"Bit by bit torn apart
We never win
|But the battle wages on"
"Toy Soldiers" - Martika
08 December 1999
Paris, France
Hôtel Château Frontenac
Dalla Selbjorgsdottir held the phone receiver to her ear and spoke calmly. Her tone completely belied the emotions roiling within her. She wanted to act on what she had learned. Her better judgement - and her orders - told her otherwise.
"It's all true, General," she said. "We've had eyes on the Rue Auguste Neveu since yesterday morning. We've confirmed that Tammy Ochoa and at least three other people are residing at that address."
"Were you able to verify that they were Hunters, not just field Watchers?" asked Ashton from the other side of the line.
"Yes, we used listening devices to tap into their conversations for the last thirty-six hours. A significant part of their talk involved plans for future attacks on Immortals in the Paris area. They're definitely Hunters."
"Good. Did they give any indication when their next attack will be?"
"This coming Sunday, the twelfth. They're leaving early that morning to hit Celeste Brodeur at 33 Rue des Nations Unies."
"Excellent. Then we will take them out the night before. Dublin, Barron, and I will accompany your team during the raid. Keep an eye on them until then."
"Yes, sir."
"Good work, Dalla."
"Thank you, sir."
xxxxxxxxxx
08 December 1999
Paris, France
Hôtel Bel Ami
"Do you think this location will be any safer than the last one?" Faaris asked, settling his massive frame onto the couch in the sitting room.
"I don't know, Omeir," said O'Banian. "We certainly couldn't stay where we were after that head arrived, could we?"
"No," Faaris conceded. "To do so would just be inviting an attack from our enemies. We are dealing with Watchers, though. They will learn of our new lodgings soon."
"True, but we had to do somethin' to make tha others feel safe."
"Do you have any idea whose head was in the basket?"
O'Banian shook her head. "None. I've never seen that face before. I'm bettin' someone in the Council knows who it was, but I don't. I don't really care. It's tha fact our enemies were brazen enough ta send us that kinda message that irks me."
"Don't let it get to you," advised Faaris. "That is what they want, to destabilize your thoughts, get you to make a mistake. That will endanger us all. We are in enough peril as it is."
O'Banian nodded and nibbled her lower lip. "I'm tryin', Omeir. I am. It's jus' in my nature, I know, to react ta things. I know it's dangerous. Oftentimes, I jus' can't help myself."
"And that's why you wanted to hit the apartments so soon after it arrived?"
"Yes. I wanted those bastards to see they couldn't shake us. That we're still a threat to them."
"Well, I think you've done that. And it worked out well. Obviously not even Ashton and his people expected it. They were nowhere to be seen."
O'Banian grinned and let out a soft chuckle. "I think that blond devil thinks I'm hidin' in tha shadows right now after the beatin' he gave me las' time. I don't care how many of his damn warnings he gives. Until the threat to us is gone, I'm not stoppin'. Period."
Faaris slowly stood, giving her a grin of his own as he did so. "That's what I wanted to hear. And that is the kind of spirit that will keep the others following you even into hell itself."
"Even with Ashton facing them?"
"Don't worry about Ashton," advised Faaris. "He can be defeated."
O'Banian's jaw dropped. She looked up at the giant in wide-eyed awe. In a soft tone, she said, "You've met him." It was not a question.
He nodded. "Yes. It was two thousand years ago in Rome, but yes."
"Then why are you both still alive?" she asked him.
"You're implying that we fought each other? Well, you are correct. We did. I beat him easily. So easily, in fact, I may as well have been fighting a child. I laughed at him and told him to run away, to come back when he was worth my time. He had a different name then, Marcus Nautius. I did not learn his current name until much later."
Faaris shrugged. "He may be better now, if the rumors about him are true, but he is still just a man. He is not invincible."
"He was over two thousand years old when you met him back then," said O'Banian, "It takes a lot for an Immortal to live that long. And yer sayin' he was not even worth the effort to kill 'im?" Her eyes widened all the more.
"That was the difference between us at the time, yes." Faaris's expression showed no sign of pride. He spoke matter-of-factly. "Should the time come to face him again, even if he has improved over the years, I see no reason to fear him. I will defeat him again and, since he is an obstacle to our cause, take his head without a second thought."
xxxxxxxxxx
08 December 1999
Paris, France
La Marais Apartments
Lebeau had remained silent as he had walked through the first of the three apartments. Even the horror of the second family's bullet-riddled bodies had elicited no reaction from him. Palen was, by now, expecting a similar reaction from his partner upon their entering the third apartment. He was right, for the most part, until Lebeau had completed a full circuit of the place and stood in the kitchen, looking over the bar into the sitting room at the bloodbath it contained. Then Lebeau sighed.
"Yatil un problème?" (Is there a problem?) Palen asked him.
"Il y a une chose que je ne comprends pas," (There is one thing that I do not understand,) Lebeau admitted, referring to his notepad as he spoke. "Nous savons, après identification des empreintes digitales des habitants de Saint-Vincent, qu'il s'agit des familles de trois des personnes présentes. Pourquoi, si ces trois personnes ont été si violemment tuées, leurs familles sont-elles toujours ici?" (We know, after fingerprint identification of the people at Saint-Vincent, that these are the families of three of the people who were there. Why, if those three were so violently killed, were their families still here?)
Palen slapped his forehead with his palm. "Les portefeuilles. Vous pensez que celui qui les a tués a reçu les adresses des portefeuilles des corps." (The wallets. You're thinking whoever killed them got the addresses from the wallets that were taken from the bodies.)
Lebeau nodded, a trace of a smile on his face congratulating his partner for tapping into his thoughts. "Exactement," (Exactly,) he said. "Cela fait plus d'un mois depuis cet événement. Toute famille consciente de la menace qui les menaçait s'en serait sûrement éloignée." (It has been over a month since that event. Any family aware of a threat against them would surely have moved away by now.)
"Pensez-vous que cette information leur a été dissimulée?" (Do you think that information was concealed from them?)
Nodding again, Lebeau continued. "C'est l'autre chose que je ne comprends pas. Pourquoi quelqu'un cacherait-il ce fait surtout quand cela aurait une conséquence aussi meurtrière?" (That is the other thing I do not understand. Why would someone hide that fact especially when it would have such a lethal consequence?)
Palen looked about the apartment once more. He shook his head, the thought in his mind too horrible to consider. Lebeau's gaze, however, prompted him to give it voice.
"La seule chose que je puisse imaginer comme raison," (The only thing I can imagine as a reason,) admitted the young detective, "à supposer qu'une personne ait dissimulé l'information, est qu'elle souhaitait que cela se produise. Mais pourquoi?" (assuming there was someone concealing the information at all, is they wanted this to happen. But why?)
"Et c'est le troisième élément de la liste des choses qui me dérange, mon ami," (And that is the third item on the list of things that confuses me, my friend,) said Lebeau.
xxxxxxxxxx
09 December 1999
Paris, France
135B Rue Paul Vaillant Couturier
In the thirty-three years of her life, Adalene Garneau had never seen a real gun before. She had seen them in films and on television. The police and military had them, but she had never seen one up close and she had certainly never had one pointed at her. That was until now.
This gun was held by a fierce-looking red-haired woman. It was directed at not only Adalene, but also at her two daughters, Camille and Brigitte. The two girls, aged eleven and nine, sat beside their mother and whimpered softly as the red-haired woman fired off questions in accented French. Behind the woman, three other armed people searched through their house looking for God knew what. Adalene wished her husband were here to help her, but she had not seen him in over a month. He had gone off on a business trip and not returned.
"D'accord, putain," (Okay, bitch,), said the red-haired woman. "Dites-moi encore ce que votre mari fait dans la vie." (Tell me again about what your husband does for a living.)
"Je ne comprends pas pourquoi tu veux savoir ça," (I don't understand why you want to know this,) sputtered Adalene. "Il étudie l'histoire de l'art. Il va souvent voir différentes œuvres, peintures, tapisseries, sculptures, et il en parle. Parfois, il se réunit avec ses collègues de travail et ils boivent du vin et parlent de leur travail. C'est tout ce que je sais." (He studies art history. He often goes away to see different pieces, paintings, tapestries, sculptures, and he writes about them. Sometimes he gets together with his coworkers and they drink wine and talk about their work. That's all I know.)
The red-haired woman looked down at her with a malevolent grin. "Et où se réunissent-ils avec ses amis pour boire du vin?" (And just where does he and his friends get together for this wine drinking?)
"Pourquoi est-ce important?" (Why does that matter?) asked Adalene.
The woman's black gun with its long sound suppressor turned toward Brigitte. The little girl squealed in terror.
"Non non," (No, no,) protested Adalene. "Ils se retrouvent au 15 rue de la République. S'il vous plaît. S'il vous plaît, ne faites pas mal à mes filles." (They get together at 15 Rue de la République. Please. Please don't hurt my daughters.)
"Et a-t-il jamais dit combien de ses collègues se sont présentés pour boire ce vin?" (And did he ever say how many of his coworkers show up for this wine drinking?)
"Quoi?" (What?)
The woman fired a burst of bullets near Brigitte's head. The girl's scream rang in Adalene's ears.
"Dix, parfois quinze ou vingt. Il a dit que c'était parfois une grosse affaire, parfois pas. C'est tout ce que je sais. S'il vous plaît croyez-moi. Il n'a pas vraiment parlé de son travail." (Ten, sometimes fifteen or twenty. He said it was sometimes a big affair, sometimes not. That's all I know. Please believe me. He didn't really talk about his work that much.)
"D'accord, Adalene. Je te crois. Merci beaucoup de votre collaboration. Nous avons fini maintenant." (Okay, Adalene. I believe you. Thank you very much for your cooperation. We're done now.)
Adalene breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps now that she had what she wanted, the woman and her three armed companions would leave. She was completely unprepared for the sight of the submachine gun swiveling toward her. She did not know what the click she heard meant, but knew it couldn't be a good thing. There was a flash, like a tongue of flame, from the muzzle, as the weapon swept across the three captives, spraying them with automatic fire. Adalene was hit in the chest multiple times, her children in the neck and face. All of them died quickly.
"Whatcha got?" asked O'Banian, turning to face Tuppankovich as he entered the room.
"There's nothing useful here," he reported. "We can go."
"Alright, then."
xxxxxxxxxxx
10 December 1999
Paris, France
Hotel du Quai Voltaire
Watcher Headquarters
The large conference room seemed quite empty with only two occupants in it. The men sat near each other. Officially, their meeting had begun several minutes ago. Neither had spoken so far. Both just scanned their notes silently and waited for the other to say something.
At last, Sather made the first move. Looking up at the EDOW with concern, he asked, "How are you holding up, boss?" They had spoken little since the Council raid nine days previously. Sather decided it was time they discussed it.
Walker raised his eyes to his security director, hoping the small twitch in his hands was not noticeable. He forced a small grin.
"You're referring to the kidnapping attempt?" Sather nodded. "I'm doing better than I thought I would, mostly due to the interception of David Ashton at the time." Sather leaned in closer. He had not heard about this. He only knew that the EDOW had returned unharmed. Walker's forced grin became genuine.
"Oh, yes," Walker continued. "He was in the area and ambushed all four of the Councilmen by himself. He then dragged me away, undid my bindings, and let me go. After that, he went off after the Council again. I'll admit I practically ran back here. When I got back, all I could think about was increasing security and having a stiff drink."
Sather nodded again. Walker had demanded a Guardian team to be detailed to Watcher HQ immediately and then helped himself to Sather's stash of Jack Daniels. He had then locked himself in his office. He only returned to his house two days later under Guardian escort. In the intervening time, he had seen to the final disposition of the three slain Watchers and the care of their families. Sather gave him credit for that, at least. He had heard little from the EDOW since then until the call for this meeting.
"We need to do something to put down these Hunters, Dev," stated Walker emphatically. "I want your suggestions on how to do it."
Sather tapped his pen twice on the conference table and then set it down. He leaned back in his chair, thinking. A myriad of thoughts raced through his mind. Which, he wondered, were the right ones to suggest?
"Well, first of all," he said, "you're aware that there is a four-way battle going on already out there: the Hunters, Siobhan O'Banian's Council, Ashton's faction, and us. Anything we do is going to affect the actions of the other three. We have to carefully consider that in our plans."
"Complicated already, isn't it?" stated Walker.
"Yes, it is," agreed Sather.
"And what exactly have the two Immortal factions been doing primarily?"
"A great deal of reconnaissance, mostly," replied Sather, "especially Ashton's team. They're trying to find the Hunters - or in O'Banian's case, us, too - and each other. Once they confirm the location of an enemy group, they raid it."
"The Council seems to have very good intelligence, then, if they were able to find us here."
"They could have extracted that information from any of the families they raided," Sather suggested with a shrug. "People will say a lot when there is a gun pointed at their heads."
"True," said Walker, drumming his fingers on the table. "What about the possibility of their having one of our computers? Tapping directly into the Watcher database and all of our updates to the field?"
Sather blinked and looked directly into the EDOW's eyes. "Considering how many places they've already hit, they've certainly had many opportunities to do just that. And, at this level, we haven't been checking the inventories of equipment recovered from those locations, either. I'll take the hit on that one, boss. It didn't cross my mind. I was thinking of their more direct tactics."
Walker waved a hand. "This isn't the time for placing blame. The thought just came to me as we were talking anyway. The real question is, if they have one or more of our computers, how can we circumvent their read on us?"
"What sort of security is on the computers the Field Watchers have?" asked Sather.
"I don't really know. Let me call over to the IT guys and ask them."
They paused as Walker pushed his chair over to a phone at a nearby side table. Sather scribbled some notes as he waited for the EDOW. Walker, being who he was, did not have to wait for long. The IT director, Adam Drummond, answered seconds later. Walker hit the speakerphone button and set the receiver back on its cradle.
"Adam, this is Mike. I've got you on speaker with Devon Sather in the room. Can you tell us what sort of security protocols there are on the Field Watcher laptops?"
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. Then Drummond spoke.
"Nothing really to speak of. Since the computer knowledge of the Field Watchers is so variable, we've kept things simple and just have a password setup for them to get into the machine itself."
"This is Sather. So there is nothing needed for VPN access or to get into the database or any of its updates from headquarters?"
"No," replied Drummond. "It's all very user friendly once the field agent has logged into the machine. No other logins or passwords are needed."
"Shit!" said Sather, looking at Walker. He pointed at the phone and then at the table, indicating that Drummond should be there for what he had to say. Walker nodded.
"Adam, would you mind coming down to the conference room, please?"
"I'll be right there."
"Thanks, Adam." Walker ended the connection.
"Well," said Walker, "while we wait, what else do you have?"
"I was wondering," pondered Sather aloud, "how much of our prime directive is to remain in effect during this crisis."
"The non-interference directive?" Sather nodded. "Explain, please. What are you thinking?"
"It's pretty simple," Sather began. "Our Guardians are still in their infancy, not yet really prepared to do much more than guard duty. Direct strikes against Hunters is asking too much for most of them. However, we do have Ashton's faction actively opposing both O'Banian and the Hunters. I was thinking that perhaps if we fed whatever information we uncovered - even if we did it through anonymous means - on the Council or the Hunters to him, it might be of use to him."
Walker crossed a leg over his knee and rested his chin in his palm, one finger running alongside his jaw. He remained silent for several seconds in contemplation. He mentally wished he had another shot of Sather's whiskey in his hand to accompany his thoughts but said nothing about it. He lowered his hand from his chin, drumming the fingers on the table before speaking.
"As you are, of course, aware, the non-interference directive is the backbone of our operations in this organization. To break it is an action with consequences that must be carefully considered. They may go far beyond simply helping us with this conflict."
"I've thought about that," said Sather, "and I don't suggest this lightly. It's not an unprecedented action, at least not at the Field Watcher level. Remember that a Watcher in Seattle assisted an Immortal with the Hunter problem there a few years ago."
"Yes, and he also went beyond that by giving that same Immortal information about other Immortals, albeit ones who posed quite a threat and admittedly needed to be taken out, but he still overstepped his oath considerably."
"Granted," admitted Sather. "What I'm suggesting is far more limited than that. I recommend that we only give Ashton's faction - by the way, at least in my mind, I've dubbed them The Alliance just to keep from constantly calling them "Ashton's faction" - I recommend that we only give them carefully screened information only about the actions of the Council or of Hunter activities. Nothing more."
"Hmmm… Let me think about that for a while. This isn't something on which I can just make a snap judgment."
"I understand," Sather allowed as Adam Drummond entered the room. The two men stood out of courtesy to welcome his arrival.
"Adam," greeted Walker. "Thank you for coming." The men shook hanks all around. As Walker indicated a chair for the IT director, he added, "Devon has some questions for you that didn't seem appropriate to voice over the phone."
"I'm all ears," replied the director. He readied his notepad and pen.
"You mentioned the password login to the Field Watcher laptops on the phone," began Sather. Drummond nodded. "We're suspecting that the Council may have laid their hands on one or more of these computers and been able to get the passwords to them, as well."
Drummond's eyebrows rose in surprise. He moved his pen toward his pad. "Don't write that down," warned Sather. "We don't want that getting out to the general public, so to speak. For now, let's just talk about improving the security on the laptops out in the field. How can we do that while maintaining useability for the Field Watchers but cutting off access to any machines the Council may have?"
"Hmmm…" Drummond mused, thinking. After a moment, he said, "It's a risk, but assuming the Council did not also take the cell phones issued to those Watchers, we could send passwords by SMS - short message service - to each agent. We then add a level of encryption to the VPN - virtual private network - and the Watcher database. Once that patch is sent to all the laptops, and we can update our servers to forbid access to any machine that doesn't have that update, we can inform the agents to use those passwords for future access. It's a few extra steps for them, but it is relatively simple."
Sather nodded and looked at Walker for confirmation. Walker nodded, as well. "How long would it take your people to have this patch ready to send to the field," the EDOW asked.
"Today is the tenth. If we work through the weekend, we could probably have it tested and ready by the fifteenth."
"Perfect," said Sather.
"Alright, Adam," agreed Walker. "Make it happen, please."
"One question, though," added Sather, raising his hand. "Is it possible for the database to be downloaded to the local machine?"
"Absolutely not," replied Drummond. "It can only be accessed via the VPN. We saw to that problem a few years ago."
"Okay." He glanced at Walker again. "That's all I have."
"Thank you, Adam. Again, thank you for coming. Please start on the patch right away." The EDOW nodded to the IT director, signalling his dismissal.
"Will do," said Drummond. Standing, he nodded to the two men, turned, and left the room.
"Well," said Walker. "That should clear up one problem, at least."
"Yes," agreed Sather. "At least, for now. Until the Council comes up with some new thorn in our sides."
xxxxxxxxxx
11 December 1999
Paris, France
43 Rue Auguste Neveu
The safehouse, as Brad Miller liked to think of it, was a nice little place, although little might not be the right word to describe it. The house easily accommodated the five Hunters, assuming two of them shared a bedroom. Corrigan and Ochoa had immediately opted for that once they had moved into the place and, given the soft moans that could be heard down the hallway, what the two of them were doing at the moment was plainly obvious.
Miller smirked to himself. To him, the sounds only confirmed the rumors about Ochoa, that she would sleep with anyone with a pretty face. Corrigan certainly met that requirement and not much else, at least in Miller's opinion. Shrugging, Miller turned to the black and white keys of the piano he had happily found inside the house when they first occupied it. He admitted to not being the best player, but playing a tune now and then was very relaxing. He had found it so before he had lost his wife, Traveca, and liked to think he still did. He laid his fingers on the keys and tapped out the first few chords of Für Elise.
"Don't stop now," protested Larry Singer from the couch across the room. He and Paul Grant were loading magazines with ammunition in preparation for the next day's attack against Celeste Brodeur.
"Yeah," agreed Grant. "I'd much rather hear that than those two boffing down the hall. At least, I'd rather hear it if I'm not going to be allowed to watch them while they're at it."
The three men laughed at Grant's quip. "I'm surprised you don't want to join them," stated Singer with a grin.
"And get Corrigan's sloppy seconds? No thanks." He made a disgusted face. "But on the other hand, if she's all warmed up…"
"You need help, Grant," chuckled Miller, beginning Für Elise anew.
"Hey, she's not so bad as long as you don't look at her face," protested Grant. "With the lights out, I'm sure she's gorgeous."
"Go back to Mary and her five sisters and you'll be just as happy," said Singer slyly.
"Mary and her sisters have taken good care of me in the past, thank you very much."
"You guys can ruin even the most beautiful music, you know that?" muttered Miller, still playing.
"Oh, give it a break, old chum," said Grant, taking up an MP5 and loading a magazine into its well. "You're just getting antsy because of tomorrow's raid, that's all. A little action in the morning will make us all feel better about the action we're not getting tonight."
Singer laughed and, not to be outdone by Grant, loaded a full magazine into the MP5 near him, as well. "Grant's right," he said. "We'll all be a lot more relaxed after we've finished off Brodeur."
"Well," countered Grant, "that might just get those two," he gestured down the hall, "all frisky again. They always seem to want to give each other a complete physical after we come back from one of these." He set his weapon on the coffee table and went back to loading magazines.
Singer laughed again. "You're correct on that point. I really don't care, though. As long as they do their jobs when we leave that door, they can do whatever the hell they want when we come back here."
"Do you think maybe…?"
Grant's question was cut short as the front door exploded inward. A blond man with a submachine gun crossed the threshold instantly. From the rear of the house, the three men heard the back door also crash open. Miller's playing ended abruptly as the room was filled by five armed men, one of them pointing his weapon directly at Miller's face. With no other recourse, Miller slowly raised his hands.
Across the room, Singer and Grant shouted and lunged forward, each of them seizing the MP5s they had previously loaded. Grant had just placed his hand on the charging lever of his weapon when the first man through the door, the blond man, fired a burst into his chest. Grant slumped back against the cushions of the couch, still alive. Gasping in pain, he fumbled with his weapon, still trying to chamber a round. A second burst to his face ended his trouble. His lifeless body slipped to the floor.
Singer was faster in priming his MP5. A round in the chamber, he pulled the stubby weapon to his shoulder and brought his hand down to the pistol grip, ready to fire. Two rounds from the machine pistol of the third man in the room took him in the throat, followed immediately by another two in the chest. For good measure, a third pair split his forehead, spraying the back of the couch with gore. Miller watched in horror as his team leader's body fell across the coffee table and lay still.
The team which had entered the rear of the house, a woman and four men, had dispersed throughout the kitchen, dining room, and master bedroom, calling updates to each other all the while. The group in the sitting room, except for the one man covering Miller, split off and moved toward the hallway toward the other bedrooms. Slowly, trying to show he was not a threat, Miller swiveled around on the piano's bench to look down the hallway. The gunman kept an eye on him but did not try to stop him. The Watcher part of Miller's mind kicked in and gave him the identity of the gunman: Paderau Griffin. The man who had killed Singer had been Eric Godfrey.
The blond man, David Ashton, Miller's brain said, kicked open the door to the room on the right, entering it with his weapon held to his shoulder. Down the hall on the left, the closed bedroom door opened inward. Alex Corrigan came storming into the hall, completely nude, a Beretta 92F in his right hand. Not concerned by the sight of three armed men to his front, he raised his pistol.
"Drop it," shouted the lead man in the hall, Darren Dublin. Corrigan ignored him. The pistol continued to rise. Dublin fired two rounds into his midsection. The effects of the bullets seemed all the worse to Miller given that Corrigan was nude. The sight of the man's torn flesh and splattering blood was horrific. Still, Corrigan managed to get off a shot at the trio. It was high and embedded itself in the ceiling above them. Dublin fired again, hitting Corrigan in the chest, finally felling him.
"You fuckers!" screamed an irate female voice. It was immediately followed by the sight of Tammy Ochoa, also nude, as she flew through the doorway. She did not wait for any reaction from the gunmen. She opened fire with her Beretta instantly. With nowhere to go, Dublin pressed himself against the side of the wall to avoid her fire. The man behind him knelt, struck in the abdomen, as Dublin and the third man, Ambrose Barron, returned fire. They did not stop shooting until Ochoa's bullet-riddled body lay still on the floor.
Ashton came out of the bedroom and knelt to check on the wounded Chris Pellier while Barron and Dublin each checked the two remaining rooms. They returned seconds later to report they were both clear. Ashton nodded and stood, helping Pellier to his feet. From the other side of the house, they heard similar reports from the rear entry team. Ashton called out, "Clear," on his side, as well, and walked back into the sitting room.
"And just what do we have here?" he asked with a slight grin, his icy blue eyes locking with those of a shuddering Brad Miller.
xxxxxxxxxx
The pistol fire from Corrigan and Ochoa had not been suppressed and would surely draw police attention soon. The ten members of the assault team completed another quick search of the house and took anything they thought might be of use, including the computers and cell phones. Miller was searched for weapons, blindfolded and flexi-cuffed, and rushed off to the backseat of one of the vehicles Ashton's team had used to reach the safehouse. Not very familiar with Paris anyway, he was even more thrown off by the sixty minutes of seemingly aimless driving they did before arriving at their destination. Ashton, in the front seat, was the only one who occasionally spoke and, when he did, it was in a language Miller did not recognize. It didn't even sound like one still used in the modern day. For all he knew, given the Minoan's age, it might not be.
When the car finally stopped moving, Miller was pulled from the backseat with much more gentleness than he expected. He stood in place with one Immortal next to him for a full minute before another one reported something in that same unintelligible language. He was then led inside and, with the soft-spoken guidance of Paderau Griffin, up a long series of staircases. Another Immortal led the way, having them stop now and then while he checked the way. Miller forgot to count the number of stairs he had traversed, such was his anxiety, and cursed himself for it halfway through the journey. To start now would be pointless, he knew.
Griffin had him pause again at what Miller supposed was a staircase landing. The voice of the other Immortal, in that language again, said something, and they continued on. The different feel to the air and the carpet under his feet told Miller they were now in a hallway of some sort. Griffin had him stop once more. There was a click, a gentle push at his shoulder, and Miller was through a doorway. He took a few more steps before a tug at his arm told him to stop again. The blindfold then came off.
Miller stood in the sitting room of an opulent hotel suite, at least compared to any he had ever seen. He took a moment to gawk at the luxury around him. David Ashton, Darren Dublin, Ambrose Barron, and several other members of the team that Miller had seen at the safe house stood around him. Ashton was smiling.
"Welcome," the Minoan said, "to what, I hope, will be a pleasant and cooperative night of questions and answers. Please sit." He gestured to an empty overstuffed chair. "Make yourself comfortable."
Dublin handed Ashton an item. Ashton nodded his thanks before the Irishman sauntered off to the kitchen. With another smile, he offered it to Miller. It was the Watcher's wallet.
"This was taken off of you when we searched you. We've gone through it and found only personal items inside. I'm returning it to you now."
"Thank you," replied Miller, taking the wallet before accepting the previously proffered chair. "I was quite distressed over the prospect of losing the pictures of my wife. I don't have much left that I value anymore."
"That's very sad to hear, Mister?" Ashton let his sentence hang in the air unended.
"Miller. Brad Miller."
"Mr. Miller." Ashton spread his hands around the room. "I presume, based on your occupation, you're familiar with the people present here. Am I correct?"
"Most of you," replied Miller. He raised his cuffed hands and singled out three of the members of the assault team with the point of a finger. "I don't know you three, though."
"Is there any harm in identifying ourselves?" one of them asked Ashton. The Minoan's eyes flickered to Dublin who nodded and pulled a folding knife from his pocket. The Irishman motioned with a finger for Miller to extend his hands.
"Not at this point," said Ashton as Miller's cuffs were removed from his trembling wrists. "He's not going back to the Hunters after tonight." Miller stiffened visibly at this comment. Ashton grinned. "Don't worry. I don't plan on hanging you from a lightpost, either. You'll be staying with a friend of ours until this little matter has been settled. That's all."
At this, Miller relaxed. The Immortal who had asked the question turned to him and said, "I'm Michael Durango."
"And I'm Dalla Selbjorgsdottir."
"And I would be Hotsuma Bentenrai."
"Thank you," said Miller.
"Can we get you anything before we start our chat, Mr. Miller? A drink or a cigar? I'll be having both, if that makes you more comfortable." Ashton pointed to a cedar humidor sitting on the coffee table. Three different types of cutters and two butane lighters sat atop it.
"You know, Mr. Ashton, I haven't had a drink in over a year and haven't smoked in many more but, after tonight, I think I will take you up on that offer. Thank you."
Ambrose Barron leaned forward from the couch and pushed the humidor toward Miller. The captive Hunter picked up the implements and set them aside before opening the lid. He gasped.
"This is quite an assortment you have here."
"I like variety," said Ashton with a smile. "Help yourself to whichever you like. I know Ambrose will partake, as well. That offer stands for the rest of you, as well."
"Won't the hotel complain about us smoking in here," asked Selbjorgsdottir.
"No, my dear," answered Ashton. "This is France and this is a smoking suite."
"In that case, I'm in, too," she said, taking one of the smaller cigars for herself.
Barron pushed a heavy ceramic ashtray to one end of the table while keeping another at his end. He waited for Miller to return the humidor. Ashton watched as the Hunter selected a cigar and carefully peeled away the label from its end.
"And what would you care to drink, Mr. Miller? Darren is standing by to pour it for you."
Miller looked up in surprise. "I'll admit, Mr. Ashton, that I'm still quite shaken from the events back at the house. Seeing your teammates gunned down with such rapidity is not an easy sight to take." Ashton nodded in understanding. "That being said, you're being far nicer than I expected for my being a prisoner. And anything in bourbon, please. A double. No, make that a triple, please. Neat."
"Good choice," Dublin called from the kitchen.
"The time for hostilities was earlier," said Ashton. "Now is the time for civilized behavior and talk. There is no need for us to be anything other than polite, at the moment." Though his tone was civil, Ashton's implication was clear to the Hunter. Things would remain as they were as long as Miller continued to cooperate.
Miller closed the lid on the humidor. He then snipped the end off the cigar over the ashtray, clicked one of the lighters, and found his hands were shaking too much to light the cigar. With a sigh, he placed all of the tools back on top of the wooden box. He pushed it back toward Barron. Grinning, the Confederate rose, picked up the lighter, and knelt in front of him.
"Allow me," he said in a near whisper.
"Thank you," accepted Miller.
Dublin walked back into the sitting room with a tray of drinks, setting it on the table. He distributed them to each person and removed the tray, taking it back to the kitchen, his own glass in hand. Waiting a full minute for his trembling to pask, Miller leaned back in his chair, a cigar in one hand and the bourbon in the other. He sipped from the glass. It was exquisite. He sighed contentedly.
"Okay, Mr. Ashton. You have me under your control. In every way, I would say. Where would you like to begin?"
"Let's start with something simple," began Ashton, sipping from his own tumbler of Scotch. He set the glass aside and reached for the humidor to claim a cigar for himself. "Tell us how you first became a Watcher."
"Oh, that? Well, like a lot of us, I suppose, it was sort of an accident, in the beginning. Seems like an eternity ago now. I was just a teenager at the time, it was 1974 and I was barely sixteen. I had my first job working at a Kentucky Fried Chicken in Wildwood, South Carolina and my dad had given me a car for my birthday. The deal, of course, was that I work to keep up the insurance payments, gas, and repairs on it." Ashton smiled as the Hunter continued.
"One day, I had changed shifts with a buddy, working the early afternoon shift instead of evenings like I normally did - I didn't have school that day so I was available - and I was taking some trash out to the dumpster out back. I nearly ran into this kid digging through one of the trash cans. He looked like he was maybe twelve or so and seemed incredibly skittish. He was also very hungry. That much was obvious. When I asked him why he didn't just come inside and buy food, he said he didn't have much money and what little he had he wanted to save for emergencies. He also said he was trying to get enough food for himself and a sick friend.
"The kid, Tristan was his name, said he was about two hours away from his friend on foot. He also said he and his friend were orphans and they were on the run from "some sick people," as he called them. He said those people were child porn producers out of Charleston and that they were somehow connected to the local Mafia. He said if those people found him and his friend, they would kill them. That really shook me.
"It was a crazy story. Who in their right mind would believe it? I don't know why, but I did. I told Tristan that my shift ended soon and that I would be willing to give him some food and a ride back to his friend. He said he would accept but only if I dropped him off short of where his friend actually was and let him walk the rest of the way."
"That was very security conscious of him even if some of his story wasn't true," commented Ashton.
"Yes, it was," replied Miller. "I didn't know how much of it was true or not at the time. However, when I came back out after my shift had ended, he wasn't just waiting out in the open. He had hidden himself in the shrubbery nearby and waited concealed there until he saw me. Only then did he come with me to my car. I showed him the food in the front seat and told him the door to the passenger side was unlocked. For some reason, he got in the backseat, instead."
"Being security conscious again," suggested Dublin, standing nearby. "Probably had a weapon in his hand where you couldn't see it while you were driving, too."
Miller's eyes widened. "I never thought of that."
Dublin grinned. "I would, if I were him. A small boy in a stranger's vehicle. I'd take every advantage I could."
Miller took a puff on his cigar and pondered that comment. "Well, that certainly puts a lot of his actions into perspective, doesn't it?" The other Immortals nodded. Child Immortals were rare and traditionally had a very short lifespan given their natural disadvantages. Most of them never lasted through their first decade of immortality, even fewer to their first hundred years of life. Immortals like Jonathan Fairbanks, who was eight hundred one years old, were truly exceptional.
"We drove through town for a while," continued Miller, "until Tristan told me to stop. He asked me to get out of the car first and then he got out next. On the other side. While he was getting the food out of the floorboard, I told him I had written my home phone number on the inside of one of the boxes and that he and his friend could contact me when his friend was well enough to travel. I said I was willing to take them two or three hours in any direction out of the city. He said he would call. A few days later, he did and I met up with him and another boy about the same age named Penance. We drove for a few hours to Columbia and I dropped them off. I never saw them again.
"A few days after I got back from the road trip, a man came up to me just as I clocked out from my shift at work. He said he wanted to talk to me about the boys I had helped earlier. At first, I thought he might be one of the Mafia guys Tristan had mentioned and I was quite on edge. The man eventually calmed me down and told me an even more incredible story than two boys on the run from the Mob. That part, it turned out, had been absolutely true. The unbelievable part was those boys were both Immortals and this guy talking to me was a Watcher.
"Well, that summer, under the guise of a special summer camp, I went to the Watcher Academy. I didn't get the tattoo right away since that would cause too many questions with my parents and at school so I was just given a ring to wear that bore the Watcher emblem on it. The person I was tasked to watch turned out to be someone at my school. Rather convenient. I kept the job at the restaurant, though at reduced hours, so I would still have a way to explain the money I was getting for my work as a Watcher, but I didn't really need the fast food thing at all. I had found my calling. I loved being a Watcher."
"I wonder where those kiddos are now," commented Dublin, "assuming they're still alive."
"Let's hope, for their sakes, they're not in Europe at the moment," Ashton said.
"That was a very nice story, Mr. Miller," stated Cartell, setting his empty glass on the coffee table. "But, if you enjoyed being a Watcher as much as you just said, how did you end up as a Hunter? What changed you?"
"Ideology? Tragegy?" asked Dubeau.
"The latter," replied Miller, taking a deep pull from his tumbler. "Fifteen months ago, my wife, Traveca, was murdered by an Immortal. We had a shop in Phoenix, Arizona at the time. That was her job while I traveled around keeping tabs on my assignment. A drunk Immortal, Louis DeVille, decided one night he wanted to rob someplace and chose Trav's shop as the place to do it. As an additional kick for him, he raped and strangled her, as well, at the same time.
"I guess it goes without saying that I was blinded with grief and rage. After burying Trav, I took time off from the Watchers and just stayed at home getting drunk, looking at pictures of her and sleeping too much. I only left the house to get more booze and that was it. I didn't even shave.
"One day, another Watcher, Adam Matzel, came by to visit me. He said he had "just the thing" to get me out of the dumps and back to being productive. I asked what he meant by that, but he didn't come right out and say it. After a while, though, he offered exactly what a man like me could want: Louis DeVille's head on a platter. He said he'd have me transferred to Europe for a team he was putting together. I only learned he meant Hunters a few hours into the conversation. By that point, though, I was too far gone. I would do anything if it meant I could see DeVille die. I agreed to join him."
"So you became a Hunter," said Selbjorgsdottir. There was no accusation in her voice, only a statement of fact.
"Yes," said Miller. "But I've never taken a head. Ever since this campaign began, Ochoa, the woman you shot in the hallway, or Singer, our team leader, took all the heads. The rest of us were just pretty much the armed security. Now, I'm not even sure I made the right decision anymore."
"This team Matzel mentioned," inquired Ashton, leaning forward in his seat and ignoring the previous comment. "How many of them are there?"
"There were two hundred or so of us when Ottenbreit kicked off the operation back in August," answered Miller. "We've lost a few over these last months, though. We're mostly in Europe, but there are about a dozen, maybe as many as fifteen, with Emilio Gironelli in the States. That's just a diversion, though."
Ashton nodded. "Gironelli and Matzel, they're officers in the Hunter organization, along with Ottenbreit?"
"Yes, there's also Harlan Earnshaw. He's mostly responsible for training. Some of us are away with him off in Algeria right now."
"Training?" repeated Ashton. Miller nodded. "In Algeria?" Another nod. "For what exactly?"
"To become better killers. Military tactics, shooting, weapons, explosives, you name it."
Ashton tapped his cigar ash into the tray in front of him. He remained silent for several seconds. When he looked into Miller's eyes again, he said simply, "Tell me more."
"About half of our number are with Earnshaw in Algeria right now. They've been there since June. They're supposed to be back sometime later this month. I was supposed to go out with the next batch of about forty or so trainees later next month. The returning graduates were going to take up for the slack of our absence."
"With that kind of training," remarked Barron, "they'd be doing more than just taking up slack. They'd be tightening the noose."
"Exactly," agreed Ashton. Looking back at Miller, he asked, "Could you identify the location of this training facility on a map?"
"I think so," said Miller. "I was in the room several times while Earnshaw and the others were talking about the training program and saw where it was."
"Who runs this facility?" queried Dublin.
"Terrorists," said Miller flatly. "I'm not sure which group. All I know is they take our money happily and give us the best training they can for it. Earnshaw is there himself to make sure of that. He's ex-military himself, U.S. Special Forces, I think, so he knows a good deal as well."
Ashton, Dublin, and Griffin eyed each other briefly before turning their gaze back to Miller. If anything, they were more serious now.
"I think your role, Mr. Miller," said Ashton, "is now set. You'll stay here tonight, under guard, of course, and sleep in a warm bed. Tomorrow, after a hearty breakfast, you'll go off to our friend, Max Honnecker, where you will continue, I hope, to be just as cooperative as you have been this evening. I want everything you know about this training camp and anything else that may be rattling around in that brain of yours. Keep doing that and you will not only continue to be treated courteously, but will be under our close protection, as well."
"You can count on that, Mr. Ashton. Absolutely."
