"You come on with it, come on
You don't fight fair
That's okay, see if I care
Knock me down, it's all in vain
I get right back on my feet again"

"Hit Me With Your Best Shot" - Pat Benatar

29 September 1999
San Diego, California

Erik Frost replaced the phone in the cradle and swore softly. The words of warning he had just heard from Siobhan O'Banian rang in his ears.

"Erik, the Hunters are rampant in England. You can't come to Skye; it's not safe. Meet me at Saint-Vincent de Paul Catholic Church in Paris on Tuesday the ninth at six pm. Use the western entrance and ask for Patrick. He knows about Immortals and he can be trusted. And Erik, watch yer back."

Hunters.

Frost leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Images immediately swirled through his brain, images he would never forget. He could still hear her voice, see her face, smell her terror. And he still felt helpless.

The attack had come out of nowhere. He and Kendra had been quietly celebrating their first wedding anniversary. A small, intimate dinner at a cosy restaurant in Chicago's West End. One minute he had been closing the clasp on the diamond necklace he had given her, the next he was diving for the floor, bullets spraying around him.

He had lain there, bleeding, dying, trying to reach out to Kendra as she lay on her side, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth.

Just as their fingers had been about to touch, they had grabbed her, dragging her by her hair away from the overturned table.

Erik pushed himself away from the wall, not wanting to remember the rest. Not wanting to remember her screams and cries, and then the absolute silence. He'd spent the last nine years not wanting to remember, and he still couldn't do it.

He slowly ambled his way into the bedroom, grabbing the soft-sided suitcase from under the bed. Absently, he began to toss clothes into it. If there was a chance he could avenge Kendra's death, he'd do it.

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03 November 1999
Paris, France

O'Banian was exhausted. She'd never liked flying, and even the small flight from London to Paris had drained her. Of course, she hadn't slept at all last night. Business had taken precedent. She had given the Watchers a little wake up call. It would be under the guise of an accident - faulty gas fitting in this case, but she didn't doubt that the Watchers would understand its message. That done, all she wanted to do now was sleep.

Through the open window, a light breeze entered the room as she placed her blade under the bed within easy reach. She then reached into her only bag and retrieved her Magnum. Checking to make sure it was fully loaded, she then moved to put it under her pillow.

xxxxxxxxxx

When she revived from her temporary death, her head felt as if an atomic blast had gone off inside. She knew what that meant and raised her hand in front of her, the hand that should have held her pistol. Settling for her sword, she quickly looked around, making the always revolting discovery of her blood splattered across the wall. The more unsettling discovery, however, was the message left on the wall above the bed, the one that was obviously written in blood; her blood.

Honour?

She'd only just read the word when the pain exploding in her shoulder caused her to drop the blade she'd been holding. No sooner had she grabbed the shoulder with her other hand, than the new pain in her knee dropped her onto the bed. Almost immediately, she felt the presence of another Immortal. She desperately tried to overcome the shock that her body insisted required her loss of consciousness. She did not know how long she had lain prostate on the mattress, her mind struggling to move her agonised body. Rolling off the bed, she had just enough time to grab her sword and struggle to her knees when the door opened. The only thing she saw was the flash.

When O'Banian felt the pain in her head, she was surprised she could do so. She mindlessly assumed that the only reason Immortals attacked another was so they can take a head. When she opened her eyes, she understood why she still had her head. Lying on her back, she had a perfect view of the second message of the night written, again, in her own blood, this time on the ceiling above her.

Honour?

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03 November 1999
Paris, France

The flight had been long and uneventful. Frost had switched planes in New York, uneasily scanning faces to see if there was anyone he recognized. There hadn't been.

He strode through de Gaulle airport, weary from his travels. A man and a woman, each in a long, dark trenchcoat, blocked his path. They were not Immortals; no sixth sense had kicked in and told him his own kind were near. He eyed them nervously, not trusting them to not create havoc in a crowded airport.

"Mr. Frost?" the man inquired. He was in his late twenties, blonde with dark eyes and the shadows of a beard.

"Perhaps," Erik Frost replied. "Who's asking?"

"Mr. Frost, we come from Michael Walker. We are…"

"Watchers." Frost spat the word rather than said it. "Well, if you Hunters think I'm just going to surrender my head here and now, you've got another think coming."

"Mr. Frost, we're not here for your head," the dark-haired woman replied, sighing. "We just want to talk to you."

"Just like you wanted to 'talk' to my wife, right?" Frost was becoming agitated and the people around him were beginning to notice.

The man put his hands up, "No, Mr. Frost. We mean you no harm. We know about your wife, Kendra, and we are sorry that it happened. We just want to talk to you. Please."

Frost regarded the two of them, all his senses telling him not to believe, to tell them to go to hell and continue on his way. Erik studied the faces of the two Watchers in front of him. Perhaps he owed it to Kendra to at least listen to what they had to say. He shrugged his shoulders.

"I'll listen. But that's as much as I'll do. And only in a public place. I'm not going anywhere with you guys."

"Fine," the woman responded. "How about the airport bar?"

Frost nodded, and the three made their way to the bar. There, they selected a secluded booth away from the main bar. It gave them not only the privacy to talk, but it also gave Erik Frost a good view of the door. Just in case.

"Erik. May I call you Erik?" the man asked, continuing when Frost nodded. "Erik, Immortals and Watchers are poised on the brink of war, but what the Immortals fail to understand is that not all Watchers are involved in this. A renegade band has reformed: the Hunters. Unfortunately, they represent the twisted few that slipped through the cracks. It happens in religion, the police department, the teaching profession, and it's happened here."

Frost nodded but remained silent. The woman continued the chat. "What Brad here is trying to say, Erik, is that we are as appalled at the situation as you are. But what's making it worse is that the majority of us, the good, decent ones, are now being targeted by Immortals."

"Not only that," the man interjected, "but some of your kind are going after innocent people. Now, albeit some of them are the families of Hunters, but they are innocent. Retaliating in such a fashion doesn't do your cause any good. The decent ones among us see this and some wonder if the Hunters aren't right."

It was the woman's turn again. "Erik, we're appealing to you to talk to your fellow Immortals. Reason with them. Make them see sense. We know about the Immortal Council meeting tonight - at the church. Michael Walker is the Director for Watchers. He's our boss - and he's a good man. He is as mortified over this as you are - more so because these people worked for him. He blames himself for not seeing it coming."

"I doubt he's as mortified as we are," Erik offered. "He's not being hunted. Yet." He added the last word softly. The word brought the two Watchers to a halt and they briefly exchanged glances.

"Michael is asking that you approach the Immortal Council to meet with him. He'll meet with them anywhere - holy ground, anywhere."

Frost snorted. "Holy ground? Holy ground didn't help Siobhan O'Banian, did it? She was on holy ground when they came for her and they didn't think twice."

"That was the Hunters, Erik. That wasn't us," the man severely reminded him. "Michael can be trusted. He wants to get these guys as much as you do, and he thinks that he and his people can do it - if we all work together."

"All we ask, Erik, is that you think about it and that you tell the others," the woman urged.

Frost said nothing for a moment, thinking. "And what if they say no?" he asked finally.

For a brief heartbeat there was silence. Then the woman spoke. "Then it's war, isn't it? And it will be a bloodbath."

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He'd called ahead and told her he was coming. Her tone had been neutral, the only emotion coming when he had told her why he was coming to Paris. Standing outside her apartment, he again wondered at the wisdom of him being there. Perhaps it would have been better if he had just phoned and warned her. Too late now.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Frost quickly covered the six flights to the top floor. Down the hall. Third door on the right.

She opened before he even knocked, smiling that coy, mischievous smile she had mastered over the centuries.

"Hey, I was wondering when you'd get here. Come in." She opened the door wider, cautiously scanning the hallway behind him before, closing and locking it firmly.

Frost looked around. Never a tidy housekeeper, Miranda LeFauve had the place looking like a bomb hit it. For a brief moment, Frost wondered if the place hadn't been ransacked.

LeFauve ducked by him, heading back to her task. Packing.

"What are you doing?" he asked, watching her debate between a black Versace dress and a dark green Chanel one.

"What does it look like I'm doing. I'm packing. As a friend of mine would put it, 'I'm getting the hell out of Dodge'. What were you expecting me to do? Stay?"

"Well, yeah, I was."

She rounded on him, eyes wide. "Erik, you can't be serious? The Hunters are everywhere. Staying in Paris is not an option, not a smart one anyway." She dropped the lingerie she was holding and came toward him.

"Come with me. I have two tickets to a remote little island off the coast of Jamaica. No Hunters. No Watchers. Hell, other than us, probably no Immortals. Come with me. We can lay low for a few decades, work on our tans - it's secluded so we don't have to worry about tan lines." She ran her hands across his chest, resting them on his shoulders and staring up at him with her big brown eyes.

For a moment he was tempted, but then reality returned. He couldn't turn his back on the others - he needed to deliver the message from Michael Walker, and he needed to be there, to help make peace or stand beside his kind and fight, whichever was needed.

"I can't, Miranda," he told her softly. His hands covered hers and he removed them from his shoulders. "It won't go away. Oh, it might for a few years, even a few decades, but it won't go away completely, not unless we do something. I've spoken to some Watchers." He heard her breath catch and saw her look of alarm. "No, it's all right. These were the good guys. They want to meet, to see if we can't work together and get the Hunters instead of going after each other. I need to deliver that message to the Council tonight at the church."

LeFauve shrugged. "So deliver your message on the way to de Gaulle. We can catch the eight o'clock flight rather than the five o'clock one. Please." She sweetened the offer with a kiss, lingering just a little longer than was friendly.

It would have been easy to just give in. To just say to hell with it and help LeFauve finish her packing, spend the rest of the afternoon lying around like they used to, before delivering his message and getting on a plane to anywhere. But Kendra's face emerged in his mind, and Frost broke the kiss and abruptly turned away.

"No, Miranda, no." He shook his head. "I have to do this. I can't let someone else suffer like Kendra did. I have to do it for her - it's her legacy." He turned back to her, tears threatening.

She sighed and frowned. "Why do I always end up with boyscouts? Why, for once, can't I find someone who doesn't feel a need to take the moral high ground?"

Frost chuckled. "You have met them, you just complain that they don't pose much of a challenge for you. You'd rather try to corrupt us good guys." He moved toward her, wrapping his arms around her.

"Not doing a very good job am I," she muttered into his shoulder.

It was a long time before either of them moved.

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07 November 1999
Olympia, Washington
La Petite Maison Restaurant

The beef tartare hors-d'oeuvres in front of Charles Ulrich were getting cold. He had forgotten about them mere minutes after placing his order for his main dish, a seven-ounce dry-aged prime filet of beef with maitre d'hotel butter, bordelais sauce with fingerling potatoes and an add-on of prawns and with béarnaise sauce. He chose a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon to accompany the meal and nursed a glass of it as he sat lost in his own thoughts.

He had been released from the European Alliance, as the Watcher known only as PO2 had started calling his group of Immortals, on the first of the month in order to begin his tail of Matthew Crouse. The potential Hunter had been identified when Ulrich and General Honnecker had taken down a Hunter cell in Austria. Ulrich's mission was to determine positively whether or not Crouse was a Hunter and, if so, bring him in for questioning by the Alliance.

Ulrich had been fortunate thus far in that some of the information he had on the man was still somewhat current. The Watcher was assigned to the San Diego area of California and Ulrich had been able to spot him there. To Ulrich's surprise, though, Crouse had been loading his vehicle in preparation to depart that very morning. Rather than the stakeout Ulrich had planned for the day, he ended up spending the day in a careful tagalong pursuit of the Watcher's car for the next several days. Ever mindful of Crouse's own training in surveillance and potentially in countersurveillance, Ulrich had to use every trick that came to mind, following from afar or passing Crouse and tracking him with mirrors, trying always never to be an obvious tail that the Watcher would spot.

Fortunately for Ulrich, Crouse never spent more than four or five hours on the road, not counting rest stops and lunch. He was a fitness buff and liked to find a place hotel with a gym by two or three in the afternoon. He would then spend two hours working out and another hour either on the treadmill or running through the town. He would then shower, have dinner, and spend the rest of the night in his room. Ulrich learned from the first morning, after getting up very early himself, that Crouse would then rise at six o'clock, have a light breakfast, shower and change clothes, do a few things on his laptop, check out, and then be on the road again by eight o'clock. Once a routine had been established, Ulrich knew when he could step away for a short break, such as a late meal for himself.

Now, sitting in the French restaurant, he wondered about Crouse's ultimate destination and the reasoning for it. The man had temporarily been assigned to the European contingent of Watchers. There had been no indication in the email traffic Ulrich had seen about him being transferred permanently. That would explain his return to the States. This leisurely trip north had him baffled, though. Why drive? Why not fly? Ulrich shrugged and took another sip of his wine. Maybe the man just enjoyed driving. Sometimes, Crouse even stopped in one town or another just to look at a site or two. He seemed to be in no particular hurry to get anywhere. Considering the events in Europe and the similar, though not as drastic, state of affairs in the U.S., this confused Ulrich even more.

His meal arrived and Ulrich put the matter out of his mind for now. He was going to enjoy the beef and wine and not worry about Matthew Crouse for a little while. There would be time for that later. Thirty minutes passed and Urich pushed the plate with the dregs of his meal away. He took another pull from his wineglass and signalled for the check. It was time to go back to his hotel.

Crouse had checked into the DoubleTree Hotel across the Olympia Yashiro Friendship Bridge. It was a mere two point four kilometer drive and, with the light traffic, Ulrich was at the hotel parking area in only five minutes. He locked the doors to his car, checked his pockets to make sure he had his passcard, and went to the side entrance to the staircase. He took the stairs up to his floor and walked down the carpeted hallway toward his suite.

Ulrich paused at his hotel room door. Someone had either been inside the room earlier or was in there now. Ulrich had left a single hair pulled from his scalp plastered between the bottom of the door and the jam with saliva when he had left. That hair now lay on the floor. It was an old technique, to be sure, so old that few people even looked for such signs when they entered a room nowadays.

Ulrich rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, debating how to respond. It was possible the intruder, or intruders, had come and gone. In fact, that was the most likely scenario. All they would have found when they searched his room would have been a suitcase full of clothes and a shaving kit anyway. His laptop and other valuables were still in the boot of his car. But what if they were still there, waiting? If he walked in nonchalantly and that was the case, he would be dead.

Deciding to act as if the latter scenario were the case, Ulrich let his eyes drift to the right and left. There were no other guests in the hallways at the moment. He put his hand beneath his jacket and withdrew a Heckler & Koch USP9 Tactical, a 9mm semi-automatic pistol. He mentally reviewed the layout of the suite as he slowly rotated a sound suppressor onto the pistol. The door opened onto a short hallway. Two meters to the right was a small enclosed kitchenette. Passing that, the hallway opened up into a large sitting room. The door to the king-sized bedroom was in the middle left of the sitting room and the bathroom was accessible from the bedroom.

Ulrich took a pocket flashlight from inside his jacket and held it in his left hand. He placed his right thumb on the safety of the pistol, ready. There was a round already in the chamber, he knew. He slid the passcard noiselessly into the locking mechanism and waited for the green light to appear. When it did, he began to turn the knob with infinite slowness, using three fingers of his left hand, the others still gripping the light. He raised the pistol to eye level.

When the doorknob clicked, several things happened simultaneously. Ulrich shoved the door open and stepped through the threshold, he snapped the safety of his pistol to the "Off" position, and he brought his flashlight up alongside the pistol. Knowing he was silhouetted by the light from the hallway and had only heartbeats before any hostile occupants within the suite recovered from their surprise and fired, he stepped down the hallway, turned, and went into the kitchenette. Only then did he switch on the flashlight. The astonished face of a fair-haired man appeared in front of him. A suppressed pistol was also barely visible in the man's hands. Ulrich fired his USP, pointing in the same direction as the light, from a meter away. The intruder dropped to the floor without a sound. Ulrich swept the tiny area with the light, saw no one else, and switched it off.

The German turned toward the office entrance and knelt, pointing his weapon that way. The hallway lighting provided enough illumination to show no one was in the line of sight. He doubted the man he had killed had come alone. The question now was where his partner, or partners, were.

Ulrich dropped to the floor as a bullet passed through the wallboard of the kitchen enclosure. Another buried itself in the slightly stronger framework near the threshold and a third passed through the doorway. Another trio worked its way back the opposite direction, this time slightly more spread out. Ulrich now knew where the other shooter was.

The sitting room had a couch along the left wall and facing the television. At the far end of the couch was an end table and a reclining chair. A coffee table sat in front of the couch. From the strike points of the bullets, Ulrich deduced the shooter to be at the far end of the sitting room next to the end table and the recliner. This position made sense since it gave maximum visibility of the hallway and door. Had the shooter a little more time or had Ulrich been more careless when entering, the shooter would have been able to ventilate him when he had entered.

Crawling to the edge of the doorway, Ulrich switched the USP to his other hand. He was not ambidextrous, but he had trained in weak-hand shooting in the past. Setting the flashlight aside, he hoped the hall light would provide enough illumination for him. Ulrich took a deep breath. Letting half of the breath out, he rolled partially out into the hallway, bracing his left hand with his right. He fired two quick rounds in the direction of the recliner, two more between it, and two at the end table. He was rewarded with a groan and the sound of a slumping body.

Ulrich rolled back into the office and waited for more shooting. There was none. He heard only the sound of scrambling and cursing at the far end of the sitting room. Ulrich stood and, taking a chance, stepped into the hallway and shut the door to the suite. No one fired at him. He felt his way back to the kitchenette and knelt down again. Tapping lightly on the floor, he found the flashlight and put it in his left hand again, moving the USP back to his right. Listening for another half minute, he decided to risk coming out of the kitchen.

Ulrich stepped into the sitting room, moved to the right, and swept the flashlight across the expanse of it. There was only the one wounded man trying to find his weapon. Ulrich saw the suppressed pistol lying a meter from the man's hand and picked it up. The man sobbed at the loss. Moving to the doorway to the bedroom, Ulrich flung it open and stood to the side. There was no fire. He moved in and checked that room and the bath. It was clear. He went back to the wounded man, switching on the sitting room lights as he did.

The man on the floor had dark hair and brown eyes. He had been struck in the thigh by one of Ulrich's bullets. With the loss of his weapon, he now seemed much more concerned with his injury than he had before. He was desperately trying to apply pressure to the wound to stop the bleeding. Ulrich regarded him for a moment, his USP still trained on him. Then he spoke.

"If you will allow me, I can help you with that wound. I can stop the bleeding."

"Piss off, Ulrich," spat the man, his blood-covered hands slipping across his thigh.

"Oh, so you know me." Ulrich grinned and sat on the couch. "That's a lot more than I can say for you and your late friend in the other room."

Ulrich remained silent for a full minute, watching the man. When his frantic cries began to weaken along with his efforts with his leg, Ulrich tried again. "I'm afraid, if you don't take me up on my offer soon, we'll never be able to chat. I can get a pillow case from the bedroom and make a pressure dressing for you now, if you like."

The man lifted his head wearily, his eyes staring daggers into Ulrich. Finally, his desire to live overcame his hatred and he nodded, his shoulders sagging. "Yes," he said softly. "Hurry, please."

Ulrich stood. Placing the USP and the Hunter's captured pistol on the bed, he took one of the pillows and pulled off the casing. His shoulder holster designed to allow for a suppressed pistol, he slipped the USP into it and returned to the sitting room. The wounded man was leaning against the wall, his face ashen. Ulrich draped the case over the arm of the couch and knelt next to him. Checking the man rapidly for concealed weapons, he found nothing. He then retrieved the pillow case and tucked it beneath the man's leg. Feeling for the artery above the wound, he tied a knot above it and cinched it tight. The man groaned.

"So it's more like a tourniquet," admitted Ulrich, "but at this point you need it. You've lost a lot of blood."

The man nodded. Looking down, he saw the bleeding had slowed to a dribble. He sighed through the pain, relief on his face.

"Thank you," he said despite himself.

"You're welcome," replied Ulrich. He sat back on the couch and regarded his patient. "Now, should I call you "Bleeding Guy" or do you have a name?"

The Hunter laughed, though it came out more as a wheeze. "Ah, what the hell does it matter now, huh? I'm fucked anyway." He shrugged. "I'm Moran. Scott Moran. That guy in there," he pointed toward the office, "was Joseph Spears."

Ulrich nodded and let the man keep talking. He had seen this before. Blood loss had lowered his inhibitions. He would be very susceptible to questioning right now.

"So who sent you after me, Scott? Was it Crouse?"

Moran furrowed his brow. "Crouse? No. Never heard of him. We were sent here by Emilio Gironelli."

"Would you like a glass of wine, Scott? I'm going to have one. It's been quite a night." Without waiting for a response, Ulrich rose and walked toward the kitchenette. "I just hope none of our fire hit the refrigerator," he called over his shoulder.

He returned a minute later with a bottle of Spätburgunder, a corkscrew, and two glasses. Grinning, he said, "We're in luck." He said the glasses on the coffee table, removed the cork, and poured two healthy measures into the glasses. He offered one to Moran who accepted it.

"Thank you," he said with a weary grin. Moran drank deeply from his glass, his thirst increased by his blood loss. Ulrich held out the wine bottle and refilled the glass for him.

"Gironelli," repeated the German. "I've heard that name before. Isn't he the District Director for New York City and Long Island?"

Moran nodded, the alcohol already going to his head. Ulrich filled his glass again. "Yeah, that's right, but he has more responsibilities on top of that. He's also the boss of all of our operations in North America."

"All Hunter activity?" Ulrich clarified.

"That's right," said Moran, tapping his chest with a fist as a belch followed his reply.

"And he's the one who ordered the two of you to come after me tonight?"

"Yeah. Some of the Field Watchers, the typical agents, were keeping an eye on you since you left Europe and Emilio was keeping tabs on your movements via the Watcher database. He thought you were getting too close to Crouse and told us to take you out."

"Why not warn Crouse and let him disappear? He's certainly capable of that?"

Moran belched again and drained his glass. Ulrich refilled it again. "Emilio didn't want to ruin his vacation. Crouse took three months off to go to Seattle to visit family and to take part in a martial arts competition."

"I see. And what did you mean when you said you were fucked earlier?"

"Oh, that." Moran laughed. "Well, if you don't kill me or I don't bleed out from this wound, there's no way Emilio is going to let me live, is there? He'll call Werner Heinz, Alan's cleanup man, to take care of me."

"Alan? Who's that?" inquired Ulrich.

"Are you kidding me?" replied Moran, hiccupping. "Who doesn't know Alan Ottenbreit. He's the man behind the curtain, the one who showed us all what kind of threat you Immortals are. He's the reason we're fighting you."

"So he's the head of the snake, then?"

"I guess you could say that. Hey, this wine is pretty good. What kind is it?"

"It is called Spätburgunder. It's a red wine. This one is from a vineyard near Baden-Baden in Germany. A friend of mine owns it."

"He does good work. I'll have to send a bottle of this to Ethan before he goes off to Europe."

"And who is that?" asked Ulrich.

"Oh, just a buddy of mine from the Marine Corps," replied Moran. "Ethan James and I go way back. He's going to be teaming up with Ottenbreit in a few days to help out with operations over there."

"Really? Tell me more about your friend, Scott." Ulrich refilled Moran's glass and even went to get a second magnum of wine from the refrigerator to keep the man's tongue lubricated. Later, he checked the Hunter's wound, making sure he was not in danger of losing a leg or bleeding out. All the while, he kept the woozy, increasingly drunk man talking.

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08 November 1999
Over the Atlantic Ocean

It was a dark and stormy night. A crowd of people marched behind a man on a large, black horse. They brandished pitchforks, torches, and other crude weapons. The horde marched across a bridge towards a foreboding castle. Lightning cracked, illuminating the faces of the angry crowd. The crowd stopped at the gate to the castle and the man riding the horse shouted an order. Chanting, the people brought forth a large tree and hammered it into the gate. Eventually, the gate crashed to the ground. The man dismounted his horse and drew forth a bow. He slowly led the crowd into the dark hall of the castle. Turning to his men, he shouted.

"Take whatever booty you find, but remember; The Beast is mine!"

The crowd was promptly attacked by furniture and household goods.

Locke pulled his headphones out of the armchair. Never before had he seen such crappy movies on a TWA flight. He didn't know what was making him so uneasy. Was it the recent death of his friend, Cid Sith? No. Locke knew he had seen so much death and destruction in his life that one person, friend or not, made no difference. It was much deeper than that. Locke poked Taiki Tokawa's shoulder.

"Taiki, how much longer is this damned flight?"

Taiki Tokowa removed his headphones. "Five minute shorter than last time you ask." Tokawa put the headphones back on and was instantly engulfed in Beauty and the Beast.

Locke wished the airline would play something more entertaining than cartoons. If they were set on showing Disney movies, why not ones like Aladdin? It, at least, had perverted lines stuck into it by the movie creators.

"Please, Taiki. Talk to me. You can see Beauty and the Beast whenever you want."

Tokawa again removed his headphones. "I sense you fear, Vincent."

"Not fear...more like, I don't know."

"Well, it not much longer until we land in France. Hour, maybe."

Locke quickly gazed out the window. Greenland peaked over the misty horizon.

"I hope everyone else makes it on time. I'm worried about Siobhan. Her mouth seems to get her into a lot of trouble," Locke said.

Tokawa laughed to himself.

"You likee her, donta you?"

"What? Of course not! I'm just worried that she might have trouble getting to France, that's all!" Locke suddenly became very defensive.

"No, no, I see you likee her. You always talking about how she this and that. You acting like a crazy teenager!"

"Really?" Locke asked. "You worry me sometimes, Taiki. Focus on what's happening now. She's a vital ally to us, not a girlfriend."

Tokawa could feel Locke getting nervous.

A tremor shook the airplane. A small amount of smoke seeped into the cabin.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We're having engine trouble, but let me assure you that there is no reason to be alarmed. Please, ignore the smoke around you and remain seated. Thank you."

The people around Locke became nervous. Tokawa chortled. "Hey, you remember that TWA flight 800 crash? I heard on TV, they discover the crash was caused by frayed wire."

"So?" Locke said.

"I say wire frayed by missile explosion! Har har har har!"

"Ohh, that's hilarious, Taiki. Especially now that we're all going to die. Oh, well. It certainly adds problems to our plans."

A second tremor shook the airplane.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. The plane is going down. We don't know the cause of the engine trouble, it appears that a passenger has-"

The pilot's voice was drowned out by loud static.

People panicked. Men and women screamed and leapt out of their seats. Terror seized the passengers. Vincent Locke and Taiki Tokawa sat calmly in their seats. Locke's eyes darted around the cabin. His gaze met the only other person on the plane who was also sitting quietly. He was a large man and a smirk broke across his face. He stood up and walked slowly through the crowd toward Locke. Locke looked into his eyes. They could only be the eyes of a Hunter.

The Hunter drew a short sword concealed beneath his clothing. Hunters were excellent when it came to sneaking large weapons through the metal detectors. Vincent Locke stood and faced the Hunter, though his own sword was stored neatly in the cargo hold.

"You won't get to France, Locke! We know of your plans." The Hunter spoke with unbridled anger. Locke said nothing. He looked into the eyes of the Hunter.

Taiki Tokawa leapt out of his seat and opened the overhead compartment. The Hunter attacked.

Locke jumped in the Hunter's way, trying to buy as much time for Tokawa as he could. The Hunter swung his weapon at Vincent. He dodged the attack as best he could and the Hunter's sword buried itself in an airline chair.

"You are inhumane enough to destroy all these people just to get me, Hunter?" Vincent's eyes darted around the baggage littering the floor. If only he could find something to defend himself with.

"I was ordered to kill you before you even got on the plane. I couldn't do it in time. What difference do "they" make in the long run as long as I succeed?" The Hunter drove his sword through Locke's shoulder. Locke tried hard not to cry out in pain.

"You are foolish, Vincent Locke. And let me assure you, O'Banian and the others are in as much danger as you are."

Locke struggled helplessly against the Hunter's sword. His blood-soaked hands tried desperately to hold onto the blade.

Twenty centimeters of rigid plastic burst through the Hunter's throat. His eyes widened and blood gurgled from his mouth. Taiki Tokawa stood behind him with his customised CIA "letter opener" through the Hunter's neck. The Hunter dropped his weapon, his body falling lifelessly to the floor.

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08 November 1999
The French Coastline

Plane wreckage floated to the French coast. Police and civilians gathered debris on the beaches and attempted to identify the numerous bodies. Blood and baggage filled the foamy water. A longsword caught the eye of an investigator. He pulled the archaic weapon from the sand and examined its blade. It was in perfect condition, despite being in a plane crash. The investigator quietly slipped away from the scene with the sword. Farther down the coast, two men washed up onto a rocky beach.

Locke opened his eyes. He sat up and looked around him. Taiki Tokawa lay next to him.

"Good gods, what happened?" Locke examined his chest. His shirt was torn, but the wound on his shoulder had healed completely.

"The plane crash and we botha die."

Locke analysed his surroundings. There were no people around the rocky coast they had washed up on.

"We in ruck, Vincent. Thisa place looks deserted."

"Okay, Taiki, let's look at the situation. It's Monday evening, and we're somewhere along the French coast. We've got to go to, where is it?"

"San, Sain..." Taiki Tokawa struggled with the pronunciation of the words Saint-Vincent.

"Saint-Vincent, that's in Paris. Actually, we're going to Saint-Vincent de Paul Catholic Church. Well, that's a few days' walk. We have to get a ride."

Tokawa became alarmed. "We have to ride with the French people? Why not we just steal a car?"

"Either way, we'd better get moving now, Taiki. Judging by the position of the sun..."

Locke looked to the sky and mumbled something.

"Ahh. We've got to walk this way. East." Locke pointed his finger toward the horizon. "Wait a minute...where's my sword? Crap! It was on that plane."

"I sorry, but we must go now. We get you new sword." Tokawa attempted to comfort Vincent.

"No! That was Wraithblade! It was given to me by Guyuk Khan over two hundred years ago!" Locke screamed.

"Vincent, listen to me! There is nothing we can ado!"

The clouds rumbled. The air felt heavy on Locke's tired face. Taiki Tokawa stared into his friend's eyes. Droplets of water began to fall from the skies.

"You're right, Taiki." Locke looked at the ground. "But gods! Why now?"

Tokawa remained silent. There was nothing he could say or do.

Vincent Locke and Taiki Tokawa walked along the side of the road. The night sky was a blanket of ominous clouds. Both Immortals were soaked to the bone. The rain had washed them clean of the odiferous seawater. Tokawa saw a car light in the distance.

"Hey, Vincent. A car comes down the road. We need ride, but no one can know where we going."

Locke nodded and stuck his thumb out into the high beams. The pickup truck stopped and a man opened the door. Before he could even say anything, Tokawa grabbed the driver and tossed him out of the car. The driver landed by the side of the road while Locke and Tokawa climbed into the vehicle.

"I'ma really sorry, but we must take car!" Tokawa shouted out the window as he slammed his foot down on the gas. The driver watched as his pick up drove down the road, made a U-turn and again drove by him.

"Now that was just mean," Locke said sarcastically.

"Hey, but thisa way, we get to Paris in no time."

Locke looked at the interior of the vehicle. He saw a tape deck.

"Hey, Taiki, it's a tape deck." Vincent pushed the play button. Music played, and as always, Taiki attempted to sing along.

"Yar and all da girries say I pretty fry, for a white guy." Tokawa warped and distorted the lyrics. His stereotypical speech seemed to get worse whenever he sung in the car.

"For the love of the Gods, Taiki," Locke exclaimed. "Your oriental accent clings to you like Bill Clinton to a Whopper!"

"Yar he prays da field, and keep it rear," Tokawa answered.

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09 November 1999
Paris, France
Outside Saint-Vincent de Paul Catholic Church

O'Banian had wandered around the outside of the church four times now; hands shoved deep into the pockets of her coat. She stopped at the door, sniffed and looked around. So far she was the only one there.

What if I'm the only one that shows up? she thought gloomily. Hell, what if I'm the only one left? The thought of being the last of her kind did not sit well and she shook her head to clear the thought away.

She thought of the article she had read yesterday in the London Times. At least it gave her some satisfaction.

"In an ironic twist of fate, the family of a man recently found dead under suspicious circumstances perished last month in what appears to be a gang-related execution.

"Jean Hardley, thirty-four, and her daughter Paula, twelve, died at their London home from multiple gunshot wounds in the late hours of Saturday, the ninth of October. The house was then burned down, possibly to conceal the execution-style murders, by detonating the gas lines. The resulting blast destroyed the Bromsgrove house and severely damaged several others in the area. Six people were taken to hospital for treatment, one is reported in serious, but stable condition.

"This is the second tragedy to befall the Hardley family in as many months. Husband and father, Roy Hardley, thirty-five, was found dead in a remote area on the Isle of Skye two months ago on the nineteenth of September. Unconfirmed reports indicate that he had been shot.

"At this time police are remaining tight-lipped, saying only that they are looking into a possible link between both incidents. Fire officials on scene report that the initial investigation indicates the explosion was due to a leaky gas fitting and will give no information regarding the gunshot wounds. The inquiry continues."

O'Banian sighed and looked down, the toe of her boot playing with a small rock. Her eyes flickered to a billboard overhead advertising the newest feature film: The Messenger: The Story of Joan of Arc. She smirked ever so slightly. Another story of a revolutionary bringing fire to France, the same as she.

Siobhan, open the bloody door - it's just a church for chrissake. You live in one!

But it hadn't been the same thing, this was a working church, a real one. One where one was judged for one's deeds and actions. One where, in O'Banian's case, one's soul could be found wanting.

Finally, muttering an oath, she pulled the handle on the sturdy oak door and stepped inside.

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09 November 1999
Paris, France

Taiki Tokawa parked the truck in a deserted parking lot. Both Locke and Tokawa hurried to leave the vehicle.

"How far isa Saint-Vincent from here, you think?"

"I don't know, Taiki. Not far, a block or two. But don't forget that we're going to that place. We've got to hurry or we'll be late."

Locke and Tokawa ran through the backstreets of Paris. The evening sky was cloudy and light rain splashed on Locke's face. His feet pounded into the puddles of water collecting in the streets.

All Locke could think about was Faaris, Frost, and O'Banian.

Locke and Tokawa rounded a corner. Standing before them was the Saint-Vincent de Paul Catholic Church. They had reached their destination. Locke fell to his knees and clutched the ground beneath him. Taiki Tokawa said a silent prayer. Tokawa helped Locke stand up and wipe the street grime from his clothes. They both walked towards the church.

As they moved, a heavy presence crept over them. Locke again cursed the loss of his sword and his inability to replace it. His hand moved to the gun he had taken from the truck's glove box, hoping it would be enough.

Both Immortals turned, eyes scanning the Paris street.

"Looking for me, gentlemen?" a deep, rumbling voice from behind then asked.

Tokawa and Locke turned, eyes growing wide as they looked over what had to be the largest man either of them had ever seen.

"Welcome to Paris," the giant offered. "I'm Omeir Faaris."