Author's Note: The Centre George Pompidou was closed for renovation at the time of the events of this chapter. It did not reopen until 1 January 2000. I have taken some liberties with the timeline of the building.
Chapter 23
Hate Still Shapes Me
"It grips you so hold me.
It stains you so hold me.
It hates you so hold me.
It holds you so hold me.
Until it sleeps."
"Until It Sleeps" - Metallica
18 November 1999
Paris, France
It had been over a week since O'Banian's run-in with David Ashton and she was still shaken by it. How had the bastard known she would be at Emil Halbert's house that night? And why the semi-merciful warning to lay off the families of the Watchers? Why did he care? What connection did they have that made them so valuable to him? And how dare he think he could take her and the Council on all by himself. All the unanswered questions aggravated her to no end. So great was the annoyance, in fact, that it kept her from focusing on planning the group's next strike for over a week. When she did, she did not even choose the location of it until minutes before they were to leave.
The target was an apartment complex on Rue Mouffetard at the Claude Bernard apartment complex. Paris did not have a lot of space for houses except for the exceptionally wealthy. Space came at a premium and most people lived in apartments. The Dansereau family was one of these. O'Banian smirked at the fact that, at least this time, the Watcher family did not have an estate-like home to call their own.
Finally, a bit o' humility fer ya bastards, she thought.
That was her thinking anyway until she looked up the cost of the apartment: €5,000 per month ($4,846.5 0) plus utilities and cleaning expenses. Then she gasped in shock.
"Holy shit!" she said aloud as the others were gathering their equipment. "These fuckers must have an expense account fer housin' er somethin'. There's no way they're payin' their people this much all over the world for this kind of lodgin'. This is insane."
"I don't think you have to worry about the luxurious lifestyles of our enemies," reminded Bilsby, placing a hand on her shoulder. "They won't be around to enjoy it much longer."
O'Banian grinned. "Yeah, tha''s a good point." She picked up her equipment bag and followed the rest of the group out the door.
There was one problem when the eight of them assigned to the hit reached the apartment building. The door required a security code to open it. The database had said nothing about that. While O'Banian seethed at this lack of information, LeFitte stepped calmly to the door and pressed the button for apartment twenty-three.
"Bonjour?" (Hello?) answered a child's voice.
LeFitte smiled at the others as she replied, "Salut. C'est une Livraison Rapide avec un colis pour M. Dansereau." (Hi. This is Speedy Delivery with a package for Mr. Dansereau.)
"D'accord. Attendez s'il vous plaît." (Okay. Wait, please.) The door buzzed, signalling they could enter.
"Merci beaucoup." (Thank you very much.) The eight of them walked casually through the entrance, their weapons concealed beneath their clothing. "See?" said LeFitte. "All too easy."
"A calm mind shall overcome," said Faaris, with a small grin.
"Let's keep movin'" muttered O'Banian, "before they realize no one's ordered anythin'."
They were delayed slightly as they searched for a lift. Quickly learning there wasn't one in the building, they took to the stairs at a run. Arriving in front of their chosen apartment a moment later, they paused only briefly to catch their breaths. LeFitte knocked on the door after getting a nod from O'Banian.
"Livraison Rapide," (Speedy Delivery,) she announced.
The door opened. A boy of eight stood before here.
"Bonjour," (Hello,) he greeted her, grinning.
LeFitte smiled at the boy. "Bonjour. Es-tu Daniel?" (Hello. Are you Daniel?)
"Oui," (Yes,) the child replied, obviously thrilled the pretty lady knew his name.
"Pourriez-vous vous retirer, s'il vous plaît, afin que mes collègues puissent entrer?" (Would you step aside, please, so my coworkers can come inside?)
"Sûr." (Sure.) Daniel moved away and LeFitte stepped inside.
"Merci, Daniel." (Thank you, Daniel.) She patted the boy's head as she entered. The other seven quickly followed here. Bilsby was the last to enter and shut the door behind him. Daniel, noticing none of the people held a package in their hands, looked up at LeFitte with a questioning expression.
"Tais-toi maintenant, Daniel," (Just be quiet now, Daniel,) she whispered to the child, placing a hand on his now trembling shoulder, "et tout ira bien." (and everything will be fine.)
Twenty minutes later, the interrogation of Arthur Dansereau and his family was concluded. He, his wife, and his three children were all seated on the sitting room couch facing the Council, a single bullet through each of their foreheads. The carpeting and furniture behind them was decorated with a grotesque splattering of blood and cranial matter.
"That went well," Penn summed up, grinning. "We got additional information from them and even managed to wrap things up with minimal damage to the flat. If we want, we could clean things up and continue using this place for a while."
"And why would we want to do that?" demanded O'Banian, her face stern.
"It's not a bad idea," defended MacBane. "A secondary location as a fallback for some of us is always a good option to have."
"He's right," said Pittman. "We now know the Watchers are paying for the place. Let them keep doing so. We'll just dump the bodies someplace they won't be found for a good while and keep the flat for ourselves."
O'Banian considered the proposal briefly and then nodded. "Any thoughts on a dump site?"
"Leave that to me," volunteered Tuppankovich. "I am quite skilled at making things disappear."
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20 November 1999
Paris, France
"It's finally time for you to make your move, Payton," Ashton began, handing the man a manilla folder. The two Immortals were alone in Swift's room in Ashton's mansion. "Charles Ulrich has learned about a new Hunter named Ethan James who is designated to meet one of the higher ups in their organization, a man named Alan Ottenbreit, in Lockerbie, Scotland on the twenty-sixth of this month. As far as we know, the two have never met and you bear a resemblance to James. This folder contains everything we know about him. You will need to have it memorized by the time you meet Ottenbreit."
Swift flipped through the pages of the file slowly. "That's not a lot of time to learn all of this," he said. "I'll make it happen, though. The hardest part will be the accent. It says here he has a midwestern accent. That could be a wide range of things. Ah, I see he's originally from Missouri. That helps. What about the real man?"
"Ulrich has taken care of that. He learned James' location from Scott Moran and attempted to capture him in Little Rock, Arkansas two days ago. He resisted and Ulrich was forced to kill him. He is no longer a concern. He won't be crossing paths with you in Scotland."
Swift nodded and kept perusing the file. "That's one less thing to concern me, I suppose. Now I just have to make myself look like this photograph, I guess."
Ashton stood. Swift did the same. "I'll leave the rest of the prep to you, then. I have a meeting across town with Pad Griffin and some new recruits in a few minutes. Good luck."
Ashton shook Swift's hand and left the room.
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20 November 1999
Paris, France
It was another conference room in another hotel. Ashton was starting to think the meeting places were becoming a bit stale in their selection. He shrugged off the thought. It did not truly matter as long as they were secure. He looked at the baker's dozen of Immortals in the room. Besides Paderau Griffin and one other, he did not know any of them. He referred to a list Griffin had given him. Douglas Cooke, Eric Godfrey, Chrstophe Dubeau, Ambrose Barron, Eliška Bezdek, Muneer El-Baig, Dennis Foster, Janina Steponas, Ni Tang-Su, Gregory Zorig, Tara Ingram, and Michael Durango. Of them all, he had only met Barron in the past. The others were new to him; only Griffin could vouch for their credentials. That was good enough.
Raising his eyes to the faces before him, Ashton spoke, "I would like to thank all of you for coming here today. Of the twelve of you, I am sorry to say, I only know one, Mr. Barron. I hope to remedy that as we work together. The rest of you are known only to my colleague here, Pad Griffin, and only he truly knows the details of your individual CVs. For the moment, that is enough for me. I trust his judgement. The fact that each of you has volunteered to join us in this conflict of ours speaks volumes as to your loyalty to him and your worth to our cause. What, if I may ask, has Pad told you of the problem we are facing?"
A slender brunette woman raised her hand to answer. By all appearances, she looked to be no more than twenty-two. "Since I don't know some of the people in this room, either," she said, "I'll introduce myself. My name is Tara Ingram. I'm a relatively new Immortal, I guess. I'm only forty-seven. Pad told me that there are mortals out there killing Immortals and that we need to band together to fight them. He said they're an offshoot of something called the Watchers. I don't know much about them, but he said those people are not our enemies, just these people he called Hunters."
Ashton nodded. "That's a decent summation of the primary threat. Thank you, Ms. Ingram, and welcome to the group that one of the Watchers has colloquially dubbed the Alliance." There was a chuckle around the room. Ashton grinned. "I know. It sounds like something out of Star Wars. I think he did it more to tell us apart from the other group that is of concern to us. If you are not aware of it already, I will tell you about it now.
"There is a faction of Immortals calling themselves the Council who also believe they are fighting the Hunters. The issue we have with them is they are taking an overly generalized approach to that fight. They see all Watchers as Hunters and, as a result, all Watchers - and their families - are in their crosshairs. Many innocent people have been killed so far due to their actions and, we believe, this is only driving Watchers into the ranks of the Hunters. In their belief that they are hindering the cause of the Hunters by seeking to destroy the Watchers entirely, they are actually helping the Hunters. So, you see, we actually have a two-front battle, the Hunters and the Council."
Another Immortal, an Oriental, raised his hand. "I am Ni Tang-Su," he said. "For those who do not know me, I am Chinese and I am three hundred sixty-two years old. I have heard rumors of these Hunters before. Never have I dealt with them myself, but I have had friends who have disappeared without explanation and, only years later, have the vaguest of possible reasons surfaced that it may have been Hunters that led to their demise. If we can do anything to stop the scourge of the Hunters, I am willing to join that fight. As far as this Council you mention, they are misguided. They must be either convinced of the error of their ways or killed before they cause anymore harm."
"Thank you, Mr. Ni," replied Ashton, recognizing the Asian tendency to introduce one's self by the family name first. This caused looks of confusion from some around the table. Others seated nearby leaned over to explain. Ashton kept speaking.
"I personally warned the leader of the Council two weeks ago to cease and desist. Whether she heeds that warning remains to be seen. We will prepare as if she did not. Even if she did, those preparations will aid us in our coming fight with the Hunters."
Ambrose Barron raised his hand. He also introduced himself and gave his age, one hundred seventy-four years, before asking his question. "And what will those preparations entail?"
"For now," answered Ashton, "I will divide everyone up into the existing cellular structure we have and let you begin working within those cells. Each one has its one emphasis, be it reconnaissance, control and tracking, command, et cetera. All cells can become combat cells, as needed, based on the situation. We remain flexible and adjust based on the information we receive from the various recon units. Once we have viable targets, we revert to combat mode and strike."
Everyone in the room nodded at this. "Sounds good to me," replied Barron.
"Fine, then," continued Ashton. "Give your email addresses to Pad and keep an eye on them. Until you get your assignments, you will all be lodged at this hotel. Once you get your emails, you will be lodged wherever your cells are located. Thanks again, everyone."
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Date: 22 November 1999
To: Turan Abjer, Dominic Ackart, Hotsuma Bentenrai, Jonas Cartell, Eric Doyle, Darren Dublin, Jennifer Leslie Ellis, Jacob Forrester, Wallace Frazier, Paderau Griffin, Winter Kjellson, Joseph Madsen, Chris Pellier, James Pellier, Dalla Selbjorgsdottir, Payton Swift, Douglas Cooke, Eric Godfrey, Chrstophe Dubeau, Ambrose Barron, Eliška Bezdek, Muneer El-Baig, Dennis Foster, Janina Steponas, Ni Tang-Su, Gregory Zorig, Tara Ingram, Michael Durango
CC: Lawrence Channing, Maximillian Honnecker, Viktor Petrov, Jasper Marion, Charles Ulrich
From: David Ashton
Subject: Update to Cell Assignments
All,
Cell assignments are updated as indicated below. As before, the first person listed in each group is the cell leader. The chain of command within each cell will be determined by the cell leader. The primary mission of each cell is listed above the cell.
Command
Ashton
Abjer
Barron
Dublin
Swift
Control
Honnecker|
Channing
Ingram
Marion
Petrov
Ulrich
Zorig
Recon #1
Griffin
Ackart
Bezdek
Cooke
Forrester
Kjellson
Madsen
Pellier, J.
Recon #2
Selbjorgsdottir
Bentenrai
Cartell
Dubeau
Durango
Godfrey
Pellier, C.
Recon #3
Ellis
Doyle
Foster
El-Baig
Frazier
Ni
Steponas
As before, all reports and updates will be sent through the operations cell. The ops cell will update the command cell, as needed. All recon cells may also be utilized as combat cells, as needed. Stay flexible and alert.
Questions may be forwarded through the operations cell.
Thank you,
Ashton.
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25 November 1999
Paris, France
The ringing phone was a welcome interruption from the somber intelligence report from Honnecker that Ashton was reading. The Minoan blinked once and pulled his eyes from his laptop screen, staring at the jingling device on his desk. He reached for it and brought the handset to his ear.
"Oui?" (Yes?)
"Oui, c'est moi." (Yes, it's me.) The voice of Ashton's informant inside the Council spoke across the line.
"J'écoute," (I'm listening,) Ashton replied, leaning into his leather-backed chair.
"Ils sont à nouveau en mouvement. Ce soir à huit heures aux appartements du Le Marais, rue Saint-Martin. Ils ont fait une attaque il y a une semaine. Je ne pourrais pas vous en parler parce qu'ils ont élaboré leurs plans trop rapidement. Je suis désolé." (They're on the move again. Tonight at eight o'clock at the Le Marais apartments on rue Saint-Martin. They made an attack a week ago. I couldn't tell you about it because they made their plans too quickly. I'm sorry.)
Ashton closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Ne t'inquiète pas pour ça. C'est bon. Nous allons travailler avec cela." (Don't worry about that. This is good. We will work with this.)
He leaned forward again, scribbling the details onto a nearby notepad. "Combien vont être impliqués dans l'attaque?" (How many are going to be involved in the attack?) he asked.
"Sept," (Seven,) came the reply.
"D'accord. Bon travail. Je vous remercie. Au revoir." (Okay. Good work. Thank you. Goodbye.)
Ashton hung up the phone
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25 November 1999
Paris, France
Rue Saint-Martin near the Le Marais apartments
The Le Marais apartments were one block away from the Centre George Pompidou, a complex building in the Beaubourg area of the fourth arrondissement of Paris, near Les Halles, rue Montorgueil, and the Marais. It was designed in the style of high-tech architecture by the architectural team of Richard Rogers and Renzo Piano, along with Gianfranco Franchini. It houses the Bibliothèque Publique d'information (Public Information Library), a vast public library; the Musée National d'Art Moderne, which is the largest museum for modern art in Europe; and IRCAM, a centre for music and acoustic research. Because of its location, the Centre is known locally as Beaubourg. It was named after Georges Pompidou, the President of France from 1969 to 1974 who commissioned the building, and was officially opened on 31 January 1977 by President Valéry Giscard d'Estaing.
Paderau Griffin cared nothing for this at the moment. The light was fading on the Rue Rambuteau and his eyes were not adjusting fast enough to his liking. Even with the assistance of the street lights, passersby were mere shadows at times rather than actual humans. He cursed under his breath and fidgeted in the driver's seat of his car. Rubbing his arms against the growing chill, he adjusted the vehicle's heat setting a little higher.
"It's only seven o'clock, Pad," said Dominic Ackart in the passenger seat beside him. "Why are you so impatient? They're probably not even here yet."
Still rubbing his arms, Griffin replied, "According to their history, they've always shown up early and made a recon of their targets before making the actual hit. Even with this being an apartment complex, I'd expect the same of them now. I'd like to catch them while they're still unprepared."
"We don't even know who most of them are, though. We know they've been reinforced since they got to Paris. We have no idea who those new Immortals are." James Pellier's commentary from the backseat was relevant and somewhat depressing.
"That's why we have to rely on Winter and the others who are out there on foot among the crowd to let us know when they sense anyone. It's not a very good plan, but it's the best we've got at the moment." Griffin continued. "We just have to hope that they don't cancel the whole thing once they sense us, as well."
"What would you do in their position?" asked Ackart.
"Hard to say," said Griffin. "If it were only one Immortal in the area, I might discount it as random chance. Paris is a popular place for Immortals, after all. If I noticed more than one, though, I'd probably nix the whole plan right away and scatter. That's why I had the other five out there stay as far apart as possible until the last moment. We can only hope the Council doesn't do the same, that they stay clustered together."
"What have they done previously?" asked Pellier.
"The reports say they've clustered. That's good for us. They've shown up as a group, hidden themselves away, and sent out a one or two man scouting party to check things out. I'm hoping they continue with that pattern tonight."
Griffin's radio crackled. Jacob Forrester from inside the main lobby of the complex reported, "I just felt someone come into the building. With luck, he just thinks I'm someone trying to let out an apartment. I've been talking to the clerk at the desk for fifteen minutes about that anyway. He should have overheard us when he came in. I saw him as he entered. Some Japanese guy. I don't know who he is."
"Got it. Anything from the other stations?"
The others save one reported in the negative. Joseph Madsen called in, "I saw a guy go in through the service entrance. He was too far away to tell whether he was Immortal or not, but he went in at about the same time Forrester mentioned the Japanese fellow. Tall guy with black hair carrying a tool box. He might be a repairman who works here or he might be another scout. Hard to tell."
"At this time of night," said Griffin, "I'm betting the latter. Keep your eyes open. Stand by, everyone."
Thirty minutes crawled by as the three Immortals sat in the car staring at the radio on the dashboard. It sat silently staring back at them. The three men shuffled impatiently and cleared their throats, trying to will the machine to do something. Ackart began to wonder if the batteries had died. He was about to say so when the device crackled again. It was Madsen.
"The maintenance guy is exiting the service entrance now. He's walking around toward the front of the building."
Griffin picked up the radio. "Winter, in case he is an Immortal, move away so he doesn't sense you."
"Roger that," Kjellson acknowledged.
Forrester's voice followed Kjellson's. "I just finished a tour of a model apartment with the apartment manager. I saw the Japanese guy roaming around as we made our way back. He's going out the front door now, too."
"Roger," said Griffin. "I see both of them now." Griffin watched the two shadowy figures, one with a toolbox and one without, as they walked away from the apartments toward the intersection of Rue Saint-Martin and Rue de Grenier-Saint-Lazare. Following their path, Griffin estimated their destination. He pressed the push-to-talk button on the radio. "Okay, everyone, it looks like they're going to approach from the north. Gather in the wooded area in front of Le Djurdjura. We'll hit them as they come down the street."
Griffin waited until everyone had acknowledged his instructions before turning the key to kill the engine and exiting the vehicle. Reaching inside, he took hold of his sword and tucked it beneath his long jacket along with his UMP and Glock 17. He, Ackart, and Pellier walked at a quick pace down the street to the chosen rendezvous point. They were met by Eliška Bezdek, Winter Kjellson, and Jacob Forrester. Joseph Madsen and Douglas Cooke would not be far behind.
They stood in the shadows of the trees, surreptitiously checking their weapons as they waited. Some of them adjusted their blades beneath their jackets to make sure they could easily access them, if needed. Cooke and Madsen arrived as they completed their weapons checks.
"There they are, I think," said Kjellson, pointing across the street.
"Can't really tell from this distance," commented Bezdek softly.
"If so, they've decided to carry on despite sensing Forreser in the front lobby," stated Griffin. "That could be good or bad for us."
"My God," added Cooke. "Look at that one. He's huge."
Just as Cooke made his statement, the electric sizzle of the presence of several Immortals rolled over them. The heads of the approaching group turned, searching in every direction as they continued forward.
"It's definitely them," said Griffin as the approaching group began to pull weapons from inside their clothing. "Go. Now."
The eight hidden Immortals dashed forward, spreading out and taking careful aim with their machine pistols as they moved. Griffin paused in his run and triggered a two-round burst at the nearest Immortal, a tall muscular man with black hair. He did not fire on automatic due to the presence of civilians in the area. Griffin's burst struck the muscular Immortal in the abdomen, causing him to falter in his advance and stumble. The man next to him turned and fired at Griffin, forcing him to evade to the left, seeking cover.
The advancing group of the Council scattered. So did the Alliance as each chose a target and made pursuit. Civilians screamed and ran for any cover they could find. The Council members returned fire with the MP5s. They were not as restrained as the Alliance members, firing bursts on automatic. Cooke was hit in the left leg and crawled behind a parked car, dragging his UMP with him. Pellier stood near the car and provided covering fire for him.
On the other side of the street, Griffin was still trying to evade the return fire of the second Immortal. He made it to the far side of the street and into the doorway of Saint Martin Pressing, hugging the wall. The pursuing Immortal appeared, his MP5 leading the way. Griffin slammed his UMP into it, knocking the weapon from the Immortal's grasp. The man cursed and lashed out with a backfist toward Griffin's face. Griffin turned his head to the side and took the brunt of its force on his temple, staggering back. The attacking Immortal stepped forward, crushing his fists against Griffin's wrists. The UMP fell to the pavement. Griffin retaliated with an uppercut to the man's jaw. As the dazed Immortal stepped back to keep his balance, Griffin reached beneath his jacket for his sword. The Glock was on his right hip and would take longer to reach. The sword was the fastest weapon he could access at the moment. Seeing this, the Council Immortal spat a wad of blood from his mouth and drew his own blade from beneath his trench coat.
"Aaron Pittmann," the Council member said, stepping back to allow Griffin room.
"Paderau Griffin," replied Griffin. He had no time for any further introduction as Pittmann nodded and attacked.
Amidst the clamor of gunfire, Dominic Ackart stared down the Council's wounded giant. The giant was bleeding from two bullets in his left arm and obviously infuriated by the annoyance of it. His dark eyes singled out Ackart and raised his MP5 in his right hand. Ackart fired a burst instinctively at the enormous man. One of the two rounds struck him in the right side, throwing off the aim of his own burst of first. The chamber of the MP5 clicked back on an empty chamber. Scowling at the weapon, the giant ran forward, dropping the weapon while ramming a lowered shoulder into Ackart. As Ackart struggled to stand, the brute reached beneath his jacket and drew out a curved shamshir.
"Get up, Immortal, announce yourself, and face Omeir Faaris," bellowed the giant.
Ackart coughed, feeling a rib trying to knit itself beneath his skin, and staggered to his feet. Taking his rapier from its scabbard on his belt, he raised himself to his full height and faced his opponent. He took a breath and introduced himself with a confidence he did not feel.
"I am Dominic Ackart, giant, and I am your opponent tonight." Ackart raised his rapier and stepped back into the fight.
Winter Kjellson gasped as the tall, blond man tackled her, driving her back against a car. The vehicle bracing her back, she was able to stay on her feet, but the man was pressed tightly against her, preventing her from using her UMP. The man's right arm was bleeding and he no longer had his MP5. With his right hand over her UMP and her hand, he held the weapon away from him; with the left, he wrapped his fingers around her throat and squeezed. He was also pushing her to the ground. Kjellson fought for breath and for balance.
In a desperate move, she pulled the trigger on her UMP, sending two bullets into the pavement near his feet. It had the desired effect. The man loosened his grip on her throat and danced about on his feet, unsure where the bullets were hitting. Kjellson released the machine pistol and let it drop to the pavement. With both hands, she placed both palms on his chest and pushed him away. She used the brief respite to drop her jacket and take the kung fu broadsword from its scabbard hanging at her back. The blond man recovered his balance and grinned at her.
"It's to be blades, is it?" he asked. Kjellson nodded. The man drew his own sword from beneath his jacket. "Very well, then," he replied. "I am Hewett Penn."
"I'm Winter Kjellson."
"Then let us begin, Ms. Kjellson," said Penn, stepping forward.
He lunged with his broadsword, forcing her to step aside. He swept to the left to catch her on the move. The blade clanged against hers, held in a downward position as she stepped forward to stand next to him. Kjellson's next move was an upward pivot of the blade and a diagonal cut down. The blade connected with the back of Penn's neck and continued through to the front. Kjellson took another step and lowered her sword, letting out a breath and waiting for the Quickening to begin.
Ackart parried the giant's first stroke and cut Faaris across the chest. He stepped back out of the man's reach, took a breath, and went forward again. The shamshir moved with incredible speed, connecting with his rapier and redirecting it away. Faaris struck down from Ackart's left shoulder to his right hip. Gasping, Ackart slipped to his knees, the rapier falling from limp fingers. He never saw the shamshir come for his head.
Griffin did not try to block Pittmann's first attack, an overhead strike. He stepped aside and let it fall. Pittmann growled and raised his blade to parry Griffin's lunge to his side. The effort was weak, but effective. Pittmann swept the blade up, both hands on the handle and catching Griffin's blade to push it away. As this happened, Pittmann's body turned and Griffin stepped in and hammered a fist into Pittmann's right kidney. Pittmann gasped for air and turned back to face his opponent. Griffin impaled him through the abdomen as he turned. Withdrawing the blade, he let Pittmann take a final step back, the realization in his eyes. Griffin swung his sword in a horizontal arc. It was over.
The havoc of three simultaneous Quickenings tore through the Rue aux Ours and Rue du Grenier-Saint-Lazare. Storefronts and car windows shattered before the electric storms wrought from the bodies of the slain Immortals. The few remaining civilians in the area froze to gawk at the lightning tearing through the streets. Even the other Immortals ceased their gunfire and watched in silence as the essence of three Immortals were absorbed by their killers. When the cries of pain of the victors and the thunder of the Quickenings finally subsided, none of the combatants had the heart for further fighting. To a man, they picked up their weapons and left, their only regrets being they could not carry off the bodies of their fallen. The sirens of approaching police were already sounding in the distance.
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25 November 1999
Paris, France
Renaissance Paris Vendome Hotel
O'Banian took a sip of wine and paused in her perusal of the purloined Watcher computer once she sensed the approach of the other Immortals. She turned to face the door expectantly. It opened without its normal coded knock to tell them all was well, her first sign of trouble. From the look of the Council members as they entered, the oversight may have been intentional.
"What tha hell happened ta you lot?" she asked, standing from her chair and walking into the sitting room.
"There were other Immortals waiting for us," replied Locke, wiping blood and sweat from his brow. "Eight of them. And armed just as well as we were."
"And don't worry about how we look," said Faaris in his thick-tongued tones. "We came in through a side entrance. No one saw us."
O'Banian ignored him, focusing on Locke. "The fuck do you mean there were others waitin' on ya?"
"Just what he said," muttered MacBane, throwing a dark towel onto the couch to catch any blood on his clothing before slumping down on top of it. "We were ambushed just as we were making our way to the complex to do the hit. They knew we were coming. If they didn't then they reacted pretty damn quickly and set up a good counter to our strike. It was ugly."
"There was one in lobby," said Tokawa. "He talking with apartment man and looking around. I see him later with others."
O'Banian scanned the group, finally noticing they were short by two. "Aaron and Hewett?"
"They're dead," answered Julian Black, still shaking from the encounter. "And Omeir killed one of theirs." He sat, slowly deflating, on the couch, Fiona quickly going to his side. "It was awful," he added.
"Bastards," cursed O'Banian, her face reddening almost as darkly as her hair.
"There was something about those eight," said Faaris, settling his massive frame into a chair. "The way they moved, the discipline of their shooting. I'd say they all had military training. Most of them, at least."
"Damn that man," seethed O'Banian in response.
"What?" asked Locke from the kitchen as he poured a triple shot of whiskey. "What man?"
"Goddamn David Ashton," she spat.
Julian looked up at her, his head in his hands. "Who's David Ashton?"
"A fuckin' pain in my ass, that's who." She crossed her arms and began to pace across the sitting room while biting her lower lip. Several seconds of silence passed before she realized the others were staring questioningly at her. She stopped and faced them all.
"I met him when I went to hit Emil Halbert's house. He was waitin' fer me there. He's cleared out tha whole block and was jus' waitin'. He shot me in tha chest an' carried me ta my Explorer. Before I died, he tol' me to disband tha Council or he'd come after us. Me, actually. I didn't think he'd have a whole gang with 'im."
"Why didn't you tell us this before?" asked Faaris.
"I didn't think it was that important at tha time," she growled. She frowned. "Shite. An' who knows how many more there are? That means we have…" The rest of her words faded into an indecipherable whisper as she began to pace again, a knuckle between her teeth as she became lost in thought.
"What are you thinking, Siobhan?" inquired MacBane from the couch.
O'Banian stopped in mid-step. Her expression implied she may have forgotten the others were there.
"Ah," she began, grinning somewhat shyly. One arm was still crossed in front of her while she chewed the knuckle of the first digit from the other hand. "I was thinkin' we've got two major problems now. Not jus' tha Watchers but Ashton an' his boys, too."
O'Banian's jaw fell to her chin and her arms to her sides. "Oh, fuckin' shite," she gasped. She glanced around at the six survivors of the raid. "Did any of ya notice any other Immortals or any mortals around, anyone one observin' ya as ye came back? Were ya followed?"
Faaris frowned and fidgeted in his chair, its legs creaking. "I don't think we were but, to be honest, we were all more concerned about just getting out of there than looking for Watchers."
"I don't mean Watchers, Omeir," demanded O'Banian. I mean scouts. A trailing party."
Faaris went pale. "I don't think so," he declared, unsure.
"Well, if I know anything about Ashton, ye were."
"I thought you said you just met him a few weeks ago," pressed Fiona.
"I did," clarified O'Banian. "But I've heard of him before. I know someone who knows him."
"Who?" asked Locke.
"It doesn't matter right now," she assured. "What matters is this place is prolly compromised now. We need ta move. Now. Get cleaned up and pack yer shite. We have ta clear out tonight."
