would fail.  His car purred smoothly through the mountainous landscape, special suspension system holding its own against the crumbling road.  Most of the towns had long since fallen into ruin, but here and there, small clusters of humanity still clung stubbornly to the inhospitable land.

They crossed into Arizona near noon.  In a small town just the other side of the border, they stopped and had lunch in the cafe of a small hotel.  Eating out was a high treat, it seemed, with the kids spending some time pouring over the menu, debating the merits of hamburgers versus chicken fried steak.  The waitress, a motherly woman of late middle age, smiled indulgently and remarked that they were good kids, not like some nowadays.

In the car again, Duncan gently pried more information from his charges, trying to find out what they remembered of their earliest childhood.  Not much, as it happened.  Gabe alone remembered the base where his parents had been stationed, but his memories were vague and fragmented, exactly what one might expect from a toddler.  By the time the triplets appeared, Sam Featherstone had been discharged from the militia and the family had moved to Texas

There, they'd lived an isolated life.  The children had been home-schooled.  The family went to town together for church, but otherwise, only the parents left the house.  Furthermore, Sam had been in the process of teaching the young, someday Immortals the skills vital to their future survival.  Gabe hadn't recognize it as such, but Duncan knew that staves and gymnastics were excellent precursors to swordplay.

His questions soon had the children reminiscing and the Highlander began to get the impression of a loving, close-knit family.  They spoke of long summer afternoons playing tag in the front yard, drinking lemonade and chasing butterflies.  Their big, lazy Labrador Retriever was fondly discussed, as were all the cows, pigs and chickens, each of which apparently had its own name and personality.

"Why did you leave?" Duncan asked finally.  "You would have been safer there than Vegas, for god's sake!"

"Dad said folks would hear there was only kids living out there," Michaela replied, "and they'd come to take the farm away -- maybe kill us for it. He said we should just take what we could and leave.  So we did."

Duncan had already determined there were no known relatives, even so, it seemed cold advice from otherwise perfect parents.

As the sun slid behind the mountains, Duncan started looking for a place to stay.  This, too, was apparently a High Treat.

"Look for someplace with a pool!"  cried Michaela

"And a pop machine," Therese added.  "With real Coke."

Duncan slanted a look at Gabe who was trying to frown warnings at his sisters while containing his own excitement.

"What do you want?" Duncan asked him.

"I, uh, oh, nothin'." He shrugged, the spoiled his act by adding: "Maybe a TV?"

A suitable palace was found within the hour in a town bearing the unprepossessing name of Dead Horse Gulch.  The pool was small and the water somewhat murky.  There was a pop machine (although, alas, no Coca Cola) and the two small, connecting bedrooms did have televisions.  It was all the kids could do to contain themselves long enough to get the bags into the rooms before they were pounding noisily down the stairs for a swim.

When they were gone, Duncan paid a visit to the lobby.  The pool was visible through the picture windows.  Keeping an eye on the kids, Duncan pulled the little black book from his pocket and, dropping in some coins, dialed.  The connection took forever to go through; he had almost given up when it began to ring and, moments later a familiar voice said: "Danielson."

"Hullo, Rory.  Nice to see you're still around."

There was a pause, then: "Who is this?"

"You don't recognize my voice?  I'm crushed." MacLeod grinned into the receiver.  "It's MacLeod."

Another long pause, then: "This is Philip Danielson."

"Phil?" Duncan remembered a small boy.

"Duncan MacLeod?"  The voice shook slightly.  "Jesus Christ!  It's true!  You are still alive.  I . . .I'm sorry to inform you - my father died ten years ago.  Heart attack.  Jesus.  Duncan MacLeod!"

"I need a favor," Duncan said.

"Hell, yes.  Sure - I mean. . . God."

"I need any information you have on Methos -- starting from the date of his trial.  I'd like any rumors you've got that he survived."

There was another silence, and suddenly, Duncan heard the faint click.  Hair rose on the back of his neck:  "Gotta go," he said abruptly.  "I'll call you back in a couple of days."

The Highlander hung up on Phil's protestations.  For a moment, he simply stared at the phone.  Maybe he was just being paranoid.  He considered packing the kids up and heading out right now, but he hadn't been on the line long enough for the call to be traced.  Still, the feeling sat heavily on him.  Walking thoughtfully out to the pool, he resolved to be on the road by dawn.

Gytha woke, head aching, weak and curiously -- empty.  Slowly, she looked around, saw a chrome rail and, past that, a window that looked out onto a concrete wall.  Turning her head the other way showed her Dez's familiar figure dozing in a vinyl armchair.

"Dez!"

The girl started awake, fez slipping over the bridge of her nose.  She jammed the thing back in place and glowered at the Hunter.

"What the hell's going on with you?" she demanded.

"How long -- have we been here?"

"About six hours.  Hey!"  Dez leapt from the chair and pushed her back into the pillows.  "You've got a fractured femur, five cracked ribs, numerous levels of concussion, and a bruised liver!"

"Where's the Immie?"

"In lock up.  Relax, willya?"

Frustrated at how slowly her body responded to her commands, Gytha pointed toward the large satchel on the table beside the bed.  Dez nodded.

"Yeah -- the drugs you wanted.  Well, most of 'em anyway.  I suppose you'll want to start the growth stims?"

She nodded.  Muttering, the girl rummaged in the bag and brought out the injectors.  "The doc here has done what he can about repairing some of the vascular damage."  Dez pointed at her temple.

"Can't hear Lis. . ."

"I'm not surprised.  In fact, I'll bet you're going to find other things wrong.  Can you run an internal diagnostic?"

Gytha formed the command in her mind.  Response was sluggish, but at least, there was response.  Dez was right - there were blank places. Shit.

"What's the damage?"

"The standard transceiver is down."   It meant Central couldn't contact her online -- not all bad, considering the circumstances.  It also meant she wouldn't be able to link with Lis. That was not acceptable.  "Can you fix it?"

Dez laughed.  "No way.  Not your hardware."

"Damn it, Dez, I have to be able to link."

"Call your bosses on the phone," the girl retorted.  "They'll send someone for you and use real cybersurgeons."

"I can't.  They're running a CoI."

Dez gave her a long, blank stare.  "That's fucked up," was her final comment.   It took a moment, then: "Right.  What else is wrong?"

"Something called P19 is down.  I can't remember what that is."

"P19?"  Dez was equally mystified.  "I've never heard of it."

"The hell you haven't.  Think!"

"OK, I remember hearing something a long time ago about a P series.  It was some kind of behavioral mod circuit, or maybe it regulated vascular motility - shit, I dunno.  Don't you have a secondary transceiver?"

"Yes, but it's only installed for local.  Full access was to be my "reward" for a job well done.  It needs hardware adjustment to increase the frequency ranges.  Right now, I can only link to the Immie."

"I could try looking P19 up on the web," Dez said finally, "but I swear I haven't a clue."

"Great."  Gytha's head continued to ache.  There was no way to get Lis to release endorphins.  "Does this infirmary have analgesics?"

"Yeah.  Here."  Dez shoveled a couple injectors at her.  "Anything else missing?"

"No.  Not that I can turn up.  Listen, Dez -- we're compromised by being here and the sooner we get out the better.   What kind of vehicle do you have?"

"RV."

"Good.  Get the Immie and let's go."

"Go where?  Someone's after you, in case you haven't noticed, someone in the *Department* for gates' sake!"

"It's a CoI and I'm on Option, Dez, nothing else has changed.  I still have to carry out my mission. It's inconvenient and slow, but an RV should work just fine."

"Hey, you're not taking my RV!  Just a gates' damned . . ."

"You're my Option.  You contracted, remember?"

"But that's -- I never thought -- oh, SHIT!"

Gytha waited patiently while the tech ranted around the room, kicking furniture, banging the walls.  A guard ran in, but she waved him away.  Finally, after five minutes of tantrum, Dez ran out of expletives and energy.  She fell into the chair and stared at Gytha disconsolately.

"It's going to be fine, Dez.  Just think of this as a -- an adventure, a real-world adventure!"

"I don't like the idea of real world death or real world prison," the girl grated  "And we don't know how damaged your systems really are!  What if you go psycho on me?  This is insane, Gytha!  You should go back immediately."

Part of her agreed.  She didn't know what would happen without the link.  She could manually access Lis' databases, but what about the biological systems that were usually regulated by the computer?  There was a whole pharmacopeia of powerful, psychoactive substances manufactured by her own body that were now completely beyond her conscious control.  It was a disturbing realization.

"Get the Immie," she repeated. "And while you're at it, kindly reflect upon the terms of the contract you signed."

The protest she expected never came.  Dez, in fact, was starting to look interested.  Without another word, the girl trotted off.  Gytha levied herself around to sit with her legs dangling over the side of the bed.  Her head spun at the change in position, but she could feel the stims working.  Already she could move the fingers of her hitherto useless left hand.  Taking a deep breath no longer brought the stabbing pain of that nightmare run through the rain.  Thank Gates for stims!

Walking was chancy, but she made it to the closet and got her bag.  Lis was still there - -  a comforting sight in spite of being reduced to a simple PC.  She slid the bag into place, caught her breath as newly healed ribs protested.  Touching the dressing on her head she winced at the tenderness.

Dez' return was accompanied by an irritated guard captain.  Gytha searched her foggy memory and came up with a name - Bates.  The man had a couple subordinates at his heels and a very young, anxious doctor.

"Major - this is not wise!  We've contacted your Department and they have people on the way.  You are in no condition to go anywhere."

"Sorry, Sergeant."  She looked past him to Dez.  "Is he ready?"

Dez nodded, grinning at the angry sergeant.

"Where's the vehicle?"

"I got a transport out front," Dez replied.

"Major . . ."

"Are you prepared to use force to stop me?"

"Of course not, but. . ."

"Than move."  She pushed past him.  "Go!" The Immie was in the corridor, under guard.  Gytha snapped her fingers at them and they hurried the prisoner after her.  No one attempted to stop them, although along the corridor and through the various security doors, men watched in astonishment as they hurried by.  At the curb, a zip was parked between two trucks.  She frowned.

"I didn't want to bring the RV over these shitty roads," Dez explained defensively.

In practical terms, zips were two-seaters, so the Immie got shoved into the narrow space behind them.  Gytha could feel his breath on the nape of her neck.  Dez was off like a rocket, careening around the drive and out onto rough, patched pavement.

"Make sure no one follows," the Hunter instructed.

"Ok."  Grinning, now fully committed, the mercurial tech hit the accelerator.  Methos swore softly as a particularly large bump threw him against the roof.

The RV, as promised, was parked in a rest area alongside the main highway.  Aside from a forest of antennae, satellite dishes and transmission rods on the top, it appeared ordinary enough.  Inside, it was a mess and the little dining area had been turned into a computer center.  Gytha unlocked Methos' cuffs and hooked them on her belt.  Dez clambered into the driver's seat and fired up the solars.   "Where are we going?"

"East."

The ungainly vehicle lurched forward, cutting off a trucker who blasted his horn and shook a fist.  Gytha pulled the curtains shut and sat down opposite the Immie.   Even with the stims in her system, strength was slow to return.  She fell back against the cushioned wall and closed her eyes.

"How much do they pay you to do this?"  Methos asked

"Not enough."

"Did you lose someone to the virus?"

"I don't know."

There was silence.  Gytha opened her eyes to find him staring at her, baffled.  "My life started at the moment I became a Hunter.  What went before is irrelevant."

"You willingly gave them your memories?  Your mind?  Your self?"  The incredulity in his voice irritated her.  "You are a good little slave, aren't you?  Only do what they tell you, learn what they tell you, feel what they tell you . . ."

She activated the controller before thinking and his gaunt face twisted.  "Hurting me won't change the facts," he continued defiantly.  "What have you lost in becoming a CBNA weapon?  Don't you even wonder?"

"The world needs protection against your kind."

"Bullshit."  He laid his hands on the table.  The marks of the cuffs were still faintly visible.  "How am I a threat to you, Gytha?  Did you know I was one who found Vencken, that it was MacLeod who took his head?"

"Why did he do it?"

Methos' eyes narrowed.  He looked startled.   "Vencken was afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of you -- of mortals."

"Us?  Why?"

He laughed bitterly.  "This must be more of the history that's not necessary for you to know.  After our existence became common knowledge, we were attacked on all sides.  There were laws passed that  isolated us, robbed of us of the rights you mortals enjoyed.  We were the new pariahs - victims of mob attacks, blatant discrimination.  There was even an attempt to force us to wear a mark identifying what we were.  Genocide loomed, but it was all right because we weren't ‘human.'  Vencken was a Jew - had spent the second world war in a concentration camp.  Terrified that history was repeating itself, he unleashed the kronos virus."

"Order must be preserved," Gytha pointed out.

"At what cost?" he flung back at her, eyes ablaze.  "Tyranny?  Murder?"

Gytha was suddenly, blindly, angry.  She hit the controller again.  Through the red haze of fury she heard him screaming, felt the RV lurch wildly.

"Gytha!  Damn it!  Gytha!"

Dez's shouting and some tiny vestige of reason hauled her back from the brink.  She released the control.  Her vision cleared and she saw the girl's face close to hers, eyes wide and scared.  Methos was on the floor, unmoving.  Gates!  She'd hit him with the lethal charge.  Shaken by her loss of control, Gytha got unsteadily to her feet, stepping over the Immortal's lifeless body and went to the small sink.  Dez finally took the glass from her trembling hand and filled it, helping her drink.  The rage faded, leaving her tired and queasy.

The Immortal gasped back to life.  He flinched away as she stepped toward him.

"Over there."  Her voice was hoarse and none too steady.  She pointed to the seat above him.  He obeyed without hesitation, saying nothing as she cuffed him to it.  Then, to Dez: "I'm going to get some sleep.  Head south and wake me if anything even looks weird."

Chapter Nine

Tonight, she almost saw his face.  Even his body was clearer, tall and lean, moving with characteristic grace.  It his face she wanted to see and this time, when she tried to walk toward him, he didn't turn and walk away.  He waited, and although his features still lay in deep shadow, she caught a sense of familiarity.  Almost afraid, she extended her hand, and he took it.  Now he turned and started toward the light.  She dug in her heels, screaming soundlessly at him to stay here where it was safe and dark.  He could not.  Again, the lights burst around her, the bullets ripped through flesh, shattered bone and the blood --- gods, the blood.  It never, ever stopped flowing.