"Every whisper
Of every waking hour
I'm choosing my confessions
Trying to keep an eye on you
Like a hurt lost and blinded fool"

"Losing My Religion" - REM

22 December 1999
Paris, France
16 Place Charles De Gaulle
Ashton's Mansion

They came with the dying of the light, just as Dublin and Ashton sat down to a meal of grilled lamb chops, asparagus in Dijon sauce, and wild mushroom risotto. The table was only set for two, Ambrose Barron and Turan Abjer being away on a scouting mission. The house staff had been dismissed for the night.

From somewhere outside came the sound of a car door slamming and the single bark of a dog. Ashton paused, a fork full of risotto halfway between his plate and his mouth. He listened, his entire being tuned to the familiar sounds of his home. Or what should have been the familiar sounds.

"Darren," he said, slowly setting down his fork. "Get your pistol and be prepared to move quickly. We're about to have company and I don't think it's Immortal."

Dublin, who had slowed his eating upon seeing Ashton's sudden concentration, dropped his fork and moved away from the table, grabbing another lamb chop as he went. He dug into an overnight case by the Lazyboy recliner and withdrew a 9mm Glock 17 pistol, two additional magazines and a silencer.

As he took his sword from its resting-place against the fireplace, he glanced at Ashton, noticing the man screwing a silencer into the barrel of a like weapon with practiced ease. Dublin silently thanked Ashton for turning him on to such a fine line of weapons as the Glock pistols. At a signal from Ashton, Dublin moved to switch off all of the house lights as his mentor skirted the wall, careful to avoid being seen through the windows by anyone outside, picking up two small insulated boxes as he went. Reaching the window, he went silently to a prone position. Dublin joined him seconds later, the half-eaten lamb chop in his mouth. The elder Immortal handed his friend a set of night vision goggles from one of the small boxes. He removed another set from the second box. They donned the goggles.

At first, they saw nothing. Then there was a movement in a shadow beside the tree across the narrow street. The figure was too tall to be a dog. There was only one thing that came to Ashton's mind as to the identity of the figure by the tree and the others he saw in the bushes around his house.

"Hunters," whispered Dublin, voicing Ashton's appraisal.

The older Immortal nodded in agreement. "I make six in the parking lot. I saw at least two moving toward the back."

"How did you know they were here?" inquired the Irishman. "I heard nothing when we sat down to dinner."

"It was Mrs. Leblanc's, the neighbor's, dog. The damn thing barks at everything. The only way to silence it would be to shoot it. I heard it bark once and then go quiet."

The two Immortals continued their vigil silently for another minute.

Dublin shrugged slightly. "Is fear rith maith na drochsheasamh." (A good run is better than a bad stand.)

The Minoan grinned almost imperceptibly. "Yes, my thoughts exactly. I don't think we can chance the Jeep. It's probably rigged anyway."

"My feet worked damn fine for the first thousand years. No reason to think they'd fail me now. Where shall we meet?"

Ashton thought for a moment, then answered. "Hotel Raphael. Seventeen Kléber Avenue."

Dublin turned and looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "Only if yer the one payin'," he retorted.

Ashton smirked. "Of course, I'm paying." He had an ulterior motive for choosing the hotel. It was only a short distance from the locations of the three Alliance teams. He wanted to be close to them, just in case.

"All right," Dublin agreed. "The Hotel Raphael, it is. Don't suppose you'd like to pass along your credit card just in case I get there first."

"Not on your life. Don't worry. I'll be there." Ashton began to move away from the window on his knees and elbows. He stood at the kitchen doorway and whispered, "And Darren, try to stay out of trouble."

Ashton moved silently through his office, grabbing his laptop and katana, and then into the kitchen. He crouched by a cupboard, reaching inside and removing an already packed backpack. He had been expecting this. Both the pack and sword went on his back. He stood and paused at the door, wondering if he should take that route or use a window. The pass of a shadow to his left made up his mind for him. The back door it was. He gripped his pistol tightly, the handle of which fit as comfortably in his hand as his precious katana. He paused again at the door briefly.

With surprising speed, the Immortal opened the door and dove for the bushes to the right in one motion. He felt, rather than heard, a silenced bullet pass close to his ear. He landed, rolled, and came to his feet, crouching. His pistol extended in his left hand. His right flipped a switch on the goggles, converting them from infrared to thermal. He leaped to the right again and went prone just as another bullet cut the air where he had just been.

The sniper has thermal goggles. Or possibly thermal sights.

He took the briefest of instants, as he heard both the sounds of the Hunter coming around the corner to his left and the bolt of the sniper's rifle being pulled back to eject the expended cartridge and ram another into the chamber, to scan the back yard. He immediately picked out one figure, illuminated, as if by a spotlight, by his body heat. The man was no more than twenty meters away, kneeling behind a tree near the property's bordering wall, holding a weapon in his hands, possibly a rifle.

So much for a good run.

Turning quickly, the Immortal charged toward the Hunter to his left, simultaneously switching the pistol to his right hand. The man, a Mossberg shotgun in his hand, jumped at the sight of the close proximity and aggression of his prey. One silenced hollow point bullet from the pistol in Ashton's hand, fired at a distance of half a meter, blew a five-centimeter hole out the back of the Hunter's head, spraying pinkish-grey matter across the yard.

The Immortal seized the body as it slumped, the shotgun falling from its limp fingers. Pulling the man in front of him and turning to face the Hunter behind the tree, he raised his pistol, aiming high to compensate for the distance of his target, and fired five rapid shots. The kneeling Hunter jerked and crumpled slowly to the ground.

Twelve rounds left, he thought grimly. Only one spare magazine.

Ashton noticed the heat signature of the prone Hunter in the same instant that he heard the boom of a rifle and felt a bullet strike the spine of the human shield he held. The force of the impact shook the body. Ashton cursed his carelessness. He had hastily labelled the wrong man as the sniper. The strength behind the round was definitely from a rifle. The Minoan released the dead Hunter, his own body slumping to the ground, as well. Landing on his side, with his head and left arm across the Hunter, Ashton's other hand came to rest on the pistol grip of the Mossberg. His fingers slipped from the Glock and took hold of the shotgun, his movements hidden by the dead Hunter's body. He prayed silently that the sniper was as much an amateur as his two companions and would believe that his shot had passed through the dead Hunter and temporarily killed Ashton. The Immortal knew that if their situations were reversed, he would be sending another high-powered round to obliterate the target's head just in case his supposition was not, in fact, the truth.

His wish came true. His head canted over his human sandbag at just the angle to still see the Hunter. Ashton watched the man rise higher on his elbows, reaching for a machete while preparing to stand. Were he still a Special Forces soldier in Vietnam, Ashton would have given the man a serious tongue lashing for his mistake. In this case, however, the punishment would be more severe. As the Hunter came to a kneeling position, Ashton rolled onto his stomach, swinging the Mossberg around to nestle it into his shoulder. On the off chance that his shield had not chambered a round, the Minoan racked back the pump. A cartridge flew from the ejection port. The weapon tight against his shoulder, he fired in the direction of the Hunter. Pulling the pump back and forward again, he repeated his first shot four times. He waited a full minute before picking up his pistol and sprinting in an irregular line to the crumpled body of the sniper.

The Hunter was still alive. Even at the great range, however, he had been struck in the chest, arms and face by numerous twelve-gauge pellets. He was lying on his back, eyes to the stars. His mouth opened and closed like a beached fish. He was going into shock.

Ashton stood over him silently. The Hunter wore a headset with a headphone on one ear and a microphone on a small arm by his mouth, a communications set. Taking it and the small belt-clipped box attached to it, Ashton donned the set. Under other circumstances, he most likely would have helped the wounded man... but not this time. A final shotgun blast to the head destroyed the Hunter's face.

Kneeling, Ashton examined the man's rifle, an M-14 with a night vision scope attached. Shotgun pellets had shattered the scope. Ashton's original plan of using the rifle against his attackers was discarded as he stood. He went to check the Hunter by the tree.

An inspection of the body showed that three of the five shots fired had found flesh. One had struck the man in the shoulder, another in the thigh. The last had clipped the carotid artery in the neck, opening a gusher of blood into the freshly cut grass. The body was in the final stages of its death throes. Laying the Mossberg next to the man, Ashton retrieved the silenced submachine gun, a Heckler & Koch MP-5 SD-3 with an integral silencer, from the grasp of the limp fingers. The Hunter wore a headset identical to the one Ashton now had. Wondering briefly where the Hunters got the funding for such equipment, Ashton took the two extra magazines of 9mm ammunition and disappeared into the back into the house.

xxxxxxxxxx

After watching his friend dive through the kitchen door, narrowly avoiding hostile fire, Darren Dublin stepped into one of the spare bedrooms and raised the window slowly. He jumped in surprise as he heard the rapid-fire sound of five shotgun blasts. He prayed his friend was not on the receiving end of that horrible sound. Ensuring his weapon was on safe, he tucked the pistol into the waistband of his jeans. Placing both hands on the screen, he pushed the obstruction out of the window. He started again as the boom of another, final shotgun blast echoed through the air.

Dublin saw a figure running beside the house toward the back yard. The M-16 rifle in his hands dispelled any doubts about the identity of the man. Dublin stepped back and knelt in front of the window. He withdrew his pistol, thumbed off the safety, aimed at the center of the window and counted down. Just as he reached zero, the man's head appeared at the left side of the window. Dublin squeezed the trigger. The Glock coughed once. The head, now in the center of the window, snapped to the side in a spray of blood as the bullet struck just above and in front of the right ear. The body's own momentum carried it forward for a full second before collapsing in a heap.

The front door crashed inward just as Dublin was about to begin his crawl through the window. Cursing, the Irishman remained where he was. He did not want to be caught halfway out when the intruders reached the room. He scuttled to the side, back against the wall, and raised his pistol to the doorway.

Dublin did not have to wait for long. One shadowy figure ran past the door while another paused near it, looking inside. The man wore no night vision device. His hand reached out blindly for the light switch. Dublin fired twice. Well trained in the use of firearms and lowlight vision equipment, his shots were perfectly placed, striking the Hunter dead center in the chest. The man staggered back and crashed against the hallway wall. A second pair of rounds caught him in the neck as he slid to the floor.

"Hans?" called his partner in the darkness. "Hans, geht es dir gut?" (Hans, are you okay?) The Hunter who has passed the door slowly returned, searching for his comrade. He stopped when his foot struck the outflung, but still twitching, leg of the dying Hans. The man gasped in shock. He had no time for any further reaction. Dublin fired twice more, his rounds taking the Hunter in the right side and perforating his lung. The man crumpled next to Hans. Dublin fired two more times into his temple, stilling the man for good.

The Irishman stood slowly, checking the window to be sure no more hostiles were visible there. He then stepped carefully into the hall. He saw Ashton crossing the threshold of the kitchen, coming back into the house.

"Chan eil math?" (No good?) he asked in Gaelic.

"Ro làn," (Too crowded,) replied Ashton.

"Suas?" (Up?)

"Suas."

The two Immortals made their way through the darkness to the staircase and silently ascended. They ignored the four men entering the front door, letting them waste time looking about the first floor. Dublin strung a tripwire along the second-floor landing and kept working his way up the stairs. Down below, he heard one of the Hunters call out in German, "Sie sind nicht hier. Durchsuche die oberen Stockwerke." (They're not here. Search the upper floors.) He grinned as he moved back.

You're in for a shock, boys, he thought, continuing his retreat. Ashton awaited him on the third floor, ready to draw the wire for the claymore mine emplaced there. Once the Irishman was passed him, he set the wire with practiced ease and drew back.

Dublin reached for the hidden ladder to the roof, pulling it down. He was halfway up when he heard an explosion from the second floor. He continued climbing, grinning to himself as he made his way up. Ashton waited his turn with his captured MP5 trained on the third-floor landing.

"Mach weiter," (Keep going,) they heard from below. Hurried footsteps pounded on the stairs. The seconds were ticking away. Ashton took his place on the ladder, slinging the MP5 over his shoulder. He began to climb.

"Sie gehen auf das Dach," (They're going to the roof,) called out a Hunter, firing off a burst as he cleared the landing. A round clipped Ashton's right calf as finished his climb. A second later, the claymore detonated.

"That should give us a few moments," he breathed, ignoring the burning sensation in his leg.

Dublin was already manhandling the piece of 4x4 into place with great effort. Ashton crawled across the roof to assist him. After some grunting, they got the wooden plank into position, forming a walkway between Ashton's roof down to the neighboring house. There was a significant decline but the twenty-meter length of board was more than enough to cross it. Ashton, being the taller and heavier of the two, would be the first of them to chance the crossing. He stood and took his place at the board while Dublin trained his pistol at the rooftop opening.

"Go," said Dublin.

"See you on the other side," called Ashton as he stepped off. The short trip was mostly a trot, being assisted significantly by gravity. He nearly slid off the board near the end but a quick jump saved him from a fall. Ashton landed on his knee and rolled onto his shoulder to break the fall. He came up into a kneeling position and shook off the momentary disorientation.

"Clear," he called.

Dublin backed his way to the board, his eyes still on the entrance. A head popped out on top of the ladder. Dublin fired two rounds at it. Through his goggles, he saw a mist appear at the top of the head as it dropped back down. He heard curses in German down below as he turned and placed a foot on the board. He didn't have much time. He fired a few blind shots back at the opening and ran across the board. Halfway down, he took a chance and let himself slip down to his rump and slide the rest of the way down, holding the sides of the board for balance. His feet came to rest on the top of the neighboring roof. He stood with a triumphant grin.

Ashton, looking somewhat alien in his night vision goggles, just shook his head at the Irishman's theatrics. He said nothing as Dublin gained his feet, merely raising his MP5 to fire a suppressed burst up at the roof. Dublin looked back and saw the body of a Hunter crumple and slide to the ground three stories below. Nodding to the Minoan, they trotted up to the top of the roof and down to the other side.

Here they had cover and concealment from the Hunters on Ashton's rooftop. They also had access to the other part of Ashton's escape plan, stashed there weeks unbeknownst to the neighbors. A line of rope was already secured from the roof and ready to be dropped to the ground. There were also five sets of rappelling gear, gloves, and carabiners. The two Immortals quickly donned the gear and attached themselves to the rope. Dropping silently down the side of the house, they descended to the ground and disappeared into the night.

xxxxxxxxxx

23 December 1999
Paris, France
3 Avenue Matignon

The desire for a decent high class breakfast had finally overcome Michael De Lioncourt. He had decided to part from the others of the Council for the morning and have a nice meal on his own. The Club Matignon was known for its superb dining and De Lioncourt intended to grace its doors this morning. He strolled contentedly down the sidewalk toward the establishment, the menu running through his mind. He checked his watch. Eight forty-six. He still had fourteen minutes to make it to his nine o'clock reservation. Plenty of time.

Naturally, he could have taken a taxi right to the front door of the restaurant, but he was in the mood for a bit of a morning constitutional as well as a meal. The walk would do him some good. Being cooped up in the hotel was giving him cabin fever and the fresh air was invigorating. With only eighty meters still to travel, he couldn't complain about the distance.

The Frenchman's eyes narrowed as he saw two people exit the front of the Club Matignon ahead of him. There was something familiar about them. He paused and watched them. It was a slight challenge to be sure from this distance but after a moment, he was sure. He knew those two. And now he was glad he had stopped walking. They were Dalla Selbjorgsdottir and Christophe Dubeau. So apparently the urge for a nice meal had struck them, as well.

"So now I see two members of Ashton's little faction out in the open, eh? At least, I'm sure that's what you are, Ms. Selbjorgsdottir. I can only surmise about Dubeau, but it's a decent guess."

De Lioncourt stayed in place, still watching the pair. Any closer, he was sure, and they would pick up on his presence. They were scanning the streets in search of a taxi. De Lioncourt did the same. He flagged one down and got inside.

He leaned forward to the driver and said, "Je sais que cela semble étrange, mais pourriez-vous s'il vous plaît suivre ce taxi? Restez à environ cent mètres en arrière et essayez de ne pas être remarqué." (I know it sounds strange, but would you please follow that taxi? Stay about one hundred meters back and try not to be noticed.)

The driver shrugged. "Je me fiche de savoir comment vous voulez que je conduise, monsieur. Faites juste un bon pourboire." (I don't really care how you want me to drive, sir. Just make it a good tip.)

De Lioncourt laughed. "Compte là-dessus," (Count on it,) he replied.

The driver did as he was told. They meandered south through the winding streets. De Lioncourt's taxi always remained a minimum of one hundred meters behind the target vehicle, sometimes more, but never lost sight of it. When the lead taxi finally stopped and disgorged its passengers, De Lioncourt had his driver pause for two minutes before driving by the hotel. He got out five kilometers beyond it at a phone booth, leaving a generous tip for the driver. He then fed coins into the phone and called O'Banian to report his findings.

xxxxxxxxxx

23 December 1999
Paris, France
Hotel Raphael

It had taken them several hours on foot to trek from Ashton's house on the outskirts of Paris to the hotel. To add insult to injury, it had rained almost the entire way. It was well after midnight when they arrived. Unfortunately, the Hotel Raphael had no standard rooms available and thus David Ashton was forced to drive up the balance on one of his credit cards with the only four rooms obtainable - suites on the eighth floor. If he hadn't been so tired, wet, and hungry, Darren Dublin would have doubled over with laughter. On the other hand, the opulence was the sort of lodging Ashton preferred anyway.

The rooms were beautiful, exquisitely detailed down to the last item. But neither Immortal was in any frame of mind to notice. Showers, food and sleep - in that order - were the agenda. They didn't deviate from it.

The rain continued to pour all night, and they awoke late to a grey, dreary day, one that matched David Ashton's eyes and Darren Dublin's mood.

"Got out on the wrong side of the bed, did you?" Ashton asked at lunch after Dublin had graced him with yet another flippant remark. He managed to catch some of the Irishman's response, something about how if you had both sides of the bed to choose from, it was already a bad day, and chuckled.

They were sitting in the hotel restaurant, a table as far in the back as they could get. It afforded them a view of both the entrance and of the street through a window. They could never be too careful.

"Obviously, word was leaked to the Hunters about where you lived," Dublin offered, switching the subject. "Unless you changed your mind and mentioned to the Watchers that particular little abode? Although, it was kinda hard to miss, being right in the middle of a busy city business district."

Ashton shook his head. "No. Never mentioned it at all. Very few people know about it - not even Jonny."

Dublin drained his tea and set his cup down. "Speaking of Jonny, I called him this morning."

Ashton's gaze came up abruptly. "Why? I don't want him involved in this. He's safer in the States - away from this problem."

"He's not a child, David. You should know that as well as I do. And right now, I'd say we could use all the help we can get. Besides, how do you know he's safe there? Do you think the Hunters are just containing themselves to Paris? If you do, you are a fool, and we both know better than that, don't we?" Dublin poured himself more tea, adding several teaspoons of sugar. Now that the meal was over, he reached inside the pocket of his jacket that hung on the back of his chair. It was like the routine of a chain smoker, only the object he removed wasn't a cigarette; it was the hacky sack.

Ashton frowned. Would he ever leave that bloody thing alone? Ah, well, he thought. If he wasn't tossing that, he'd probably start tossing the silverware, and that would attract attention.

He brought his mind back to the topic at hand. "What did you tell Jonny?"

"Nothing. He wasn't there. I talked to Todd for a stretch and left the number here. I tried again later, but there was no answer."

The two sat quietly, each musing over the previous night's events.

"What now?" Dublin finally asked, sitting back in his chair.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I rather object to wearing the same clothes day in and day out. I suggest we change that situation." He caught Dublin's look. "No, this time I'm not bloody well paying. Christ, it's no wonder you can afford to travel the world writing the odd book when the mood suits you. Parting you from your money is like getting blood from a stone."

Dublin grinned. "Aye, well, my ma didn't raise any idiots. Why spend my money when I can spend yours?"

Ashton's hand shot out, grabbing the hacky sack out of the air just before it landed in Dublin's hand. "Don't get too big for your boots. I seem to recall that the last time you mouthed off, you ended up providing me with free labor while I built that cabin in Montana." He looked at his friend for a moment with a bemused expression, then tossed the toy at him.

"Don't remind me, I've still got the damn calluses on my hands," Dublin grumbled with false affront.

They left the restaurant; Dublin making sure he paid the entire bill. Ashton's generosity only carried so far and besides, he was right. It wasn't like Dubln couldn't afford it. He could have made the Hotel Raphael his permanent residence for the next ten years had he wanted to. But he didn't. He simply wanted to deal with this Hunter problem and to go home. To Ireland.

xxxxxxxxxx

23 December 1999
Paris, France
16 Place Charles De Gaulle
Ashton's Mansion

Detective Sergeant Lebeau stepped over the two bodies in the hallway of the first floor and continued on to the kitchen. He stood in the doorway to the back garden, observing the bloodbath outside. It was his second circuit through the house. The explosives ordnance team had already gone through the mansion and rendered safe seven devices they had found. Now it was time for the detectives to do their jobs. Palen came up and stood behind his partner.

"A quoi penses-tu, Claude?" (What are you thinking, Claude?) he asked.

Lebeau sighed and shook his head. "Quoi qu'il en soit, Charles, il y a une escalade hors de notre contrôle." (Whatever this is, Charles, it is escalating far beyond our control.)

"Pourquoi dites vous cela?" (Why do you say that?)

"Il suffit de regarder autour de nous," (Just look around us,) replied Lebeau. "Nous avons quatorze corps dispersés dans cette maison. L'équipe des explosifs a déclaré que les pièges laissés étaient du type que seuls les soldats des Forces spéciales pouvaient construire. Ils ont dû faire appel à leurs meilleurs experts pour les démanteler. Peu importe qui se battait, ces hommes n'étaient pas préparés. Ils ont terriblement souffert." (We have fourteen bodies scattered about this house. The explosives team says the traps left behind were the type that only Special Forces soldiers could build. They had to call in their best experts just to dismantle them. Whoever these men were fighting, they were not prepared. They suffered horribly.)

"Alors ils ont essayé de compenser cela avec une supériorité numérique?" (So they tried to make up for it with numerical superiority?)

Lebeau nodded. "Et ils ont encore perdu. Leurs adversaires se sont toujours échappés. C'est du moins ce que l'on peut deviner par la présence de l'équipement de rappel sur le toit opposé." (And they still lost. Their opponents still escaped. At least that's what we can guess from the presence of the abseiling equipment on the opposite roof.)

Lebeau shook his head and grinned. "Et, comme nous n'avons trouvé que deux engins au sol, je ne peux que supposer qu'ils faisaient face à deux hommes. Ces trois ici, par exemple." (And, since we only found two sets of gear on the ground, I can only surmise they were facing two men. These three out here, for example.) He gestured to the three bodies in the back garden. "Je pense qu'un homme a fait ça." (I think one man did this.) He shook his head again. "Incroyable." (Incredible.)

Lebeau dropped his hand to his side and sighed again. "Que nous résolvions cette affaire ou pas, Palen, une chose est certaine. La guerre est venue à Paris." (Whether we solve this case or not, Palen, one thing is certain. War has come to Paris.)

xxxxxxxxxx

24 December 1999
Winchester, England
Winchester Royal Hotel

"We have a problem, General," stated Gregory Zorig flatly as he entered the small operations center.

"And what would that be, Mr. Zorig?" asked Honnecker, looking up from his computer.

"We're under surveillance." Zorig sat at the conference table and looked the German in the eyes. "I saw them while I was out on a run this morning. No doubt about it."

"Watchers?" inquired Honnecker.

"Possible," allowed Zorig, "but we can't be too careful these days."

"How many did you see?"

"Two at first. Nine upon close inspection. I'm sure they did not catch on to my noticing them."

"Nine, you say?" Honnecker smiled. "Well, I think you are correct in saying we can't be too careful. I certainly don't think a simple group of Watchers would gather in such numbers." He leaned back in his seat. "And if you saw that many, there are likely more."

xxxxxxxxxx

Date: 25 December 1999
From: Honnecker, Maximillian
To: Ashton, David
Subject: Ops Center Relocation

General Ashton:

Due to suspected Hunter observation and pending attack, I have ordered relocation of the operation center to my villa in Austria. We are now located in Innsbruck. All of the staff and prisoners are safe.

We will continue operations from this location.

Honnecker.

xxxxxxxxxx

Date: 25 December 1999
From: Ashton, David
To: Honnecker, Maximillian
Subject: Re: Ops Center Relocation

Max:

Message received.

Have also relocated to Hotel Raphael due to Hunter attack on mansion. No casualties.

Good luck.

Ashton.

xxxxxxxxxx

26 December 1999
Paris, France
54 Rue Pierre Charron

"You're sure these are allies of Ashton?" asked MacBane.

"Yes, David," assured Faaris. "De Lioncourt would not have said otherwise. He has significant knowledge of the activities of other Immortals. It's one of his better traits."

"I just don't want to be killing people who don't deserve it, is all," countered the ancient Immortal.

"I'm more worried about whether Siobhan would approve of this," said Julian Black.

"She's still too weak to say one way or another," added Locke. "Besides, I'm willing to put my faith in De Lioncourt's word. Or at least, Omeir's faith in his word."

The other eight Immortals gathered around Locke nodded at his comment, even Black eventually. After so many apparent setbacks, even with their victories, they needed to show Ashton they were in charge of this war, not him. This was their chance.

"Now, how do we get them out here to face us?" asked LeFitte, as the group tarried a hundred meters in front of the hotel. "We can't just go marching in there and ask them to come out to us."

Bilsby touched her arm and pointed. "It looks like we have no need to do that, my dear. They are already coming out."

"A scouting mission, do you think?" queried Batakova.

"Perhaps," muttered Tuppankovich.

"It not matter," said Tokawa. "They here."

"Fight them in front of all these civilians?" asked Faaris.

"They'll scatter once blades are drawn," assured Locke. "Count on it. We just have to strike fast and hard. Then we withdraw."

"Sounds like plan," said Tokawa.

xxxxxxxxxx

Dalla Selbjorgsdottir had indeed ordered the team out on a scouting mission that evening. They were to recon the adjacent neighborhoods for signs for Hunter activity or inhabitance. Since the area they would be searching was so nearby, the seven of them would be conducting the entire surveillance on foot as three separate teams.

They had discussed the plan at length in Selbjorgsdottir's suite. There was no need for further talk other than a radio check once they were at the front door. Selbjorgsdottir, Cartell, and Dubeau stood by the entrance as Bentenrai and Godfrey veered off to the right, Durango and Chris Pellier to the left. Each sub-group stepped off twenty meters and whispered into their radios. Selbjorgsdottir answered them both. The radios were working perfectly.

"Contact front," called out Pellier, reflexively keying his radio as he did so. All of the Alliance Immortals heard him regardless and turned toward the direction he was facing. The multiple electric crackling of Immortal presences told them all exactly what the threat was.

"Oh, shit!" said Selbjorgsdottir, seeing the nine hostiles running across the street at them.

"Not what we need right now," declared Dubeau, pulling his UMP from beneath his jacket.

"Careful with your fire," cautioned Selbjorgsdottir, doing the same.

Some of the Council Immortals had MP5s in their hands, others carried swords. Those with firearms replied on the run with fire at the Alliance Immortals as they began shooting. Most of the Council fire, due to the difficulty of shooting on the move, was off target. Locke, Black, and Tokawa, however, were felled in the street by short bursts from the Alliance. LeFitte and MacBane had just reached the sidewalk when they were hit by multiple rounds from several shooters.

Omeir Faaris roared as he reached the nearest Immortal and swung his shamshir. Hotsuma Bentenrai deflected the slash with his Dotanuki katana and faced off with the enormous Immortal. Godfrey lowered his UMP and backed away. Immortals had now come to bladed combat. It would not be proper for him to intervene. Those were the rules.

Sergei Tuppankovich's Kindjal rang savagely against Chris Pellier's longsword. The French Immortal backed up a step to gain maneuvering room and, with a loud cry, leapt at the tall Russian. The battle was joined now and he would give it his all. Beside him, Michael Durango kept an eye on the Immortals on the street, his UMP trained on their bodies. They would not stay there for long.

Michal Batakova lunged his Darn Gim Sword at Dalla Selbjorgsdottir. The Norwegian Immortal deflected the attack with the barrel of her UMP and kicked him in the midsection. She tossed the machine pistol aside as he righted himself and drew her broadsword from its scabbard at her back. There was just enough time to get the blade in her hands before Batakova attacked again.

Darmond Bilsby's saber narrowly missed Christophe Dubeau's face as the French Immortal backtracked hastily. Dubeau kept his UMP trained on the Englishman, showing his intent to fire if the man attacked again. Slowly, Dubeau reached back and withdrew his longsword from its scabbard. Only then did he lower the firearm and drop it to the ground. With a nod, he advanced toward Bilsby, his face set.

In the street, Locke and MacBane were stirring. Durango fired another burst at Locke as he tried to stand. Hit in the thigh, Locke fell again. Another burst of fire walked along the pavement, striking him in the right temple. Across from him, MacBane picked up LeFitte's prone form and dragged her to the other side of the street. Cartell watched him closely but did not fire at him.

During momentary respites, each pair of dueling Immortals had introduced one another as was tradition. Their battles now continued without giving or expecting mercy, as was also tradition. The historical rules of the Game were typically not known for their kindness.

Bentenrai evaded the shamshir and landed a massive diagonal cut down the chest of Omeir Faaris. He twisted his blade around and brought it up for a return slash upward. Faaris bellowed in pain and punched Bentenrai square in the face. The Japanese Immortal staggered backward. His nose broken and eyes already clouded with tears and blackening, he swung his katana in a defensive diagonal pattern, fighting for time until his vision cleared. Faaris charged into his pattern, batting away the katana with his shamshir and slamming a fist into Bentenrai's wrist. The katana fell away. Faaris's shamshir arced horizontally and Bentenrai's body collapsed.

Pellier pressed his speed advantage against Tuppankovich, hoping to make up for the Russian's size. Like a dancer, he moved from one side to another, staying away from the sharp Kindjal while his longer blade jabbed at his opponent. The Russian was bleeding from several minor wounds, but these did not seem to be ebbing his resolve in the slightest. Pellier made up his mind. He would get nowhere by playing with this man. He had to end the fight. With a feint to the Russian's left, he spun to the right, going for a decapitating swing. He gasped in pain. Looking down, he saw the Kindjal embedded in his side and Tuppankovich next to him.

"I've been waiting for the games to end," said the Russian softly, removing the blade. "Rest well, Chris Pellier." The Kindjal moved once more and the battle was ended.

Selbjorgsdottir, despite the briefness of the fight, was already drenched in sweat. Batakova was remarkably fast and handled his Darn Gim well. In their three exchanges, she had only landed one hit on him, a slight one at that, and him two. Those, she could tell, were sapping her strength quickly. She would not last much longer. And they both knew it. Batakova stepped forward for his next attack. Selbjorgsdottir tried to raise her broadsword but could not; her shoulders slumped and she fell to her knees. Batakova grinned…until Selbjorgsdottir straightened her arms, impaling him as he advanced. The shock, the pain, dropped the Darn Gim from his fingers and the Norwegian woman slowly rose to her feet in front of him. He nodded to her, a slight grin on his lips, as he conceded the victory. She returned the nod and then struck.

Dubeau kicked his opponent in the shin, knocking him to the ground. Bilsby hissed as he fell. Dubeau's follow-on blow with his sword landed against Bilsby's saber. The English noble caught Dubeau's ankle with his foot and pulled, his other foot pushing against his knee. Dubeau fell back.

"Two can play the tripping game, Frenchman," taunted Bilsby, gaining his feet.

"But only one of us will stand when this is done," returned Dubeau. He stood and lunged at Bilsby.

Longsword met saber and the blades slid against each other as the two Immortals passed. Bilsby spun and slashed, catching Dubeau across the back of the neck. The Frenchman fell to one side, his head to the other.

"You spoke the truth there, Frenchman," said Bilsby, shaking the blood from his saber.

Four Quickenings exploded across the Paris street, colliding against each other and crashing into the victorious Immortals. Those who had stood nearby observing the battles and those who had recently recovered from gunshot wounds watched in amazement as the storms raged, destroying windows and setting vehicles ablaze. Those few civilians who had had the heart to remain in the area finally screamed and ran for safety. Only Immortals remained when the havoc at last subsided.

Michael Durango, his UMP still directed at the Council members at the far side of the street, spoke for them all.

"That's enough fighting for one night. Let us collect our dead and go."

Both sides nodded and, a temporary truce established, they picked up their weapons, their comrades, and departed.