Aria stared at the number scrawled across the slip of paper for a long few minutes before she stood and retrieved the phone handset from the wall, and then wandered into the kitchen.

She punched in the number from memory, some things even a decade couldn't wear the edges from. It rang twice before a familiar voice spoke gruffly.

"Joe's Bar."

"You sound terrible, Joe. You started drinking your breakfast?"

There was a pause and then, "Monroe?"

"You remember me, I'm touched."

"You left an impression, lady."

She gave a throaty chuckle and leaned her hip against the doorframe, watching the clock on the wall as the seconds ticked by. "A girl does her best. You got trouble coming to town. Just had an Agent Reeves here asking questions about the case McCormick buried."

"Ah, hell." His voice became more muffled as she heard him draw away and speak to someone she assumed was with him in the room. She couldn't make out the words, but she could take a wild stab in the dark who they were to.

The line crackled again and then he was back. "Mac says, 'hi'."

It was more likely he'd sworn, but she smiled and let it into her voice. "Tell Mac he hasn't exactly been keeping it quiet up there." Time healed all wounds, they said. She wasn't sure about that, but it had healed these ones enough to turn instantdislike to nostalgic affection.

"Yeah, well, it's getting real crowded."

"You think it's the Gathering?" That stirred something almost like hope; if it was, McCormick – if he was still alive – would have to resurface. Maybe he'd…. he'd. No, he wouldn't.

"I don't know. Mac says it doesn't feel right and I'm with him on that, but it's causing a hell of a mess. I thought McCormick buried this."

"He did, twelve years ago. Looks like they dug it up again."

"Man, that long?" Joe sounded half way to horrified and that made her feel much better.

"That long. We got old on them, Joe."

There was a snort. "Speak for yourself."

She laughed. "Silver tongued devil."

"Thanks for the heads up, Aria."

Even now, the name still caused a twinge. "Yeah. Have you … have you heard anything?"

"Nothing, I'm sorry. I think he would have …"

She listened for hope in the silence and heard none; she gave herself a mental shake and strengthened her voice. "Okay, Joe. We'll be swapping war stories next and then the only cure's a bullet taken orally. Call me if there's any updates, old man."

Joe snorted again and hung up the phone. He let his hand rest on it for a moment then turned to face the two men at the bar. "We got a new problem."

MacLeod managed a smirk. "Just one? That doesn't sound like Agent Monroe."

"She's not Bureau anymore, Mac. They retired her ass years ago." He grimaced. "The Feds are coming to town."

Methos raised his attention from the papers stacked in front of him. "Oh, there's a phrase to warm any heart."

MacLeod frowned. "Do we know any of them? Any ex-Watchers? Immortals?"

"She wouldn't have bothered warning us if there wasn't a real danger so I'm guessing, no."

MacLeod shook his head and slid off his barstool. "I'm going to go clean up."

"I moved your gear into the small store room," Joe called after him.

The bar had become their temporary HQ and things were getting bad enough that Joe was giving some serious thought to having it consecrated as Holy Ground. God Almighty had to know it was meeting minimum requirements: it was a place of sanctuary and a mental 'Christ, I hope they make it back okay' was a more sincere prayer than he'd managed since he was a kid.

MacLeod had begun keeping a bag there since his apartment had been broken into two Challenges back; the risk of a Quickening in such a public place had to be minimized and it was that or camping out in the park.

So he'd been there when Joe had come down in the morning and he'd tersely given the name of the Immortal he'd taken the head of. Habit, more than anything. It wasn't like the Watchers really meant anything anymore. But maybe a few hundred years down the line they would and if Joe had any say at all, the records would be safe and waiting.

In contrast to MacLeod, Methos looked fresh as a daisy and had sauntered in at noon, but Joe didn't know how much of that was for effect. He wasn't being Challenged much less than MacLeod, even though none of his opponents seemed to realise whose sword they were lining up to be slaughtered by.

And now the man was calmly grading papers, red pen moving in an energetic dance. "Honestly, I know the Argead dynasty had its little complexities but who could possibly mistake Argaeus for Antigonus? He had one eye for God's sake."

Joe smiled and slid another beer over. "Yeah, you know your students probably aren't going with visual memory?"

Methos waved the comment away and finally let the pen rest. "So how long until we can expect our guests?"

"Tomorrow, earliest. You know there's no way Powell's going to be able to stop them taking over."

"Honestly, I'm surprised he managed to keep the Feds out so long. How far back do he and MacLeod go, anyway?"

"Long enough. You got anything for the book?" He pulled the battered blue notebook he was using for his records and raised his pencil at Methos' nod.

"Simon Haversham. Well, that's how he introduced himself. He could have been Owain Fitzgerald of the Court of King James for all I know, but somehow I doubt it."

"Not good enough?"

Methos raised an eyebrow. "I'd say he was exactly good enough, but then I'm quite attached to my head."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, he was as inexperienced as the others, I wouldn't say he was older than thirty or forty."

Joe dutifully wrote the name down in the list of the dead and made a mental note to get the book into digital encryption as soon as possible. His version was ciphered, of course, but last thing they needed right now was the FBI finding the notebook and thinking they had a serial killer's souvenir.

Methos raised his bottle as Joe shut the book. "To Simon Haversham and his resting place in history."

"I know that name." MacLeod didn't look a lot better after a shower and a change of clothes, but at least he looked a little more alert.

Joe handed him a bottle of beer and felt his smile fade. "A friend?"

"No. Just … I think Richie mentioned him once. Biker." MacLeod turned his attention to Methos. "British?"

The other man nodded and a sharp smile grew. "British. Or his accent mimicry was better than some people's."

MacLeod rolled his eyes and Joe grinned, he'd wondered when Methos would bring up last week's incident with the drug dealer.

"I'm just saying that the next time you feel the need to try for an American accent, 'Valley' may not be your best choice."

MacLeod shrugged and picked up his beer. "He bought it."

"He didn't buy it, you kicked him in the head while he was trying to work out what you were saying."

"Anyway. If it was Simon, he wasn't very old. About the same age as Richie would be."

A pause was saved from being weighted down to silence as Methos spoke in a faintly affronted tone. "Are you suggesting he was too small and I should have thrown him back? Because I don't think The Gathering operates a catch and release policy. Unless, did your friend mention if the Feds are from Fish and Game?"

MacLeod waited patiently until the minor diatribe was over and spoke mildly. "Finished?"

"Sorry, it's been a long decade." Methos closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"What I'm saying is that none of them have been that old. Some were better than others but they're not … " MacLeod shrugged "… experienced enough?"

Joe nodded. "Age and treachery?"

"Something like that. Doesn't make sense if the Gathering's heating up."

Joe lowered himself into his chair behind the bar. "So cannon fodder. Someone's trying to wear you down before they take you on?"

MacLeod nodded. "Maybe, it wouldn't be the first time. But why go after Methos too? It's not like they even know who he is."

Methos didn't bother to look up from the papers he'd resumed grading. "We cannae all be the famous Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Like, y'know?" With a flourish, he wrote an ornately flowing 'F'.

Joe winced at the mangling of the Highlands accent, wondering if it was possible to die from acute vowel poisoning. MacLeod recoiled. "Don't do that again. And you know what I mean."

"I imagine he – or she - doesn't want to risk getting Challenged back if they take your head. Which is a little presumptuous on their part. They could have just asked, I would have told them MacLeod's crusades are his own."

The impulse was in Joe to mention that the last decade had seen Methos in the same city as MacLeod more often than it hadn't, but he bit the words back. Instead, he tried to imagine the kind of Immortal who would use these tactics. Names and faces came to mind – Mac had been right, it wasn't a new trick.

He coughed before the bickering got out of control. "Could be someone like Kenny. Too weak to Challenge you directly so they found another way."

They considered in silence for a moment and then Methos spoke reflectively. "Or it could actually be Kenny."

MacLeod finally shook his head. "Nah, he doesn't have that much patience. Anyway, I told him I'd kill him if he came after me again; he'd have a better plan than this."

The two bottles of beer were empty now; Joe stood and brushed them into the recycling box with his hand where they shattered satisfyingly. He leaned on the counter, arms crossed and waited until MacLeod looked back before he spoke. "So what are you going to do? You can't take the Challenges anymore, not with the Feds in town. Maybe it's time to … take a trip."

The man laughed quietly. "You mean run away."

"Strategic withdrawal. Lay low for a while." And hey, while he was dreaming he might as well go for broke. "Or find some Holy Ground. The Buddhist monastery, they take people in. Just for a couple of weeks, Mac. The Feds come, they look around, they go and it's back to business. And I'll try and find out who's in town. The network ain't what it used to be but I still got some numbers I can call."

A faint smile remained precisely in place. "I'll think about it, Joe."

Joe lifted his hands an inch and dropped them heavily back to the bar, sighed and had no inclination to hide it. He'd tried. "Sure."

"He's been in there a while."

David turned slightly away from his partner. It wasn't like he didn't like the guy, he did. He'd even come to terms with being lied to since word one. Definitely. More or less. Didn't matter, even before the thing with the Chinese it was fact: any watch went longer than an hour and Colby got hard on the nerves.

Privately he wondered if Don had partnered them just to see who snapped first.

"I mean, how long does it take to have a beer? Maybe he went out the back."

There was silence for just long enough that his hopes were raised and then, "What're you reading, anyway?"

Dashed but good, David lowered his magazine and turned back around. "Let me guess. You're bored?"

Colby grinned unrepentantly. "Hey, you know how much I love sitting on my ass for hours playing spot the bad guy."

"I'll find some windows for you to jump out later, okay?"

"I don't love jumping out windows either."

"Off roofs? Or they have that bridge."

Colby nodded to the magazine. "Like you're not bored."

David moved it out of reach; it wasn't that likely his reading material would be a casualty to keeping Colby amused but he didn't want to risk it. "I wasn't, I was reading. Now I'm bored. Don't know why, it's not like we have this conversation every time."

Colby was unmoved; it looked like his personal choice of entertainment had turned out to be David. "You've been on the same page for twenty minutes."

He moved the magazine further away. "It's a good article. I'm reflecting on it."

"It's in something called Beatlology."

He scowled. "Your point?"

Colby's grin widened. "Beatlology. How is that even a word?"

"Okay, first, you play golf. That's like an automatic loss of mocking rights, right there. And second, the Beatles are-" He stopped as he saw Colby's disturbingly eager expression and knew he'd just walked right into a three-hour argument over the band, their music and whatever weird-ass tangents the other man took. No way, no how. "You know what? It's way past lunchtime. Go forage, or whatever it is you Army guys do."

"I can do that." The door opened so fast David wondered if he'd been played. There was blessed peace for all of two seconds before he realised where his partner was headed.

He watched as the man jogged across the road, opened the door of the bar and then walked through the shadowed entrance. "Granger, I am going throw you out a window."

Three heads swung his way as Colby opened the door and he stopped at the threshold. "Open, right? The sign..."

The man behind the bar was indistinct; as his eyes adjusted from the bright glare of sunlight outside to the cool dimness inside, Colby got an impression of blonde or silver hair and a beard. The man nodded apprehensively; Colby began to wonder if they should have run background check on the bar.

Whatever had caused the unease, the man snapped out of it fast. "Sure, just don't get many customers this early in the day, you know? What'll you have?"

He walked across the floor as the last of the blurring in his vision swam into focus; the dark shape at the end of the bar resolved itself into their guy. He'd cleaned up since earlier and that suggested he used this place as more than a watering hole.

Colby let his gaze finish its travel around the room, ending up back at the bar. "You got anything imported?"

The bar man's ready enough smile widened briefly to a grin and he turned towards the refrigerated racks of bottles behind him. Colby didn't miss the notebook that was palmed and dropped down behind the bar, or the way the other two men stared at their own beers as if expecting them to do something more entertaining than carbonate.

Interesting.

A bottle of something Mexican slid to a stop next to his hand; Colby pushed a note back and then leant against the bar rail. "Thanks. So, you Joe?"

Joe nodded. "I am. Come back this evening and you'll see why it's called a blues bar."

He took a pull on the beer that looked deeper than it was. "I might do that."

"Been in town long?"

"That obvious I'm not a local, huh? Couple days."

The other man at the bar, the one with the nose, was looking at him with a trace of amusement that Colby couldn't quite find the reason for – unless out-of-towners were really funny.

He ignored it for a few seconds and then turned his head with an amicable smile. He hoped. "Can I help you?"

"Sorry, you look like someone I know." The man's eyes narrowed thoughtfully and long, pale fingers drummed absently on the bar top. "Ever been to Washington?"

Colby shook his head. "Not more than once."

"Probably wise. Adam Pierson." The man held his hand out and Colby shook it automatically; thrown off-balance by the gesture, "Colby Granger" was half out before he'd thought about it, by the last syllable he was trying not to wince. So that had been a little stupid. And, he had the feeling it was exactly what the man had wanted.

Well, hell.

He shifted mental gears away from lost tourist and knew something must have shown in his expression, however briefly, when it drew another smile from Pierson. "You're a teacher?" He nodded down at the pile of red-inked papers in front of the man.

"At the university; I find a drink before work steadies my nerves."

Colby could see that. When he and David had still been optimistic enough to think they might get the chance to learn the city a little, they'd taken a look at Seacouver U. It has been like the place was staging its own Grunge revival; some of the faculty had looked scarier than the students. This man was neatly turned out and wore the air of an absent-minded professor like he was born to it.

The scribbled words on the papers weren't math but that was about all he could tell. "What subject?"

"It has a long and profoundly boring title, so let's call it Ancient History."

"And Ancient history's that nerve-wracking?"

"You'd be amazed." Pierson's eyes widened earnestly for a moment. "And what brings you to our fair city, Ag- I'm sorry,Mr Granger?"

Colby briefly considered denial but nothing in Pierson's expression said he'd be believed and, anyway, he'd be expecting it. The alternative wasn't much better, but maybe if he shook the branches something would take a fall out the tree. The bar man was busying himself behind the counter and the man Colby had been making the effort to pay no attention to at all was trying just as hard to return the favour.

He smiled. "The Bureau asked nicely."

In the pause he watched as they carefully didn't look at each other and that told him more than enough. No one who was innocent would react that little.

"Thanks for the beer." He half raised it and then let it settle untouched back on the bar. He headed back out the door, wondering exactly how much David was going to try and kill him.

He slid back into the car five minutes later with a bag of hamburgers and fries and handed it over with a bright smile on the off chance a peace offering would be accepted.

David took the bag and carefully balanced it on the dash. "I updated Don."

"Oh." His smile dropped. "How far out are they?"

"Why, you want a head start?" David half raised his hand to cut off Colby's reply, breathed out slow and even and then spoke again. "Okay, tell me you got something good."

"Three men: our guy's still in there, there's the bar owner and one Adam Pierson, College professor. He knew we were out here."

"He told you that?"

"As good as." Colby decided another grin would probably get him decked, so he tried for offhand. "So I told them I was FBI, figured it might shake them up a little."

David stared at him. "Undercover just isn't your thing, is it? Seriously, how did you even manage with the Chinese?"

"They knew. Pierson must have seen us when he went in. At least now we know they know that we … know. Okay, whatever. We know there's something going on with them and the owner of the place tried to hide some notebook when I went in. And our guy changed his clothes, so it's not just some random place he went for a beer – it's home."

Despite himself, David found Colby's argument persuasive and that was a pretty bad sign: when they were so hard up for information on a case that a screw up like this had an upside, it was time to re-evaluate.

"Don's going to tear you a new one." He reached for the bag, dug inside and found the burgers amongst the paper napkins. They were lukewarm and greasy; he threw one over to Colby. "Enjoy your last meal."

Colby unwrapped it and took a large bite, words muffled when he replied. "It was a good plan."

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, man." David stuffed his burger back in the bag and reached for the radio. Seacouver PD hadn't been able to ID the suspect, but even they had to be able to find something on a guy who came pre-IDed by his own bar.

Joe watched the Fed leave, then grabbed his cane and made his way out from behind the bar to set the sign from 'open' to 'closed'. After another second's thought, he pulled the blind down and then locked and bolted the door. That was probably about all he could without a roll of barbed wire, so he turned to look at Methos. "You recognised him?"

"He and another gentleman were sitting in a car across the street when I got here. I didn't think anything of it but it seemed a little odd he'd decide to come in after sitting out there for hours."

"You noticed two random people in a car in lunch time traffic?"

Methos smiled slightly. "Being hunted on a nightly basis does wonders for your observational skills, I can't recommend it enough."

Joe scowled as he walked back to the bar, and he stabbed his cane at the floor with every step to punctuate his mood. "How the hell are we already being watched?"

The smile twisted sardonically as Methos shot a look over to the still silent MacLeod. "I'm guessing we aren't. Or weweren't. We probably are now."

MacLeod groaned and finally spoke, returning from the reverie he'd descended into. "They're good, I didn't see them."

Joe pulled the Fed's untouched beer towards him and took a long drink before replying. "You think they picked you up after last night?"

"There were cops on the scene before the Quickening was even done and it's a little hard to make a clean getaway when you're lit up like beacon."

"So why haven't they picked you up already?"

"Not enough evidence, maybe. Just a guy running from the scene."

"It's easily enough solved." Methos shrugged. "Stay here, let them see you're staying here, and I'll go and find someone eager to lose a foot off the top. Hard to pin it on you if you're miles from the storm."

MacLeod shook his head. "You said it yourself, you might be under surveillance now too."

"Then we need some outside help. Perhaps Amand-"

MacLeod shook his head again, harder. "I'm not bringing anyone else into this."

"Very noble. I'll be sure to send you a sword baked into a cake."

Joe ran a hand over his eyes and then looked back. "Or, we can give them a serial killer. Get them following one of you, let them see you killing the next Immortal. Die in a hail of bullets and …" Joe trailed away. Methos was right; it had been a long decade. "Never mind."

MacLeod canted his head and his expression became thoughtful as he studied Methos. "We could fight."

The other man looked wary. "What?"

"Let them see us fighting, I'll kill you and they kill me. Case closed."

"They might notice when our bodies disappear. And how, exactly, were you planning to account for the lightning part of 'The Lightning Killer'? They'll notice when there isn't any and I don't think they make Tesla coils that big."

MacLeod grimaced and conceded the point with a nod. "This was a lot easier last time."

"Well perhaps your next fascinating career move should be into law enforcement."

"There has to be at least one of us already there, or a Watcher."

"Right, because the Watchers have so much power now." Joe wasn't pleased, not exactly, but he couldn't quite quell a rush of pride. The Immortals had never known how much of their activity the Watchers had cleaned up after, now they were finding out.

"You realise if we both run to a monastery now, it's going to look rather odd to our governmental friends." Methos stood and leaned over the bar, hunting for a beer within reach. Joe rolled his eyes and passed two up from the stash at his feet.

MacLeod spoke slowly, the words distasteful to him. "We could leave town, disappear for a few years."

Joe wondered if he should put the event in his notebook for posterity as Methos paused mid-bottle opening, struck silent. Methos finally managed, "That sounds like one of my plans, have I been an uncharacteristically good influence?"

With an uncomfortable roll of his shoulders, MacLeod took the offered beer. "I didn't say I liked it. But I don't like being investigated either and I like killing children who don't know better even less."

"Oh please, they're hardly children. And they're trying to kill you. More importantly, they're trying to kill me. Save your sympathy for someone who deserves it."

MacLeod reached over and gave him a few heavy-handed pats on the shoulder. "There, there."

Methos righted himself on his barstool. "Thank you, I feel much better."

"I'm glad. We're going out tonight."

"I should warn you, I don't put out on the first date."

MacLeod looked the other Immortal up and down with measured disbelief. "Yeah, right."

"Not for you, I wouldn't. You'd never respect me in the morning." Methos held up his hands to forestall the inevitable rejoinder, "Yes, yes, I know. You don't respect me now. Fine, what's the plan."

"Capture. I'm tired of being hunted. I want to ask one of these children some questions and I need you to lead the Feds away if they get too close. If they arrest you, Joe can post bail."

Methos just about managed not to choke on his beer. "That's a terrible plan. Why can't I capture and you lead the Feds away – they're after you, not me."

"So is the Immortal. I think the Feds will take what they can get, the Immortal probably won't."

Methos looked askance to Joe. "I think I've just been insulted."

Joe nodded and managed a smile. "So that's a no to the running and hiding?"

MacLeod nodded. "That's a no."