Duncan focused on the death's head symbol adorning Wolfgang Kroeger's black cap. Anything to distract him from the blistering agony that vibrated along every nerve in his body. Anything to avoid meeting Kroeger's arctic blue eyes - the cruelest, most bestial eyes he'd ever seen.
For the first time in his nearly 350 years of life, Duncan really wanted to die. He would welcome the blade as it severed his head from his pain-ravaged body. But he would not beg. And he would not betray those whose lives depended on his silence. Cold steel pressed against the burning flesh beneath his clenched jaw. *Do it, damn you, do it.*
"You would like this, wouldn't you, MacLeod?" The blade bit into his skin, but not far enough to do any real damage. "You long for release. You yearn for me to take your head," the deep voice crooned - its soothing tones belying the speaker's intent.
"Cooperate - tell me where your friends are hiding, then you can beg for the mercy of death. This will be all over, and you can rest in peace."
Naked, with arms and legs strapped to a unforgiving metal table, Duncan seized the only weapon left to him. He found a trace of saliva, and with every ounce of strength he could summon, he spat at Kroeger. "Go to hell!"
"Tsk, Tsk," his tormentor said, removing the cap. He took a crisp handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped it along the brim of the cap, then swabbed specks of spittle from his face. "That was a very foolish thing to do, MacLeod. Now, you've made me angry - very angry."
Though he expected it, the force of the blow wrenched Duncan's neck, and the ornate gold ring on Kroeger's right hand tore open a gash on his cheek. Warm blood welled from the cut, ran along his face, then seeped into his ear.
"Friedrich," Kroeger called to his aide, as he removed his jacket. He draped it neatly over the back of a chair, then set his cap on the seat. "It seems our young friend, here, isn't ready to go home yet. Fetch me some toys, so we can play another game, will you?"
Snapping to attention, Friedrich quickly moved out of Duncan's view, but Kroeger crossed the room to a table by the wall. With his back to Duncan, he rolled up his sleeves. When he turned, he held an apple and a knife in his hand. He smiled as he gazed down at Duncan - the smile of a man about to enjoy a good meal or a beautiful woman. He began to peel the apple in one very thin strip.
Duncan couldn't remember the last time he had eaten, but hunger was so far down on the list of torments the Immortal SS officer had inflicted on him, the sensation of it surprised him. As the cold wet peel fell onto his stomach, he watched, hypnotized by the motion, and waited for the agony to begin again.
When it did, it caught him suddenly as it always did, and with a force that would have lifted him off the table if he hadn't been strapped down. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't prepare himself for the white hot blinding pain, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't stop the screams that scraped his throat raw.
To protect his sanity and to prevent himself from revealing the identities and whereabouts of Connor and their associates - very mortal associates - Duncan sought sanctuary deep in his mind. Using the ancient methods he had learned centuries ago in the Orient, he retreated to a place of peace where the flames of torture could not reach him. And he waited for the brief respite of temporary death.
****
The tap of soft knuckles on his forehead startled him, jerking him out of the past.
"Hey, MacLeod, are you in there?" Sara's honeyed voice rubbed away the haunting memories with a soothing balm. She knelt before him, her eyes filled with concern, her fist poised to rap his head, again. He smiled weakly, then reached up, and took her hand in his.
"I'm here," he said, with a sigh, holding her hand to keep himself connected to the present. The words came out ragged and raw, but the memory drifted away. "Sorry ... I was just thinking about something."
Sara didn't pull her hand away as she leaned back to sit on her heels. "I take it, he isn't a friend of yours."
Duncan stared at her as Kroeger's face vied with hers. "No ... not a friend." He exhaled the words slowly along with his breath.
"Want to talk about it?"
"No ... I can't." He shook his head. The memory was too real. He couldn't. "There's no time," he said, picking up the picture. He forced himself to look into the face of his enemy again.
Sara eased her hand away, then tucked her feet into a half-lotus. She juggled a rock from hand to hand as she watched him with an expression he couldn't read.
"They don't know we're here, MacLeod," she said, softly. "Another one of them came outside and they seemed to be just talking, calmly - like there was no threat. So what do we do now?"
"I have to think," he said, trying to do just that. Despite everything, she seemed determined to go on. He had to admire her courage. "Is there someplace we can go while I work up a plan. Someplace close by, but far enough away from the house that he can't sense me."
"How far is far enough?"
He shrugged. "I don't really know. The distance varies. It's like sight or hearing - some Immortals are more sensitive than others."
"Oh great!" Sara tossed her head. Blond silk swished as she looked around. "We can go down to the boathouse."
She pointed toward the lake, and he could see the peak of a small building at the edge. Seemed far enough away for safety. "That should be good," he said, with a nod and a sweep of his hand in that direction.
Sara moved soundlessly into the brush, and he followed. It took just a few minutes to cover the distance, then Sara stopped just short of their destination. "Damn," she swore softly. "I forgot, you can see the door from the house."
Duncan looked at the door mounted at the back of the small wooden structure, then back at the house. One of the men paced a large deck that ran across the entire facade. "Is the door locked," he asked.
"No. There's just a latch keeping it closed."
"Give me the binoculars and I'll watch for him to turn his back. When I say, *go,* keep low and get inside. "I'll follow you. We'll just have to hope no one's watching from inside the house."
Sara nodded, as she crouched down and inched over to the edge of the brush. Duncan watched the man on the deck. He reached the railing, then turned and began walking toward the far end of the deck. "Go," Duncan commanded. He heard a mere whisper of sound as Sara moved behind him, then the faint squeal of a hinge. The man on the deck continued his tour without hesitation. Duncan waited until he completed another circuit, then crouched and ran for the door.
He stepped into the darkness, then paused a moment with his back pressed against the door as his eyes adjusted. The boathouse appeared to be empty. A slight scrape of rubber on wood made him look up - up into the barrel of a rifle ... and Sara's smiling face. "Nice to see you again, MacLeod," she said, jumping down from a broad beam that ran the length of the building.
Duncan shook his head in amazement. "You're full of tricks, aren't you."
Sara chuckled as she opened a cabinet in the corner. She took out a lantern, adjusted the wick, then flicked a lighter she had taken out of a vest pocket.
Duncan put his hand over hers. "Don't ..."
"It's okay. It's daylight, they won't see the light from the house."
Duncan's eyes had rapidly adjusted to the dim light seeping in under the double doors at the far end. He didn't need additional light, but he released Sara's hand, and let her light the lantern.
It cast pale shadows over a canoe mounted on the wall beside them. Across the way on the far wall, the supports for a larger boat stood empty. Underneath, extra paddles, a pair of oars and pile of canvas sail lay neatly stacked. In the corner, a rack held fishing tackle. A pair of bows and a quiver of arrows leaned against it. A plan began to take shape.
He walked over to investigate. He picked one bow up and sampled the feel of it in his hand. It had been nearly a century, since he'd even held a bow let alone used one. Like riding a bicycle, he thought. Once you learn you never forget. But his skills would, no doubt, be rusty.
"Why did you kiss me," Sara asked, breaking into his thoughts.
Bow in hand he turned to face her. It had been an impulse, a reflex action, an instrument to calm her down, but the desire to do it had been lurking at the back of his mind since he'd seen her waving that hatchet back by the stream. He took a deep breath. "I don't know," he said, softly. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."
He looked into her eyes, wishing they were in another place - under different circumstances, but he'd learned over the centuries, that wishing accomplished nothing. Crossing the space between them in two long strides, he stood before her. He stroked a lock of silken hair away from her face, and tucked it behind her ear. He let his finger trail down her face, then dropped his hand to his side.
"Oh," she said softly, taking a step back.
She paused a moment, gazing into his eyes, then she broke the contact. She took another step back, then lifted herself up to sit on the cabinet. Her action shook the lamp and it cast flickering shadows over her face. When the flame settled, it bathed her face with a warm glow, and she watched him with an unreadable expression, then she smiled, lifting the corners of her mouth slowly. The smile spoke of satisfaction and contentment, mystery and knowledge. It implied that she'd just read his mind.
Her boot heel tapped out a beat on the wooden door as she swung her foot. Her smile slipped into a grin. "So what do we do now, Chief?"
*Back to reality.* Duncan shook his head to chase the remnants of the spell. "Do you know how to use this?" he asked, holding the bow before him.
"I'm an expert, and I've got a collection of medals to prove it."
He lifted an eyebrow at her boast, then returned her grin. "Ever hit a moving target?"
"A moving target?" Why would I need--" Her foot stopped its drum solo and her eyes widened, as the implication penetrated. "Oh ... um ... well, I've never ... uh," she stammered, glancing down at her feet. "I guess, I could."
"Don't guess. There are six of them and only two of us. We need to take a few of them out without alerting the others."
Sara's eyes widened perceptively. Realization of the reality facing them flooded their depths. She inhaled sharply, but said nothing.
"I can't get too close because the other Immortal will know I'm here, so we have to do it from a distance." He waggled the bow.
Sara nodded, her eyes solemn.
"I've done this before, but it's been a long time," he said, pulling back the string and sighting down an imaginary arrow. He released the string. It snapped back into place with a twang, then he set the bow down, wrapping his hands around the top of the shaft. "If you don't want to come along, I can do it alone. You'll probably be safe if you wait for me here."
Sara shook her head, then she slipped down from her perch. "No way." Her feet punctuated the words with a soft thump. "I'm coming with you."
A cover of determination blacked out any fear or doubt in her eyes. Duncan had no idea what she was thinking, but he had seen that determined look before, and he remembered the woman who had hauled a man's dead body off a cliff. Sara MacKensie would do what she had to do. He was sure of it.
****
"You married, MacLeod," Sara asked, as they walked along the shore of the lake.
Duncan's foot slipped off a rock and landed ankle deep in icy water. "No. Why do you ask?"
"Just making conversation. I went through your wallet when I was trying to find out who you were. I saw a picture of a pretty blonde woman. I thought maybe she was your wife."
*Tessa.* Even after two years, deep abiding sadness rested heavily on his heart. He couldn't talk about Tessa. Not now. Not today. "No, she's not my wife. How much further is that clearing?"
Sara stopped. Her ponytail twitched as she turned her head. She stared at him for a moment with narrowed eyes and a masked expression, then she turned and began walking again. "It's just ahead."
Duncan squeezed between a large boulder and a tree, then followed Sara into the clearing. Sandy black dirt, littered here and there with rocks and small plants, skirted the lake and stretched about twenty feet along the shore. It extended back into the woods about the same distance. It suited his purpose nicely.
A tree at the far edge offered a convenient perch for the target Sara had dug out from under the sails. Duncan walked across the clearing, then attempted to wedge the bright yellow, red and blue ringed disk in the "V" where branch met trunk. It tilted, falling out of place. He reached out to adjust it again, but a faint whistle, brought the hair at the base of his neck to attention. Something brushed his arm, and a vibrating twang shook his ears. He tried to move his arm, but an arrow had pinned his sleeve to the tree.
"What the hell!" He continued to swear in Gaelic, as he pulled the arrow from the tree, then spun around in one fluid motion.
Sara stood at the other side of the clearing, bow in hand, wearing a satisfied expression on her face.
Duncan covered the space in three long strides. "Are you crazy?" he shouted waving the arrow wrapped in his clenched fist.
Sara stepped back, lowered the bow in the space between them, wound her fingers around the top, then she smiled. "You asked if I could hit a moving target. The answer is in your hand."
"I didn't mean me. You could have killed me!"
"Possibly," Sara said, watching him with a look that was sharper than the arrow he held in his hand. "But you told me you can't die." She broke off her stare, turned, then sat down on a rock at the edge of the clearing. Holding the bow across her lap, she examined it.
Duncan stood with his hands on his hips. Just when he thought he had her figured out, she did or said something that left him astounded. The woman sitting before him appeared as cold and calculating as any he'd ever met, yet he'd seen her soft and tender, as well. He shook his head, as he fitted the arrow to the string of the other bow.
"Well, this is not the time to test my Immortality," he said turning back to face the target. "Having an arrow pierce my back, and dying as a result, is not my idea of a fun way to pass the time." As he pulled back the string, then released the arrow, he remembered a time when he had died from just such a shot. A time when he was living with Little Deer and the Sioux, but he had no time for such memories now. He shook them off.
His shot missed the bull's eye by about three inches. He swore softly as he positioned another arrow on the bowstring. "Besides, you missed," he said - but he didn't. This time the arrow landed in the center of the black spot. He turned to find Sara watching him.
"No I didn't," she said, rising. "I was aiming for this spot of blood on your sleeve."
Duncan tugged at the blue chambray and examined the hole in his sleeve. It lay exactly in the center of a patch of dried blood about two inches across. She could be lying, but he didn't think so. He didn't really believe she would shoot him deliberately, so he had to believe his sleeve had indeed, been her target. He hoped she would be that good when he needed her to be.
****
Mesmerized, Sara watched the muscles of Duncan MacLeod's back and shoulders ripple under his shirt as he sorted through the contents of her backpack. Muttering something about seeing what else she had in her bag of tricks, he had spilled everything out on the ground a few minutes before. From a distance of about two feet above her head, her mind watched as well, and methodically recorded every detail. *So this is what an out-of-the-body experience feels like.*
How else could she explain this bizarre sense of separation, and the chilling numbness that blocked rational thought? Her world had taken on a surreal quality the moment a dead man sat up by the stream. When the razor edge of his sword missed her head by millimeters, her mind immediately shut down all feeling, then sought refuge in that safe spot where it now floated. All other body functions ran strictly on autopilot. Any sense of conscious movement, conscious decision-making had vanished. Logic and order had evaporated like a morning mist under the heat of the midday sun. Nothing of substance remained - nothing to hold on to, save courage. The tide of events flowed too strongly for resistance; she quit fighting and drifted with the current.
A wet sounding crunch, caught her attention and held it. She blinked to focus her eyes. Less than a foot away, MacLeod rested his arm across one bent knee as he bit into the apple again. A dead man eating an apple. Such a common ordinary act raised to an eerie level by extraordinary circumstances.
"Help yourself to my lunch, MacLeod," she said. Her voice echoed strangely, yet the tone sounded perfectly normal, almost playful. Who was this person? No one she knew, and certainly not Sara MacKensie.
His smile triggered a rush of warmth that spread up from the pit of her abdomen. "I like a woman who plans ahead." He held the apple out to her, offering to share.
She shook her head, then propped her elbows on her knees. Her head drooped to rest in the cradle of her palms. "I was an Explorer Scout. Our troop leader taught us to be prepared at all times for all things."
"He taught you well, but you forgot the kitchen sink," MacLeod replied with a chuckle, setting the apple down on top of the binoculars.
He picked up a Swiss army knife, checked out a few of the attachments, then he dropped it onto the growing assortment of items piled near her feet. He had already selected the Bowie knife that had been her father's favorite, a coil of nylon rope, a roll of electrical tape that had been in the bag for so long she forgot why she had it, and a small high-powered flashlight. He threw the remaining items, including the rest of her lunch back into the bag, then set it alongside her.
He sat back on his heels and studied her for a moment while he finished the rest of the apple. "I want you to understand something," he said, his voice low and steady. "Before this is over, people are going to get hurt. Some may even die. I'll do my best to make sure the bad guys are the only ones doing the dying, but I can't offer any guarantees."
Two Saras listened to the sensual, resonant voice of a dead man. One Sara accepted the inescapable truth of this unimaginable situation, coldly and with full knowledge that she would do what needed to be done. *Kill, or be killed. And you're right smack dab in the middle of it, Sara. You can't go back, and you can't run from the inevitable.*
The other Sara recoiled at this casual speaking of violence and of death. She wondered what had become of the writer Sara who could form such scenes in her imagination, then paint those pictures with words for others to read. She saw no recourse but retreat, and crept deeper into the corners of her dark sanctuary to let the other Sara get on with the harsh business of killing.
As the gap between them widened, both Saras wondered whether even all the kings horses and all the kings men could make her whole again. "We've been over this ground before," the cold steel Sara said. "Why go over it again?"
"Because this is not one of your novels we'll be writing. It's reality, and I thought I should remind you, that for mortals, death is permanent."
Sara rubbed her palms along her thighs. The sun-browned backs of her hands wore a coat of smeared dirt and dried blood. The normally short nails were broken and split. The yoke of cold steel chafed as it sat heavily on her shoulders. She sighed. "You think I don't know that?"
She looked up and gazed deep into his soft brown eyes - except the softness had formed a hard edge. They now glinted with his own brand of steel. An electric thrum traced her nerves as they continued to measure one another. No matter what the future held, circumstances had joined her with this man in a way that she had never been joined with anyone before. What consequences waited in the path ahead, she knew not. She just knew they must face them together.
He leaned closer, and took her hands in his. Strong hands grasping her slender hands. His thumbs moved over her knuckles, caressing them with soothing tenderness. "I need you to be absolutely sure," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "If I take you with me, I need to know that you can do what needs to be done. Once we have begun, you can't change your mind or get squeamish on me at the last minute."
"You want to know if I can ... kill."
He lowered his eyes to glance at their joined hands. "Yes," he answered, meeting her gaze again.
"I don't know."
His eyes twinkled as his mouth twitched into a smile. "At least, you're honest."
"I won't let you down, MacLeod. My Dad taught me that life is full of things you don't think you can do, but when they need to be done, somehow you find the strength to do them."
He studied her again for a long moment, then gazed down at the ground as he pushed the equipment to one side. With a twig, he drew a rough outline of her house in the dirt. "Here's what I thought we could do ... " he said, as he began to lay out his plan of attack.
For the first time in his nearly 350 years of life, Duncan really wanted to die. He would welcome the blade as it severed his head from his pain-ravaged body. But he would not beg. And he would not betray those whose lives depended on his silence. Cold steel pressed against the burning flesh beneath his clenched jaw. *Do it, damn you, do it.*
"You would like this, wouldn't you, MacLeod?" The blade bit into his skin, but not far enough to do any real damage. "You long for release. You yearn for me to take your head," the deep voice crooned - its soothing tones belying the speaker's intent.
"Cooperate - tell me where your friends are hiding, then you can beg for the mercy of death. This will be all over, and you can rest in peace."
Naked, with arms and legs strapped to a unforgiving metal table, Duncan seized the only weapon left to him. He found a trace of saliva, and with every ounce of strength he could summon, he spat at Kroeger. "Go to hell!"
"Tsk, Tsk," his tormentor said, removing the cap. He took a crisp handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped it along the brim of the cap, then swabbed specks of spittle from his face. "That was a very foolish thing to do, MacLeod. Now, you've made me angry - very angry."
Though he expected it, the force of the blow wrenched Duncan's neck, and the ornate gold ring on Kroeger's right hand tore open a gash on his cheek. Warm blood welled from the cut, ran along his face, then seeped into his ear.
"Friedrich," Kroeger called to his aide, as he removed his jacket. He draped it neatly over the back of a chair, then set his cap on the seat. "It seems our young friend, here, isn't ready to go home yet. Fetch me some toys, so we can play another game, will you?"
Snapping to attention, Friedrich quickly moved out of Duncan's view, but Kroeger crossed the room to a table by the wall. With his back to Duncan, he rolled up his sleeves. When he turned, he held an apple and a knife in his hand. He smiled as he gazed down at Duncan - the smile of a man about to enjoy a good meal or a beautiful woman. He began to peel the apple in one very thin strip.
Duncan couldn't remember the last time he had eaten, but hunger was so far down on the list of torments the Immortal SS officer had inflicted on him, the sensation of it surprised him. As the cold wet peel fell onto his stomach, he watched, hypnotized by the motion, and waited for the agony to begin again.
When it did, it caught him suddenly as it always did, and with a force that would have lifted him off the table if he hadn't been strapped down. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't prepare himself for the white hot blinding pain, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't stop the screams that scraped his throat raw.
To protect his sanity and to prevent himself from revealing the identities and whereabouts of Connor and their associates - very mortal associates - Duncan sought sanctuary deep in his mind. Using the ancient methods he had learned centuries ago in the Orient, he retreated to a place of peace where the flames of torture could not reach him. And he waited for the brief respite of temporary death.
****
The tap of soft knuckles on his forehead startled him, jerking him out of the past.
"Hey, MacLeod, are you in there?" Sara's honeyed voice rubbed away the haunting memories with a soothing balm. She knelt before him, her eyes filled with concern, her fist poised to rap his head, again. He smiled weakly, then reached up, and took her hand in his.
"I'm here," he said, with a sigh, holding her hand to keep himself connected to the present. The words came out ragged and raw, but the memory drifted away. "Sorry ... I was just thinking about something."
Sara didn't pull her hand away as she leaned back to sit on her heels. "I take it, he isn't a friend of yours."
Duncan stared at her as Kroeger's face vied with hers. "No ... not a friend." He exhaled the words slowly along with his breath.
"Want to talk about it?"
"No ... I can't." He shook his head. The memory was too real. He couldn't. "There's no time," he said, picking up the picture. He forced himself to look into the face of his enemy again.
Sara eased her hand away, then tucked her feet into a half-lotus. She juggled a rock from hand to hand as she watched him with an expression he couldn't read.
"They don't know we're here, MacLeod," she said, softly. "Another one of them came outside and they seemed to be just talking, calmly - like there was no threat. So what do we do now?"
"I have to think," he said, trying to do just that. Despite everything, she seemed determined to go on. He had to admire her courage. "Is there someplace we can go while I work up a plan. Someplace close by, but far enough away from the house that he can't sense me."
"How far is far enough?"
He shrugged. "I don't really know. The distance varies. It's like sight or hearing - some Immortals are more sensitive than others."
"Oh great!" Sara tossed her head. Blond silk swished as she looked around. "We can go down to the boathouse."
She pointed toward the lake, and he could see the peak of a small building at the edge. Seemed far enough away for safety. "That should be good," he said, with a nod and a sweep of his hand in that direction.
Sara moved soundlessly into the brush, and he followed. It took just a few minutes to cover the distance, then Sara stopped just short of their destination. "Damn," she swore softly. "I forgot, you can see the door from the house."
Duncan looked at the door mounted at the back of the small wooden structure, then back at the house. One of the men paced a large deck that ran across the entire facade. "Is the door locked," he asked.
"No. There's just a latch keeping it closed."
"Give me the binoculars and I'll watch for him to turn his back. When I say, *go,* keep low and get inside. "I'll follow you. We'll just have to hope no one's watching from inside the house."
Sara nodded, as she crouched down and inched over to the edge of the brush. Duncan watched the man on the deck. He reached the railing, then turned and began walking toward the far end of the deck. "Go," Duncan commanded. He heard a mere whisper of sound as Sara moved behind him, then the faint squeal of a hinge. The man on the deck continued his tour without hesitation. Duncan waited until he completed another circuit, then crouched and ran for the door.
He stepped into the darkness, then paused a moment with his back pressed against the door as his eyes adjusted. The boathouse appeared to be empty. A slight scrape of rubber on wood made him look up - up into the barrel of a rifle ... and Sara's smiling face. "Nice to see you again, MacLeod," she said, jumping down from a broad beam that ran the length of the building.
Duncan shook his head in amazement. "You're full of tricks, aren't you."
Sara chuckled as she opened a cabinet in the corner. She took out a lantern, adjusted the wick, then flicked a lighter she had taken out of a vest pocket.
Duncan put his hand over hers. "Don't ..."
"It's okay. It's daylight, they won't see the light from the house."
Duncan's eyes had rapidly adjusted to the dim light seeping in under the double doors at the far end. He didn't need additional light, but he released Sara's hand, and let her light the lantern.
It cast pale shadows over a canoe mounted on the wall beside them. Across the way on the far wall, the supports for a larger boat stood empty. Underneath, extra paddles, a pair of oars and pile of canvas sail lay neatly stacked. In the corner, a rack held fishing tackle. A pair of bows and a quiver of arrows leaned against it. A plan began to take shape.
He walked over to investigate. He picked one bow up and sampled the feel of it in his hand. It had been nearly a century, since he'd even held a bow let alone used one. Like riding a bicycle, he thought. Once you learn you never forget. But his skills would, no doubt, be rusty.
"Why did you kiss me," Sara asked, breaking into his thoughts.
Bow in hand he turned to face her. It had been an impulse, a reflex action, an instrument to calm her down, but the desire to do it had been lurking at the back of his mind since he'd seen her waving that hatchet back by the stream. He took a deep breath. "I don't know," he said, softly. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."
He looked into her eyes, wishing they were in another place - under different circumstances, but he'd learned over the centuries, that wishing accomplished nothing. Crossing the space between them in two long strides, he stood before her. He stroked a lock of silken hair away from her face, and tucked it behind her ear. He let his finger trail down her face, then dropped his hand to his side.
"Oh," she said softly, taking a step back.
She paused a moment, gazing into his eyes, then she broke the contact. She took another step back, then lifted herself up to sit on the cabinet. Her action shook the lamp and it cast flickering shadows over her face. When the flame settled, it bathed her face with a warm glow, and she watched him with an unreadable expression, then she smiled, lifting the corners of her mouth slowly. The smile spoke of satisfaction and contentment, mystery and knowledge. It implied that she'd just read his mind.
Her boot heel tapped out a beat on the wooden door as she swung her foot. Her smile slipped into a grin. "So what do we do now, Chief?"
*Back to reality.* Duncan shook his head to chase the remnants of the spell. "Do you know how to use this?" he asked, holding the bow before him.
"I'm an expert, and I've got a collection of medals to prove it."
He lifted an eyebrow at her boast, then returned her grin. "Ever hit a moving target?"
"A moving target?" Why would I need--" Her foot stopped its drum solo and her eyes widened, as the implication penetrated. "Oh ... um ... well, I've never ... uh," she stammered, glancing down at her feet. "I guess, I could."
"Don't guess. There are six of them and only two of us. We need to take a few of them out without alerting the others."
Sara's eyes widened perceptively. Realization of the reality facing them flooded their depths. She inhaled sharply, but said nothing.
"I can't get too close because the other Immortal will know I'm here, so we have to do it from a distance." He waggled the bow.
Sara nodded, her eyes solemn.
"I've done this before, but it's been a long time," he said, pulling back the string and sighting down an imaginary arrow. He released the string. It snapped back into place with a twang, then he set the bow down, wrapping his hands around the top of the shaft. "If you don't want to come along, I can do it alone. You'll probably be safe if you wait for me here."
Sara shook her head, then she slipped down from her perch. "No way." Her feet punctuated the words with a soft thump. "I'm coming with you."
A cover of determination blacked out any fear or doubt in her eyes. Duncan had no idea what she was thinking, but he had seen that determined look before, and he remembered the woman who had hauled a man's dead body off a cliff. Sara MacKensie would do what she had to do. He was sure of it.
****
"You married, MacLeod," Sara asked, as they walked along the shore of the lake.
Duncan's foot slipped off a rock and landed ankle deep in icy water. "No. Why do you ask?"
"Just making conversation. I went through your wallet when I was trying to find out who you were. I saw a picture of a pretty blonde woman. I thought maybe she was your wife."
*Tessa.* Even after two years, deep abiding sadness rested heavily on his heart. He couldn't talk about Tessa. Not now. Not today. "No, she's not my wife. How much further is that clearing?"
Sara stopped. Her ponytail twitched as she turned her head. She stared at him for a moment with narrowed eyes and a masked expression, then she turned and began walking again. "It's just ahead."
Duncan squeezed between a large boulder and a tree, then followed Sara into the clearing. Sandy black dirt, littered here and there with rocks and small plants, skirted the lake and stretched about twenty feet along the shore. It extended back into the woods about the same distance. It suited his purpose nicely.
A tree at the far edge offered a convenient perch for the target Sara had dug out from under the sails. Duncan walked across the clearing, then attempted to wedge the bright yellow, red and blue ringed disk in the "V" where branch met trunk. It tilted, falling out of place. He reached out to adjust it again, but a faint whistle, brought the hair at the base of his neck to attention. Something brushed his arm, and a vibrating twang shook his ears. He tried to move his arm, but an arrow had pinned his sleeve to the tree.
"What the hell!" He continued to swear in Gaelic, as he pulled the arrow from the tree, then spun around in one fluid motion.
Sara stood at the other side of the clearing, bow in hand, wearing a satisfied expression on her face.
Duncan covered the space in three long strides. "Are you crazy?" he shouted waving the arrow wrapped in his clenched fist.
Sara stepped back, lowered the bow in the space between them, wound her fingers around the top, then she smiled. "You asked if I could hit a moving target. The answer is in your hand."
"I didn't mean me. You could have killed me!"
"Possibly," Sara said, watching him with a look that was sharper than the arrow he held in his hand. "But you told me you can't die." She broke off her stare, turned, then sat down on a rock at the edge of the clearing. Holding the bow across her lap, she examined it.
Duncan stood with his hands on his hips. Just when he thought he had her figured out, she did or said something that left him astounded. The woman sitting before him appeared as cold and calculating as any he'd ever met, yet he'd seen her soft and tender, as well. He shook his head, as he fitted the arrow to the string of the other bow.
"Well, this is not the time to test my Immortality," he said turning back to face the target. "Having an arrow pierce my back, and dying as a result, is not my idea of a fun way to pass the time." As he pulled back the string, then released the arrow, he remembered a time when he had died from just such a shot. A time when he was living with Little Deer and the Sioux, but he had no time for such memories now. He shook them off.
His shot missed the bull's eye by about three inches. He swore softly as he positioned another arrow on the bowstring. "Besides, you missed," he said - but he didn't. This time the arrow landed in the center of the black spot. He turned to find Sara watching him.
"No I didn't," she said, rising. "I was aiming for this spot of blood on your sleeve."
Duncan tugged at the blue chambray and examined the hole in his sleeve. It lay exactly in the center of a patch of dried blood about two inches across. She could be lying, but he didn't think so. He didn't really believe she would shoot him deliberately, so he had to believe his sleeve had indeed, been her target. He hoped she would be that good when he needed her to be.
****
Mesmerized, Sara watched the muscles of Duncan MacLeod's back and shoulders ripple under his shirt as he sorted through the contents of her backpack. Muttering something about seeing what else she had in her bag of tricks, he had spilled everything out on the ground a few minutes before. From a distance of about two feet above her head, her mind watched as well, and methodically recorded every detail. *So this is what an out-of-the-body experience feels like.*
How else could she explain this bizarre sense of separation, and the chilling numbness that blocked rational thought? Her world had taken on a surreal quality the moment a dead man sat up by the stream. When the razor edge of his sword missed her head by millimeters, her mind immediately shut down all feeling, then sought refuge in that safe spot where it now floated. All other body functions ran strictly on autopilot. Any sense of conscious movement, conscious decision-making had vanished. Logic and order had evaporated like a morning mist under the heat of the midday sun. Nothing of substance remained - nothing to hold on to, save courage. The tide of events flowed too strongly for resistance; she quit fighting and drifted with the current.
A wet sounding crunch, caught her attention and held it. She blinked to focus her eyes. Less than a foot away, MacLeod rested his arm across one bent knee as he bit into the apple again. A dead man eating an apple. Such a common ordinary act raised to an eerie level by extraordinary circumstances.
"Help yourself to my lunch, MacLeod," she said. Her voice echoed strangely, yet the tone sounded perfectly normal, almost playful. Who was this person? No one she knew, and certainly not Sara MacKensie.
His smile triggered a rush of warmth that spread up from the pit of her abdomen. "I like a woman who plans ahead." He held the apple out to her, offering to share.
She shook her head, then propped her elbows on her knees. Her head drooped to rest in the cradle of her palms. "I was an Explorer Scout. Our troop leader taught us to be prepared at all times for all things."
"He taught you well, but you forgot the kitchen sink," MacLeod replied with a chuckle, setting the apple down on top of the binoculars.
He picked up a Swiss army knife, checked out a few of the attachments, then he dropped it onto the growing assortment of items piled near her feet. He had already selected the Bowie knife that had been her father's favorite, a coil of nylon rope, a roll of electrical tape that had been in the bag for so long she forgot why she had it, and a small high-powered flashlight. He threw the remaining items, including the rest of her lunch back into the bag, then set it alongside her.
He sat back on his heels and studied her for a moment while he finished the rest of the apple. "I want you to understand something," he said, his voice low and steady. "Before this is over, people are going to get hurt. Some may even die. I'll do my best to make sure the bad guys are the only ones doing the dying, but I can't offer any guarantees."
Two Saras listened to the sensual, resonant voice of a dead man. One Sara accepted the inescapable truth of this unimaginable situation, coldly and with full knowledge that she would do what needed to be done. *Kill, or be killed. And you're right smack dab in the middle of it, Sara. You can't go back, and you can't run from the inevitable.*
The other Sara recoiled at this casual speaking of violence and of death. She wondered what had become of the writer Sara who could form such scenes in her imagination, then paint those pictures with words for others to read. She saw no recourse but retreat, and crept deeper into the corners of her dark sanctuary to let the other Sara get on with the harsh business of killing.
As the gap between them widened, both Saras wondered whether even all the kings horses and all the kings men could make her whole again. "We've been over this ground before," the cold steel Sara said. "Why go over it again?"
"Because this is not one of your novels we'll be writing. It's reality, and I thought I should remind you, that for mortals, death is permanent."
Sara rubbed her palms along her thighs. The sun-browned backs of her hands wore a coat of smeared dirt and dried blood. The normally short nails were broken and split. The yoke of cold steel chafed as it sat heavily on her shoulders. She sighed. "You think I don't know that?"
She looked up and gazed deep into his soft brown eyes - except the softness had formed a hard edge. They now glinted with his own brand of steel. An electric thrum traced her nerves as they continued to measure one another. No matter what the future held, circumstances had joined her with this man in a way that she had never been joined with anyone before. What consequences waited in the path ahead, she knew not. She just knew they must face them together.
He leaned closer, and took her hands in his. Strong hands grasping her slender hands. His thumbs moved over her knuckles, caressing them with soothing tenderness. "I need you to be absolutely sure," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "If I take you with me, I need to know that you can do what needs to be done. Once we have begun, you can't change your mind or get squeamish on me at the last minute."
"You want to know if I can ... kill."
He lowered his eyes to glance at their joined hands. "Yes," he answered, meeting her gaze again.
"I don't know."
His eyes twinkled as his mouth twitched into a smile. "At least, you're honest."
"I won't let you down, MacLeod. My Dad taught me that life is full of things you don't think you can do, but when they need to be done, somehow you find the strength to do them."
He studied her again for a long moment, then gazed down at the ground as he pushed the equipment to one side. With a twig, he drew a rough outline of her house in the dirt. "Here's what I thought we could do ... " he said, as he began to lay out his plan of attack.
