"The fortunate ones
To be fast and free and young
I want to count myself among
The fortunate ones"

"Nothin's Gonna Stand In Our Way" - Spectre General AKA Kick Axe

04 October 1999
Birmingham, England

"Take a look at this, Michael," called O'Banian from her side of the hotel suite. She sat at the dining table, Andrew Dixon's laptop in front of her, a notepad and pens to her right, and an atlas of England's roadways and a wireless phone on her left.

"The Watchers have put up a new information section for their field agents," she continued as De Lioncourt made his way to her. "They have a list of suspected Hunters and their photographs. There is a directive to notify Watcher leadership if any of them are seen."

De Lioncourt pulled a chair over beside her and sat. O'Banian grinned and pointed at the screen. "Look at this. They even have a warning for their people. "All of these people are to be considered armed and dangerous. Do not attempt to approach them, if seen.""

De Lioncourt frowned. "It's a short list. I only see a dozen or so names and photos."

Okin and Bilsby walked over to them and stood behind O'Banian, reading over her shoulder. O'Banian scrolled down to show De Lioncourt another paragraph of information. It stated that those identified as potential Hunters were all Field Watchers and, so far, none of those named were thought to be in a position of leadership. The officers, it went on to say, were still unknown and may be higher level Watchers who, based on their greater flexibility of movement and reporting requirements, were more difficult to isolate based on recent activity alone.

"This is good intelligence for us to have," stated Bilsby. "Sadly, all of our opponents have it, as well."

O'Banian shrugged. "It matters little. Our enemies are every Watcher this computer can show us."

"That computer has been a great help to us," admitted Okin, "but so far we haven't been able to do very much with the information it's given us."

"True," concurred O'Banian with a nod, "but we have to consider our own security, too. We have ta keep movin' about or we could be found. I'm not dissatisfied with what we've done so far. I do wish it could be more, though."

"What is the latest word from the others you all know?" inquired Batakova from the couch in the sitting room, a glass of orange juice in his hand. "Some of you have made contact with others who have said they will support us? When can we expect them to actually appear?"

O'Banian's eyes widened. "I need ta call Angela and let 'er know where ta meet us."

"Who is Angela?" asked Okin.

"Angela Carson. She's a new Immortal. I told 'er I'd give her a few pointers into Immortal life. We were supposed to meet up at Skye in a week er two, but obviously can't go there."

"Is this really a time to be training a new Immortal?" De Lioncourt looked at her with concern.

"There's never a good time these days, is there, Michael?"

"I suppose," the Frenchman allowed. "Just be sure you're not recklessly endangering her for the sake of our cause."

"Let me worry about that," O'Banian rebuffed, reaching for the phone.

De Lioncourt leaned back, turning his head toward Batakova. Responding to the original question, he said, "The Blacks will in a few weeks. They're very security conscious. Once they know they can travel safely, they'll be here."

"I have two people in Paris who are willing to help us," added Okin. "I haven't given them an update since we started our little crusade. I guess I need to do that." She reached into her pocket for her cell phone.

"I, too, have several who are willing to join us, and they can likely reach out to more, as well," said MacNaughton. "I have also been remiss in communicating with them, though."

"Looks like we all need to talk with our respective allies, then," summarized Bilsby.

"Agreed," said Okin.

O'Banian hung up from her call and placed the phone back on the table. She opened her mouth to reply to the conversation of the others when an information window popped up on the computer screen.

"Oh? What 'ave we here?" she asked the room, clicking the window to open the announcement. She read quickly and frowned.

"The Watchers have just created a new security force to guard their facilities and families," she told the others. "They're calling it the Special Operations Team and they're asking for volunteers to join it. They want current employees with prior military or police experience."

De Lioncourt, Okin, and Bilsby leaned in closer to see the announcement for themselves. Bilsby chuckled as he read.

"They admit they have no equipment or training curriculum for this unit. Essentially, it's just going to be a rag-tag group of sheep going into the slaughter."

"Don't be so quick to underestimate this," warned Okin. "So far, we've faced nothing but unarmed wives and children. This, at least, brings in the element of armed opposition."

"It will still take them weeks to get themselves organized," said De Lioncourt. "We can inflict a lot of damage in that time. After that, with proper surveillance of our targets and good planning, we can still take them down if we maintain the element of surprise."

"That is a good thought, Michael," admitted Bilsby. "I do think, however, we should upgrade our own equipment before we make our next hit. We've gone too long with just our own assortment of swords and guns. We need something better."

"Do you have a suggestion?" asked O'Banian. "And more importantly, a source for this equipment?"

Bilsby grinned from behind her. "I would not have made the statement otherwise. I have already reached out to those who can provide us with what we require."

"Do I want to know who these people are?" asked Okin, a touch of a frown on her lips.

Bilsby chuckled again. "No, my dear. It's best if you don't. Let me take care of those details."

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The city of Birmingham was nothing at all like Dasmius Mikal's original home in the mountains of Transylvania. Of course, Transylvania did not exist anymore. It was Romania now. He could not so much blame one location or another for the difference, however. It had been over nine hundred years since he had first knowingly gazed at those Carpathian heights. He felt a pang of homesickness, though. England just did not compare to Romania, in his mind. It was simply too flat.

"When this affair is over," he muttered to himself as he knocked on the hotel suite's door, "I shall go back home and stay for a while. A century is too long to be away."

He knew the occupants of the suite, in addition to his knock, were aware of his presence. They would have felt his approach long before now. The knock was a mere courtesy. He waited.

The door opened to reveal a petite Arab woman. Mikal held his arms out to show he held no weapon. He grinned at her and spoke in what he hoped was his most charming tone.

"Good morning, my name is Dasmius Mikal. I am a colleague of James MacNaughton. He said I could meet him here."

The woman eyed him with a hint of suspicion. Mikal took no offense. Such was the way of Immortals, always looking for the danger from another of their kind. Then the expression transformed into a welcoming smile. She held out her hand.

"Hello, Dasmius. I am Ruth Okin." They shook. "Please come in."

The size of the suite was not what surprised Mikal. Such luxury was very much the style of James MacNaughton. It was the number of other Immortals in the place that took him off guard. They were all standing and eyeing him with assorted gazes, some of wariness, some of happiness. Mikal could not resist commenting.

"I did not expect there to be so many of you."

Okin laughed. "If you call nine "many" then I guess it would be a bit of a shock."

Mikal allowed himself another grin. "James mentioned himself and "a few friends" needing some assistance. I thought he meant two or three, not nine."

"Well, we're full o' surprises here, Mr. Mikal," stated another voice. This came from the other woman in the room, an equally small redhead. She stepped forward and regarded Mikal with the eye of one appraising a horse. After a moment under that stern gaze, she relaxed and also offered her hand. "Siobhan O'Banian," she said by way of introduction.

"It is a pleasure to meet two beautiful ladies in so short a time," replied Mikal, taking her hand.

O'Banian reddened slightly, a smile touching her lips. "You're very kind. An' thank you for comin' here. We could certainly use your help."

"And just what is it that needs to be done?" Mikal inquired. He looked at MacNaughton as he asked the question. "James was not very forthcoming with information on the phone."

"Well, first," answered MacNaughton, "please sit and I'll tell you."

Mikal complied and awaited his friend's explanation. What he heard was utterly mind blowing. And he could not resist a small grin as the Scotsman continued to talk. Twenty minutes later when MacNaughton had finished his detailed inbrief, Dasmius Mikal laughed aloud and smiled.

"I must say to you all that I have been quite bored these last several years. There has been nothing that really seemed like a good way to spend my time. But this, the dismantling of a global organization, seems like just the sort of ambitious scheme I have unknowingly been dreaming of finding for so long. I will happily aid you in whatever manner I can."

"Good," replied O'Banian. "We're hitting another site in a few days. You can join us for that."

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05 October 1999
Edinburgh, Scotland

Alan Ottenbreit reopened the call for volunteers for the new Special Operations Team and read through it completely twice. He closed the announcement and sat back, staring at his computer screen in silence. The recent setback in Seattle and all of its implications were still fresh in his mind. Now, he had this new development, as well. What, if anything, did he need to do in reaction to it?

Lighting a cigarette, he let his thoughts run free. It was only natural that his enemies would respond somehow especially in light of the latest attacks on Watcher families. He had to admit to himself that he had not expected a reaction such as this. Given the ill-equipped and untrained nature of the new unit, at least for now, Ottenbreit chose to disregard this new threat for the moment. He already had something that, he knew, would have them staggering about breathless in just a few months. Yes, he could afford to wait when it came to this new special team.

The attacks on Watcher families, however, was a variable neither he nor any of his officers had considered. He would absolutely have to ponder this little nugget. Ottenbreit stubbed out his cigarette and pulled a cigar from his desk drawer. He would need something more substantial for this one. Setting flame to tobacco, he smiled through the smoke. The Watchers suspected Siobhan O'Banian to be the impetus behind the attacks. Ottenbreit nodded. That was reasonable given her background and the failed attempt against her several weeks ago. But what to do about it?

Ottenbreit saw two potential options. The first, naturally, was to track down O'Banian and kill her as quickly as possible. The second, some might say, was more controversial. He could let her continue to operate…at least for a while. Of course, her actions would take the lives of Watchers and their families, but Ottenbreit saw the other side of this. She would simultaneously keep the Watchers distracted and show those Watchers who were previously on the fence about the Immortal threat just how true it was. Just how many Watchers would switch to his cause as a result? Ottenbreit could only guess.

He smiled again and puffed on his cigar. After some thought, the decision made itself. Ottenbreit would let the Irish spitfire continue to wreak havoc among the Watchers. All the while, he would patiently await the arrival of new recruits into the Hunter ranks. And, once she had outlived her usefulness, Siobhan O'Banian's pretty little head could be separated from her shoulders anytime he wished.

xxxxxxxxxx

06 October 1999
Rednal, England

"Emily, over here." Michal Batakova waved, easing Emily Lefitte's search for another Immortal among the mid-morning crowd. Batakova smiled as his friend approached.

"My God, Emily, are you ever going to take my advice and put on some weight? You're an absolute stick."

LeFitte grinned and made a light-hearted attempt to slap the man. It was true that she was very skinny; she barely tipped the scales at fifty-four kilograms. Her height, at one hundred seventy-five centimeters, only accentuated her slenderness.

"I'm still a bit taller than you, though, Michal, so at least there's that."

"Well, I can't win them all." Batakova gestured toward an empty seat at the cafe table where he'd been waiting. "Please," he said, "sit."

"So tell me about this little group you've joined," LeFitte urged him. "I'm intrigued."

Batakova waited until he had placed an order for coffee before answering her. His face was grave when he did so.

"You've heard, at least in rumor, I suspect, about the attacks on Immortals lately?"

"Yes," she replied, nodding.

"Well, it's all being done by an organized group of mortals called Watchers. They know about our existence and have been observing us for a long time. Now, they have decided to start eliminating us one by one."

LeFitte paled as he continued. "And it's in the worst possible way. They come for us in numbers and attack even in places we think is safe, like holy ground. They use firearms. After they've gunned us down, they take our heads, but only when there are no other Immortals present."

"Oh, God," gasped LeFitte. "There would be no Quickening. Everything we are is lost."

"Exactly," confirmed Batakova. He paused as the coffee was served. Picking up his cup, he took a small sip. "This has been going on for weeks, maybe even months. I'm not sure. All I do know is there is now a group of us who are doing something about it."

"And what is that?" asked LeFitte.

"We have captured a Watcher computer and have inside information on everything about them. We're destroying all of them. I'll admit we're going to somewhat of an extreme, but I can see no other choice given how they're treating us."

"What sort of extreme?"

"We're not only killing the Watchers. We're eliminating everyone connected to them. Their families."

LeFitte gasped again. "Their entire families?"

Batakova nodded. "Yes. Everyone. Wives, husbands, children, everyone. We've made six raids so far and have another one planned in a few days. We hope that by doing this we can bring down the entire organization. Personally, I think this can be done without killing them all. Some of the others believe otherwise. Regardless, the chaos caused by our actions is forcing the Watchers to react in a disorderly fashion and this can't but help lead to their downfall. When they finally crumble, the threat from their attacks will end, as well."

"And you called me because you want me to join you?" LeFitte sipped from her own coffee, her eyes distant as she spoke.

"Yes, if you are willing."

LeFitte did not answer for several seconds. She continued to drink her coffee and stare at the passersby. Batakova did not press her. She had to come to the decision on her own. At last, she set her cup back on its saucer and looked into his eyes.

"I don't like the idea of a bunch of mortals taking our heads. That's a given. Our lives are enough of a danger without some madcap mortals adding to it. I also don't particularly care for the notion of going after the families of these Watchers. Something has to be done, sure, but I'm not sure that killing wives and kids is the right thing.

"I'm willing to help you, Michal, but I'm not one hundred percent into this. I will offer my assistance, but the moment there is a way we can possibly fight these people more directly - meaning not attacking families - then I am going to opt for that approach. Understood?"

Batakova smiled. "That is perfectly reasonable," he affirmed. "And exactly what I hoped you would say, my dear Emily." Batakova finished his coffee and placed a few notes under the saucer. He stood and held out his hand to her.

"Now, please come with me and let me introduce you to the rest of the group."

xxxxxxxxxx

09 October 1999
Bromsgrove, England

"Any sign of this special operations team we've heard about?" asked De Lioncourt.

"Nothing," replied Razumov. "The house is wide open. I've been watching it for twelve hours now. I've seen no one but the wife and daughter. I've even made a circumference of the perimeter. If there is anyone else, they're well hidden."

"Alright, then," said O'Banian. "We go for it." She smiled. "This one is a long time in coming. This is the Hardley residence. This is the family of Roy Hardley, one of the bastards that attacked me at Skye."

Bilsby let out a soft chuckle. "You've been looking forward to this for quite some time, I'd imagine."

"Yer damn right, I have," confirmed O'Banian. She glanced at her slightly larger faction and nodded to them. "Same basic plan as the others," she said. "Ruth, Aaron, you take security at the back of the house. Marton, Michal, you take the front. The rest of us go inside."

Dusk had just given way to darkness at 24 Chapel Street. The large house, with its two-car garage, five white Roman columns, and expansive bay window, was quite beautiful. O'Banian could even see the Hardley's twelve-year old daughter, Paula, lounging in that bay window, her eyes cast out as if expectantly awaiting the return of her father. Hardley's wife, Jean, even approached the girl and made some comment. The child laughed and said something back to her mother before returning to her vigil.

Too bad, thought O'Banian. Neither you nor Mummy dearest 'll be seein' 'im anytime soon. Unless there is an afterlife.

The seven Council members advanced on the house from the north along the garage side. The daughter would not be able to see them from this angle. They stacked up in a line by the front door. O'Banian reached out and carefully turned the door knob. It was locked. She motioned for MacNaughton, by far one of the largest of them, and pointed at the door. He nodded. As the Scotsman prepared to breach the door, the other six Council members pulled by the charging handles on the 9mm Heckler & Koch Machine Pistols that Bilsby had acquired for them. Each of the weapons were fitted with integral suppressors to reduce the sounds of their firing.

MacNaughton roared as he ran toward the door, slamming his shoulder into it at full speed. The door, having been made more for aesthetics than security, splintered at the door knob and opened inward. MacNaughton's inertia drove him into the house. O'Banian and the others followed right behind him. O'Banian, Penn, and Bilsby curved off to the right toward the sitting room. The other three fanned out through the house in search of other occupants.

The screams of Jean and Paula Hardley met O'Banian's ears as she entered the sitting room. The Irish woman made her way toward Paula Hardley. With her weapon trained on her, she dragged the still shrieking girl from the bay window onto the floor. Turning, she saw that Penn and Bilsby had brought Jean Hardley to her knees.

"Quiet," shouted O'Banian. "Both of you." She pushed the barrel of her submachine gun into the back of Paula's head for emphasis. "Or the girl gets it first and then you, Mummy, dear."

Both Hardleys ceased their screaming, Paula being reduced to low whimpering. O'Banian grinned. She waited as Mikal and LeFitte joined them in the room.

"There's no one else here," reported Mikal.

"Where's Michael?" asked O'Banian.

"He's checking out a home office on the second floor," replied LeFitte. "He'll be down soon."

O'Banian nodded. Her hard eyes focused on Jean Hardley. She grinned again, though there was no warmth in it.

"Now, Mummy, dear, tell me about the sort of work your husband does."

"My husband?" repeated Jean Hardley. "What does this have to do with him?"

O'Banian adjusted her MP5 and pulled the trigger. Three 9mm rounds drilled into Paula Hardley's right shoulder blade. The girl screeched and fell to the floor. Jean's mouth fell open in horror as she dashed forward to tend to her injured daughter.

"Oh, God," Jean cried involuntarily. In seconds, she was covered in the blood of her convulsing child. She held the girl close, trying to soothe her.

"I'm asking the questions here, bitch," stated O'Banian cooly. "Now, tell the bitchlette to quiet down or the next burst goes in her head."

Jean whispered into her daughter's ear for several seconds. After a while, she succeeded in lowering the volume of Paula's sobs.

"Now," said O'Banian, "I'll say it again. Tell me about hubby and what he does for a living."

"My husband is a historian," replied Jean, the high pitch of her voice hinting at her anxiety. "He does research and writes reports. He even has an office upstairs where he does a lot of his work. Sometimes he hangs out with a clique of other historians in the area. It's almost like a fraternity."

"So you know nothing about his other activities?" O'Banian queried further.

"What do you mean?" Jean asked her. O'Banian shifted her MP5 toward Paula again. Jean dove over her daughter, shielding her with her own body. "No, please, no." She took a breath. "No, I don't know what you mean. He's been away for a few weeks on research. That's all I know."

De Lioncourt entered the room, a laptop computer and address book under his arm. O'Banian gestured towards the computer with her head. "You wouldn't happen to know how to get into that little box there, would you, Jean?"

"Roy took the password off of it. He said there was no need for one if he was the only person using it and it never left the house."

"Even better," commented O'Banian. "So, about this research trip ol' Roy went on, did he happen to say what he was gonna be doin' on it?"

Confusion set upon Jean's face. "No," she answered. "He's a historian. I presume he'd be reading a bunch of old documents or looking at artifacts."

"So nothin' at all about burnin' down people's homes and tryin' ta shoot them as they come out?"

"What? I mean, no. Absolutely not. He'd never do such a thing."

"Oh, Mummy, dear, how little you actually knew about yer husband. You should know that he was a murderer an' he wanted nothin' more than to kill off a group of people he thought shouldn't exist."

Jean Hardley sat back on her knees, her eyes wide. "That's impossible. That's not the Roy I know."

"Believe what ya like," said O'Banian. "I jus' wanted ya to know the truth before ya joined him." O'Banian turned her back on the two and walked away.

"Before I…?" A three-round burst from Bilsby and Penn's weapons cut off the housewife's question before it was finished. They each fired a second burst into Paula Hardley before the girl had a chance to scream again.

xxxxxxxxxx

10 October 1999
Paris, France

Sather sat in his new Parisian apartment, his unpacking finally complete. He did not have much in the way of possessions so he had been able to do it all in a day. The real hassle had been furnishing the damn place so he had a place to put his meager belongings. That had proven to be a headache all its own. He had made a deal with the landlord of this apartment complex. The man could keep whatever furniture - or toss it, Sather didn't care - whenever Sather finally left Paris. That would be one less hassle in the future. For now, though, the place was fully furnished and ready for living.

Sipping an Old Fashioned in a chilled tumbler, Sather turned on his computer and logged into the Watcher network. Three days was a long time to be out of touch with events. Now, before he went into his new office tomorrow, he needed to catch up on what was happening. He regretted that decision immediately.

"Well, shit and goddamn," he muttered, taking another pull from his Old Fashioned.

As was his habit, he had gone straight to the most recent field reports of the Watchers in Europe. He had avoided reading, for now anyway, the news of those Immortals killed over the last week, and gone immediately into the other reports. The most recent was the update regarding the murder of the Hardley family. There were even photographs to go along with the grisly report. Sather didn't look at them. He had seen such before. He didn't need to be reminded what horrid things bullets did to bodies.

"Shit, goddamn, and double fuck," he swore, reading onward. Tomorrow was not going to be a good day at all, first day at a new job or not.