Author's Note: This excerpt from the BBC News article is, of course, used without permission. Naturally, it does not include the part about Paris. The full article can be found here: . .

"Little child dry your crying eyes
How can I explain the fear you feel inside
'Cause you were born into this evil world
Where man is killing man and no one knows just why"

"When the Children Cry" - White Lion

13 December 1999
Paris, France

BBC News: World: Europe

French struggle to contain oil spill

The French authorities have encountered further difficulties in trying to contain possible environmental damage from a tanker which broke up in the Bay of Biscay.

The stern section of the Erika has sunk while being towed towards deeper waters.

The forward section slipped beneath the waves earlier but is believed to be drifting and French officials have called for international help to recover it.

They are still trying to determine if the wreck has gone deep enough for any oil still leaking to be absorbed by the sea.

The officials said there was no immediate danger of pollution to the Brittany coast. A slick of 4,000-5,000 tonnes of oil that escaped from the tanker was being carried out to sea by currents and winds.

But pollution experts had conflicting views, one saying the waves could "pulverise" the oil and another saying the thickness of the oil was a worry.

An aircraft of the customs service is keeping watch on the slick which is reported to be drifting southwest into the Bay of Biscay.

Continued on page A2

Paris authorities still confounded by continued violence

Since last month, the city of Paris has been rocked by a series of brutal slayings across the the city and surrounding areas. The killings were originally thought to be connected to the seemingly random decapitation murders which have been taking place in numerous countries throughout Europe since mid-August. However, according the French police, those killed differ significantly in their victimology.

"I can't go into too much detail," said Detective Sergeant Claude Lebeau of the Paris Police, "but I can say that most of these victims were not killed by decapitation. Instead, the manner of death was gunshot or stabbing."

The rest of Detective Sergeant Lebeau's brief conversation with this reporter, in some ways, compared most similarly to the number of family murders that took place across the U.K. over the last few months. Those murders ended without explanation over a month ago. The difference between those murders and the events in Paris, he said, is the violence involved.

"From my many conversations with British police while working on this case," he said, "I never heard of situations involving open gunfights in city sites or in the streets. We have had at least two of these since the crisis began."

Detective Sergeant Lebeau would not go into much detail about what he has learned about the perpetrators involved in the ongoing violence. He did say, though, that he sees "interesting commonalities" between each crime scene and believes they are all connected in some way. He would not explain to this reporter as to why he held this belief.

Continued on page A3.

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16 December 1999
Paris, France
Hotel du Quai Voltaire
Watcher Headquarters

"Come in," called Sather, responding to a knock at his office door. He kept talking to Rebecca Capella as if nothing had happened for another several seconds before noting that it was Michael Walker standing in his doorway. Capella blushed and pushed her chair a bit farther away from Sather to finish her notes.

"Ah, sorry, Mike," said Sather. "You caught us in the middle of a planning session is all."

Walker smirked. "No problem," he replied, shutting the door. "I just came to give you an answer on your question from a few days ago."

"Oh?"

"Mind if I hit you up for another shot of that bourbon?" the EDOW asked.

"Sure thing." Sather opened his desk drawer and withdrew the bottle. "Becca?" he offered.

"No, thank you." She smiled but did not look up from her pad. "I try not to drink before quitting time. It's not even lunch time."

"Sometimes that's a long time in coming, good lady," said Sather, pouring two measures for himself and the same for the EDOW. He proffered the glass to Walker.

"Thank you." Walker sat in a chair in front of Sather's desk. With his eyes, he gestured toward Capella, asking if it was okay to talk in front of her. Sather nodded. Walker reciprocated the nod and took a long pull on his drink.

"I've given this a lot of thought," began Walker, "and I've decided that giving Ashton's Alliance information about Hunter activities through anonymous means will be just fine. I'm still undecided about anything about the Council, though."

"That's still a step forward, boss," accepted Sather. He sipped from his own glass. "I'm sure it will help. We're getting all manner of tips from the field. I'll wager they'll be willing to investigate them for us."

"You're sure the Alliance won't take action without assurance that they are actually targeting Hunters?"

"Positive," stated Sather. "I interviewed his Watcher, Cora Reynolds, yesterday, just as a precaution. She assured me that he will only move when he has definite information. In fact, he had been investigating a Hunter safehouse in the Rueil-Malmaison district for several days and did not make a move against them until the night before they were planning to attack another Immortal. He planned it down to the wire and didn't let anyone in the Alliance hit the place until they were positive the people inside were Hunters. At least, that was the report she gave."

Walker took another sip and nodded. "That works for me. Cora Reynolds is a dependable agent. I would trust anything she said."

"That's what her coworkers say, as well," agreed Sather.

Walker grinned. "You did a background check on her, also?"

"Of course. You don't trust a source without verifying it."

"Good enough then, I suppose," allowed Walker. "When do you think you can start with the first message to the Alliance?"

"Tomorrow," answered Sather. "I've already created an email account just for that purpose."

Walker smiled. "You knew I'd say yes, then."

"I figured you'd give me at least this much leeway, yes." Sather also smiled.

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17 December 1999
Paris, France
16 Place Charles de Gaulle
Ashton's Mansion

Date: 17 December 1999
From: PO2
To: Ashton, David
CC: Honnecker, Maximillian
Subject: Payton Swift

Mr. Ashton / General Honnecker:

I regret to inform you that the man you sent to infiltrate the Hunters in Scotland, Payton Swift, was identified as an Immortal two weeks ago and was executed. His head was delivered to the Council's hotel hiding place a few days later. Apparently, the Hunters thought he worked for them. The Council has since relocated elsewhere in Paris. We do not yet know where.

On another note, I have been cleared to pass on information to you regarding any suspected Hunter activity in the area. You can expect more messages from me in the future.

PO2

"I thought he'd stepped into a load of shite," commented Dublin, reading over Ashton's shoulder.

"As did I," agreed Ashton, closing the message. "It does explain why his phone call was cut short."

"What do we do now?" asked Barron.

"We continue on," said Ashton. "There is nothing else we can do."

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19 December 1999
Paris, France
15 Rue de la République

Emily LeFitte slid silently into the dark shadows across from the Watcher safehouse. The eleven other members of the Council strike team eyed her expectantly. She nodded to them before remembering the lack of light.

"It's a full house," she whispered. "It looks like there's fifteen or twenty of them in there."

O'Banian grinned at the news. The light from the waxing gibbous moon reflected off her white teeth. "Good. "We'll be crashin' their party then." She shuffled her feet to warm herself in the cool night air. "Call it a bit o' payback for their cuttin' us offa their network," she grumbled.

"Were they armed?" asked Faaris in his thick-tongued voice.

"I saw a few of them with pistols under their jackets," LeFitte answered, "but I don't think that all of them are carrying weapons."

"You'd think with all of the activity lately that they would have posted security," commented Locke blandly.

"Arrogance," replied MacNaughton. "They don't think we'll come for them when they're grouped together. Just the families."

Tokawa giggled softly. "They learn better after tonight."

"Damn right," agreed O'Banian. "Let's go." She glanced around at the team. Since learning of the opposition of Ashton's faction, the Council had taken to bringing their swords in addition to their firearms on all raids. Each Immortal had their chosen blade attached to the hip or back as he or she preferred.

"Same plan as usual. Darmond, you take the rear. Omeir and I will go for the front."

"Will do," acknowledged Bilsby, taking off across the street with five other Council members following.

O'Banian looked up at Faaris and grinned. "Shall we?"

"Let's," he agreed. They waited sixty seconds for the rear team to reach their positions and then headed for the front door.

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Armin Baumer took a luxuriant sip from his glass of wine, savoring every sensation of the fine beverage as it struck his palate. He swirled it around his mouth for several seconds before swallowing. A sigh of exquisite pleasure followed.

"Paul, this has to be some of the best wine you have procured for us. Where did you get it?"

Paul Engel's grin was dark. He replied, "From the cellar of an eight hundred year old Immortal whose head I took last week. I thought it would be a fine way to celebrate his passing."

Baumer chuckled and raised his glass. "I'll definitely drink to that. To the death of the Nephilim."

"To the death of the Nephilim." They drank deeply, both sighing again.

"I thought Matzel would be joining us this week," commented Baumer, looking around the sitting room. "He hasn't been here at all this month."

"The campaign is keeping him busy, I'm sure. Something must have happened to warrant his attention."

"Such a shame. He's missing some excellent wine." Baumer drank again.

"I'll be sure to save him a bottle," Engel said, grinning. "It's the least I can do for our commander."

Baumer chuckled again. "You're a good subordinate, Paul. I hope he recognizes that in you."

"All good things, my friend," stated Engel, still smiling. The smile was still on his face when the front door burst inward and the shooting started. He was still smiling when his lifeless body crashed into Baumer, knocking him to the floor.

xxxxxxxxxx

Faaris kicked the door just above the knob, sending it splintering into the foyer. O'Banian followed the still moving door, shooting as she ran. A Hunter fell immediately before her fire. She kept moving into the sitting room. Two other shocked drinkers stood there, too disoriented to do anything but stare at her. O'Banian and Locke gave them no time to recover. Two three-round bursts from each of them stitched through the revellers, coating the floor with red wine and red blood.

The five of them spread out, looking for targets of opportunity. There were plenty to be found. Half a dozen were gathered in the kitchen, glasses and bottles still in their hands. Faaris rushed in to join the head of the team, adding his fire to O'Banian's, Tokawa's, and Locke's. The suppressed shooting did nothing to silence the sounds of screaming from the men and women clustered together in the small room. They died shrieking. From the back of the house, they heard the sounds of similar agony.

Armin Baumer groaned and pushed the body of Paul Engel off of him. He shook his head to clear it…and to come to grips with his good fortune. The invading Immortals had rushed right past him. They now stood shooting into the next room with their backs to him. Their attention was completely fixed away from him.

Baumer glanced at the open front door. He could escape easily, he saw. The exit was only five meters away. The weight of the Beretta in its shoulder holster reminded him of his holy mission, though. His eyes returned to the Immortals. He nodded to himself. He would die tonight. However, if he had good fortune, he would take a Nephilim with him.

Rising to a knee, he drew the Beretta and thumbed off the safety. He aimed along the barrel as he gained his feet. Yes, he was ready now. The dark-haired Immortal closest to him would be his target. Baumer took a breath, steadying himself, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. He stepped forward and fired at the same time.

James MacNaughton gasped as three white hot lances punched through his back. His MP5 slipped from numb fingers as he tried to turn, tried to face his unseen opponent. Another two bullets hit him high in the left side, puncturing his lung and cutting his aortal artery. He slumped to his knees in dreadful pain.

A presence loomed behind MacNaughton like a dark shadow. The Irishman tried in vain to lift his head to look at his attacker. It was no use. It hurt just to breathe. With practiced ease, the man next to him pulled the bastard sword from its sheath on MacNaughton's back. Determined not to die with his head down, MacNaughton forced his eyes up with one last Hurculean effort. He just managed to make eye contact with Armin Baumer as the bastard sword came down.

Baumer's shooting was from an unsuppressed pistol and caught the attention of all five of the other Council members in the room. As one, they began to turn to face the source of the fire. Locke was struck in the back by a bullet just as he had completed his turn. Dropping to a knee, he looked over his shoulder. Four armed Hunters were storming into the kitchen, catching the Council at a perfectly inconvenient time. Tokawa and Faaris were both hit while trying to pivot around again.

Ruth Okin fixed her gaze on Armin Baumer, raising her MP5 to fire. Her finger moved toward the trigger. It never touched the curved metal. A glowing electrical mist was emanating from James MacNaughton's neck. Just before Okin's finger could touch the trigger, the first mighty bolt of the Quickening lashed out at the nearest Immortal: Ruth Okin. The bolt slammed into her petite body, rocking her back, and was instantly followed by another and another. Within a second, a full-scale electrical storm was centered around the tiny frame of Ruth Okin. She screamed in agony and dropped her submachine gun, helpless in the torrent of power engulfing her.

Baumer saw his opportunity and wasted no time taking it. He rushed across the three-meter expanse separating himself from Okin and swung MacNaughton's bastard sword with a magnificent whoop of triumph. The blade swung true, connecting with Okin's neck and cleanly cleaving her head from her shoulders. Now drunk with bloodlust, Baumer turned in search of a third victim. He came face-to-face with the business end of O'Banian's MP5.

"Ya bloody fuckin' bastard," screeched the red-haired woman, pulling the trigger. Three bullets hit Baumer in a vertical line from his neck up to his nose, the last exiting out the back of his skull. He fell like a ragdoll, MacNaughton's sword collapsing next to him.

Around MacNaughton, the interrupted bolts of power from the Quickening swirled about in search of a new target. A new mist was rising from the body of Ruth Okin, followed soon by sizzling bolts. Within seconds, both Quickenings zeroed in on a new Immortal: Siobhan O'Banian.

Three of the four Hunters in the kitchen finally fell, the last ducking behind a wall and running. Tokawa, Locke, and Faaris breathed a sigh, thinking themselves free danger. Then they heard O'Banian's shriek of pain. Turning, they stood agape as the almighty force of two Quickenings slammed into her at once. O'Banian's body was pinned against the wall, unable to move, only quivering as each bolt crashed into her, eliciting a new wale from her each time. When, at last, the storm subsided, she wilted to the floor, a softly sobbing wreck.

Locke tapped Faaris on the arm. The giant looked down at him. "We go," Locke said. "Now. Call it."

Faaris nodded. Opening his mouth wide, he bellowed, "Clear out." Unbidden, he then knelt down and plucked O'Banian's limp body from the floor. Locke and Tokawa covered him with occasional bursts of fire as they backed out of the front door. Joining with Bilsby's team, they ran to their vehicles and drove away as quickly as traffic would allow. The whole night had just gone to hell.

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20 December 1999
Lockerbie, Scotland

"They hit us hard last night, Alan." Adam Matzel voice was calm, measured, but his frustration was clear. "Of the twenty-four people present at that party, I have seventeen dead and four wounded so badly they'll be of no use to me for weeks."

Alan Ottenbreit tapped his pen on his notepad as he listened to the phone. He frowned slightly. "How many capable men do you have left on the continent, Adam?"

"Twenty-three," Matzel sighed. "And they're scattered all over Europe." There was silence on the line for an uncomfortable minute. Matzel broke it by stating, "I need more men, Alan."

When Ottenbreit did not respond right away, Matzel continued, "I can round up the rest of what I have in Europe, but they won't be enough to hold the line until Harlan's students arrive."

"Yes," admitted Ottenbreit at last. "These are higher losses than we anticipated." He looked down at his notes. Over the last three months, counting killed, out of commission due to wounds, or missing, he was down forty-five men and women, twenty-four percent of his total force.

"I have little more than a skeleton crew as it is at the Edinburgh location," Ottenbreit said. He did not count the Lockerbie employees at all. They were simply dupes on the Watcher payroll. They had no idea they were actually supporting the Hunter cause. "I might be able to spare a half dozen or so for you, though. I will also call Emilio and have him bring in what he has left. He will join up with you and help out. And don't worry, my friend, Harlan's students will be here by the end of the month."

"Good. We need them. We've made good advances, but we're taking a pounding, too."

"Last night was just bad luck, Adam. It won't happen again."

"Let's hope not, Alan. It will cripple us if it does."

"Don't worry. We still have some surprises for our enemies. Just wait for Harlan. I'll have Emilio's men to you in two days. Hold tight."

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20 December 1999
Paris, France
Bel Ami Hotel

"How is she?" asked Fiona Black, Julian at her side.

"Still sleeping." Locke closed the door to O'Banian's bedroom and walked into the sitting room. He sank down onto the couch and sighed.

"Something we all should do, I think," suggested Tuppankovich dryly.

"Yeah, I will," said Locke. "Soon." Beside him, Tokawa snored softly, his head on the armrest of the couch. "At least Taiki is relaxed."

"There's no point in us all staying up as a vigil for her," commented MacBane. "She's probably going to be out all day."

"Yeah," agreed LeFitte. "Taking two Quickenings at once has to be a hell of a drain."

Locke drooped his head, his eyes focused on the carpet. "We should have brought their bodies out of there. Given them the chance for a decent burial, at least."

Faaris shook his head. "No," he countered. "You made the right decision. We didn't know how many Hunters were still in that house, how much of a threat still remained. We might have endangered even more lives if we had done that. Calling a retreat was the right move."

"That doesn't make it any easier," replied Locke.

"Taking the lead is never easy," said Faaris softly, placing a large hand on Locke's shoulder, "but you saw the need for doing so and you didn't hesitate. You should be proud."

Locke nodded but said nothing. He kept his eyes on the floor. Faaris raised his gaze to the others in the room.

"We're down five people since we began this thing. We need reinforcements. Does anyone have any ideas for people who might join us?"

No one answered. All eyes either copied Locke and looked at the floor or stared blankly at Faaris. After a long pause, Bilsby spoke.

"I know one man who would be of use to us, if he can be reached, that is. He has just the kind of skills we need for this sort of thing. He's quite the skilled bomb maker. I'll reach out and see if I can make contact with him."

Faaris nodded. "That would be good. We could definitely make use of that kind of man."

"I have an email address he used to use," said Bilsby. "I'll write a message to him today and see if he answers. He's the mercenary-type, but that's not a problem. I'll foot the bill for him. I'll let you know when he replies."

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21 December 1999
Paris, France
1 Rue du Docteur Roux

"J'en ai marre de ton calage, Nolet," (I'm getting tired of your stalling, Nolet,) growled Karl Eichmann, adjusting the position of his MP5 slightly. "Si vous ne commencez pas à me dire ce que je veux entendre bientôt, eh bien, je vais devoir commencer à filmer une personne de votre belle famille. Lequel devrait-il être?" (If you don't start telling me what I want to hear soon, well, I will just have to start shooting someone from your beautiful family. Which one should it be?)

The German turned from the terrified French Watcher and eyed the three children sitting on the couch nearby. Fifteen-year old Lucien did his best to remain stoic in face of the threat, only blinking at the sight of the weapon. His siblings, thirteen-year old Hector and ten-year old Eva, were less so. They visibly jumped as the blond man pointed his submachine gun their way. Eva even squealed in fear. The fact that Frost and Razumov already had their weapons trained on them made no difference in this case.

"Ou est-ce que cela devrait être votre charmante épouse?" (Or should it be your lovely wife?) Eichmann swivelled around to look upon the countenance of Valentine Nolet, sitting in an overstuffed chair like her husband. Michael De Lioncourt kept her at bay with an MP5 pointed in her direction.

The threats against his family rather than simply himself were enough to crack the Watcher's resolve. He wilted in his chair. "Bien. Je vais te dire ce que tu veux. Ne faites pas de mal à ma femme et à mes enfants, s'il vous plaît." (Alright. I'll tell you what you want. Just don't harm my wife and children, please.)

Eichmann smiled at the Frenchman. "Je savais que vous étiez un homme ouvert à la négociation. Il baissa son arme et tira un petit bloc-notes de l'intérieur de sa veste. «Maintenant, si vous voulez juste me dire les mots de passe du VPN et de la base de données de Watcher, je serai très heureux." (I knew you were a man open to negotiation.) He lowered his weapon and drew a small notepad from inside his jacket. "Maintenant, si vous voulez juste me dire les mots de passe du VPN Watcher et de la base de données, je serai très content." (Now, if you will just tell me the passwords to the Watcher VPN and database, I will be quite happy.)

Basile Nolet's voice was low as he recited, "Le mot de passe VPN est Q64LG9&YK73." (The VPN password is Q64LG9&YK73.) He took a breath. "Le mot de passe de la base de données est OL89!#JR6K4ITV." (The database password is OL89!#JR6K4ITV.)

Eichmann smiled again and returned his pen and pad to his jacket pocket. "Voir? Était-ce si difficile à faire? Il n'y avait pas besoin de toute cette résistance après tout, n'est-ce pas?" (See? Was that so hard to do? There was no need for all that resistance after all, was there?)

"Cela dépend de ce que vous faites ensuite, je suppose," (That depends on what you do next, I suppose,) stated Nolet, looking up into Eichmann's eyes.

"Oui, je suppose que oui, n'est-ce pas? Eh bien, vous le saviez depuis le début, n'est-ce pas?" (Yes, I guess it does, doesn't it? Well, you knew that from the beginning, didn't you?) Eichmann's grin remained.

"Alors c'était un effort vain," (Then it was a vain effort,) said Nolet. On the couch, Hector moaned softly as the realization of his fate struck him.

"Oui c'était," (Yes, it was,) affirmed Eichmann, raising his MP5.