"I'm hungry!"  Mike sat down at the side of the road and glowered mutinously up at Gabe.  "Let's go back."

The boy held onto his temper. "We can't."

"Why not?  I like Duncan!  He saved us from the Scrums."

"And those people who chased us away from the house," added Therese.  Joan contributed a solemn nod.

"He's Immortal!"

"I don't care."  Mike folded her arms across her chest and scowled ferociously.  "He took care of us -- which is more than I can say for you!  This was a stupid idea!"

Gabe wavered between the urge to slap his sister or burst into tears.  Increasingly, he agreed with the girls.  This was not a good idea.  He looked across the fields -- most of them gone to wild.  In his bag was The Letter, as he'd come to think of it, filled with damning, horrible, unbelievable revelations.  Jesus.   They were Immortals.  He thought about all the mean things he'd said about Immies over the years.  Biting his lip, he turned away.

"Fine.  Sit here if you want," he said.  "I'm going on.  There's a town ahead."

"Maybe.  That other sign said there was a town, too, and it was empty."

Not trusting himself to answer, Gabe turned his back on the girls and started along the dusty asphalt.  Frogs caterwauled in a ditch nearby and a kingfisher shot across the sky, heading for a distant river.  The familiarity of it all tightened his throat so much he could barely swallow.

He'd walked twenty yards when he heard them trudging after him.  Swamped with relief, he slowed, letting them catch up, not pushing it when they wouldn't talk to him.  In silence they came to Mason Run.

Like most towns around here, this was half-ruin.  Houses at the village limits were abandoned, falling in on themselves, but closer to the town's center was fresh paint, neat lawns.  Gabe smelled hamburgers.  A small restaurant stood near a gas station, door open to the morning.  He looked at his sisters, who nodded eagerly.

Gabe had taken some money from MacLeod -- not much.  He'd left a note apologizing.  Not that it excused stealing, of course, but there were the girls to feed and there might be an emergency.

"Always plan for an emergency," Dad said.

In the diner, a tall, heavy man bore down on them, scowling.   Gabe produced a five dollar bill at the demand to prove he could do so.  Mollified, the man gave them menus and retreated to his counter.

"Oooo!  I'm going to have a Reuben sandwich!"  Therese exclaimed.

"I want to go back," Joan announced, sober-faced.  All eyes promptly fixed on his least talkative sister.  He'd hoped the argument was done and his heart sank.  He leaned forward, lowering his voice.

"We can't!  Didn't you hear me?  It's Duncan MacLeod!"

"I don't believe it."  Michaela scowled.  "Duncan MacLeod is dead and anyway, even if he was alive, he's famous!   Why would he want anything to do with us?

"Right!" Gabe pounced.  "He can't be Duncan MacLeod, so he's a liar.  Who wants to hang around  a liar?"

"That's not fair," replied Joan stubbornly.  "If I were Immortal, I'd lie about who I was, too."

The boy's retort was postponed by the return of the waiter.  As they gave their order, Gabe glanced up.  Through the big front window a green van suddenly swung into sight, an identical one following.  He jumped up, sending menus sliding to the floor.

"C'mon!" he hissed, panicked.  The girls, for once, gave him no lip.  Seeing what he saw, they ran after him as he vaulted over the counter and bolted into the kitchen.  The waiter's angry shouts followed them  out the back door.

"Oh, no!  Who are they!" wailed Therese as more vans and jeeps screeched around the building, cutting them off.  Gabe spun around, but uniformed men were everywhere.  He put his arms around his sisters.  They huddled together as the alley became suddenly very still.

A tall, narrow-featured man in black military fatigues pushed through the circle of soldiers.  "Gabriel Featherstone?" He smiled, but the expression did nothing to warm his eyes.  "I'm Gregory Setter.  We're very glad to find you at last."

The Hunter looked very young when she was wasn't dressed like a storm trooper.  Her sleep was heavy, almost drugged.  It would be nice to think he was the reason for her exhaustion, but Methos was too old for such self-deception.  It was more likely that the computer's control over her physiology had been more profound than even Dez had figured.  Curious, he moved aside a lock of hair, revealing what was left of her cable jacks.  The skin had healed cleanly around them; the slim bits of metal might have been part of her bone.  Too damn bad the injuries hadn't disabled the controller.

Gytha stirred and opened her eyes.  She stared at Methos, inscrutable.  Then, to his surprise: "Good morning."

"Good morning."  He smiled and was further rewarded with the first genuine smile he'd ever seen from her.  It didn't last long, but Methos was encouraged.  He stayed curled beneath the sheets, hugging the pillow, watching her as she got up and dressed.  The memory of her skin under his hands, its amazing softness, suddenly imposed itself on the morning.

Forty years since you got laid!  Get a grip!

Gytha left the room.  Methos made no effort to rise, taking advantage of the temporary lull in hostilities.  MacLeod was in the area, was he?.  Methos could only pray that the message he sent got through to the Highlander.

Dez was driving when the Immortal left the bedroom. Gytha sat beside the window, staring out onto the landscape.  Trees, great stretches of meadow, flew past.  Shrugging, Methos picked up Le Morte de Arthur.  It was covered with dust and gravel.  His brows lifted.

"Do Immortals really want to rule over us?" she asked suddenly, not looking at him.

Methos shrugged.  "Some might, I suppose.  Just like some humans would like to rule over other humans."

"But your legends say this is predestined."

"Legends say a lot of things." He pushed the book over to her before he remembered she couldn't read.  "Often, they're allegorical -- the meaning goes beyond the simple recitation of story.    Arthur, for instance, was actually several different men.  Their, er, heroic characteristics have been combined for purposes of advancing the philosophy of chivalry and honor.  But in this case, the actual existence of Arthur is secondary to the idea."

"Why not just simply state what you wish to say?"

"Because literature can unlock our imaginations and allow us to look at things from different angles  -- perhaps to see something that we missed before."

Now she did look at him, doubt clear in her face.  "So how do we know if we're missing something?"

Gods, it was truly happening.  Unquestioning belief in "the Department" was crumbling. Excitement and hope had Methos' pulse racing.  Gytha rubbed her temples, eyes narrowed as if in pain.  "It used to be so simple," she said, more to herself than him.

"Of course it was.  Your Department was feeding you the information.  There was no need for you to think about anything, just receive, process and execute."

The green eyes narrowed further and he tensed, remembering her last attack.  But this time, the anger did not seem directed at him.  She stood up and moved restlessly to the kitchenette and back.

"Is it hard to learn to read?" she asked finally.

Startled, he shook his head.  "Not -- not particularly. . ."

Her jaw tightened.  "Teach me now."

Gytha made respectable progress through the alphabet and by early evening, could identify each letter and the various sounds they represented.  Although impressively bright, she was not the most patient of students.  Several times she reached a frustration level that Methos could feel, quite literally.  On the whole, however, the Hunter was doing much better at impulse control.

They were in Texas when the sun went down.  There was nothing but scrub for miles.  Dez pulled over, announcing petulantly that she wasn't driving another inch.  Gytha, trying to reconcile the inconsistencies of "ie" and "ei," nodded indifferently.  The tech flounced down on the seat beside Methos and then Gytha did look up.  "Don't sit there," she ordered sharply.

"Why not?"  Dez asked, all innocence.

The Hunter opened her mouth, then closed it again.  She sat back and regarded the girl with a hooded smile.  Dez gulped and jumped off the seat as if it were afire.  Mumbling something about a long shower, she vanished into the bathroom.  Gytha looked back down at the computer screen, but her concentration was broken.

"Jealous?"  Methos asked lightly.

Her eyes narrowed on his face and, conditioned now, he braced himself.  The sting never came.

"Certainly not," she said, and returned to her reading.

That night, he taught the Hunter new ways of pleasure.   And when she recovered, for the first time she asked him about his own desires.   He told her, and, once again, Methos was impressed at how quickly she grasped the basics   Later, when they were both too sated to continue with her tutoring, she fell asleep with her head on his shoulder.  Methos lay awake for a long time, conscious of her warmth against him and uncomfortable doubts about his plans.

Her scream wrenched him out of a restless, dream-plagued doze.  Pain overwhelmed him and for a moment, Methos could barely breathe.  It was gone in an instant and he came back to reality to find her lying rigid beside him, tremors racking her.  When he grabbed her flailing arm, the skin under his fingers was hot and dry.

The controller kicked in again.  Hissing, he doubled over, acid roaring through his veins, and was dimly aware that he'd slipped off the bed.  Again - just as unexpectedly, the pain ceased.  Sweating, shaking from reaction, he hauled himself up and sat beside her.   She was making strange sounds, high, keening noises forced through her clenched jaw.  He lifted an eyelid.  Underneath, her eye was rolled up, only the white visible.

"W...what's wrong?"

Methos spun around to see Dez staring at them, scared.  Realizing belatedly that he was still naked, the Immortal pulled on his jeans.  "She's having seizures.  Bring me that satchel she keeps all her drugs in - and if you have any, even if they're illegal, bring them here."

Dez hesitated.

"I'm a doctor!" Once.

She spun around.  A moment later he heard her going through the RV.  When she returned, she handed over the satchel and an odd assortment of injectors, vials and pills.  He found what he wanted in the former and injected an anticonvulsant.  The fever was equally dangerous.  "Soak all the sheets and towels with cold water!"

The Hunter twitched and murmured as he and Dez wrapped her in the wet cloth.  He caught only fragmented sentences, the incoherent terrors of delirium.  He kept hearing a word, over and over.  It was someone's name -- Horace.

Sifting through the rest of the drugs, he looked for something to act as an anti-inflammatory, but all he could find were painkillers and vials of cloudy blue liquid.  Dez called the latter growth stims.  Her description, such as it was, suggested an immune response accelerator.  With the Hunter's fever skyrocketing, desperate, he injected one.

It made everything worse.  The convulsions started again, activating the controller in intense, erratic bursts.  Methos swore, and lifting her from the bed, pushed past Dez to the bathroom.  He dumped the Hunter into the shower.  Stuffing up the drain, he turned on the water.  There was a four inch splash wall around the shower bed.  It would have to do.  He told the girl tersely to keep Gytha's head up and went to the kitchenette.  There wasn't much ice, but what there was, he used, adding it to the pool of quickly warming water around the Hunter.

"We're gonna run out of water," Dez pointed out.  "RV tank only has fifty gallons."

"I know.  Tough.  HOLD HER HEAD UP!"

Gytha's pulse was thready, getting weaker.  Foam gathered in the corners of her mouth.  She was no longer breathing.  Frantically, he administered CPR.  Nothing.  No pulse.  No breath..  His gut tightened; he waited for the that explosion of light and heat that would end his life - permanently.  Nothing . . . nothing . . .

"Methos?  Methos!"

Dazed, he didn't resist as Dez pulled him to his feet.  She steered him back into the bedroom and sat him down on the edge of the bare mattress.  There was something in his hand.  A beer.

"Got it at our last stop," she said when he blinked at her.  "I was gonna drink it, but, hey...."

He drained it all, then let the empty bottle fall from limp fingers.  Although years of abstinence brought on the welcome buzz quickly.

"I guess you're free now."

Methos looked up, head tilted.  "Am I?"

"I'm glad," Dez announced defiantly.  "I know you're an Immie, and you did a lot of bad things during the war, but you didn't have to help her, you didn't have to try and teach her to read.  You're a fuck of a lot nicer than most mortals I've met."

"Thanks."  He rubbed his aching temples.  By some wholly unlooked-for stroke of luck, the accident must have damaged the mechanism controlling the bomb wrapped around his spine.

"You can't leave her lying in there."

I most certainly can.   Nevertheless, he got up and, with Dez, laid out the Hunter on the damp sheets, pulled them around her.

The body twitched.  He swore aloud, stumbling backwards.  Dez shrieked.  The body twitched again, then the all-too-familiar gasping cough racked it.  Green eyes flew open, wild and disoriented.  The controller knocked him back into the wall and, for a moment, he couldn't see.

"Gates," whispered Dez as the emerald gaze turned on her.

The pain faded.  Gytha lay still, watching them.  Nothing moved in her face.  It was as quiet and blank as a statue's.    He couldn't feel her -- no buzz.

Gods.

"Some doctor," Dez jeered shakily.

Methos said nothing and, after a moment, she looked away.  "I -- I saw a town on the map -- up ahead.  We're going there.  I understand about Option and everything, but I think the Department better handle this."

No reaction from the Hunter.  Chin thrust forward pugnaciously, Dez turned on her heel .  The RV started to move.  Methos knelt beside the bed.  Although Gytha's eyes followed him, there was still nothing to suggest cogent thought.

"Can you hear me?"

Nothing.  Leaning forward, he kissed her.  The lips beneath his gave way easily, but there was no answering pressure.  She was gone.

For a long time, Methos sat by the bed, exhausted, then standing and bracing himself against the RV's sway, he found her clothes and got her dressed.  There was no resistence, no help, either.  The RV hit another bump that knocked him back against the door.  What the hell was going on?  Pushing aside the curtain he saw only dark.

They stopped.  Curious, he left the bedroom and found himself staring into the barrel of gun.

"Dez?"

"Sorry," she said.

The report was deafening.  All too familiar, the impact knocked his breath from him, the tearing pain kept it from returning.  Vision grayed.  He saw her pale, tear-streaked face and shaking hands - then nothing at all.

Chapter Twelve

Duncan lost the kids' trail for good outside Munson, but they were almost certainly heading west.
He parked atop a ridge, but saw no sign of the vans described by the townsfolk.  In that direction lay New Mexico and the Sacramento Mountains -- ahead Mexico.  MacLeod considered his options.  Three main roads led through the mountains to California.  It was safest to assume that all of them were watched.  His best chance was to go as far south as he could before turning west.  He might be able to make use of the prewar roads.  Hundreds of them snaked through the mountains, abandoned, disintegrating.  It would be a long, rough ride, but it would keep him out the public view.

By midnight, he reached Midland.  Once a thriving city, only the center and eastern sections were now inhabited.  Coming in from the west, Duncan went cautiously, the sound of his engine echoing through desolate streets.  Outlaws lived here - creatures with all the compassion of the bastards that had victimized the kids in Vegas. Twice he saw movement in the darker shadows marking the mouth of an alley or doorways, but no one tried to intercept him.  He reached the more populated districts and took a room in a shabby hotel.

Sleep was fitful -- fragments of dreams lingering when he awoke again and again. Near dawn,  after one such dream, when he lay staring at the ceiling , he suddenly realized there was another Immortal nearby.

Duncan's immediate reaction was a leap of hope.  Experience made him damp down hard on it.  He rolled out of bed, hand closing around his sword.  The window to the street was a white rectangle in the dark.  A shadow moved across it.  Heart pounding, he half rose, sword in hand, heard the sharp knock.  "Who is it?"

"Phil Danielson."

Duncan, already on his feet, moved to the back window.  A single floodlight illuminated the alley.  Two men kept watch, another in a nearby doorway.  There would be cars at either end.  Again, he felt the Immortal.  Sniffer, probably.  Mortals on both sides had started using Immortals during the war to expose others of his kind.  It was a vile practice -- especially these days when Sniffing was purely mercenary.

Saying not a word, the Highlander moved quietly to the door and tripped the lock.  There was a hesitation, then, tentatively, the door cracked open.  Duncan seized it and pulled it precipitously inward.  A tall mortal swore, startled, and went sprawling.  He lay very still as Duncan's blade tickled his neck.

"Uh - Duncan MacLeod?  Of the Clan MacLeod?"

"Maybe.  What do you want?"

"Just a little chat -- you and me."

"Why?"

"I've got some interesting news about the so-called Methos.  ID's in the left pocket."

"You brought a lot of company for a one-on-one."   Nevertheless, the Highlander stepped back, allowing the mortal to get to his feet.  Quickly, efficiently, Duncan patted him down, finding the two guns and dropping them into his own pockets.  He could feel the other man's tension.  He checked the ID.  Central Intelligence Agency.  Well, well.

"We want to talk to you really bad."

Duncan thought about the small army waiting outside.  "All right," he replied grimly.  "There's a light to your left.  Stay between me and the window."

While Danielson groped across the dark hotel room, Duncan shut and locked the door, shoving a chair under it.  He turned around to see the mortal watching him.

Phil Danielson looked very much like his father -- the same square chin and blue eyes, the same glint of wry humor in the latter.  Duncan waved him toward a chair and he sat, laying blunt- fingered hands on the table.

"Go right ahead," MacLeod invited. "Talk."

Danielson leaned forward, staring at him thoughtfully.  "You look the same," he said finally, "only not as big as I remembered."

Duncan didn't want to smile, didn't want to like the young man.  He nodded curtly.  Danielson's gaze dropped, jaw tightening.

"The Featherstone kids."

Duncan's hands tightened around his kitana.  "What about them?"

"About an hour ago, a team from Biogen picked them up and took them back to California.  We attempted an intercept, but the operation failed."

Danielson met his furious glare directly and he hurried on.  "Sam and Marge came to us when they defected.  The Agency set them up with a little place north of here.  They died less than a year ago and, by the time we heard about it, the kids had disappeared.   Imagine our surprise when, while looking for you, we find the kids."

"Yeah, imagine that."  Duncan's eyes narrowed.

"Are you up on CBNA politics, MacLeod?"

Duncan shrugged.

"There's a power struggle going on at the moment -- two of the biggies, Macrobyte and Rimeny, are jockeying for the top seat.  Rimeny is sympathetic to the growing reunification movement.  We would naturally like to see them win the struggle.  There's just one little problem."

"And what's that?"

"Rimeny owns CanAmerican Securities."

Duncan smiled grimly.  "Ah, yes.  My alleged killers."

"You were in Los Angeles recently.  You were seen.  Macrobyte now knows you're alive and their execs are having wet dreams about exposing Rimeny's fraud and forcing major fines and sanctions.  We can't allow that."

"How'd you end up in the CIA?"

Ruefully, Phil shook his head.  "You sound like Dad.  He wanted to me go into the military, too, but I've never been one for spit-and-polish.  The Agency satisfies my, er, devious nature."  His grin came and went.  "Anyway --  Macrobyte has sent a Hunter to abduct you and bring you to California.  Not only do we intend to see that it fails, we want the Hunter itself."

"What the hell is a Hunter?"

"An elite arm of CBNA internal security.  They're faster, stronger and have quicker reflexes than normal humans. They're implanted with all kinds of cybernetic devices, including a neural interface that allows them to consciously regulate key systems in their bodies.  They're rumored to be damn nigh indestructible!  At any rate, we've been dying to get our hands on one for years now,  but there are only twenty-nine of them and they've never left Corp Territories before.  We've never had such a golden opportunity."

"So I'm bait."

"Yep."

"I still haven't heard a good reason why I should agree."

"The Hunters come out of a secret research complex somewhere in the Southern California mountains.  It's common knowledge that this place does more than just human cybernetic research.  There have been rumors for years of experiments on Immortals.   We're pretty sure that's where they've taken the kids.  We believe the Hunter has the location of this facility and, if you help us grab her, we're willing to give you that information -- to do with as you like."

"Ah."  Duncan's eyes gleamed.  "Now, that sounds like the CIA -- always ready to make a deal.  And Methos?"

"Ah, yes.  Methos.  I'll bet you've already figured that out."

The Highlander nodded grimly.  "Bait for me?"

Danielson nodded.  "Almost certainly.  After all -- we know the real Methos died.  We have documented evidence.  It wouldn't be hard to find someone with a superficial resemblance, do a little surgical enhancement and, voila, an offer you couldn't refuse."

It made grim, horrible sense.  Even so, the disappointment was sharp.

"What'll it be, MacLeod?"

"If I say forget it?"

"Then I leave, take my men and we go back to following you around."

It was MacLeod's turn to shake his head.  The mortal flashed his engaging grin.  "What if I throw in the equipment of your choice?  The Agency has all kinds of goodies."

"Just for acting as bait?"  MacLeod didn't buy it.  "Why?  Like you said, you could go back to following me around and snatch her that way."

Phil met his gaze directly.  "You may not realize this, MacLeod, but there are people in the penthouse who think you walk on water.  Do you remember Jamie Liang?  Barbara Upson?"

MacLeod's eyes widened.  "J.L. and Barb?  They're CIA now?"

"Mr. Liang is Assistant Director and Ms. Upson is head of Field Operations -- my boss, actually.  They're both close to retirement, but still very much in charge.  As soon as we got the word from Colorado, events went into motion.  In fact, Ms. Upson told me in no uncertain terms that regardless of your decision, she hopes you'll stay around for a few days.  She said something about Pete's Fishery?"

Duncan smiled, remembering a cramped diner, air redolent with fried fish and cigarette smoke.  It was toward the end of the war -- she'd been assigned to him as an attache.  They had always occupied a certain booth.  For a moment, he was back there, files scattered over the linoleum table-top, regaling the young, wide-eyed brunette with tales about the British Regency.

"MacLeod?"  Phil ventured finally.

The Highlander shook himself back to the present.  He grinned.  "Tell her we can discuss it over fish and chips."

She was dead, but she could see them standing over her.  The white coats, the masks, the light that blazed hotter than the sun and from which there was no looking away.  He was dead.  The refrain echoed over and over.  Dead. Dead. Dead.  Until she could scream if she'd had voice.  They didn't care, these masters of her life, and they lifted their bright, sacrificial blades and began to carve bits of her away.

Methos gagged, spasms racking his body, and sat up.  In all directions lay flat, scrub-covered earth.  The road stretched, empty, to the north and south.  There was no sign of the RV.  Gytha sat several feet away, cross-legged, warm wind whipping back her hair.  In the middle of her vest was a round, bloodstained hole.  Dez had shot her, too, point blank.  So much for mis-diagnosing the first death.

Methos got to his feet.  It was near dawn.  The east was a line of lurid pink.  Behind him rose a wall of barren mountains, lightning dancing among their peaks.   He hadn't the faintest idea where he was.   He went to Gytha, who jumped to her feet in alarm.   "Who are you?"

He stopped dead. The voice was different -- higher, breathier.

"Who are you?" she demanded again.  "Where's James?"  She was terrified, ready to bolt.

Suspecting a trick, Methos kept his distance.  "You don't remember?"

"No -- yes, I . . ."  She lifted a trembling hand.  "I don't know how I got here!  Who ARE you?"

"Adam," he said quietly.  "Adam Pierson.  Do you remember your name?"

"Of course, I do!  It's Katie -- Katie Smith.  Where am I?  What am I doing here?"

Methos thought fast.  "You don't remember the hijacking?"

She shook her head, eyes going even wider.

"We were on our way to see -- to see James when we were hijacked.  Hijackers stole the RV and left us behind."

"I don't remember any of it.  I don't remember you."

Methos sighed.  "That blow to the head probably gave you transitory amnesia.  Just don't try too hard to remember and it will come back soon."

"They hit me?"  She was outraged.  Then she looked down and saw the hole in her shirt.  This time, the eyes that turned on him were blank with incomprehension.

Gods.  Unless she was the best actress he'd ever seen (and he'd seen a few), the Hunter believedshe was this Katie Smith.  Taking a deep breath, he said bracingly: "Well, Miss Smith, I think we should try and find civilization, don't you?"

"Walk?" she asked faintly.

"Walk," was his firm reply. Before Dez comes back with the fabled Department.

Methos started east and, after a moment, "Katie" followed.  Almost at once, he came upon a pile of objects lying beside the road.  Delighted, he hurried forward.  Dr. Desmond, it seemed, didn't have what it took to be a ruthless killer.  There was money, an empty duffle bag, several tins of protein wafers -- she'd even left water.

While Gytha stood looking unhappily around, Methos got the stuff into the bag.  It took some doing, but he convinced Gytha to put one on.  Slipping the other bag over his shoulder, he looked down at the remaining satchel.  Her computer.  Smiling grimly, Methos slammed his heel into it.  Gytha watched blankly.  When he held out his hand again, she took it without hesitation.

"Beautiful and stupid," he thought dispiritedly. "And to think I preferred that kind of woman once.  Lords of hell, it's going to be a long walk!"

The Immortal wanted to get to civilization as soon as possible, find out which of his emergency accounts were still viable.  Then, if all was well, he could hire a discreet, cooperative physician and free himself of the death wrapped around his spine.  With Gytha in this condition, the chances of doing all of that seemed very good.

The day remained cloudy, keeping the worst of the heat at bay.  Under the pretext of helping her "remember," Methos coaxed information out of Katie-Gytha. For instance, there was James -- a high-ranking Board member with near god-like qualities.  Ms. Smith, it appeared, was his mistress.  She talked at length, and with great enthusiasm, about how brilliant, compassionate and rich he was, the many gifts he showered upon her, and how she just knew that he was going to dump his shrewish, lumpy wife to marry her.

From the details in Katie's stories, Methos soon figured out that James was either dead or extremely old.  Her offhand comments about current events put her roughly in the same time period as his capture. That meant she'd been around awhile.  How old was she, he wondered?

At midday, they shared a half-tin of protein wafers.  She was delighted to find they were fat-free.   By now, she uncritically accepted Methos' fabricated identity.  It made perfect sense to her that Dear James would send a bodyguard with her on such a long and dangerous trip.

At least, she'd forgotten that she had the damned controller.

Gytha soon exhausted Katie's conversational repertoire.  She lapsed into silence, trudging stoically after Methos.  He expected complaints; there were none, although it was clear she was not having a good time.  Sardonically, he congratulated whoever had designed this personality.  If he inquired further, would he discover she could also cook, loved housework and hated shopping?

By nightfall the landscape began to change, the road climbing into the foothills.  As they approached a ridge, Methos heard the sound of running water.  Hunter in tow, he followed the sound up through rocky bluffs and came upon a stream.  There was plenty of cover, even a line of small, stunted trees along the steep banks.

Methos debated the wisdom of a fire, but the setting sun brought plummeting temperatures -- typical for a high desert.  He finally found a sheltered spot near the water where the flames might not be seen from the road.  More wafers were eaten, washed down with icy, mountain water.

"I'm sorry the conditions are so primitive," he said.  "If you sleep between the fire and that boulder, you should be warmer."

"It's a good thing James hired you," she pronounced.  "I should never have known what to do."

"I wasn't much good at stopping the bandits."

"But you kept them from killing me -- and you got us this far.  I know there will be a town tomorrow.  I just know it!"

She'd not only accepted his hastily assembled tale, but had gone on to embellish it herself.  Some men might find her the perfect woman, compliant, amiable, trusting.  Furthermore, with each impassioned utterance, Katie edged closer to him.  Pinned against a large rock, he tried to gently set her back, but her arms came around his neck instead.

Methos made a strangled sound.  Katie Smith kissed very well and his attempts to break away failed utterly.  Her warm hands slipped under his shirt, stroked his chest with a sure and knowing touch.
There was none of Gytha's hesitation or fumbling.  In a stunningly short time, Katie had them both out of their clothes.

Between the fire and the rocks it was warmer.  Not that Methos would have noticed.  Katie's mouth and hands were doing things to him that he'd not experienced for a very long time.   It was almost as if the best skills of all his lovers had been copied into the lush creature who writhed beneath him.   Finally, sated, she fell asleep, nestled at his side, her head on his chest.

Methos stared into the sky, heard the crackle of flames.  Finally, gently, he disengaged the sleeping woman and dressed.  Crouching by the fire, he stared into its dancing light.  It was a long time before he finally slept.

In the morning, Methos found his companion more than willing to repeat the evening's lovemaking, so they got a late start.  It was a long day, and a sweltering one.  They burned, and peeled, burned and peeled again until their skin had tanned.  Her eyes were startling, so vivid was the green against the nutbrown of her face.   She was delighted.  "James bought me the cutest white suit," she confided, "and it will look smashing now!"

Today, it was his turn to face a gentle interrogation.   The fewer lies told, the fewer lies one had to remember, so Methos told her about being a graduate student, studying history at the university in Paris before coming to the States.

"I could tell you were really smart," Katie confided, taking his hand.  "And now you're a bodyguard.  Funny how life turns out, isn't it?"  .

Near dusk, they finally came upon a town. It was a tired, dusty place, overlooking an abandoned strip mine.  The road was joined by another, and they were no longer alone.  A truck rattled by, honking its horn.  The sign announced the village limits of Fort Rindell.  Methos saw a general store and several bars.  Pulling Gytha close, he went cautiously.  Down a side street, the Immortal caught sight of a dingy sign.  "The Copper Nugget Hotel and Bar."

"Katie.  We don't have much money.  I doubt we can afford more than one room.  Would you mind getting one and pretending we were married?"

The Hunter's eyes sparkled.  "Of course not!"  She took his arm, pressed her body provocatively against him.   He shook his head at her saucy smile and pushed through the screen door into a close, dusty lobby.  There was no one at the counter.  Two sagging couches faced each other across a coffee table.  There was a newspaper on it.  Methos steered her away before she could notice a date.  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out Dez' money.  He hit the bell.

A woman came out, eyes widening at the sight of them.  Methos laid the money on the counter and smiled.  "We've had a bad couple of days.  My wife and I need a room with a hot shower and a phone."

"What happened to you?"  His money went a long way toward easing her fears; the question was sympathetic.

"We were attacked in the mountains.  They took our RV.  My wife is pretty done in and I'd like to clean up before going to the police."

"Oh, of course.  Certainly, sir.  My goodness, what an awful thing!  I swear -- in my great grandmother's day, this sort of thing never happened.  It's just too bad!   Luckily, we've just the room for you -- nice and sunny, overlooking the street.  It'll be twenty-three fifty for the night . . ."  She whisked the bills away.  "Charlie!  Charlie!  Get your butt in here!  We've got guests."

Thank the gods, the woman hadn't noticed the bullet holes in their clothes.  He steered the Hunter away from the clerk's curious gaze, holding her close.  They followed the mortal upstairs and into a nice-sized bedroom that was clean, quiet, had a private bath -- and, as she'd promised, overlooked the street.

"Perfect," Methos said. The woman smiled and, after recommending Sally's Cafe down the street, returned to her duties.

"This is nice," Gytha said.  "I think they have a phone here.  We should call James."

"We need to find something else to wear, and have a decent meal," stalled Methos.  "And thenwe'll call James."

She smiled knowingly.  "I'm sure you know best, Mr. Pierson.".

In a new dress supplied by the helpful concierge, scrubbed clean, her hair arranged in a very un- Hunter-like style, Gytha accompanied Methos to the hotel's small restaurant.  The Immortal was acutely aware of eyes following them through the rows of tables, most fixed on his companion's swaying hips..  He drew a steadying breath and held out her chair.   Her fingers lingered on his arm.

There was wine, a red that tasted only slightly of vinegar, and potato skins.  She made a joking reference to a bistro in Paris that he recognized.

"James took me once," she said, smiling dreamily in reminiscence.  "It was just after the war -- the CBEU had just taken control of the city, it was lovely.  What did you do during the war, Adam?"

"More then I care to remember."

"What do you care to remember?"  She leaned forward, chin propped in her hand.  There was nothing but genuine interest in her expression and it was damned hard not to bask in its light.  She focused on him so completely.

But then, why not succumb?  He could keep her distracted through the night, pretend to call James in the morning.  Tell her that James was in Dallas, or Albuquerque, or anywhere that still had an international bank.

So he told her stories from those good memories he could most easily access.  He soon had her giggling, regaling her with a tales of Amanda's misadventures, of Duncan, Joe and himself getting falling-down drunk in the bars and staging impromptu blues sessions using whatever was to hand.

"Sometimes," he laughed, remembering, "Things got pretty loud.  Not all of the bartenders were amused.  One guy threw us out, then watched all his patrons follow us to the next bar!  And this particular show featured my drunken caterwauling accompanied by Joe on slobbering harmonica and Duncan's percussion section of spoons and beer-mugs.  We actually took in a hundred bucks."

His voice faltered into silence.  Gods, but those were good times.  Even the danger had been fun then.  She stopped and laid her hand on his arm.   "You miss your friends a lot, don't you?  When was the last time you saw them?"

"A lifetime ago," he said thickly, and was grateful that the waiter chose that moment to bring the entree.

It was a pleasant dinner.  Not even the ever-present knowledge of the thing in his neck could compete with his amusing and seductive companion.  They ordered dessert, but he was already thinking of the real sweetness that lay ahead.   The waiter brought cheesecake, a bit overdone, but still good.

She reached eagerly for her fork and, suddenly, without warning, her color drained.

"Adam -- I don't feel very good . . ."

Methos was already out of his chair.  Spurred on by premonition, he hustled her back to their room.  He was just in time.  The convulsions hit soon after.

This time, he made no attempt to stop the progress of the attack.  He simply concentrated on keeping her quiet and still.  Tearing the sheet into strips, he tied her down and pressed his hand over her mouth when she raved.  Finally, tired of it, he smothered her.  When she revived, it was to lapse into a deep, drugged sleep.   He fell into the bed beside her and was asleep himself soon after.

Something banged down the hall.  Gabe lay, rigid in the narrow bed, eyes burning with unshed tears.  Footsteps stopped at his door.  The knob rattled.  He tried to swallow, terrified that this time they would come in.  But the footsteps moved on.  Gabe forced his spinning thoughts back into line and counted; one, two, three, four . . .

He still felt locked into nightmare.  The capture, their long, terrifying ride in the windowless van -- everything was a blur.

One hundred and twenty, one-hundred and twenty-one.

A man and two women had been there to meet them, dressed in white coats and coldly indifferent to their distress. Reinforcements had to be called when the three doctors ordered them separated.  The girls were finally dragged away, screaming.

What followed was a succession of encounters with other doctors in bright, sterile rooms.  They'd taken gallons of blood, made him run on treadmills - although he was already stumbling with fatigue -- and lie strapped to cold, metal tables while they attached him to machines. Somewhere along the way, a nurse had given him a shot.  After that, for a while, it was easier to do what they said.

Three-hundred and fourteen, three-hundred and fifteen. . .

The footsteps were returning.  Turning onto his side, Gabe curled into a tight ball beneath the covers and prayed for them to pass.  Today he was scheduled for surgery.  They were going to -- as Doctor Barrow put it -- start 'improving' him.   They had been devastatingly honest about what they intended.

"Stop thinking of yourself as human," Setter had told him brutally.  "You're not.  And if you're not human how can you have "human" rights?"

The footsteps stopped, the doorknob rattled, and the door opened.

"Get up."

Gabe recognized the orderly, Max, one of four he'd seen in the two days they'd been here.  The man was not one to tolerate rebellion -- the boy still had the bruises to prove it -- so he sat.   Max crossed to the locked cupboard over the sink and brought out Gabe's clothes - khaki pants and a t- shirt.  He threw them into the boy's arms and said: "Ten minutes."

Feverishly, Gabe pulled on the pants and shirt, washed his face in the cold water, then went out into the hall.  Four more boys of varying ages loitered there.  He took a deep breath and started past them for the dining room.

"Hey!  Freak!"

It was the red-haired boy, Paul, the oldest of the small group.  Gabe tried not to stare at the metal pins that protruded from the boy's temples.  He set his jaw and kept walking.  So far, they'd confined themselves to insults, but that wouldn't last.  Sure enough, a heavy hand descended on his shoulder.  "Hey, freak, I'm talkin' to you!"

Gabe spun around, buried his fist deep into Paul's gut.  The boy gasped and doubled over, only to have his face connect with Gabe's foot.  Leaving Paul gasping and retching on the shining linoleum, Gabe turned and forced himself to walk calmly on to the dining room.

"Gabe!"

His sisters were there, already seated at the girls' table under the matron's watchful eye.  Michaela was up and out of her chair before the large woman could stop her.

This was the hardest part of the entire ordeal -- being separated from his sisters.  Meals were the only times when he saw them, and even then they weren't allowed to speak.  He hugged Michaela fiercely.

"Don't get into trouble," he said, mouth against her ear.

"I don't care!" she replied fiercely.

They had no time for more.  The matron was there, pulling Michaela away, and Max was lumbering toward Gabe, murder in his eyes.  Abruptly, the boy turned and jumped over one of the long tables, putting it between Max and himself.   He headed for the cafeteria line as if nothing had happened.  It didn't take long for Max to get there and, amid guffaws from Paul and his gang, knock him to the ground.

There was a screech from the girls' table.  Gabe rolled and got to his feet in time to see his sisters battering the matron as she attempted to get her hands on Michaela.  Then Max hit him hard, sending him crashing against the cafeteria counter.  Glass broke.  Food went everywhere.  Gabe got in a few more licks before reinforcements arrived.  The boy went down under the weight of bodies, curling into a tight ball as their fists and feet battered him.  For a moment, reality dimmed.  Then he was hauled to his feet and held, knees gone to water, head spinning.

"What the hell is going on!"

Abruptly, Gabe was left alone, clinging to the edge of the table to stay upright.  Setter scowled, eyes  cold with contempt. Clearly, he frightened Max, who turned white and stammered: "N-- nothing, Mr. Setter.  Just a little rebellion."

"So, it's the prodigal son."  Sneering, the man reached a hand toward him.  Gabe jerked away, but the hand simply tightened around his chin, twisting his head up.  The strength in those fingers brought tears to the boy's eyes.

Shaking with rage and misery, Gabe spat into Michael's face.  The answering blow sent him sprawling amid carrots, sausages and overturned chairs.

"I can see a little re-education is in order."  The man's voice was black with rage.  "Let's give him to the old man!"

Chapter Fourteen

Methos woke to the burn of the controller.  He gasped, eyes flying open, and looked up into Gytha's face.  "Feeling better?" he croaked.

"Get up."

For a moment the Immortal stared at her, sick with disappointment.  Then, he sat, swung long legs over the edge of the bed and ran a hand through his hair.   "Hullo, Gytha.  It is Gytha this time, right?  What a pity.  I much prefer Katy."

"Of course you would," she retorted.  "Any man with a single brain cell could manipulate that poor bitch."

Methos clenched his fists.  "You didn't answer my questions.  Who are you now?"

"I am who I was," she replied shortly.  "And I remember all of it -- every short, wretched life they forced on me, every damned insult and degradation  -- of which you were only the latest!"

This was not Gytha either.  Warily he watched her struggle with passions that automaton never had.
She caught her breath and turned away.  "I made a call," she said shortly.  "MacLeod's been seen in Houston."

"Damn it, Gytha, he's not your enemy --- ah!  All right.  I'm up!"

He stumbled to the bathroom.  She was right behind him.  He turned on the water and splashed it onto his face, mind racing.  "Maybe you should wait a while.  You were in pretty bad shape last night."

"Get dressed."

 She left him handcuffed to the bed, disappearing for fifteen minutes.  When she returned, she had car keys.   "Bags," she ordered tersely.   The Immortal sighed.

The car was old -- gas only -- with minimal computerization.  Methos was enchanted.

"Mercedes," he rhapsodized, "and in mint condition."

"Then you're familiar with these relics?"

"Of course!"

"Good.  Get in, you're driving."

Duncan consulted his watch.  Across the street, one of Phil's men leaned against a lamp-post, pretending to read his paper.  The Immortal took another sip of his coffee.  He was getting impatient, worried about the kids.

It had been three days since Phil's Operation Fishnet went into operation.  A formidable network of intelligence agents and informants spread through Houston, feeding rumors that the great MacLeod was still alive and living quietly in the city.  This did not mean, however, that Duncan was able to walk freely about Houston.  As Phil drily pointed out, "The idea is not to embarrass Rimeny.  Sorry, Duncan, you're going to have stay dead for a little while."

His earpiece chirped.  The Highlander lifted his cup to his lips and turned a page of his unread book.

"We've got 'em!"

Duncan's heart leapt.  He made an elaborate show of consulting his watch.  His earpiece was silent for a moment, then: "Stay put.  They're heading toward you."

The Highlander found his hand unsteady.  He turned another page; the text blurred to illegibility.

It was not Methos.  Methos was dead.

And then Duncan felt it -- the familiar, unmistakable song vibrating along his nerves.  He almost forgot everything to leap joyfully from his chair.  Heart pounding, the Highlander turned another page, then glanced up, casually.  To bystanders, it was an unremarkable sequence of movements, but to the tall, familiar figure across the street, the Highlander's glance was a clear signal.  The figure turned and walked into an alley.

"Go ahead," Phil instructed.  "We've got people all over.  Someone will have you within sight, and range, at all times.  And remember -- discretion.  We're not here to help Macrobyte."

Duncan stood, stretched idly.  He threw some change on the table.  Book tucked under his arm, the buzz screaming along his nerves, he followed.

The alley was empty, but it ended at a small, paved lot -- parking for the Centerline Baptist Church.  Some of Duncan's apprehension abated.  With a quick look around, he strode across the lot and into the building.  Just inside the sanctuary, he stopped.

Methos stood in one of the front pews, his back to Duncan, staring up at the great pipe organ.  This close there was no doubt it was truly Methos.  The Highlander looked around.  He could feel only his old friend.

"You couldn't resist, could you, MacLeod?"

The familiar voice was an epiphany.  Duncan walked down the aisle, knowing it was a trap, and not caring a bit.   He wanted throw his arms around the old man in an excess of joy.  Instead:  "Where's the Hunter?"

"Choir loft.  You know about her and you still came?"  The ancient one smiled bitterly.  "You never did have much sense."

"We know about the death spiral. What activates it?"

Methos posture changed infinitesimally.  "Her death, supposedly.  MacLeod, you should leave."

"What's her plan?"

Something stung the back of his neck.  Methos' smile was bleak.  "She's going to drug you with a tranquilizer dart."

McLeod missed the fireworks that followed.

In the elevator, Max knocked him around while Setter looked on, grinning.  Handcuffed, Gabe couldn't defend himself, but he kept his pain between his teeth.  The doors opened, and the orderly threw him into a dank, concrete corridor.  Doors lined it, a dozen in all, solid steel with bolts at the top, middle and foot.  Max hauled him upright, laughing when dizziness dropped the boy to his knees again.

"Wonder if the old man's in a good mood?"  Michael grinned at Max..  The orderly grinned back, but there was unease in his face.

"Who's the old man?"  Gabe asked.

"You'll see."  Setter pulled out a ring of keys, pushed one into the lock of a door halfway down the corridor.  His other hand plucked a baton from his belt.  He looked at Max.  "Ready?"

Max tensed and nodded.

Setter flung open the door.  There was a roar.  The boy had a glimpse of something filthy, unkempt and vaguely human hurtling toward them.  Setter swore and jabbed his baton at it.  There was a crackling sound and the smell of burnt hair and flesh.  The creature shrieked and fell back.  Max, cursing, hurled Gabe into the cell and slammed the door shut.

Heart pounding, Gabe stood, back pressed against the door, trying to see something in the dark.  The stench was overpowering; he gagged.   On the other side of the tiny cell he heard harsh breathing, then:  "Sorry," rasped a voice.  "The air conditioning doesn't work very well.  I've called maintenance, but -- you know how they are."

Gabe swallowed.  He hadn't expected complete sentences.  "Who --- who are you?"

There was silence, then laughter, and not very sane laughter, at that.   "Do you know, boy --  I can't remember.  Who are you?  My entertainment?"

"Leave me alone," he whispered. "Please."

"Why?"

Gabe gasped as something brushed against him.  The next instant, he was spun about and smashed, face-first, into the door.  His wrist caught in a steely grip, his unseen tormentor yanked it up between his shoulder blades.  The pain made him whimper.

Biting his lip to keep from pleading, the boy waited.  Minutes ticked by.  His shoulder began to throb, then abruptly,  he was released.  The creature moved away.  He heard rustling in the corner of the cell.

"So," the voice was suddenly conversational.  "Why are you here?  What hideous crime did you commit to be subject to my discipline?"

"Spit in Setter' face."

Startled laughter ended in a breathless wheeze.  "Goodness, you are a bad boy."

"I'd rather have killed him.  Bastard."

"He is annoying," agreed his roommate.  "How long have you been here, boy?"

"My name is Gabe.  About a week, I think.  What's yours?"

"I DON'T KNOW, YOU LITTLE PRICK!"

Gabe flinched, expecting to be attacked again, but, after a moment, the voice resumed, calm again.  "Sorry. It's so annoying when people repeat themselves."

Not willing to risk another outburst, Gabe said nothing.  After a while, his companion spoke again: "You've been here only a few days?"

"Yes, sir."

More laughter, startled this time.  "Sir?"

"Sorry, sir," he muttered before he thought about it.

"A boy with manners.  You certainly weren't raised here."

"No, sir."

"How curious."

Gabe waited, but nothing more was forthcoming.  The silence stretched out between them.  After what seemed forever, the boy sank to a crouch.  "Sir?"

No answer.  Gabe didn't have the courage to push it.  After another long stretch of silence, his companion finally spoke again.  "They want me to beat you, you know, terrorize you into being obedient."

Gabe swallowed.

"If I do, I get extra food.  How's that for incentive?"

His arm still ached.  Mutely, Gabe held it to his side, and waited fearfully.

"Let's see -- the last little shit they brought me got his nose broken -- I enjoyed it.  What do you think about that?"

"Not much."  Gabe swallowed hard.  "Is that why you're here -- because you beat people up?"

This time, the laughter sounded almost normal.  "Nothing so gentle.  I killed someone.  In fact, I killed a lot of people."

"Why?"

"Because that was my job.  It will be your job, too, my polite little killer."

"Y --- you're lying."

"The thought bothers you?  Whatever do you think they plan to do with you?  Set you to designing power stations?  Typing and light filing?"

"I won't kill for them."

"Oh, but think of the power in it.  Holding lives in your hand."

"That's not power, that's tyranny.  And we won't kill for them!"

"We?"

Gabe bit his lip and said nothing.

"Nose-boy was eager to learn to kill -- he swore he would come back here and kill me.  Who is we, Angel Gabriel?"

But Gabe didn't answer.  Heart pounding, he waited, listening as his cellmate shifted restlessly.  Finally:  "They're coming to see if you're still alive.  Cry for them. Maybe I'll get extra food anyway."

Now Gabe heard footsteps rapidly approaching.  He moved away from the door.  It opened; hands seized his sore arm and he yelped.  Was that a chuckle from the corner?  Then he was out in the hall, surrounded by Max, Setter and two security guards.  Setter stared at him closely.  Trying to look in pain, Gabe sniffled, exaggeratedly favoring his arm.

"Ready to cooperate?"

"Yes, sir."  Gabe dropped his eyes, afraid Setter would see the truth in them.    There was nerve- racking pause.

"Pfagh.  Bring the brat!  They're waiting for him in the O.R."

Duncan looked down at the bed and struggled with his feelings.  He had become used to the idea of Methos being dead, to the knowledge that, like so many of his other friends, this one was gone forever.

"You're sure it's him?"  Phil demanded .
 
Duncan grinned like a fool.  "It's Methos, all right."

"Maybe it's another Immortal with plastic surgery."

"It feels like Methos.  We can't hide that from each other."

Methos' eyelashes fluttered and opened.  For a moment, he gazed up at Duncan without recognition, than that slow, lazy, familiar smile brightened his face.  "MacLeod," he rasped.  "I'm either in heaven or still alive."

"You're still alive."

"I didn't think I would make it to heaven."  Methos tried to sit and discovered the restraints.  His smile turned wry.  "Am I dangerous?"

MacLeod threw back his head and laughed aloud.  Heedless of the sudden barrage of alarms, he unbuckled the straps and helped Methos sit up on the edge of the bed.  The room filled with guards and orderlies.  Duncan saw Methos' involuntary flinch as they surrounded him.

"Leave him alone!"  MacLeod bellowed and they fell back, uncertain.

"What happened?" the old one asked finally.  "The last thing I remembered were about a billion soldiers coming out of the woodwork.  I thought I was dead."

"You were," Duncan replied frankly.  "Sorry about that.  Your Hunter friend was faster than we'd thought."

"Ah."  Methos grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck with a long, fine hand. "Where is dear Gytha?"

"In a guarded ward right down the hall."  The Highlander opened the drawer in the bedside stand and pulled out the jar. He handed it to his friend, who looked blankly at the beaded strands floating in the saline.

"The surgeons took it out of you two hours ago."

Methos stared, saying nothing.  Then, silently, he began to shake.  MacLeod almost dropped the bottle in his haste to stop Methos from sliding off the bed.  The older Immortal pushed him away, drew a deep breath and managed a reasonable approximation of his old, mocking grin.

"They didn't put anything back in, did they?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

"I watched.  God, Methos, it's good to see you!"

Methos got to his feet, still a bit unsteady, and took a few steps toward the window.  "Don't get all mushy on me, Mac. Anesthesia upsets my stomach."

"Loveable as ever.  It doesn't matter.  One of the worst moments of my life was watching the videotape of your 'execution.'"

"I was on TV?"  Methos reached the window.  "Were the ratings good?"

"MacLeod?"

Methos whirled around.  Once again, terror touched his gaunt features -- and was just as quickly smoothed away.  An eyebrow lifted.

"Methos -- meet Rory's kid."

"Phil Danielson?"  The eyebrow drifted higher.  "Peanut?"

Phil scowled at him, then at MacLeod.   Methos had never been popular among their mortal allies.  Like they used to say, you never knew where you stood with someone "older than the fucking pyramids."

"So," Phil said warily. "You're Methos.  Now what?"

Methos grinned.  "You could feed me," he suggested hopefully.  "Preferably a thick steak and a beer -- any brew will do."

Danielson's reluctant smile emerged.  "Don't press your luck, bucko.  This is a hospital.  How about chicken and mashed potatoes?"

Methos' face fell.  "The third alternative," he mourned hollowly.  "I'm in hell."

He was eventually persuaded to accompany Duncan and Phil to the hospital cafeteria.  Phil asked solicitously if he needed a wheelchair.
 
"Don't be insulting.  Where are my clothes?"

"They didn't survive the Hunter's capture.  Sorry."

"Great.  What am I supposed to do?  Wear this?"

Duncan tried to keep a straight face as Methos grabbed shut the edges of the flimsy hospital gown, grumbling while an orderly ran off to find a robe.   He was shaky, but he kept on his feet.  Seeing the security men loitering the halls, his eyes narrowed.  Paranoid, as usual.  Some things never changed.

It was well after the usual meal time and the cafeteria was nearly empty.  The ancient Immortal seemed to relax a bit once he had some food under his belt.  He recounted his past week in a  matter-of-fact voice.  MacLeod heard the anger, carefully hidden.

"I"m really curious," Methos said. "She dies and comes back to life, but she's not Immortal.  What is she, Peanut?  I'm betting you know."

"Don't call me that," Phil said irritably.  "And we've yet to see any evidence that she ever actually died.  These cyborgs are extremely resilient.  Excuse me."

Standing up, he hurried from the cafeteria, the two Immortals staring after him thoughtfully.  Finally Methos gave himself a little shake and looked at his friend.  "So what are you doing here, MacLeod?  Please tell me you're not still working for these assholes."

"I need their help," replied the Highlander.  Briefly, he explained about the children.  Methos shook his head.

"I don't trust 'intelligence' agencies," he said bluntly.  "You'd be better off looking for these kids on your own."

MacLeod's expression was sour.  "Methos.  I know these people.  You're so damned suspicious of everything."

"How old am I?"

Duncan ignored the jibe.   "I was hoping you'd come along -- give me a hand."

Methos laughed shortly.  "You know me better than that.  The hero thing isn't my style.  You're so much better at it.  You even look the part -- noble brow, steely glare.  Anyway, I don't think your friend, Phil, trusts me."

"Now why would you say that?" Duncan asked with mock bewilderment.  "What with your long- standing reputation as being the most open, honest, forthcoming . . .HEY!"

Plucking the french-fry out of his hair, he glared at his ancient friend.  Methos smiled sweetly.  "Are you going to eat that chicken, MacLeod?"

Winterborne, Chapter 15B
by Beck McLaughlin

***
I love you.  He said the words, relishing them almost as much as she loved hearing them.  I love you.  How those three syllables changed everything!  She reached for him and knew his arms were open for her.  Together, their bodies entwined, nothing else mattered.  Not all the killing, not all the degradation, the pain, the frustration -- it all melted away in an pervasive, exquisite glow.  It shouldn't happen.  They'd planned against it, but the poets were right -- there was no stopping love.  Kings and prophets could not hold it back, fear was ineffective.  You cherished it inside you where no one could reach it, made a shelter of it.  She had to believe love was insurmountable -- it was all she had left.

"There's an army of doctors skulking about," he said, "with biopsy needles and other unpleasant things. I have been poked, prodded, filled out questionnaires, peed into more cups than I can count . . ."  He pulled on jeans and a sweater.  "Green?  You bought me green?"

"Needles?  Why?"

"You tell me.  Peanut's your buddy."  He stared in dismay at the boots.  "My feet are not that big."

Muttering, MacLeod grabbed a handful of tissues and stuffed them into the offending footwear, smiling serenely into Methos' outraged glare.

"Think about it, MacLeod."  The shoes were on.  Methos took a couple of experimental steps and grimaced. "Think about the woman in that high-security ward.  She died.  Twice.  I don't care what Peanut says.  And she isn't Immortal.  What if augmenting mortals isn't the Board's only science project."

MacLeod's eyes narrowed.  "You've got one hell of an imagination, Methos.  Now, if you're done admiring your beautiful self in the mirror, shall we go have a talk with Phil?"

Methos followed MacLeod through the hospital ward to Phil's temporary office  There were men in suits standing in front of the door.  They stepped forward to block the Immortals' way.  Methos feinted to the right and, when the guards moved with him, MacLeod stepped neatly around them and let himself into the office.

"It's all right!" Phil shouted as the guards, understandably upset, thundered after him.  That left Methos to saunter through the door, uncontested.  The guards fell back.  There was a stranger standing at the Phil's desk, a man in his late sixties, hale still, who watched the Immortals with a thunderous scowl.  Red-faced, glaring, Phil waved the two Immortals into chairs.

"Gentlemen," he grated, "this is Geoffrey Wardell -- head of Forensics."

"Wardell?"  MacLeod leaned forward and extended a broad hand.  "Any relation to Kurt Wardell?"

"My father, Major MacLeod."  Stiffly, the man accepted it, allowed a brief smile.

"I remember him.  We met several times at the Danielsons.  And I'm no longer in the military, Mr. Wardell."

Wardell smiled tightly. "Father did mention you, once or twice."

Phil cleared his throat, looking from one Immortal to the other.  "Is there a problem?"

"No problem," MacLeod said genially.  "You have the Hunter.  I'd like to be about my business, and I believe Methos here was interested in leaving."

"Nothing against your hospitality," Methos agreed.

Danielson's jaw set.  "We'll keep our end of the bargain, Duncan.   Methos -- will have to remain a patient a while longer, I'm afraid."

Methos heard him with a sinking feeling, but without surprise.

"We want to run some more tests."

"Why?"  Duncan asked.

"Methos here has been in CBNA custody for decades." Wardell frowned at the Immortals.  "What with the Board's sophisticated behavior modification techniques, we gotta be careful."

"What?"

"You ever hear of suporatine?"

Methos rolled his eyes, but, grudgingly: "Yes, I've heard of it.  They didn't give me any."

"How would you know?" countered Wardell.

"I wouldn't."  Methos admitted with a wry smile.

"Precisely.  We've recovered agents who seemed perfectly normal, then went psycho on us.  Look at the Hunter, for Chrissakes!  They know what they're doing!  If you've been treated, the metabolites will show up in the body over the next few weeks.   Once we know you're clean of that -- and a few other things -- you can walk."

"Sounds like bullshit," growled MacLeod.

Methos shook his head.  "It's not, unfortunately.  Suporitine was developed in Sweden at the beginning of the twenty-first century.  How long do I have to hang around this place?"

Phil nodded, relieved.  "Three weeks, tops."

"You will, of course, see that I'm adequately entertained?  And the food -- it won't do, gentlemen."

Wardell's lip curled.  "We'll do what we can to make your stay enjoyable."

MacLeod looked uncertainly at Methos, then back at the mortals..   "What about our part of the deal?"

Wardell looked pointedly at Methos.

"I can take a hint."  Methos rose.

MacLeod, with another suspicious look at Danielson and Wardell, followed him out of the office.  "Were you serious in there?"

Methos met his honest gaze directly and, without a quiver of conscience, said: "Of course.  I've got medical training, remember?  I know this suporotine.  They didn't give me any, of course.  It'll be a pain in the ass to hang around here another week or so, but after decades in the same place, I think I can handle it.  Besides, you'll be around for a while, surely?"  He bled just enough anxiety into his voice to hook his compassionate friend.

The Scot nodded slowly.  Methos waited breathlessly, uncomfortably aware that MacLeod was not stupid.  But finally, the big man nodded and even gave him a relieved smile.  "All right, if you say so."  With that encouragement, he clapped Methos on the shoulder and disappeared back into the office.  Methos resumed his leisurely stroll to his room.

Safe inside, he closed the door and stood leaning against it with pounding heart.   Then, moving swiftly, he gathered the rest of the clothes Duncan had brought him, shoving them into the new duffle bag.  After a moment's consideration, he shoved some other, heavier things in there, too.

Methos opened the door, just a crack.  A nurse hurried past.  He opened the door wider.  Two more nurses stood at the station several feet away, their backs to him.  They didn't turn around when he slipped silently past them and down the corridor toward the fire exit.

He was almost there, reaching for the handle, when the door flew open and one of Danielson's goons stood on the other side, staring at him with slack-jawed surprise.  Swearing, Methos thrust his duffle at the startled man, who gasped under its unexpected weight and fell backwards across the landing.  Leaping over him, the Immortal started down the stairs.

They were close behind.  Shouting and pounding footsteps echoed down the stairwell.  Four flights and he reached the bottom, threw himself at the door.  It flew open.  MacLeod stood there, scowling.

"Going somewhere, Methos?"  The Highlander was at his most noble, an island of dignified calm in the middle of chaos as Danielson and the others spilled out into the lobby.  Methos was cut off from the street and from another corridor on the right.  Heart banging, he spun around, looking for another way out.

The men stopped, and to Methos' surprise, all of them -- even Phil -- looked toward MacLeod for instructions.   King's men, thought Methos suddenly, irrationally, and laughed aloud.

"Damn you," the big Immortal snapped.  He seized Methos by the shoulder and spun him about, pushing him back into the stairwell.  "Up!"

Betrayal slammed Methos hard in the chest. Cold fury shook him.  He took the stairs three at time, bursting out onto a flat, empty roof.   MacLeod was right behind him.  Spinning around, he saw the Highlander's hand tightened reflexively on the sword.  With bitter mockery, Methos dropped to his knees.  He wrapped his arms around his chest and leaned forward, bowing his head.  MacLeod swore again, Scot's accent pronounced.

The katana hit the roof with a clatter.  MacLeod took hold of him, hauling him to his feet, pulling him close in a rib-cracking embrace.  Releasing him almost at once, the  Highlander's eyes were stormy, but there was sympathy, too.  Methos' own pulse steadied.

"I won't be a prisoner again, MacLeod," he pleaded hoarsely.

Duncan shook his head.  "Danielson swears you'll come to no harm.  What's wrong with just taking it easy for a week or two?  You yourself said this drug was real -- or was that a lie, too?"

"It's an excuse, MacLeod.  The drug's real enough, and it does what they say, but they have no intention of letting me go, damn it!  Do you think I've been brainwashed?"

"No," Duncan replied angrily, "I don't."

The Scot lay a hand on his shoulder.  Methos twitched away, forced a stiff smile.

Duncan swore in frustration and retrieved his sword, slamming it into the scabbard with less than his usual grace.  "I've lost of a lot of friends, damn you!  People I've known a lot longer -- good, kind people!  People that are better than you, Methos!   But it was your absence that hurt the most, your counsel that I missed!"

"Then let's go -- right now -- and leave them to their little wars.  There's Paris, or Rome!  Gods, but I'd like to see Rome again!"

MacLeod shook his head, regretful.  "I can't.  There are lives at stake -- children's lives."

Methos laughed harshly.  "The eternal boy scout.  There's just no getting past that, is there? Thatis why I lied, MacLeod."

"Are ye serious?"  The Highlander was getting angry all over again.  "Ye think I'd sacrifice ye for the bairns?"

No, thought Methos, I think you'd do something extraordinarily foolish trying to save us both.  Aloud, he said: "What's it going to be, MacLeod? Are you going to take me back downstairs and hand me over?"

The Highlander stared at him a long time.  Finally, disappointment plain on his face, he shook his head.  "No.  I would have liked to have you guarding my back again, old friend, but I'm not going to stop you.  You want to go, fine.  Go."

Methos nodded tightly.  Turning on his heel, he strode across the roof.  Looking over the edge, he saw  the building next door -- easily within jumping distance.  He vaulted over the rail and down -- and didn't once look back. Highlander is property of Panzer/Davis; no copyright infringement intended.

Two days after his adventure in the Hole, Gabe had his first implant surgery.  He fought desperately when the orderlies came to get him, but they won - as usual.  When he woke in the recovery room, he knew he was different. He flexed his fingers, wrists held fast in restraints.  His temples itched and there was a dull ache behind his eyes.  Now they could hook him up to a computer any time they wanted.

The door opened, admitting Max, two other orderlies and a nurse.  Gabe's restraints were unbuckled. The nurse took his vitals and gave him his clothes.  Shakily, still dizzy from the anesthetic, the boy pulled on the pants and sweatshirt.

"Hurry up," ordered Max. "Setter wants you plugged into the tutorial today.  Move!"

The classroom had two other people in it -- a young man in a lab coat and Mike.  Gabe's heart leapt, but when he called her name, she gave him a haunted look and turned away.  Bewildered, uneasy, he sat at the terminal Max indicated and tried not to flinch when the orderly picked up a cable.  There was a sense of pressure against his skull as the orderly pushed the cable into the jack, but no pain.  Almost at once, a part of his mind narrowed and focused.  Suddenly there was information coming and going.  Not only could he feel the warm air on his skin, he knew it was exactly seventy-one, point six-nine-zero degrees.  Gabe knew at what candlepower the overhead light burned, the percentage of each color in its spectra.  The sudden onslaught of data made him dizzier and he slumped forward, nauseated.

In a moment, the dizziness receded.  He looked around, but Michaela's gaze was fixed on the screen in front of her.  Gabe set his jaw.  Max was on the other side of the room, leaning against the wall, reading a magazine.  The boy reached up and pulled out the cable.  Pushing back his chair, he hopped over the desk and slipped over to Michaela.

"Mike, what it is?" he whispered.

She was ashen, clutching her own head-cables in white-knuckled fingers.  Tears welled in her blue eyes, spilled down her cheek.

"Gabe, they killed me!   I'm immortal!"   Her whisper shook as the words tumbled out.  He stared at her, aghast.  "P--Paul said they wanted a 'young one.'"

"Is there a problem?"  Setter' voice.  Mike broke off with a little squeak of terror. Gabe spun around.  Too fast.  Light-headed, he swayed.

"Sit down, boy.  You know the rules."

There was no winning, not now or here.  The boy gave Mike a quick, hard squeeze.  "It's all right.  We'll figure something out, I swear."

She nodded, sniffling.  Gabe returned to his desk, feeling Setter' inimical stare on his neck.

"Need another visit to the loony, boy?   I hear he's having one of his -- spells."

"Who is he?  Is he Immortal?"

Setter grinned, a sly, secretive smile.  "Maybe."

"What's his name?"

"Name?  He's got no name, brat.  He's you if you don't make the cut.  That's all you need to know.  The old man's a loser, garbage.  They keep 'im around to terrorize little shits like you.  Now -- you got any more questions or are you gonna get on with your work?"

If we could go anywhere, he asked, where would you choose?  The question was frightening.  It suggested that choice was possible.  "The Bahamas," she'd said, not caring, thinking -- anywhere with you.  His eyes sparkled; they always sparkled when his mind roamed, unfettered by the insecurities and fears that haunted her.  "I'd like to go to Antarctica."  Penguins.  Ice.  She'd snuggled closer to him, imagining being sheltered from the cold.

"Good evening, sir.  I was just about to close up . . ."

"I won't take much of your time."  Soft-voiced, a touch of an accent.  East coast, maybe?

Long waited while the man studied the guns mounted on the wall behind him.

"I'll take that."

Long pulled down the sprayer.  The stranger took it in lean hands.  Maybe it was his imagination, but the gun dealer thought an expression of distaste flickered over the somber countenance.   Laying it down, the man crossed the store and looked at the swords.  After a moment, he helped himself to one -- Toledo steel, old.   Long grinned.

"Lemme guess," he said as the man returned to lay the blade beside the gun.  "Immie hunter?"

Brows lifted.  "Maybe."

Long snorted.  "You don't have to be cagy with me, bud.  I'm all for it.  Weren't me who voted to elect Immie-lovers.  Fuckin' reforms, my ass.  Next thing you know, they'll be moving in next door.  That sword there -- used to belong to an Immie."

"I know," the man said.  "I recognize it."

"You do?"

The stranger's smile made Long's skin crawl.  "That's the thing about Immies," he said.  "Often, their swords are as individual as they are.  This one belonged to a female, a thief."

"No kiddin'?  Who killed her?"

"Don't know.  Maybe no one.  This particular Immortal was slipperier than most.  She'd abandon the blade in favor of escape without a second thought.  Maybe I'll run into her, eh?"

"Heh.  That'd be a good one!  Kill the whore by her own sword.  I'd like to be there.  Ain't never seen one of them Quickenings.  That'll be five hundred bucks, and I'll need to see some ID."

The stranger produced both.  Long ran the ID through the database.  Eric Standing -- banker.  Like hell, grinned Long.  Still -- the guy was clean, the picture matched and the money was good.
"Kill one of 'em for me," he said, handing the package over.  The stranger smiled tightly and was gone.

"Hi, Duncan.  Can we come in?"

"Of course!" Hastily, the Highlander stepped aside.  "I thought you weren't coming into town until tomorrow?"

Barb looked much as she had all those years ago, a little heavier, a little greyer, perhaps, but she still had the same lively sparkle in her eyes.

"I wasn't," she replied.  "Something's come up and we need to talk."

"It's good to see you, too, Barb.  Is everyone mad because I let Methos go?"

She laughed and shook her head.  "No.  J.L.'s a little peeved, but he'll get over it.  God, Duncan -- it's so good to see you!  I was on pins and needles the entire flight!"

He engulfed her in a big hug while Phil stared at the ceiling.  She pulled back at last, shaking her head.  "I'll never be able to get used it.  When I see you, I expect to look in the mirror and see myself as I was thirty years ago.  Ah, Duncan. Those were the days."

"They were."  He guided her to chair.  "What's up, Barb?"

She tossed her case to one side, looking up at him with affection.  "Phil probably hasn't told you much about our interrogations of the Hunter.  Well -- he'd better not have, anyway.  We've just learned something very disturbing about this Institute and some of the work being done."

"What?"

Barb looked unhappy.  "I'm afraid I can't say -- other than it involves the children.  Believe me, Duncan, I'd tell you if I could, but the orders came straight from Washington.  The bottom line is -- the Agency wants to send their own retrieval team in."

Duncan set his jaw.  She smiled faintly.  "Ah, the stubborn Scot."

"I care about the kids," he retorted, "not Old Dem politics.  They're only children -- whatever Biogen is doing."

"I know that.  It's why they've asked me to ask you to come along."

Whatever Duncan had expected, it wasn't that.  He stared down at her.

"Phil suggested it, actually.  I happen to think it's one of his better ideas."

"And I'd really like someone on the team with as much experience as you."  The mortal wheedled.

Ducans brows lifted.  Phil grinned.  "You weren't raised on stories of your exploits.  During my brief career at the military academy there was a term they used for stealth attacks -- the MacLeod factor.  I figure our chances for success go up about a hundred and twenty percent if you're with us."

Duncan looked at Barb, who smiled hopefully, then at Phil.  "Fine," he said at last, "as long as it's understood that my primary mission is rescuing the children."

Phil's face brightened.  "No problem," he nodded happily.

The Highlander returned his attention to Barb.  "Can you stay?  Have a little dinner?"

Her smile shot up in wattage.  Phil cleared his throat noisily.   "Well, guess I'll be getting along. We'll be leaving tomorrow evening, MacLeod.  I'll arrange to have you picked up."

Duncan made reservations at a restaurant Phil recommended.  Alas, there was no Fishermongers in Houston anymore.  They stopped briefly at Barb's hotel room so she could change ("I'm not going to Chez Gigo in this!"), then on to the trendy little nightclub.  At a small table in the back, they caught up on the last thirty years.

Barb's career had been one of steady advancement.  After the war, she had left military intelligence and taken a position in the CIA where she'd gone from field agent to commander.  There was a husband, now divorced, no children.  "No time," she admitted.  "Shoring up the Old Dem's security takes every minute, it seems.  Like J.L., I talk about retiring all the time, and like him, I'm still here, day after day."

"How is he?"

"Crabby as ever," she laughed.  "Although I could swear I heard a smile in his voice when we talked about you two days ago.  Do you know he's still raves about that redhead you set up in his apartment."

Duncan grinned.  Those had been good days, even with the peculiar war going on around them.  "He married her, didn't he?"

She nodded.  "He did, indeed.  And now they have a daughter just finishing her graduate work at Harvard -- bioengineering."

"What?"  Duncan looked at her in mock amazement.  "She didn't go into the family business?"

"Elizabeth?  Ha!  Not likely!  She's a pacifist."

"I'm surprised.  It seems like everyone else did."

"You've met Jeff, I take it?"  Barb grimaced.  "There's a chip off the old block."

"He seems straightforward enough."

"He is.  Both he and Phil are very good."

"Phil said something about military academy.  I'd had the impression that he went straight into the Agency."

Her face darkened slightly and she shook her head.  "No, I'm afraid not.  Phil wanted to go into M.I., just like Rory, but he took a lot of heat in the Academy over his father, and in the end, it was too much.  He washed out."

"Took heat?  What do you mean?"

She leaned her chin in her hand, elbow on the table, gaze uncharacteristically sober.  "People who act on their conscience often pay a price, Duncan.  Rory certainly did.   There were a lot of people who considered Rory a traitor for turning in his fellow conspirators to save the life of an Immortal -- even an Immortal like Duncan MacLeod.  You know that he was stripped of his rank?"

Duncan nodded.  "But -- he was still to get paid, have his pension and there was talk of a consultancy, wasn't there?"

"Oh, yes, but even so,  friends stopped coming around.  He tried to go into security -- private sector stuff after the war -- but couldn't get security clearance from anyone, not even those who publically praised his actions.  By the time he died, he had become damn near a recluse."

Stricken, the Highlander could only shake his head. "I had no idea.  They gave him a medal . . ."

"Of course, they did.  Officially, he had behaved just as he ought.  But you, of all people, should know about the social milieu of wartime.  In those days, alliances with Immortals were only expediencies, nothing more."

MacLeod just stared at her over the pasta, his appetite vanished.  Barb shook her head and reached a hand to cover his.

"Duncan, don't look like that.  It was a rough time for Rory, but he never once regretted doing what he did -- not once."

"I don't know what to say, Barb.  If I had known what things were like for him, I . . ."

"You would have what?  Rushed to his side?  The last thing he needed was an Immortal publically championing him.  Nowadays, of course, it would be different."

"Maybe.  At least Phil seems to be doing all right."

She nodded.  "When we heard about the incident at the Citadel, J.L. and I immediately offered him a place at the Agency.  Believe me, Duncan, it was the best personnel decision we've ever made.  You'll be able to see that for yourself tomorrow.  He's certainly like his father in that respect -- he's capable, smart and courageous.  And he tells good jokes."

"I like what I've seen so far," agreed the Highlander.  He grinned over at his old friend.  "And here comes the waiter.  If I remember correctly, you like merlot."

The kada began again.  Gabe and Paul bowed to each other, the latter flashing him a quick, malicious grin.  At the Instructor's shout, they gripped their staves and dropped into a defensive stance.   Gabe watched the other boy's eyes.  This was familiar territory, thanks to his dad.  For a moment, gratitude touched the boy, knowing now that those lessons in the back field had not been just for fun.
 
Paul's gaze flicked to the right and back.  Gabe moved at once to block the blow that came from that direction, felt the shock of impact run down his arms.  The other boy swore and tried a jab in the same direction only lower.  Again, small, involuntary movements around his eyes gave him away and, again, Gabe dodged easily, giving his own weapon a quick twist.  Paul's staff glanced off.  Gabe kept the momentum going.  His staff whirled in and out, striking Paul's elbow with an audible crack.  The boy swore in pain and surprise, staggering back a step, dropping his staff.

"Good!  Good work, Gabriel!"

Gabe stepped back, waiting as Paul, expression thunderous, retrieved his weapon.  Again, the boys circled each other warily and, again, it was Paul who made the first move.

He was more careful to hide his intentions this time, but even so, his muscles gave him away.  Four more times, Gabe blocked his attacks, grinning mockingly each time.  Paul's face was red now.  His next blow was wild and Gabe dodged it easily.  He came back at his nemesis in a sudden flurry of attacks.  In seconds, Paul's knuckles were bleeding and he would have new bruises on his arms and flanks.  Gabe heard the Instructor's whistle.  Heart pounding, he ignored it, continuing to press an increasingly frightened Paul, who retreated, his parries clumsier and clumsier.  The other boys were shouting now, some for Paul, others for Gabe and, from the corner of his eye, Gabe saw the Instructor pick up his own staff and head toward them.

Paul slipped and went sprawling.  Gabe forgot about him and spun around, going for the Instructor.

The attack took the man utterly by surprise.  At once, the gym fell silent.  Gabe's next blow caught the man in the neck and woke him up.  Swearing, the Instructor came at him.

Gabe couldn't win this one, and hadn't planned on it.  Still, he continued, parrying the hard blows that came at him and getting in a few of his own.  One blow was extremely lucky -- his staff glanced off the Instructor's and caught the man in the ear.  He went down at once.

For a moment, panic seized the boy.  He hadn't planned this!  Across the gym, the double doors flew open.  Max and several of the security guards came running in.  The boy spun to face them.  Shouting, he went for Max.  Within minutes, there were more guards and then Gabe went down under bodies and truncheons.

Gabe was dazed and hurting when they dragged him to his feet.  He saw without surprise that Setter was there, and several of the docs.  He swore at them using the vilest words he knew, words that would've gotten his mouth washed out with soap, at the very least!  Setter grinned.

"You're a sonufabitch, aren't you, boy?  We can use that, but not until you've had a slight attitude adjustment."  He said to the guards: "Bring him."

"Where are you taking him?" one of the docs asked.

"He thinks he's a bad-ass.  We're going to give him a chance to prove it."  Setter leaned forward until his face was inches from Gabe's.   "Since you enjoyed your visit with the old man so much, you can visit him again."

"Hey, fuck you!"  Gabe roared.  "I'm not going back in with that FREAK!"

He thrashed and bucked, even going so far as to bite one of his guards.  They pounded him again, then hauled him, shouting and struggling from the gym.   The noisy procession went back along the corridors, down the elevator and into the dank sub-basement.  There, he hung in their arms, panting, while Setter opened the panel and said something to the creature inside.  Then he motioned for the men to bring Gabe forward.  They did so.  Setter opened the door and, immediately, Gabe was hurled through.  It slammed behind him with a resounding crash.

The attack came at once.  A rush of foul air and he was down, pinned beneath the weight of his cell-mate.  Rough fingers closed around his neck.

"Wait!" he croaked.  "Please!"

"No way," came the fetid breath in his ear, "this time the reward is too great!"

"I can do better?" he managed before the grip cut off his breath.  He saw stars.  Miraculously, the fingers loosened.

"Almost, you amuse me," whispered the old man.  "You have seconds."

"Want --- a deal -- you, me . . ."

Abruptly, the Old Man rocked back, picked him up by his collar and flung him into the back of the cell.  The creature's strength was astonishing.  Head ringing, hurting from all the punishment he'd invited, Gabe held up a shaking hand.  "I want -- to get out of this place. Me and my sisters.  Bet --- I'll bet you do, too."

"Your time is almost up."

"If I give you the means to escape, will you help us get out, too?"

"How can you . . .?"

"Hem of my right pant leg."

He felt the hands suddenly moved down that limb, heard a sudden intake of breath.   "This is very generous," growled the old man and, once again, Gabe found those hands at his throat.

"No.  If you escape, they'll be too busy looking for you to be paying much attention to us."

A harsh breath of laughter.  "I'm your cover.  Well, why not?  I'd probably do the same."

"Do we have a deal?"

There was a long, long silence. Finally, to his relief.

"Yes."

Gabe nodded, swallowing, well aware that the hardest part was to come.  "You'll have to beat me up, you know."

"I know."  The voice was grim and absolutely sane.  The blow came out of nowhere.  "But you don't have to feel it."

Duncan shrugged into his raincoat, concealing his sword.  Thunder growled and the first of the rain spattered against the windows.  It was not auspicious weather for a midnight journey, but discretion mattered.  Slinging his duffle over his shoulder, he headed for the door.   A jeep idled at the curb, windshield wipers going.  It was Danielson.

"Ready?"

"I was ready two days ago," Duncan said frankly.  "How about everything else?"

"Yep."  Phil grinned.  "Got everything you asked for.  We called for volunteers on this one and had to turn people away."

"I know bullshit when I hear it, Danielson."

The mortal chuckled.

Miles passed -- five, ten, until they were clear of Houston.  In the midst of a run of straggling trees,  Phil finally turned off the road.  Lights swam out of the dark, revealing warehouses surrounding a large, rain-swept parking lot.  A circle of light illuminated a collection of trucks at the far end of it  There were uniformed men standing around, and among them,  Duncan felt the unmistakable presence of another Immortal.  He looked sharply at Phil.  The human winked.  "You said you wanted the best second-story man in the business, right?"

Duncan stared at the mortal, whose grin became impish.  "We figured it didn't matter to you if the best man was a woman."

The Highlander had the door open before Phil stopped the vehicle.  On the tarmac, several of the uniformed men gave way for a slender figure he knew at once -- the swinging, slightly arrogant stride, that saucy tilt of a small, gamin chin.  His heart soared.

"AMANDA!"

She laughed aloud and ran to meet him.  He caught her, swinging her ecstatically around.  So many times over the years, he'd almost risked coming out of hiding just to see if she was still alive.  It seemed an excess of riches that not only did he still have Methos, but Amanda, as well.

Her hair was red again, glinting copper in the halogen spotlights, long and sleek.  She was in black leather -- her work uniform.  A beret was perched jauntily on her head; a tiny raven made out of jet beads winked and sparkled on it.  He pulled her close and kissed her, felt her arms tight around his neck.  When they pulled away, neither spoke, only stared, wet-eyed, at the other.

"I knew you were still alive!" she said finally.

"Oh, I've missed you, you scamp!"  He pulled her close, eliciting a squeak of protest this time.  Releasing her, he wheeled on the Company man.  "Danielson!"

"The opportunity for a surprise was just too hard to pass up," agreed the mortal cheerfully.  "You two can take that truck over there -- catch up on old times.  We're heading out in twenty minutes."

Something was different.  The dreams receded.  A voice sounded nearby,  unexpected, loosening her fragile control.  Lifetimes crashed together, details scattered, intermingling until she wasn't sure where she was or who she was this time.  It took a moment, her eyes shut tight, before everything fell back into place.  She opened them.

"Damn it!  Her drip's come loose."  Someone loomed over her.  White coat, mask.  The needle moved.  It was a long, slow fall back into chaos.

Back again.  The sky was moving.  No -- she was moving.  Fluorescent bulbs slid past overhead.  Doors banged.  Voices echoed.  There was warm, moist air on her face and the lights were gone.  More doors slamming.  They were moving her.

"She's coming out of it again. We're going to have switch drugs."

The dreams came back.  They weren't like the others -- these were fragmentary, nightmarish.  She was running, limbs unaccountably weighted and slow; there were endless corridors, voices hollow, faces looking out at her, wasted and blank with hopelessness.  Someone was shooting at her.  Pain streaked through her arm.

Awake suddenly, Gytha realized she was in an ambulance, strapped down.  It swerved and, bemused, she watched an i.v. bottle swing violently, come off its hook and smash into the oxygen kit.  Someone swore. She had confused impression of a man in uniform staggering toward the back.  Then the vehicle swerved again and came to a crashing stop.  The man picked himself off the floor and ran to the doors.  He had to throw himself against them to get them open.

More of the drugs cleared her system.  Gytha tested the restraints, fighting panic.  They'd found her! Gates!

There was shouting outside, gunfire, then, abruptly, silence.  The ambulance rocked and a figure was silhouetted against the lamp-light.

"Hullo, Gytha -- or whoever."

"You!"

Methos grinned, watching as she snarled and tugged again at the restraints.  He started going through the contents of the ambulance, most of which had been tossed around the compartment.  A moment later, he reappeared, a bottle of saline in hand.  He hooked it back to the iv stand.

"You son of a bitch!  What the hell do you think you're . . ."

The Immie had a small bottle and a syringe.  He winked at her.  With an expert twist, he got the cap off.   Inserting the needle into the vial, he transferred its contents to the i.v.  She made a small, angry sound of defeat, feeling the drug seeping back into her system.

"G'night, Gytha," she heard him say, and she was neatly, efficiently, neutralized.

"So you never left the service?"  Duncan asked incredulously.

Amanda laughed and shrugged.  "Not really.  It's sad isn't it?  Nick ruined me forever."

He heard the wistful note in Amanda's light voice and thought about the stalwart young Immortal who had swept her off her feet at the end of the twentieth century.   Dead now, a victim of the war.  She stared blindly through the streaming windshield, then her bright, defiant, Amanda smile was back.

"Actually, I'm a consultant.  Semi-retired.  When Barb told me you were involved, naturally I had to join the team.  I'll have you know that I gave up a very lucrative job for this!"

"Diamonds?"

Her pixie grin sparkled.  "And what about you, darling?  What have you been doing all these years -- besides missing me, of course?"

"Nothing," he replied soulfully, "but missing you."

She punched him in the shoulder.  "No, seriously.  You were supposedly assassinated, Duncan!  I should take your head for letting me believe that for so many years!"

"I am sorry, Amanda, but I was afraid to endanger my friends."

"Well -- you're not dead, so I forgive you.  What really did happen?  Or is that top secret?"

The Highlander shook his head, looking in the rear-view mirror.  There were six vehicles, two jeep-style -- one of which Duncan drove -- and a couple of larger, all-terrain transports holding Phil's men.  Most looked ramshackle, but weren't.  From the air, they would appear to be road nomads, a not uncommon sight in the southwest.  Single-file, they rolled through the pouring rain, over a road barely fit for foot travel.

"I was set up by a handful of my fellow officers -- a covert organization of men who hated Immortals more than the CBNA, among them, Rory Danielson.  Fortunately, he had a crisis of conscience at the last moment."

That surprised Amanda.  Her eyes went wide and she swivelled about to stare at the convoy behind them.   He said nothing, remembering how deeply that betrayal had cut, how much it had hurt.  Even the fact that it had come to nothing didn't completely ease the pain.

"I'd never heard that, only that there had been an ambush at the old Capitol building, that you were killed and it was traitors.  Rory was in on it?"

Duncan shrugged.  "Toward the end of the war -- a couple years after Oklahoma City -- I was assigned to Rory's division.   We got to be good friends, or so I thought.  Turned out, he was a member of this secret organization, dedicated to eradicating Immortals from the face of the planet -- a sort of high-powered KKK.  They'd hatched an elaborate plot to kill me and make it look like Immortals working for the CBNA had done it."

"Mortals and their stupid prejudices!"  Amanda shook her head.  "Why do we bother with them, darling?"

"Because of people like Rory.  He could have kept quiet, finished out with a distinguished career.  He chose the higher path and I will always respect him for it."

"Don't tell me -- he got to know you and couldn't go through with it."

"Very often, Amanda, enemies stop being enemies when they get to know each other.  In the end, he helped set up the conspirators.  Because he exposed the plot, the army only took his rank.  No publicity and he still got his pension.  The others went to jail."

Ahead, the lead vehicle's taillights bobbed wildly.  Amanda squeaked as the jeep bounced.  "I hate dark ages," she snapped.  "They're so damned uncomfortable!   Have you seen any of the others?"

"Methos."

She straightened, eyes wide.  "Are you serious?"

"The Board faked his execution."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, MacLeod!  I'm going to start questioning every so-called death I've heard about.  What was the deal with Methos, anyway?  Nick and I were in Paris when we heard about that.  Methos actually joined the service?  Methos?"

Duncan grinned.  "After a fashion.  There's more to it, of course."

"We're talking about Methos -- of course there's more to it."

He shook his head.  "We were in Portland, gathering intelligence.  We had a bit of bad luck and got trapped in a warehouse.  Methos acted as decoy, diverted the soldiers away from us and was captured.  Like you, I thought he was dead."

"Well, I'm glad he's not!  I'm rather fond of the old fart."  Her eyes took on a wicked gleam.  Nonchalantly, she added: "He's awfully cute, don't you think?"

Toward morning, the caravan stopped.  They were within fifty miles of the border.  Phil, nervous, wanted to travel by night as much as possible.  Duncan had no objection.   They made camp in a canyon, under a broad stone shelf.  Duncan and Amanda set up their tent, saying little.  When they had finished at last, and zipped the door shut, she turned to him and, still unspeaking, wrapped her arms around his neck.

Her body fit his, familiar, comforting -- arousing.  They made short work of their clothing, tangling together on their sleeping bags.  Their love-making was fierce, desperate and silent, surrounded as they were by mortals.  Afterwards, she slept against him, copper hair spilling over his chest while he stared into the ceiling of the tent.  He didn't remember falling asleep.

Methos drove until he was out of Houston, taking back roads and cattle tracks as far into the empty countryside as possible.  Finally, with the sun was coming up, he turned down a wash and stopped.  The batteries were almost depleted.   Scrambling into the back, he removed the Hunter's i.v.  Then, tired, he rubbed his temples and slid his hand into his pocket.

The Hunter started awake, gasping, eyes wild.   Reason returned.  She looked around, then back at him.  "It was you!"

"I need some information."

Gytha stared at him, then slowly sat up.  He allowed it, hand slipping into his pocket, fingers closing around the stubby metal cylinder he'd taken off her dead guard.  She saw the movement and her eyes narrowed.

"What kind of information?"

"You were asked questions.  One of them was where some Immortal children might have been taken."

Her face stilled.  He took a deep breath.  "Recognize this?" he asked, pulling the cylinder from his pocket.  "A gift from the Agency, it would seem.  MacLeod is an idiot."

Involuntarily, she flinched; fear sparkled in her eyes.  It was all the answer he needed.  "Where were they taken?"

"Biogen."  Her mouth tightened.  "The Winters Institute."

He nodded.  "Where is this place?"

"You're going there?"

Methos sighed.  "No, my schizophrenic love, we're going there, and as long as you behave yourself, you can live another day."

Duncan woke to Amanda's voice in his ear, telling him to get up.  The sun was setting; beneath their rocky overhang the tent's stuffy interior was already going dark.  He dressed while his amused tent-mate looked on, making her usual, impudent comments.  Giving her a quick kiss to shut her up, he ducked out into the evening with her laughter echoing behind him.

Phil stood with his men and waved Duncan over.  They had a map spread out on rock.  It was a satellite photo of a sprawling, walled complex.

"I thought the CBNA had all the satellites."

Phil grinned.  "Every once in a while we get lucky and unscramble a signal," he said.  "This is it, girls -- the Winters Institute."   The area immediately surrounding the complex was open, with mountains and forest walling it all in.

"Big," someone commented.

Phil nodded.  "Field reports say that most of it closed down after the war and, except for this section here, the empty buildings are used for ordnance storage.  It'll be interesting to see if that's true."

"Not much around," Duncan observed.

"Isolated is an understatement," Phil said.  "There's literally nothing for fifty miles in all directions.   Macrobyte was making sure of privacy.   There are some automated alarms set around the countryside, but they're pretty standard and we can detect them.  We'll be going in here."  He stabbed a narrow line that ran between several high peaks.  "Let's go."

They broke camp and headed out as the moon rose.  It was windy night, with high, ragged clouds streaking by overhead.  The land became steadily rougher and the caravan was slowed by the deteriorating road.  In places, the old asphalt had completely disintegrated.  Rock falls forced them twice to turn back and find another way.

By dawn, they were, according to Amanda's calculations, pretty damn close.  Duncan slowed for an especially ugly pothole while, ahead, the line of vehicles followed the curve of slope around and out of sight.  In the east, the sky had gone opaline, edging the top of the pines with gold.  Amanda yawned and stretched in the seat.

Suddenly, ahead and around the bend came a brilliant flash, and the ground shook.  Duncan swore, slamming on the brakes.  He heard Amanda's sudden intake of breath.

"Ambush!" she cried, flinging open the door and throwing herself out.  Duncan was faster, rolling across the broken road while gunfire opened up on the trapped vehicles.  Their jeep exploded, illuminating the shadowed wood and the men streaming out of the undergrowth toward them.

They were overwhelmed.  Amanda made the same, snap assessment.  From the corner of his eye, he saw her running for the woods.  A soldier appeared in front of her, gun leveled.  She dropped, kicked his feet out from under him and kept going.  Duncan shouted, seeing the three other men with weapons aimed, but it was no good.  He didn't see her go down because, at that moment, he felt the bullets tear through him.  His last memory was of the ground rushing up to meet him.

"Who is Set?"

Gytha started awake.  For a moment, she didn't know if she'd dreamed the question, then she remembered the Immortal slumped in the seat beside her, staring through the windshield as the sky brightened.

"What?"

"You talk in your sleep."

Gytha looked away.  After a while, she said:  "He was one of us."

"Us?"

Her jaw tightened.  Outside, a flock of birds descended on the road in front of them.  In a tone she'd never heard before, he said: "I'd really like to know, Gytha."

"What do you think I am, Methos?"

"I think you're a clone, a hybrid.  I don't know how the hell they did it, and if the idea wasn't so ghastly, I'd be speechless with admiration."

She laughed harshly.  "You're right.  I have the DNA of both mortals and Immortals.  We were the first.  They named our line the Pantheon."

The birds took off again, a cloud of dark grey against the rosy sky.

"Macrobyte wanted spies, but not just any spies.  We were bred to be attractive and strong, with heightened senses, accelerated reflexes.  We were educated, exposed to art, history, philosophy, science.  After all, the perfect spy blends easily into the glittering social world of the political elite.  Unfortunately for our masters, those things also introduced us to the concept of free will."

"Uh-oh."   Outside, the light grew stronger.  Methos adjusted the solar collectors.  "The weapon turns on its creator."

Gytha leaned back against the seat.  "An old story, I know."   She closed her eyes and saw the wide corridor, the white glare of fluorescent lights -- and the line of soldiers across it.

"And this Set?"

"He betrayed us."

"Set."  The ancient Immortal's mouth quirked.  "A treacherous fellow, indeed."

It occurred to Gytha that he was likely remembering the Egypt that existed when folk believed in those names.  She shivered a little at the notion.  "They shot us down like dogs -- ambushed us when we went back to free the others."

"Us?"

"Horus, Ra, Bast, Geb -- there were fifteen of us."  For a moment, the emptiness was too much.  She felt tears and turned her head sharply.

"What happened then?"

"We were locked away while they studied, and researched, until they found a way to enslave us again.  Then they put their machines in us, took away our memories, programming us like bloody robots to do whatever they wished.  And this time, they almost got away with it."

"Now I know why you're so cooperative.  You want to see if the others survived!"

"And why are you going, Methos?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it again.  Wry humor glinted in his eyes.  "A friend of mine is making one of his extravagant gestures again.  I like to think of myself as insurance.  He may not necessarily need my help, you know.  He's a pretty resourceful fellow."

"MacLeod," she guessed flatly.  "He might get into the Institute, but I'd not count on him getting out.  For all you know, these children were a set-up, too."

"I wouldn't be surprised.  On the assumption that you're right, that he is captured -- how well do you know the place?"

 "Very well.  In my first, new 'life' I ran their security -- that's how confident they were of their techno-magic.  I remember every inch of the place, all the service tunnels, main alarm relays, everything."

Methos stared at her.  Gytha smiled.

"Well, well.  This is almost too good to be true.  Just remember who's agenda has priority here."   He was wary.  "Don't forget, I have the spiral trigger."

"That's not something one forgets -- as I'm sure you know."

Duncan revived and almost wished he hadn't.  He was in a chair, arms chained behind it, ankles chained, as well.  Lifting his head, blearily, he saw four or five uniformed mortals, all heavily armed and watching him like hawks.  Licking dried blood from his lips, he looked around.  It was a small room, the guards lined up along the wall, blocking the door.  Two men sat at the table opposite him.  One of them was Phil Danielson.

The young mortal smiled at him, bitter, triumphant.  MacLeod could only stare at him, speechless with disbelief and disappointment.

"Well, MacLeod?"

"Where's Amanda?"

"They'll find her."  Phil leaned forward, fixing the Immortal with a bleak glare. "But you won't be seeing her again."

"WHY?"

Phil laughed harshly.  "I love the wounded look, you Immie bastard!  My father lost everything because of you, including that most precious of things -- his good name!  He saved your fucking, worthless life and what did you do?  Took off in a storm of angst and left him to face the disgrace alone."

"Your father did what he thought was right. . ."

"Right?  RIGHT?" The bitterness in the man's laugh made Duncan flinch.  "Well, guess what?  I'm going to give him back what he lost.   When the CBNA finally triumphs, the name Danielson will not be synonymous with treachery.  It will be remembered for ending the Immortal threat once and for all!"

The Highlander regarded the mortal with his own barely contained anger. "You set us up at the Featherstone's farmhouse!  Is Barb behind this, too?"

"Her?  Shit.  That old bat thinks you're the fucking messiah!  No, MacLeod -- this is all mine.  I've waited decades for a chance at you, hoping and hoping that you'd reappear in my lifetime.  When you showed up I could not fucking believe it!  Talk about the answer to my prayers.  Do you know how goddamned hard it was to smile and be your buddy?  Well -- it was worth it."

Duncan shook his head, stunned.  "What would your father think about this?  Whatever he thought about Immortals, he was loyal to his country.  What would he think of his own son going over to the CBNA?"

Phil swore.  Duncan jerked aside, but he wasn't in time to avoid the glancing blow to his jaw.  Still cursing, the mortal said to the man beside him: "I've had enough of this shit!"   Pushing back his chair, Danielson left the room, slamming the door behind him.  The other man smiled.

"Gregory Setter," he introduced himself genially.  "And may I say, Mr. MacLeod, what an honor it is to meet a legend?"

Duncan, jaw aching, said: "Where is Amanda?"

"We'll find her.  In the meantime, I have a better question.  Where is our dear Gytha?"

"Ask Phil."

"Alas, Phil claims to be as mystified as we are.   She's disappeared, you see.  We were waiting for the ambulance -- sent to take Gytha home, but it never came.  There were some dead guards at an intersection just outside Houston, but no ambulance, no Gytha."

"What do you think happened?"

"I don't know," the man said sadly.  "I sincerely hope we find her soon.  Her genetic line was a dead-end -- psychotic, you know.  Quite, quite mad without her implants.  I greatly fear for the safety of any innocent who should meet her unexpectedly."

"I don't know where she is," repeated MacLeod shortly.

"What a shame," said Setter.  "You really should be more cooperative, Mr. MacLeod.  In a while, you'll be going for a little ride -- meeting some gentlemen from the press.  Just a photo-op, of course.  We'll do all the talking -- we've got a corporation to discredit.  When you return, it will be to stay and then, dear boy, you'll need all the good will you can gather."

Duncan looked away.

The man studied his folded hands, then shook his head.  Rising, he turned to the men behind him.  "Take the immie to his room.  Perhaps some quiet reflection may change his mind."  Turning back to MacLeod, he said with mock regret: "Alas,  we're currently remodeling.  I'm afraid we aren't going to be able to give you a room with a view."

They hustled him through empty, deteriorating corridors.  Clumsy in his chains, he fell twice.  They hit and kicked him, laughing, until he managed to get to his feet again.  Into an elevator and down.  MacLeod watched the floors flash by and wondered how deep into the earth the prison descended.  At the bottom, the doors banged open and Duncan smelled damp concrete and mildew.

Here the silence was heavy, as if weighted by the sheer tonnage of earth and steel above him.  There were more corridors, all filled with an echoing silence.  Grimly, he waited while one of the men hurried forward to throw wide a door.  Beyond was a dark hole.

One of the men drew his gun and placed it against Duncan's spine.  Another took off the handcuffs and ankle chains.  Without a word, Duncan walked into the cell and stood, fists clenched, when the door slammed behind him.  He heard bolts being shot and then receding footsteps.  For a moment, he simply stood where they'd left him, fighting panic.  Then he groped his way across the dark until his hands met cinderblock.  Carefully, systematically, he began to examine his prison.

Dinner was almost over.  Gabe pushed the beans around on his plate, looking over Chris' head.  The other boy chattered away about a video they'd been watching, but Gabe wasn't listening.  His sisters, sitting at the girls' table, met his gaze.  He shook his head and saw the disappointment on their faces.

It had been forty-eight hours and nothing.  As far as he knew, the Old Man was still in his cell.  Chris spoke and Gabe smiled wanly and nodded, not listening.  The boy went on with his monologue, leaving Gabe to struggle with his growing despair.   They had to get out before one of them was killed again.  Or worse, lose themselves to the growing noise inside their heads.  Absently, the boy lifted his fingers to his temple jacks.  The metal was warm, the feel of it already familiar.  "No," he thought fiercely.

After dinner was one more class -- more data input, and Gabe sat at his carrel, jacked in, while a blur of images and feelings filled his head.  Then he went with the others to the dormitory and, as every night so far, was locked into his room.

Wearily, Gabe pulled off his shoes, wincing a bit at healing bruises.  Movement at the edge of his vision sent his nerves jangling and he looked wildly around, trying to pierce the gloom.  Some light came in through the blinds, throwing a pattern of gleaming bars across the floor.  Movement again, out of the corner of the other eye.

"Who it is?"  Fear bled into his angry demand.

A chuckle and the sound of something scraping the linoleum.

Wildly, Gabe rolled across the bed and yanked up the blinds, heart pounding.  It didn't do much to brighten the room, but it was enough to reveal a tall figure slouching indolently in the chair

"Hullo, Angel Gabriel."

The Old Man was nothing of the sort. The voice was the same, but nothing else was.  The long face was unlined.  Dark hair was long and loose over his shoulders.  He watched Gabe from hooded eyes.  It hardly seemed possible that the filthy troglodyte had transformed into this elegant man.  Gabriel was suddenly, desperately afraid he'd made a horrible mistake.

"Why aren't there alarms?"  He managed finally.

They don't know I'm gone."

"But they'll check on you. Bring your meals. . ."

Soft, harsh laughter cut him off.  "They bring food to us once every four days, boy - protein wafers and bran.  Otherwise, we're forgotten.  What's your plan, Gabriel?"

He drew a steadying breath.  "I broke into the security system during class and found a way out.  We can go through the kitchens to the gymnasium -- there's a loading dock just off it and I stole the code for alarm . . ."

"Ah, yes.  Nine-four-three-alpha-zed-six."

Gabe's mouth dropped.

"It's a trap, brat.  They put it there to catch the clever ones, the ones like you.  I know -- I designed it."

"Who are you?"

The long figure leaned forward.  Gabe felt the hair rise on the back of his neck at what he saw in those narrowed eyes.  "You can call me Horus," the Old Man said.  "Now -- listen carefully.  I get annoyed if I have to repeat myself."

Methos wasn't sure how much of the Hunter's story to believe, or even if she was consciously lying, but she was all he had.  At least this personality seemed to be stable.  She claimed it was her baseline.  If he was lucky, it was the truth.

They were deep in the mountains.  Methos tried to doze as Gytha muttered and jerked at the wheel., struggling to maneuver the ungainly ambulance along bad roads.  The sky was overcast, and they went slowly to conserve the increasingly unreliable solars.

He came awake with a start, hearing her call his name.  The ambulance had stopped.  Outside, it was dusk.  The encroaching forest filled with shadow.

"We're here, but there's been fighting along this road, and recently."  She kicked open the door and jumped out.  Methos scrambled after her. The broken asphalt was blackened; in some places it had melted outright.  Along the side of the road, patches of undergrowth were crushed where something heavy had careened through them.  Ahead was more destruction, downed saplings, more sign of fire.  "Ambush."

"No bodies, no big pieces of wreckage."  Methos stood, hands in the pockets of his coat and stared uneasily around.  "Let's get out of here."

She nodded emphatically and they backed up the ambulance, retreating a mile or so.  There, at the end of an overgrown drive was a ruined cabin.  They ditched the truck behind it.

"I don't suppose you thought to bring weapons -- gear of any kind?"

He didn't dignify that with an answer, yanking open the back doors and pulling aside a stretcher.  Underneath was a large, metal box.  He flipped it open and she made a small sound of approval.  It was a respectable arsenal; he had taken some pains to see to it.

"You know a way in - where they would be likely to keep him?"

Gytha picked a gun, checked its balance.  He kept his hand in his pocket.  She noticed.

"This way," she said.

It grew darker.  They left the road again, moving silently through the conifers, breeze sighing in the branches overhead.  She led him down one hill, then up another.  As they crested a ridge, the forest thinned.  He stopped and swore, hand tightening around the spiral control.  Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing.  Waiting.

M