Chapter 11
Down on One Knee
"You don't know how you took it
You just know what you've got
Oh Lordy, you've been stealing
From the thieves and you got caught"
"Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me" - U2
16 September 1999
Coventry, England
Fiona Black squirmed nervously in the straight-backed wooden chair. She was not happy in the slightest with her current accommodations. The cheap motel in which they were currently hiding did not suit her in the slightest. The young woman's large eyes sought out her husband and locked in on him.
"I'm scared, Julian. I want to go home."
"We can't go back right now, Fiona," answered Julian. "It's just too dangerous right now. Those people killed the Sutherlands and I'm sure they'll do the same to us."
Fiona shuddered at the comment. Kane Sutherland, their neighbor, like her husband, had been Immortal, but his wife, Lauren, was not. She had been mortal like Fiona. Whoever their killers had been, they did not care about who they killed as long as they got the Immortal, as well. The Blacks, their intended visit with the Sutherlands disrupted by the discovery of their bodies, had fled Birmingham immediately and taken up residence in a motel in nearby Coventry. They had not left the motel for six days.
Fiona jumped at the knock at the motel room door. Julian waved a hand at her, motioning for her to be calm. He had sensed the approach of the visitor moments before, his expression told her. The woman let out her breath and nodded to him. He opened the door to reveal Michael De Lioncourt. The Frenchman said nothing as he entered, merely nodding to the two wordlessly as Julian shut the door behind him.
"Thank you for coming, Michael," Julian said in greeting.
"It's the least I could do for a friend," replied De Lioncourt softly, shaking the man's hand. "How are you, Fiona?"
"Scared," the woman said, a tremble in her voice. "I miss my home and I don't like being here. I feel like a caged animal."
De Lioncourt nodded. After Glasgow, he had experienced a similar sensation of perpetual pursuit. Nowhere seemed safe to him and he felt the need to move every few days.
"Do you have any idea who these people are, Michael?" asked Julian.
"No," De Lioncourt answered, shaking his head and sitting at the table across from Fiona while Julian sat on the bed. "All I know is this sort of thing is happening all across Great Britain. I've checked a few of the foreign papers, as well, and similar attacks seem to be occurring across Europe. There is no safe place anywhere."
"What about America?" suggested Fiona. "The U.S.?"
De Lioncourt shook his head again. "It's there, too. There are attacks reported in New York, Toronto, and San Francisco."
"Then we're trapped," said Julian. "No matter where we go, we're at risk of being found by these people and killed."
Fiona shuddered and ran her hands along the goosebumps on her arms. "What do we do?"
"We can either continue to hide and wait to die," said De Lioncourt, "or we can find others like us, band together, and fight back somehow."
"Fight back?" repeated Julian. "Fight how?"
"I don't know yet," said De Lioncourt. "I'm still trying to figure that out myself."
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16 September 1999
Atlanta, Georgia
Jonny Fairbanks checked his bags one last time. He hated packing to move and he was finally done with it. He would only take the essentials on the plane with him this time. His new guardians in Seattle, Todd and Sheila Whitaker, had arranged for the rest to travel by moving service. It would arrive a few days later by truck. Fairbanks had supervised the loading of that truck yesterday. He only had to put his one suitcase and one carry-on in the taxi when it arrived in a few minutes.
Fairbanks walked through the house one last time, letting the memories within it wash over him. He had lived here for six years. While that was not a lot of time in Immortal years, it was plenty of time for experiences to pile up. Remembering them as he stepped through each empty room was enough to make his eyes misty. Leaving home was never easy.
I've done this countless times in my life. Why is it always so hard?
Was it because of the connections he made each time? The experiences at each location? He did not know. All he did know was his heart broke each time he had to sever his hold on each place he had once called home. Rebuilding those attachments at a new place and with new people was difficult and always took time and a great deal of effort. Sometimes he even toyed with the idea of remaining an outcast from it all, wondering if it might simply be easier to be separate from others entirely.
He shook his head. He had tried that in the past. It had never gone well for him. He always ended up turning to the darker side of his own nature, leaning on the escape of drugs, sex, and sometimes violence to overcome the loneliness he felt. That path had nearly destroyed him several times. Only the intervention of his friends had saved him. He had to admit that, despite his eight centuries of life, he was still a fourteen-year old boy and had all of the psychological needs of any teen. No, Fairbanks was not a solitary creature. He needed human interaction. He needed affection and family like any boy.
Would he find that with the Whitakers? He had to believe so. They were friends of David Ashton. He had arranged the guardianship. He trusted them to take care of him. Fairbanks told himself he had to trust them to take care of his needs, as well.
I do so dislike sometimes not having grown up before becoming Immortal, he thought. I keep getting caught up in these damn teenage emotional whirlwinds…like a bloody baby. I know it's completely irrational and yet I can't help it. I want to be able to take care of myself but, in so many ways, I'm completely dependent on others to do it for me.
I can fight. I can kill. I've done it hundreds of times when other Immortals have tried to kill me. I hate it so much. It's the hardest, most disgusting thing I have to do to stay alive and yet, somehow, it's still easier than having to ask others to do things for me. Why? Because it's something I can do myself. I'd rather kill a hundred Immortals or seduce a thousand girls than ask anyone to be my guardian, damn it. I want love, not a parent. I want friends, not guardians.
The taxi pulled up in front of the house and honked its horn. Fairbanks wiped the tears from his eyes and threw his carry-on bag over his shoulder. He locked the front door and put the key under the doormat. Dragging his wheeled suitcase behind him, he took one last look at the house that had once been his home and walked away.
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16 September 1999
Lavernock, Wales
The man sat behind a small house located at the far southwest of the tiny village. In his hand, he held a bottle of beer and nursed it slowly as he gazed across the shore into the waters of Bristol Channel. Paderau Griffin enjoyed this view from his house and spent as much time as possible here. The sound of the water and the wildlife nearby was pure bliss. The Welshman had spent many of his eight hundred seventy-one years in rugged conditions. It was good to relax, at times, and just enjoy life.
Griffin had spent the majority of his life as a soldier, in one form or another, and had seen most of the world as a result. Whether he had seen the best or worst of that world, he could only guess. Since buying this little house four years ago, he had simply told the townsfolk that he was "retired" and said nothing more about his previous profession. Rumors abounded, of course, and he had even heard many of them. Some of them were quite comical. He let them all go unanswered while he enjoyed his beer and the view.
While he still kept fit and maintained his proficiency with his sword, he did little else that would be called work. He was not slovenly. He did the dishes and his laundry, but had a local teenager cut his grass and do his shopping for him. He entertained himself with books, long walks, swimming, and, of course, the view. It was a good life.
Then the phone rang. It was not a common occurrence. When it happened, normally it was a wrong number. At first, Griffin debated not answering the infernal thing. On the second ring, he decided otherwise, muttering, "Ah, hell," as he stood.
"Paderau Griffin," he announced into the handset, standing by the phone on the wall. He still had an old-fashioned wall-mounted model. In his mind, he did not spend enough time on the phone to bother having one near a chair or his couch.
"The great Pad Griffin," said a familiar voice. "I do hope retirement is treating you well."
"It was," said Griffin, a smirk forming on his lips. "But if you're calling me, Ashton, it tells me that my retirement's about to end. You're not the type who uses the telephone for social calls."
"Very true" said Ashton with a light chuckle. "I need your help. And a few other good people, as well. There is a problem afoot and I need the right people to correct it."
"Well, you've got me. I know some others. I'll make some calls. Where do you want us to meet you?"
"Winchester. In a few days. I'll send you specifics by email. You do have that out there, don't you?"
"Of course. I'm not completely cut off from civilization."
"Good. Reach out to who you can. We'll talk more soon."
"Will do, sir. Out here."
"Goodbye, Pad."
Griffin set the phone back on its hook and rubbed his hands together. He didn't realize until this moment how much he wanted something like this. He had not been bored. Far from it. But a little spice, a little flare wouldn't hurt at all, would it?
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16 September 1999
Paris, France
Ashton dialled another number and waited. After the fourth ring, he wondered if the man on the other side of the Atlantic was going to answer at all. He began to ponder who an alternate for this task might be. Then Payton Swift answered the phone.
"Hello?"
"Payton? It's David Ashton."
"David? It's been a while. Three years or so, I think. What can I do for you?"
"Are you still in your previous profession?"
"I am."
"Excellent. Give me your email address, please." Swift recited it. "I am going to send you some information," said Ashton. "I'd like for you to meet me in Winchester, England in a few days to discuss it. Can you do that?"
"Of course. The standard rates?"
"Triple."
"Shit! That bad."
"Yes."
"Alright. Send me the info. I'll get right on it."
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Swift opened the email and read quickly through the message. His jaw dropped. Hunters? He had heard of them, mostly as a theory, of mortals knowing the existence of Immortals and seeking to destroy them, but this was the first time he had seen anything verifying their existence. No wonder Ashton was so willing to pay top dollar to acquire his services.
Well, Payton Swift would be sure to give the man the best work he knew how. Swift was not just a private investigator. He was one of the best undercover operatives in the world. All he needed was the right information and the right opportunity to use it and he could infiltrate any organization. His previous work inside the Mafia and the Columbian cartels had proven that much.
Swift puzzled over what little he knew for sure about Hunters. There wasn't much on which he could base a cover. Even the information contained in Ashton's email told him only a few basics. All he could do right now was prepare his equipment, travel to the U.K, and hope Ashton was able to find something useful for him to exploit soon.
"If he doesn't, I'll either lounge around at his expense until he does or come back here and wonder when these Hunters will come knocking on this side of the pond."
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17 September 1999
Flight 729
Over the Atlantic Ocean
"More wine, sir?" asked the grinning stewardess of the red-haired man studiously typing on his laptop computer.
The man looked up at her, his face momentarily confused as he switched his attention from his work to her question. He then returned her grin. It was a very pleasant expression, charming even.
"Yes, please," he replied, handing her his glass. "And may I have a bit more of the cheese, crackers, and fruit selection from the front bar, as well, please?" He proffered his empty saucer to her, also.
"Certainly, sir. One moment, please." The pretty brunette turned and made her way toward the front of the plane to fulfill his request.
Alan Ottenbreit kept the smile on his face. He always enjoyed the additional perks of first class flying, especially for intercontinental travel. The Watchers, of course, would prefer he travelled by coach class for budgetary reasons. He always charged the coach class to the Watchers' account and upgraded from his own funds. It was worth the expense, in his mind, for the added luxury, even though sometimes that luxury was slight compared to coach. In the case of cross-continental flights, though, that difference was not the case. There was a significant range between the commoners in the back of the plane and those happy few in the front. The wine he was drinking was just a small part of it.
Ottenbreit glanced back at his laptop. Internet connectivity was still not an option on airline flights, however, so he had downloaded all of his new email prior to leaving the Hunter compound. There was a great deal of it intermixed with the normal Watcher messages. He had to maintain the appearance of being a good District Director, after all. He could still answer the various messages and have the responses sit in the send queue until he had connectivity once again.
This next part of the operation required his presence in the United States. He would be there in the next few hours and would oversee operations there for at least a week, maybe two. The amount of time depended greatly upon the outcome of the first few days.
"Thank you very much," said Ottenbreit to the stewardess, receiving his wine and snacks from her.
"You're welcome, sir," she answered and moved on to assist the next person in the cabin. Ottenbreit turned his attention back to his laptop once more.
There was still much to do in Europe. Emilio Gironelli and his fifteen Hunters in North America were providing a useful distraction, but it would not be long before he would need to call them back to Europe. With so many Immortals left to kill, they would need every Hunter they had. Half of their numbers were already sliced off and under the tutelage of Harlan Earnshaw. It would still be a while before Ottenbreit saw any fruit borne from those labors.
Ottenbreit continued typing but his thoughts were elsewhere. This North American operation he was about to oversee was critical to the second phase of the cleansing of Immortals. It was essential that the operation succeed. That was why Ottenbreit was going to be present in the first place. All of Gironelli's men were being pulled in from across the continent for this mission. That alone was a testament to its importance.
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17 September 1999
Berkeley, California
Ruth Okin opened weary eyes and searched for her ringing cellular phone. It was singing Ode to Joy and vibrating on the bedside table. She moaned and slapped at it, bringing it to her ear.
"Hello?" Realizing she forgot to open the clamshell device, she tried again. "Hello?"
"Ruth? It's Omeir. Can you talk?"
"Omeir?" she repeated, some of her lethargy fading. "Yes. What's wrong?"
"Did I wake you?"
"Well, yes," she admitted, swinging her legs to the side of the bed. "It's three o'clock in the morning. I'm in California right now teaching a course in corporate leadership. Where are you?"
"I apologize. I'm in Paris. Looks like I'm nine hours ahead of you, then, instead of one. I thought you were still in England."
"Simple mistake," Okin stated. She switched on the lamp and looked around the hotel room for the countertop refrigerator. She wanted a bottle of water. "What's up with the call. You're normally an email type of guy."
"Like I said, I'm in Paris. I'm staying at David MacBane's place. Also, I couldn't remember your email address."
Okin laughed aloud. "You, Omeir Faaris, who recalls everything, couldn't remember my email address?"
Faaris allowed himself a moment of nervous laughter, as well. "Stranger things have happened. I was able to remember your phone number, though, so I tried that."
"So to what do I owe this early morning call?" she asked, carrying the phone to the refrigerator. She twisted the top off a water bottle and downed half of the contents.
"Have you seen the news over here?"
"No, I've been in the States for the last three months. What's happening?"
"I don't really like saying this over the phone, but there's not much choice. There are mortals killing Immortals. I don't know how they know who we are, but they do, and they're ambushing us and killing us all over Europe."
"Oh, my God."
"Some of them tried to take me down at my apartment in Belarus. I was able to escape and MacBane is letting me lay low at his Parisian house. I've been researching the problem and this is happening all over the continent. The papers aren't saying it's Immortals, of course, but it mentions beheadings and that's enough of a giveaway. I'm reaching out to the others I know and warning them. And I want to ask for help. I think we need to band together and try to fight this, if we can."
"Absolutely," agreed Okin. She took another gulp of water. "Today is Friday. It's the last day of my class. I'm scheduled to be on a plane back to the U.K. tomorrow. I can change to a flight to Paris and meet you at your house."
"That would be excellent. Thank you."
"Okay, you stay safe until I get there."
"I will. See you soon."
"Goodbye, Omeir."
"Goodbye, Ruth."
Okin put the phone back on the bedside table and sat on the bed. She laid down again and stared up at the ceiling, unsure if sleep would come back to her. Faaris' words were such a punch in the gut that her mind was whirling. Mortals killing Immortals. It was such a surreal thought. In her entire two thousand years she had never heard of such a thing. And how could Immortals fight back against such a threat? It's not like they could sense the approach of hostile mortals like they could other Immortals. How could they tell the good mortals from the bad?
