"There's a killer on the road
His brain is squirming like a toad
Take a long holiday
Let your children play
If you give this man a ride
Sweet family will die
Killer on the road, yeah."

"Riders on the Storm" - The Doors

12 October 1999
Paris, France

Devon Sather appraised the young woman before him carefully. She was of average height, about one hundred sixty-six centimeters or so, meaning she was much shorter than he. Possessing a somewhat rounded face, she was still quite fit and not at all overweight, perhaps fifty-seven kilos, at best, if he put her on a scale. For some reason, he saw her as the type that spent a lot of time on a bicycle. He tried not to spend too much time looking at her legs to confirm that fact. She also appeared, at least to him, far too bright to be a mere secretary. So just who was she? Finally, he had to ask.

"Et tu es?" (And you are?) he asked in French.

The young woman looked at him with an air of confusion. Responding in clear, but accented, English, she said, "I'm sorry, Director, but the language of Watcher Headquarters is English even though we are in Paris. I'm sorry. I don't speak French very well yet. I just moved here a few days ago."

Sather blushed. "I'm sorry. I asked who you were."

The woman smiled. "I'm Rebecca Capella. I'm your assistant."

Sather frowned, regarding her again. "Forgive my asking this, but how old are you?"

"Twenty-six, the same as you," she replied, still smiling.

"And your accent, German?"

"Austrian, actually."

"Forgive me again."

"It's alright. Same language. Well, almost. There are a few quirky differences."

"And how long have you been a Watcher?" he asked her.

"I just finished the Academy a month ago. This is my first assignment."

Sather blinked, taking a step back. "And what did you do before that?"

"I was in university working on my doctorates."

Another blink. "Doctorates? As in plural?"

"Yes." She was matter-of-fact about it. "Biochemistry and genetics."

Sather put his palms together, bringing the tips under his chin. "Forgive me again," he said, "especially for the language I'm about to use. It's not meant as an offense to you, just expressing my confusion, but why the fuck is a young woman with two , especially in biochemistry and genetics, being assigned to me as my assistant? Why is she even a Watcher in the first place and not in a university lab doing research or working as a professor?"

Capella grinned again. "It's a family tradition to be in the Watchers. We have a man here who has a doctorate in psychology and specializes in analyzing the particular disorders unique to Immortal life. I thought I could do something similar in my fields. As far as working for you, I have to start somewhere, don't I? I can't just walk into a lab right away. The Watchers don't even have a research department of that type. Not yet, anyway."

Sather took another step back and dropped his hands. He found himself grinning now. "That's very realistic of you, Rebecca. It's going to be difficult to remain current in your fields and assist me with my work at the same time. I hope you know that from the start."

Capella laughed. "That won't be much of a problem. I don't date much and I only have two plants and a fish to keep me company at home. There are no distractions to keep me from doing all the necessary readings to stay current. The only question is how often I will be there to do them."

"Well," added Sather truthfully, "since this is the first day this post has actually truly existed, that remains to be seen, doesn't it? I tend to be a work-a-holic and do a lot myself. I think I learned my lesson about that while a Regional Director, though. It almost killed me."

Capella's eyes widened in horror. "Almost killed you? That's terrible!"

Laughing, Sather raised his hands, palms out. "No, no. It's an exaggeration. Sarcasm. I was joking."

Capella calmed instantly. "Oh, I'm so glad. But I now see what my friends were telling me about American humor. It is very different from ours."

"Yeah, that is one thing I'm still learning since I started working in Europe," admitted Sather, "and I've been here for three years. You'd think I'd have picked up on a little bit of the subtleties by now."

Capella grinned. "Not so much?" she asked.

Sather shook his head. "Nope. It's just not working. I'm still as braggadocious as ever. I hope you can deal with that."

"If I can deal with a Bioinorganic Chemistry professor who kept a consistent monotone throughout the entire semester and not fall asleep, I think I can adjust to your humor and not be too shocked. …After an adjustment period."

Sather smiled at her and held out his hand. "Deal." She shook his hand. "Shall we get to work?" he asked.

"Let's," she replied.

Sather's office was already set up for him, though in a generic fashion. This suited him fine. There was little about it he would change. He would bring a few items over the next few days, a cot, a blanket, a change of clothes, a bottle of whiskey, and a few personal protection items that he officially should not own as a European resident, but little else. He did not believe in "I Love Me" walls and other sorts of nonsense. In his mind, what one did in the past mattered little compared to what could be done now. Resting on laurels was pointless.

Capella, being an assistant rather than a secretary, had an office adjacent to his. The open desk in the lobby in which they had held their conversation would be filled by another person later on that morning. Sather grinned and gave himself a mental kick. He should have known that Capella was not a secretary when he arrived. Secretaries don't typically arrive at work at six thirty in the morning; they show up at eight thirty or nine. He was still surprised by Capella's early arrival, though.

Sather switched on his computer and spent the first thirty minutes configuring all of the standard programs to work the way he wanted. He even added a few shortcut instructions so they would load automatically when he booted the machine up each morning. Once everything was to his liking, he went to his email manager and let this vast assortment of messages download into his inbox. He normally had a series of rules set up to pre-sort the messages into folders by topic or keyword, but all that was for the old job. He would have to set up a new set of rules for this position, learning as he went. The status bar said it would take another three minutes to download all the mail even with the high speed connection. He changed windows to the Watcher database and switched to the director message board.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed loudly.

"What is it?" asked Capella from next door.

"Come on over," he said. Without waiting for her arrival, he continued, "I just loaded the director message board and then opened the section I built to track applications for the Special Operations Team." Capella came through the doorway. "There are just under fourteen hundred volunteers worldwide for the team since the announcement went out a week ago."

Capella stopped in mid-step, her jaw dropping. "Oh, my goodness," she said softly.

"Right!" affirmed Sather. "So there's our first item of business. "What the hell are we going to do with all of these people? How are we going to consolidate and use them to improve the situation here? Do we even have a budget or a staff for this?"

"We have a meeting with the EDOW at ten o'clock to discuss those things. It was on my list of things to tell you this morning."

"Well, then, by God, Rebecca, pull up a chair and let's start brainstorming a list of all the things we need for this team."

xxxxxxxxxx

The list was long and varied in its topics. It included everything from financial requirements to logistics to the types of weapons and body armor Sather wanted the team to use. There was a section on the training curriculum he wanted to implement and where he wanted the training to be conducted. This was supplemented by some ideas Sather had already written out earlier and added on as additional reading. Finally, he had a list of names, people he wanted transferred over to his section in order to build the Special Operations Team into a more professional unit.

Sitting in a small conference room with Michael Walker, Sather explained each of these items to the EDOW. Walker held the handwritten list in his left hand and made his own notes on a separate pad with his right. Thus far, he had agreed with all of the requests.

"What's with this bit here?" he asked. "You wrote Special Operations Team and then lined through it. What's that about?"

Sather smirked at the EDOW. "You're a Brit, Mike. Think about it in terms of an acronym." Walker added his own smirk before Sather could supply his next thought. "How much respect are we going to get if we're known around here as the SOTs? People will say we're a bunch of drunks. So I want to change the name before anyone gets too used to what we have now."

"Do you have anything in mind?"

"How about Guardians?" Sather suggested.

"Sounds somewhat Roman-esque, but it could work, I suppose."

"Well, since they're all going to be Watchers first, you could call them Watcher-Guardians officially and go with Guardians, for short, if you want.

"I like that," said Walker. "Let's go with that one."

"And the money and people I need?" queried Sather.

"Like I said last week, you can have anyone you want. Just find replacements. As far as money, for the moment, you have a blank check. I'll send the official notice to the accounting department today. Anything you want is approved. No questions asked. I'll even have them issue a series of credit cards to you and a few other people of your choosing. Just turn in the receipts.

You've got six names on this list. I see Patrick Bremmen, Richard Emerson, Matias Garcia, Ramesh Laghari, Bryan Green, and Jonathan Matzel. What are your plans for them?"

"Simple," said Sather. "Think of it just like filling up the primary staff of a military unit or a large company. You need experts to manage each specialty area. Bremen is a human resources guy and can effectively manage the huge influx of people who have volunteered for the Guardians, given some people of his own, of course. Green is one of the best logisticians I have ever seen and I'm going to need that kind of skill to equip these guys. Emerson is almost as good as Green and will be a great help to him. Matzel was an Army Ranger, just like his brother, and will be quite the asset in developing and conducting training. Laghari was an intelligence officer in the British Army before he became a Watcher; I could use his abilities here. Lastly, Garcia is the best communications guy I have seen outside of the SEAL teams. I definitely want him as the guy selecting and managing our commo network."

Walker sat back and smiled. "You've practiced this, haven't you?"

"I put some thought into it," Sather admitted. "I didn't stand in front of a mirror, but I did think of a bullet point for each of them."

"Well, it worked. You've got them. And this last part?"

"Since we have so many people," Sather continued. "I want to use some of them as we originally intended, securing certain facilities, at-risk families, and other high-risk individuals. The rest, I want to set aside and send through an ad-hoc training course, at least get some modicum of a training regimen pounded into them. We can then rotate the rest through the course and improve the training as we go."

"And, just out of curiosity, how do you plan to do the training? Will it be from internal assets - the volunteers themselves - or will you be looking for outside expertise?"

"A mixture of the two," Sather said right away. "I know, once I and Matzel have gone through the list, that we will find some who are qualified to serve as trainers, but not for everything we will need. I already have a rough curriculum, which you've seen in this addendum, and we'll need some people to fill the gaps. There will be plenty of retired police and military people out there looking to make some money and who will be willing to keep their mouths shut in exchange. With an intelligence organization like ours, finding them shouldn't be much of an issue."

Walker nodded. "Considering that we already have contacts in those worlds anyway, you can just reach out to them."

"Wait? What? We do?" Sather leaned back in his seat and stared at the EDOW. "Since when?"

Walker smiled. "Since always, Devon. "The Watchers actually funnel revenue from a number of sources. There is an entire branch of the Watchers - and I'm not talking about the normal accounting department - devoted to special financial matters, charged with tracking known Immortals' assets, preparing for sudden acquisitions, and a number of other things. This branch operates almost completely independently of the rest of the Watcher Organization. They have their own field agents, even their own Director of Operations, who answers solely to me.

"The main source of funds for the Watchers actually comes from watched Immortals. You see, Immortals tend to live for a while, and thereby tend to amass a good deal of money. They also tend to lead relatively solitary lives. Usually, if any will at all is made out, it is in fact a dummy meant to transfer assets to themselves under a new alias. The Watcher Financial Department's field agents are less concerned with an Immortal's life happenings as they are with learning of and tracking their assets. In the event of an Immortal's decapitation, if there is in fact no beneficiary, the WFD moves in to appropriate said assets using the correct passwords and account numbers learned by watching said Immortal during their lifetime.

"The second most lucrative source of income for the Watchers is a bit more conventional. The nature of the Watchers mission leads them quite often to learning certain things that others would consider valuable. You could call it intelligence analysis. There is indeed a branch within the WFD whose sole purpose it to sift through the vast amounts of information gathered by the various field agents and determine what might or might not be sold to whom without jeopardizing the Watchers, the Immortals, or greatly upsetting the current balance of power within the mortal world.

"The most important thing to remember about the Watchers is that we are a worldwide organization. We have contracts through dummy personalities and companies with every military and government in the world for various intelligence and reconnaissance services. This may make us sound like the ultimate double agents until you consider that the organization has no nationality to betray. We are like a functional, clandestine United Nations, representing the Immortal activity of the entire world.

"Then, of course, there are private contributions from the more wealthy personnel and supporters, as well as the usual dummy fund raising efforts, though these contribute a very small amount indeed compared to the other methods mentioned.

"That is one of the little factoids you will learn as a member of my staff. It's one of those prized bits of information that is reserved only for a few."

"Holy shit!" remarked Sather. "I did wonder how the Watchers made money, but I didn't know this." Walker laughed aloud. "I assumed Immortals' assets were claimed by the governments of the countries in which they died."

"Now, wouldn't that be a monumental waste?" asked Walker. "No, we step in as their apparent heirs and claim the assets for ourselves."

"It's a bit ghoulish, don't you think?"

"It's a lot better than letting a bunch of bureaucrats waste it on steak dinners and prostitutes. At least we pay our people and try to keep them equipped to succeed out in the field."

"I'll give you that," said Sather. "I didn't see the hundred-year old bottle of Scotch and three escorts I expected as a welcome present when I arrived. The office was a bit smaller than expected, too. There's no private john in it and no way I can install a sex swing in there."

Walker laughed again as Capella blushed at Sather's remark. "Sorry about that, Dev. I'm afraid I'm the only one with a private loo. As far as the swing, you can have such toys at home. Besides, I know your work ethic. You don't do such things at the office.

"As far as the ghoulish nature of the practice, I reiterate that it's much better that we benefit then the politicians. We are the ones that know of the Immortals and actively study them. It's only right that, as they die in the way they normally do - certainly not as they have these last many weeks - that we step in and collect what they have left behind."

"I'll bet your collections and accounting boys have been busy since August, then," added Sather dryly.

"Sadly, yes. It has been a boon for us. That is partially the reason I can be so free with the checkbook for you. It won't last forever, though. Once you are successful in stopping these Hunters and things are back to normal, we will have to return to a more fiscally responsible mindset ourselves. Right now we have an emergency."

"I'm on it, boss. I think that covers it all. I think it's time Ms. Capella and I got back to work."

"Alright, Dev. Thank you very much. I'll let accounting know what has been decided just now."

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13 October 1999
Sagres, Portugal

Alyssa Cordeiro was still in Sagres despite her promise to leave it nearly two weeks ago. She told herself it was because it took so long to pack her things. She was fibbing to herself and she knew it. It was really because she was reluctant to leave the cute little house she had found right on a cliff overlooking the ocean.

Couldn't Jonny be overreacting? He's done so before. He's never said that crazy mortals were crawling all over the continent, but he has said weird things in the past. Couldn't I just stay here and be perfectly safe?

She needed to talk to someone about it. Someone nearby. She had a good friend, her old mentor and sometimes lover, Jabari Abreu, who resided only a few minutes away. He was so close to her house, in fact, that she could walk there. She was glad for that. She could use the time in the cool night air to think. As a precaution, though, she did attach her backup weapon, a World War Two Hungarian bayonet, to her belt and hid it beneath her light jacket before she left. The light reflected off the hilt of her Messerfeder sword as it sat in its corner when she closed the door and locked it.

God, I wish I had a gun, she thought. If Jonny is right, it would be a good thing to have right now. I'll have to talk to Jonny or David about getting one and ask how they keep theirs from being discovered by the European authorities.

Owning a handgun or other firearm in Portugal was legal for hunting, target shooting, pest control, and collecting. Self defense was not considered a legal reason for owning one, though. The problem Cordeiro would face was her age, or her apparent age, at least. Physically, she was fifteen. With the right clothing, hair style, and make up, she could pass for twenty or twenty-one. The minimum age for handgun ownership, assuming one could get and keep a Firearms Owners License, of course, was twenty-four. She could get such a license for other guns if she claimed to be eighteen, but rifles and shotguns were much harder to conceal and, naturally, all such things were impossible to explain if she were caught with them on the street.

Cordeiro strolled southeast down the N268 road, wondering how Abreu would react to a visitor appearing at his door, without a call in advance, no less, to ask him questions. Would he send her away or welcome her inside? Would he perhaps welcome her further into the house than just the sitting room? Cordeiro grinned. It would not be the first time, if he did.

True, she and Jonny Fairbanks were in an ongoing relationship but they both knew perfectly well that neither of them were going to remain celibate when they were apart from each other. Cordeiro was aware of Fairbanks' habit of sleeping with other girls and women as was he with her dalliances with other men and boys. When her charming boyfriend had once expressed concern over this fact some decades ago, Cordeiro had even given him a perfectly good explanation recently expressed in song: "If you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with." When the two of them were together, they were intensely loyal to each other; when they were not, they were free to do as they saw fit. They still considered themselves a couple, though. Cordeiro decided, if Abreu was open to the idea, she would be staying with him tonight.

The thought made her grin blossom into a full smile as she turned left onto the Rua de Tonel. She was taking the long way to Abreu's place, she knew. She could just as easily cut through a few yards and make it there in less time, but she was enjoying the walk. Even so, she would be there in another hundred meters more anyway. She glanced at the Tonel Apartments as she took another left turn and continued up the final road that would take him to Abreu's villa.

This road was not paved. It was composed of packed sand with some loose gravel. There was a small line of grass growing down the center of the road. Thick bushels of cana palustre - marsh cane - grew to the side of the road, giving it even more of a shadow under the dim light of the waxing crescent moon.

Cordeiro stopped at the curve of the road, her call to Abreu frozen in her throat. A car was parked near the gate. She had almost bumped into it in the darkness. Her eyes moved from the vehicle to the white wall encircling the villa. It was not unlike Abreu to have visitors. She was just somewhat reluctant to disturb him if he did. She tapped her fingers on the hood of the car, thinking.

Two thoughts came to her mind as she splayed her hand across the hood. The first was the engine was still warm; the vehicle had just arrived recently. The second was she should have felt Abreu's presence by now, and he hers, from this distance. She had felt nothing. Pulling her hand back, she eased into the shadows and watched the villa from the blackness. Her eyes went automatically to the rooftop. It was Abreu's habit on such clear nights to go to the roof to gaze at the stars, amateur astronomer that he was.

Seconds later, she saw movements, more like hazy shadows really, up there. Rather than focusing on the sight, she darted her eyes around the area where she had seen it. She had learned from David Ashton of a light-sensitive receptor protein in the eyes called rhodopsin - or visual purple - which aided in night vision, but only lasted a short time. Focusing on an object caused the protein to quickly photobleach - or wear out - and take several minutes to come back. Due to the late hour, it was nearly ten o'clock, she had been walking in near darkness for some time. The technique worked. She could make out three figures coming quickly down the stairs. Cordeiro pulled herself further back into the cane.

The three shadows switched on flashlights as they descended. Cordeiro tried to shut one eye to protect the night vision in it, but feared she was too late. Even the slightest additional light was enough to bleach out rhodopsin significantly. She kept the eye closed anyway, covering it with a hand just to be sure. The shadows had reached their vehicle and two of them were opening a door to get inside. The one in the front started it up while the third figure jogged around to enter from the other side. Cordeiro could see the suggestion of some sort of short, bladed weapon in the man's hand. She shuddered and tried to keep still, suppressing a gasp.

As soon as the third man's door had shut, the car's headlights came on and the vehicle began to move forward. Cordeiro watched it crawl down the road, slowly picking up speed. She leaned carefully out of the cane to peer at it as it rounded the curve. It stopped briefly at the end of the road and turned right. She shuddered again, following the headlights with her open eye. Her fears were confirmed when the car turned right again onto the N268.

They're going to my house. Oh, God.

Taking a deep breath in an attempt to retain her calm, she stepped from the cane onto the dirt road. She couldn't go back home. Not right now. And she couldn't wander the streets in search of a taxi to aid her escape. She went to the only place she hoped would be remotely safe, at least for now, into Abreu's villa. She prayed softly under her breath that they would not return here in search for her.

Abreu never locked his doors. She went into the ground floor. She would not go to the roof. She knew what she would find there and she did not want her last image of Jabari Abreu to be his butchered remains. She would keep the happier thoughts of him in her mind instead. She searched his place quickly, knowing where he kept his guns, and loaded two of his automatic pistols, two .45s, before pouring a glass of Abreu's favorite wine and raising it in a silent toast to her lost friend. When daylight came, she would find a ride to Faro where she had a small apartment already on lease under another name. It would do as a hiding place. She would send Fairbanks the message he wanted from there. Tonight, she would hide and try to stay alive.

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14 October 1999
Andelys, France
Collège Nationalisé Roger Gaudeau (Roger Gaudeau Middle School)

While he was anxious to get home and go for a run to burn off some of his excess energy, Benoît Charpentier was not going to neglect the chance to spend some time with his friends, either. When classes finally let out at four thirty, he chose to hang out at the school for another thirty minutes or so with some of the other teens - just chatting, laughing, and fooling around as boys do - until the teachers finally shooed them away. The boys meandered off their separate ways, still laughing, and waved to each other. Benoît turned toward his own home, ready to walk the three hundred meters as he always did. It would be a good stretch before his run anyway. Running a hand through his shoulder-length black hair, he set off at an easy trot.

The thirteen-year old grinned to himself. The temperature, a slightly chilled thirteen degrees centigrade (55℉), was a little low for walking, but it would be perfect once he came back outside and starting on his ten-kilometer run. The cool air would feel magnificent then. He thought about breaking into a brisk jog down Rue Raymond Phelip but decided against it. With the weight of the backpack strapped to his back and the jostling of the books inside it, he would only cause strain to his back. Why do that and risk a potential strain just before he started his exercise? He could wait the four minutes it would take him to get home. 61 Rue Maréchal Leclerc was not far away and was even visible from where he was now. All he had to do was change clothes once he reached the house and then he'd be back on the street and off he'd go.

It was at the intersection with the Avenue de la République where Rue Raymond Phelip became Rue de Marville that Benoît's grin faded. Four men, two on either side, closed in on him. Benoît tried to keep walking, a little faster now, but two more men got out of a car parked in front of him and stood in his path. Benoît stopped and regarded them with suspicion.

"Puis-je vous aider, messieurs?" (May I help you, gentlemen?) he asked, trying to sound polite while also keeping the nervousness out of his voice.

One of the men in front nodded. In a quiet voice, he replied, "Oui, vous pouvez venir avec nous tranquillement." (Yes, you can come with us quietly.)

Benoît frowned. He couldn't go with these men. He knew that. Nothing good could possibly come from that. He glanced about him. They had surrounded him. He knew he couldn't fight them off. He wasn't very tall; he was short even for his age. He was fit, but he doubted he could outrun them, either. He decided his only hope was to try talking his way out of the situation.

"Je ne peux pas…" (I can't…) he began, but got no further.

The man who had spoken earlier shook his head and interrupted him. "Nous avons quatre autres hommes chez vous. Si vous ne venez pas avec nous maintenant, nous tuerons vos parents et votre sœur." (We have four more men in your house. If you don't come with us now, we will kill both your parents and your sister.)

Benoît's blue eyes went wide. He paled and his shoulders wilted. The boy nodded and allowed the other men to approach him. One of them slipped the pack from his shoulders and tossed it aside. Another took his arm and guided him almost gently toward a waiting car. The engine was already running. Benoît wondered why he had not noticed that before. A man stepped ahead of him and opened the back door for him while his guide put a hand on the back of his head to ease him into the backseat. Benoît soon found himself seated in the back between two men. He was not cramped by them, but certainly could not move easily to reach the doors to try escaping.

With nothing else really to say, Benoît asked, "Où allons-nous?" (Where are we going?)

"Votre nouvelle maison," (Your new home,) was all the man to his left would say even when Benoît repeated the question twenty minutes later. On the third asking, the driver said something, Benoît thought it might have been in Russian but wasn't sure, and the man to his right pulled a hypodermic needle from his pocket. Benoît gasped as the man seized his arm.

"Quelque chose que j'ai oublié de faire plus tôt," (Something I forgot to do earlier,) the man explained as he inserted the needle and depressed the plunger. Moments later, Benoît's world turned to darkness.

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14 October 1999
Winchester, England
The Wykeham Arms

Wallace Frazier came to the Wykeham Arms whenever he was in the Winchester area. Besides being a place to sleep, it had a fine restaurant and a nice, though small, selection of ales. Sure, he had a room already reserved for him and meals on Ashton's account at the Winchester Royal, but why pass up the opportunity to dine at the Wykeham when it was right here? Besides, it gave him the chance to get out in public and look around.

Today, he had enjoyed a nice starter of burrata cheese, heritage beetroot, fennel, and dill oil followed by a main of Owton's dry-aged eight-ounce sirloin steak, triple cooked chips, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms. All of that was paired with a Horndean Special Bitter ale. Three of them, actually. Now, he was awaiting a Granny Smith apple crumble with apple ice cream to top it off.

Someone else in the room had been paying attention to Frazier and his dining habits. Sitting in the back of the restaurant, the Immortal was in a perfect position to view everything else in the room. The man on the right-hand side of the establishment wearing casual clothes could have been a university student enjoying a few drinks while studying his textbook and taking notes. That was a possibility. He certainly took the time to stare into space now and then like a student trying to comprehend the more complicated points of philosophy or physics, but he had not turned a page in his book for almost half an hour. He had certainly taken down a lot of notes during that time, though.

Frazier concealed his smile behind his glass of ale as he took a drink. The Watcher must be relatively new to the surveillance business. He wasn't bad at it, by far, just not fully trained to expect countersurveillance. If not for the fact he had been sitting in his seat since minutes after Frazier had arrived nearly two hours ago and the lack of turning a page, he had not made any real mistakes. No obvious staring or eye contact with Frazier. No stereotypical signs like dark glasses or upturned collars. Just little things. Overall, Frazier gave him high marks.

The apple crumble arrived. Frazier looked up at the waiter, a smile on his face and a plan forming in his mind.

"Oh, thank you," he said as the steaming dish was placed before him.

"You're welcome, sir. Enjoy," replied the waiter.

"Oh, I shall. By the way, may I borrow your pen? I've just had a thought and I'd like to write it down before I forget it." Frazier pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket and set it on the table. He knew the Watcher could hear their conversation from where he sat.

"Certainly, sir." Handing him a pen, the waiter added, "That's a spare. I'll come back for it in a few minutes."

"Perfect. Thank you very much."

"Yes, sir. Enjoy the crumble." The waiter walked away.

Frazier made a point of taking a bite of the dessert before he began writing. There was no point in letting the ice cream melt too much. He then flipped open the book, clicked the pen, and started to write. The first note was to the waiter. The second, on another page, was to the Watcher. On a third page, he wrote out the name of the Wykeham Arms and the dessert he had ordered. Tearing all three pages from the notebook, he folded each one separately, tucked the third in the breast pocket of his jacket, and replaced his notebook.

The waiter returned when Frazier was halfway through his apple crumble. The Immortal put a napkin to his lips and held up the pen.

"Thank you so much. This was a lifesaver."

"I'm glad to help, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Frazier handed the man the two folded notes, one underneath the other. "Well, first, I have to give you this note. My girlfriend wanted to write it and give it to you, because you were so kind to her when she came here last time, but she forgot to do so. I think I remembered her words verbatim. She asked me to do it the next time I was here. She asked that I have you read it in front of me so I could see your reaction. You don't have to read it aloud, though."

Frazier grinned. In the same pocket where he stored his notebook, he also kept a fifty-pound note. He had pulled it out at the same time as the notebook and surreptitiously slipped it between the two folded pages. He knew the man would find it now. His back was to the Watcher so Frazier was confident his observer could not see that part of the exchange. The first note read:

Please play along with what I have just said and you will be £50 richer. I would like you to do a few simple things for me. Act like you are reading some kind words from my girlfriend and act accordingly. I will then ask for the check. I also want to pay the bill for the student at the table to my right diagonal plus one more pint of whatever he is drinking. Deliver the second note to him. Do not open it and do not tell him who paid his bill. He will know. Do that and act natural and the £50 will be yours.

The waiter did not make any obvious sign that he understood. He smiled and said, "Sir, this has brightened my day. Please tell her how happy this has made me. I would be thrilled if she would return so I could thank her personally."

"I'm glad you liked it. I'll be sure to tell her that."

"Can I do anything else for you, sir?"

"No, thank you. Just bring the check, please. I'll finish this crumble and be off." He handed the man his credit card.

"Yes, sir. One moment."

Frazier was fortunate that the waiter must have been distracted by some other duty and did not return for a few minutes. This gave him time to finish his apple crumble, though the ice cream had thoroughly melted by now, unhurried. He thanked the man, downed the rest of his ale, and signed the bill. Picking up his card, he stood slowly like what he was, a man who had just finished a large meal, and slipped it back into his wallet as he walked toward the door. He feigned a small yawn and did not glance once at the Watcher at the side of the room.

Reece Barnett was just about to order another pint of London Pride when Wallace Frazier departed the Wykeham Arms. He frowned, debating whether to pay his bill and follow the man - as he should - or enjoy the drink and pick up his trail tomorrow. No, he should follow Frazier. That was his job after all. He reached for the corner of his textbook to close it…but the waiter arrived with another pint.

"Uh…I didn't order another one," he said, looking up in confusion.

"Don't worry, sir," soothed the waiter. "Another patron ordered it for you. And paid the bill for your other purchases, as well."

"What?" Barnett went pale.

The waiter smiled at him. "He also wanted me to give you this." He proffered the folded note. Barnett took it, trying to keep his hands from trembling.

"Thank you," he said, opening the note once the waiter's back was turned. He blanched again as he read it. Beneath a small, hand-drawn Watcher symbol, he saw:

Hello.

If you are who I think you are then this symbol means something to you. If you are willing, I would like to speak with you about the current goings on. You can find me waiting at the Saint George Tea Rooms just down the street (that's 75 Kingsgate Street, just in case you get too excited and forget). I'll be there for one hour. If you decide not to talk, just destroy this note and enjoy the ale.

WF

Barnett read the note again, drinking half of the pint out of pure nerves as he did so. He had been identified. What had he done wrong? Hadn't he done everything he had been trained to do? How had Frazier noticed him?

Barnett realized he held the glass Frazier had purchased for him and grinned. Then he laughed. Only one man could answer that. What harm could it do talking to him now? He had already been spotted and times were already so crazy. What harm could there be in a little chat. Barnett drank the rest of the ale and closed the textbook. He pondered dropping it in the trash bin as he left. He no longer needed it. He had finished his degree over a year ago anyway.

xxxxxxxxxx

15 October 1999
Paris, France

Devon Sather sighed and ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. The other five in the room looked just as exhausted as he. They had been poring over the ever growing list of Guardian volunteers for days now.

"I think we're done for now, gentlemen," declared Sather.

Patrick Bremmen, the newly appointed personnel officer nodded. "Yes," he agreed, looking at his notes. "I think we can work with this and grow from it." He sighed himself. "Enemy permitting."

"Yeah," breathed Sather. "There's always that." He turned to Jonathan Matzel, the operations and training officer. "What do you think about the deployment and training plan, Jon? What there is of it?"

Matzel grimaced, his own thoughts mirroring Sather's. "I wish we had time to actually hammer some real training into these guys first. I don't like the idea of sending them out there with whatever they happen to recall from years past and weaponry they own themselves. It's too random."

Ramesh Laghari spoke up, as well. "It would be nice if we could at least give them the cover of being their old selves, police or military, so they could have some explanation for having the weapons, some protection from law enforcement if they are caught with them."

"We can work on that as we have time," said Sather. "We need to get some people out in the field as soon as possible, though, to protect the at-risk families."

"That's a given," admitted Laghari. "I just wanted to voice the thought."

Sather nodded. "Make a note to talk to the legal guys about that, please, Becca. It's a good idea. Now, back to the training part of the question, Jon?"

Matzel brightened slightly. "We've identified some good candidates to serve as trainers, some guys who haven't been out of the game that long and can probably do the job really well. I think we can make use of them. Let me take them aside and we can build a rudimentary school in, oh, I'd say three or four weeks. That would give Patrick and the rest of you time to get the other support, cooks, drivers, et cetera, that we'd need. After that, we can take the five hundred or so volunteers that we've sequestered from this huge list and run them through the course. We can rotate the others through it afterward."

Sather nodded slowly. "It's a start, at least."

Bryan Green, the logistics officer, never stopped scribbling with abandon on his notepad the entire time the others were talking. Sather glanced his way.

"Are you alright over there, Bryan?"

"Yes, sir," replied Green. "I'm just trying to think of all the things you guys are going to need in order to make all of this actually happen. It's a long list and I'm sure I haven't thought of it all. I'll need input from each of you to be sure it's complete."

Sather smiled and looked at the others. "One thing we can't forget, everyone, is everything we do hinges on the logistics guy. If we can't get stuff, we can't do stuff. Remember that."

The other officers chuckled and nodded.

"Very true," concurred Matzel. "It's hard to do what you need to do if you're standing there naked, hungry, and cold. You need the right gear, in the right amount, at the right time."

"There was a Marine Corps general," added Sather, "Robert H. Barrow, who said "Amateurs talk about tactics, but professionals study logistics.""

"Alright, guys, alright," said Green, dropping his pen. "You can stop stroking my ego now." He grinned. The others laughed again.

"I want to start putting Guardians in houses in England day after tomorrow, properly equipped or not," stated Sather, all humor gone from his voice. "I'm going to be at one of the houses myself to supervise how they operate. Can we make that happen?"

"Yes, we can, sir," said Jonathan Matzel. Everyone noticed his grin had vanished from his face.

xxxxxxxxxx

16 October 1999
Winchester, England

"The scouts have turned up a few scraps of information regarding suspected Hunter activity in Britain," reported Honnecker, "but not much. It seems they're keeping their tracks covered quite well until they make their strikes."

"That's not good for us at all," opined Ashton, sitting in a nearby chair in the small conference room.

"Exactly," continued Honnecker. "It's suspected that most of them, it seems, at least those who are at the Field Watcher level, are continuing about their normal duties, reporting to both of their respective chains of command, and then participating in the hit. Then they await a new assignment and lay low for a while, not targeting their new Immortal since that would make them an obvious mark as a Hunter."

"Very smart," commented Ashton, "and bad for us."

"We have been told that there is a short list of suspected Hunters that has been put out to the rank and file and that the field agents have been told to look out for them, but so far none of them have been spotted."

"Do we have that list? And pictures of those individuals?"

"Not yet, but Frazier spoke with one Watcher two days ago who says he will provide it to us soon."

Honnecker's computer beeped at that time to notify him of an incoming email. The German turned to face the screen. He grinned slightly.

"It's from our nameless Watcher," he said. "The Navy man." He opened the message and read it aloud for the others in the room.

General Honnecker,

Thank you for your offer to assist in the guarding of some of the Watcher families. Though, of course, I cannot make this an official partnership between us, I can certainly extend my own gratitude and a few local addresses which you and your team could just happen to find through some mysterious manner. I have at the bottom of this message a short list of addresses and phone numbers. There are only three families there and they are all in the vicinity of the locality you mentioned so it will hopefully not constrain your current operations too much. If you like, I will even make first contact with them so they are prepared for your arrival.

The Watchers are going to send out their first deployment of Guardians (as the new security team is now known) to secure some other homes starting tomorrow. They are hoping this will deter future attacks by this group of radical Immortals. They are under specific orders to fight back but not to take the heads of any Immortal who attacks them. The intent is to show they are not like the Hunters. We hope this will be an effective technique.

We have had very little luck identifying any of the Hunters so far except for who we think are a few low-level players. We think the officers are most likely higher ranking Watchers who have more flexibility of movement within the organization. They definitely have eyes inside our establishment but we no longer have anyone within theirs. Our man, Max Correll, was killed back in August. We have not been able to get another man to replace him since then.

I wish you good luck in your fight against the Hunters. I hope it fares better than ours has been so far.

PO2

Roderick (Watcher) and Cora (Spouse) Leonard
Children: None. Cora is four months pregnant.
92 Imber Road
Winchester SO23 0NQ
03069 990709

Lee (Watcher) and Gail (Spouse) McCarthy
Children: Gregory (6), Cindy (8)
26 Woodman Close
Sparsholt, Winchester SO21 2NT
03069 990139

Dominick (Spouse) and Caitlin (Watcher) Santana
Children: Juan (10), Christopher, (8), Victoria (5)
1 Grange Close
Winchester SO23 9RS
03069 990535

Ashton read through the list of families at the end of the email before leaning back into his chair.

"It may only be three addresses on paper," he said, "but that is quite a responsibility for us. We don't want to lose even one of those families."

Honnecker nodded. "Agreed, General. I will ask our Watcher friend to make contact with them and we will start working on a schedule to have people there until we know the threat has passed us, if it does. Who knows? We may even pick up some useful intelligence while we're there."

"One can hope," concurred Ashton. "Darren?"

"Yes, boss?" replied Dublin.

"Everyone has been equipped with the new weaponry now, right?"

"Yes, they're good to go there. They've got Glock 17s and shoulder holsters for concealed carry. Of course, they'll have to take particular care not to be caught with them due to the laws here. They also have Heckler and Koch Universal Machine Pistols for heavier work, when necessary. I put yours in your room in the safe under your usual combination."

"Thank you."

"We have a surplus of weapons in expectation of the arrival of more help. That's all boxed up and ready for either distribution or shipment elsewhere, whichever we need. It's stored offsite and under discreet guard by a few dependable chaps I know."

Ashton nodded. "Very good."

xxxxxxxxxx

18 October 1999
Northampton, England

Tyson Dalton was nervous. Sather couldn't blame him. It wasn't every night that five armed men arrived, said you and your family were in grave danger, and took up residence in your house. Even more nerve racking for the Watcher was when one of the EDOW's special staff was accompanying those five men to supervise their performance and conduct. Admittedly, this being the second night of their presence there, Dalton had calmed slightly, but only so. Sather's warning that not only Dalton, but his wife and two young sons were also in danger had struck the man quite hard.

Tyson's wife, Abbie, had taken the news about as well as her husband had. The boys, Connor and Travis, aged ten and eight, respectively, had not so much felt threatened but had thought the sight of armed men to be quite cool, as a matter of fact. Having their parents call in and say they were sick so they could spend the day out of school was even better, they thought. It gave them more time to chatter with the men about their guns and ask if they could shoot them…or at least touch them. While they never got their wish, the blond man giving them orders did allow two men at a time to take a break, except for the two who were sleeping in Mommy and Daddy's room since they had been up all night, to play with them. That was almost as good. They could only play indoors, though, so they had to get creative in what they did after a while.

Soon after darkness fell, Abbie got the boys ready for bed and the men settled down for a more attentive watch. Adam Ward and Blake Francis unrolled the hideaway bed from the couch and went to rouse Marco Fisher and Theo Wells from their slumber to make room for the parents. Riley Stewart and Devon Sather would have their turns in the parents' room come sunrise. The Guardians, despite their causing a cramped atmosphere in the house, were still trying their best not to crowd the Daltons as much as possible. They had even brought several days worth of their own food so as not to deplete the family's own supply.

"Do you think they'll come tonight?" asked Tyson.

"With luck, no," replied Sather. "I'd be perfectly happy if tonight were just as boring as the night before. In this business, a boring night on guard duty is a good night."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is."

"Remember the plan if it's not, though," Sather reminded him. "The moment you hear anything from any of us, you find the closest Guardian and do exactly what he says. He and at least one other will gather the rest of the family into a room and guard all of you while the rest of us deal with the problem. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," affirmed Tyson. "Understood."

"Now, you're welcome to stay up with us as long as you like or you can go to bed along with your wife. Your choice."

"Well, I don't know how much sleep we'll get, but I think going to bed is the best option for us right now even though it is only nine o'clock."

"Okay," said Sather, grinning. "Sleep well, if you can."

"Yeah, good night."

Sather followed the Watcher with his eyes. The man was putting on a good show for his family, but he was wrought with fear and it was crushing him. The slump of his shoulders as he went down the hall toward his bedroom said it all. He knew full well the threat posed to his family. He had read the reports of the other attacks. The arrival of the Guardians had just brought the reality of the situation closer than he liked. As if keeping track of Immortals were not fantastic enough of a concept for one's mind to comprehend, now those same people were trying to kill him. It was enough to weigh down anyone's soul.

He also, from the look on Abbie's face when the Guardians had arrived yesterday, had a lot of explaining to do. Some Watchers were more upfront about their jobs than others when it came to their spouses. While some told them everything, others preferred simply to say they were historians involved in active research. Tyson apparently was one of the latter. Abigail Dalton had no clue what Immortals were or why they were a danger to her. Now her entire world had changed.

While checking that his Desert Eagle .44 automatic pistol was loaded and on safe, Sather signaled to Fisher and Stewart to turn off or dim the lights in the house. If the family had gone to bed, it was best for the rest of the house to appear that way. They - the Guardians inside - would also have to be wary of how they passed windows during this time so they did not silhouette themselves. Sather had reminded the men of this before the night shift the day before and it had been a good thing. Wells, a former policeman with little tactical experience, had no idea what he meant by it until it had been explained in more detail.

It was also a reminder to Sather of just how widely varied the prior training of the Guardians was and how that gap would have to be filled by Matzel's ad-hoc course. He was amazed that such a basic concept was not covered in basic surveillance training for Watchers. Thinking back, Sather tried to recall if it had been part of the curriculum when he had gone through the Academy and was surprised when he could not recall it. He made a mental note to have a talk with the Director of Watcher Training, another of Walker's staff, about this.

An hour passed uneventfully, just as Sather liked it. He sat by the front window prepared for the next to pass like the first. A pair of headlights down the street caught his eye. The vehicle in question parked half a block away and shut off its lights. Sather was about to discount it as just another occupant of the block when two more cars parked near the first. The doors opened and several darkly-clothed figures began to exit the vehicles.

"Heads up," Sather whispered. "We've got nine, ten, eleven people, confirmed eleven people down the street. They're heading this way."

"Wake up Ward and Francis?" asked Stewart.

"Not yet," answered Sather. "Let's confirm it's not just a group of kids on a stroll first."

Wells and Fisher moved to the hallway leading to the Dalton's bedrooms and knelt, their shotguns over their knees. Stewart stayed back near the folding bed. Sather continued to peer out the window.

"Okay, the group has now paused and broken up," reported Sather. "Most of them are going into the shadows across the street. Two of them are coming toward the house. I think they're going to do a recon." He turned to Stewart. "Okay. Wake them and get that bed folded fast. Hide."

Sather stood in a crouch and dashed across the room into the kitchen. He knelt in a dark shadow where he still had visibility of the window he had been using as a lookout site. By the time he was there, Ward and Francis were already out of bed and the hideaway was half folded. Stewart was fetching the couch cushions for them. Wells and Fisher had backed further into the hallway. In another thirty seconds, the couch looked normal again and the three Guardians in the sitting room had dispersed. They waited, trying not to breathe too loudly.

Time stretched out infinitely as the Guardians sat in silence. They heard nothing except their own heartbeats, their own respiration. The clock on the Daltons' sitting room wall was thunderously loud as it ticked through the seconds. After what seemed to him like an eternity of stillness, Sather finally spotted a shadow moving at the front window. It was just a blob, at first, but soon took on the form of a head and shoulders as it came closer. The head peered through the glass into the room, looking to the right and left, then dropping down. The head appeared again at a farther window.

Sather counted to sixty and was about to move when another shadow rose up at the first window. He froze in place, biting off the gasp he felt rising in his throat. The shadow dropped like the first and, a moment later, also appeared at the farther window.

Okay, Sather thought, two came this way and two checked the windows. It should be clear now.

Just to be sure, Sather counted to one hundred before daring to rise back into his crouch. He crept noiselessly back into the sitting room. Turning his head toward the hallway, he issued his first order.

"Wells, Fisher, secure the family. Quietly. Get them all into the master bedroom. Keep them low."

"Right," affirmed Fisher. To their credit, Sather barely heard them moving.

"The rest of you," he said into the sitting room, "form a line along the wall by the hallway facing the door. Fire on my command."

The Guardians shuffled through the darkness, only once banging a knee on the arm of the couch. Sather was grateful nothing fragile was knocked to the floor. They stood with their backs to the wall and waited. Sather took a deep breath. A thought came to his mind. Walking carefully, he made his way to the front door and unlocked it. He then took his place back in the line.

"Okay, guys," he whispered, "those two recon guys are probably reporting back to the others. Just stay calm and wait. When they come in, I'm betting it will be through that door, just like the other times. I also think they're going to switch on the lights. When they do, I'll give the command to fire. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," chorused the others softly.

"Alright. Make sure the safeties are off and your fingers are off the triggers. Be ready."

Not to his surprise, Sather heard at least one safety click to the off position. It was yet another reminder of just how long it had been since some of these people had handled a firearm in a stressful setting. He bit off a sigh and waited. He could bitch about training later.

Whether they waited for five minutes or for another twenty, Sather did not know. All he knew was after a while, a line of shadows drew up along one of the windows near the front door. The silhouettes of their submachine guns were plainly obvious. Sather suddenly felt under-equipped for this mission.

Too late now, he thought as he heard the soft click of the front door turning.

Sather had expected one of the group to kick the door in and for the rest to come streaming into the room. Instead, finding the door unlocked, the lead person, a woman, simply pushed open the door and reached for the light switch. She then sauntered casually into the room, her weapon pointed at the floor. She was closely followed by two others, men this time. A fourth person was just crossing the threshold when the lead woman finally noticed there were other people in the room.

The woman, a redhead, froze at first, completely surprised by the sight of four armed men lined up along the wall staring back at her. Her eyes widened and her jaw began to drop. At the same time, the H&K MP5SD3, a familiar sight to Sather, began to rise.

"Fire," roared Sather, triggering his Desert Eagle in the direction of the nearest armed Immortal, the third in the room. The tall, dark-haired man, who had just turned to face Sather, caught the massive round in the sternum. The bullet punched through the thick bone and penetrated through to his spine, dropping the big man instantly to the floor.

The other Guardians, all armed with shotguns of various types, fired their weapons as soon as they heard Sather's voice. The red-haired woman screeched, hit in the right arm and shoulder, and dropped her weapon. She fell to a knee. The other Immortals in the house, the one next to the woman and the one who had just crossed the threshold, both fell from the blasts.

Sather ran over to the injured woman, kicking her weapon away from her. "Fire through the window," he ordered loudly, already seeing the shadows of the other attackers turning to shoot through that available aperture. Bullets and shot pellets crossed paths with each other over a short distance as did a profusion of curses in various languages.

Sather stood behind the woman, seizing a handful of her garment behind the neck and lifting her up. She flung an elbow back at him. He deflected it with the butt of his Desert Eagle and then fired another round through her back, blowing out her right lung. Taking three long steps toward the door, he flung her body through it and pulled back into the house. A figure filled the doorway. Sather fired at it reflexively as he backed away, tripping over one of the bodies behind him. The figure sank, hit in the abdomen, and crawled out of sight.

"Pull out!" they heard a voice from outside call over the sound of gunfire. "Pull out now."

"Cease fire," ordered Sather immediately. "Let them go."

The fire from the Guardians stopped, but not their rancor. One of them turned, red-faced, on Sather, his voice hot with rage.

"Let them go?" repeated Wells. "What the fuck? We've got them on the run. Let's go after them."

Sather waved a hand at the Guardian, telling him to keep his voice down. "We don't have the numbers to pursue them, asshole. Our mission was to protect the family. We've done that." Sather glanced behind Wells as he heard a familiar, dreaded sound. "And we have more important things to worry about right now," he said, pointing at the wounded body of Adam Ward. Riley Stewart, ignoring the blood flowing from his own injuries, was already kneeling over the man trying to treat the multiple bullet wounds. Wells looked, as well. The sight of Ward calmed him considerably. He nodded to Sather.

"What about them?" asked Wells, gesturing to the dead Immortals littering the sitting room.

"Take all their weapons and toss their bodies in the front lawn. Do the same with anyone you find out front. Do it fast before they recover. Keep an eye on them until they go away."

"We're just going to let them go? After what they did to our families?"

"Yes, Wells, we're letting them go. We're not Hunters. We're showing them that we'll fight to protect our own, but we won't act like their enemies. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," said Wells. "I understand now."

"Good. Thank you, Wells. Let me know when the authorities arrive. We're going to have a lot of creative explaining to do. Let me take care of that."

"Yes, sir. I'm on it."

Sather turned to assist Stewart with Ward. One look at the man, however, told the former SEAL what he could expect even from their combined efforts. Adam Ward, aged thirty-one, would soon become the first Guardian killed in the line of duty.