"We all need somebody we can turn to
Someone who'll always understand
So if you feel that your soul is dyin'
And you need the strength to keep tryin'"

"I Will Come To You" - Hanson

01 January 2000
Seattle, Washington

It had been an all-round, complete, minute by minute, rotten two weeks. Starting with that woman from Children's Services. Todd Whitaker didn't doubt that his nosy neighbor had been the one to report his nephew - the one who never seemed to go to school. He was sure it was a routine happening for Fairbanks, but this investigator proved to be hard to shake. They had told her he was home schooled, but she wasn't convinced. For three grueling hours, Fairbanks had had to pretend a fascination with The X-Files, admit he had trouble in algebra, and blush when he spoke of a crush on Brittney Spears. Finally, the woman had left, seemingly satisfied.

The evening hadn't been any better. The Whitakers had become firmly embroiled in a marital spat and supper had been a drawn out, tense affair. Fairbanks had excused himself as quickly as possible. Since then he had stayed in his room, only coming out for food and not speaking to either of his foster parents. At night, he wandered the streets, careful to stay out of the way of any oncoming headlights. People were always suspicious of a seemingly fourteen-year old boy roaming around by himself at night. He would only return long after the Whitakers had gone to bed and would then sleep late into the morning. Todd was beginning to worry about the boy's seclusion.

Since that time, a call from Europe had come in for Fairbanks, but Todd had never found an opportunity to deliver the message. Over a week had passed now and he had still not spoken to his ward about it. Well, now, at least, he would make good on that promise to the far off voice and tell Fairbanks about the call.

Todd approached Fairbanks' bedroom door, wondering why he felt such trepidation nearing a room of his own house. He grinned and shook it off. Such silliness. He knocked. Silence. Another knock.

"Jonny?"

He knocked again, louder this time.

"Jonny. Wake up. We need to talk. I have a message for you."

Todd waited. He blinked. Only now did he realize that he did not feel the usual buzzing of the boy's presence in the house. Frowning, he grasped the knob to the door and turned it. He looked inside the room. It was empty.

Todd stepped back into the hallway and checked his watch. It was one seventeen in the afternoon and Jonny Fairbanks was missing. Where had the little scamp gone now?

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01 January 2000
Paris, France
Bel Ami Hotel

The lights were out in her room. The curtains were drawn. Angela Carson wanted it as dark as possible, and as quiet, in her private suite. There was too much turmoil in her world at the moment and she wanted to blot out as much of it as she could.

Two months. I've been here for almost two months and all I've done is sit around and either listen to these people scheme about killing people or watch them come back from having killed people. I haven't done anything myself.

Do you want to take part in what they're doing?

Hell, no. And I'm glad they haven't asked me. So far, Siobhan has taught me a little bit about how to use a sword. Bits and pieces, but nothing really that would make me useful to them with what they're doing out there.

So you feel like a third wheel here, then?

Kinda, but they're more focused on their other work right now. Not me, exactly.

And you're worried that they may start seeing you as a burden.

A bit. I don't want that. Who knows what some of them might do if they start thinking that.

You think they might kill you?

You never know. Maybe. I've gotten myself into one hell of a mess, haven't I?

Yes, you have.

Besides, this is a war. A war! I'm not ready for that. I'm only nineteen, for God's sake. Sure, there are many soldiers who are that age, but they choose that life. I haven't.

But you're also an Immortal. Don't you need someone to teach you how to survive as one?

Well, sure. Of course, I need that. But can't I find someplace safe until all this killing is over and start my training after that?

Maybe. Siobhan won't be happy with you if you do that.

I can't think about that right now. I have to think about what's best for me at the moment.

How will you get out of here?

I don't know. I don't have enough money for a flight out of here. I'll have to ask one of the others to give me some money. And even for a lift or a taxi to the airport. Maybe Vincent. He seems nice enough. Or even that big guy. After you get past his stern looks, he's okay, too. Maybe one of them will help me.

How will you break it to Siobhan?

Oh, I don't know. I'll have to think about it. Right now, I just want to take a nap.

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01 January 2000
Paris, France
Bel Ami Hotel

Siobhan O'Banian was lost in her own thoughts, as well. She nursed a glass of wine, swirling the liquid absentmindedly as the myriad of notions danced in her mind. She took a sip each time she found herself in a quandary. Thus far, she had taken more sips than she had found solutions.

I have nine, maybe ten or eleven people here. With that, I have ta break a worldwide organization of spies who know everything about us, what we are, where we live, how we can die. At tha same time, I have ta keep Ashton an' his people from killin' us, as well.

I have a computer to tell me how many Watchers there are. Thousands. Even more if I count their families.

I have no idea how many people Ashton has. Or even where they are.

This is going ta be impossible if I have ta fight two fronts at tha same time. It's just going ta get us killed without any real progress.

What if I…No. I can't do that. That bastard would never agree ta it.

But why not? What if that is what he wants?

Ally against tha Watchers?

No, he would just want ta fight those he thinks are Hunters and that's it. As soon as they are done and I turn against tha rest, he'll come after me and I'm right back where I started.

But what if that gives me time to get more people on my side? To gather forces against his group and take them out when I do make my turn?

He'll be expectin' it.

Of course, he will. He's not stupid.

Wouldn't it be worth tha chance?

Maybe. Just maybe.

But what about Darren? What would he think of me?

He'd never forgive me. Tha''s for sure.

Can I live with that?

I don't know.

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01 January 2000
Quai Voltaire Hotel
Watcher Headquarters

"Talk to me, Jonathan," said Sather, continuing the weekend staff meeting of the Guardians. The other members of the staff huddled around the small table in Sather's office and consulted their notes. If all went well, they would be finished with their update and out for the day by two o'clock.

Jonathan Matzel, the operations and training officer for the Guardians, began his part of the briefing. "Sir, tomorrow, we begin the first official training class for the Guardians. We'll finally be able to put a stamp of legitimacy on our boys. No more of this running around as just a bunch of hodge-podge guys doing whatever the hell we remember from the old days. We'll have standard operating procedures and tactics, techniques, and procedures laid out for all of our typical actions. The first class will last three months and will graduate on the thirtieth of March. We will then start rotating one hundred students through the class until we have all of the initial set of volunteers trained."

"What about expansion?" asked Sather. "We had just under fourteen hundred volunteers in the original group and more since then. At one hundred per class, it will take over four years to train them all."

"I've got that worked out, sir," assured Matzel. He glanced at Bryan Green, the logistics officer, with a grin. "We'll take the most promising graduates from each class and assign them as cadre for the next class. Bryan already has people working on new training areas for them. They'll be able to fall in on those training grounds and accept new classes. Each successive term will be able to take on one more class than the previous. By the end of the first year, we'll have four classes; eight by the second year; we plan for a maximum of twelve concurrent classes by the end of year three."

"By then," added Patrick Bremmen, the personnel officer, "we'll start scaling back the size of the classes since we'll have worked through the initial set of volunteers. We'll also have people wanting to rotate back to normal Watcher duties by then and need to replace them with new candidates. We'll also have a secondary school setup specifically for cadre training by that point."

Sather looked to his side at Rebecca Capella. She smiled. He returned it and shared it with the rest of the staff.

"That is excellent work, gentlemen. Damn fine work."

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02 January 2000
Seattle, Washington

Jonathan Fairbanks was having a bad day. It was the sort of day when he felt every minute of his eight hundred years and every restriction of his fourteen-year-old frame. This kind of day hadn't come often in his lifetime. But when it did, he was hit with the sort of depression that made him question his continued fight to survive.

Perhaps it would be better to just give it up. Was death that bad? Mortals lived their lives knowing that death was waiting for them in the end. They even had a timeframe - seventy years probably, eighty perhaps, ninety if they were lucky. And for a few, a very few, one hundred.

Jonathan had known many mortals who were happy to see death when it arrived, when they had outlived all of their friends.

Jonny gave a deep sigh and blinked several times. It was times like this that he missed Ashton most acutely. Ashton had always sensed his oncoming depression - the madness that sometimes accompanied it - and somehow managed to avert it.

But David Ashton was gone. And Fairbanks didn't know where.

If he did, he would have sought him out and told him about the Hunter threat, and about Natalie Lansky. But his Immortal teacher seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth. Fairbanks had tried looking for him, but so far had come up against a brick wall. He wasn't in London. He wasn't in Greece. And he wasn't in Tahiti. Fairbanks had run out of places to look.

This time, he was on his own.

He was sitting in the doorway of a locked Catholic church, feet propped up on the red brick doorframe. It was night. Late. After two a.m. Yet, he still couldn't bring himself to go home.

David Ashton, before he left, had made arrangements for Jonny to move to Seattle to live with Todd and Sheila Whitaker. The Whitakers provided him with a roof over his head and a convenient adult when needed. Beyond that they left him to his own devices. Oh, they were friendly enough, and Fairbanks actually enjoyed the chess games he and Sheila had nightly…but they weren't David Ashton.

Fairbanks rolled his head back, eyes closed. This afternoon, he had taken himself off to the shopping mall in search of some new clothes. There he ran into the scourge of all teenagers - the bully, a boy three times his size with one thousandth of his intelligence. He had put up a suitably good fight, pulling his punches enough to make the bully hurt and think again before he picked on someone, but not so much as to appear like the Karate Kid.

Finally, after growing bored with the incessant wandering, he had sought the sanctuary of the church. Holy ground. A place to be safe and to think. Even here, fate seemed to be against him. It was more than five hours past midnight and the church doors were locked. Fairbanks remembered a time when a church never locked its doors. Sanctuary was available to the needy - and the Immortal - every minute of every hour of every day. But modern-day vandals and thieves had put an end to such practices, and most places of worship were only open when they had someone inside to safeguard their valuables.

For a brief moment, Fairbanks ached for the days of old. The days when he could wander through society garnering nary a glance. Three hundred years ago, the sight of someone his physical age wouldn't have warranted a second look. There was a lot to say for societal advancements and not all of it good. Eventually, neck and back becoming stiff from leaning against the cold, brick wall, Fairbanks sighed.

Well, I can't stay here all night, he thought grimly.

He pulled himself up to his feet, flexing his shoulders. He wandered down the church steps, eyes scanning the street. It was empty. Pulling his coat closer around him, the boy turned to the right and began to walk home.

He was almost there when he felt it. A tingling sensation that began at the base of his spine and ran up it, like someone running an ice cube up his back. It ended at the base of his neck, the tiny hairs there standing on end.

He pulled his wakizashi out from beneath his coat, hoping it was just Todd Whitaker coming to look for him.

It wasn't.

From the shadows that fell between two of the houses, Ferdie Huissen stepped out into the light, his sword already drawn.

Fairbanks looked at him for a brief moment, then snorted. "Piss off, Huissen. I'm in no mood for games." While taking a head might help relieve his depression, Fairbanks also knew that he wasn't at his best when he was this brooding. And Ferdie Huissen was not the sort of opponent one took chances with.

"Piss off?" Huissen repeated. "Funny, I've always thought it was, "there can be only one." But with all this new modernization, I suppose it was only a matter of time before that saying was updated. I have to say, I prefer the old saying. "Piss off" just doesn't have the same ring to it, does it?"

Jonny rolled his eyes. Obviously Huissen wasn't going to take the hint and slip quietly into the night. Might as well get on with it, he thought.

He swung the wakizashi in a brutal slash. When it connected, it was difficult to say who was more surprised, Fairbanks or Huissen. The blade sliced through Huissen's clothing and his skin, bearing him to the bone along the side of his ribcage. Scarlet red blood flowed freely.

Huissen hissed and readied his blade for a strike, but Fairbanks was prepared and countered his move almost immediately. The two swords smacked together, their sound ringing in the crisp night air.

Huissen pulled back and tried again, with the same result. A third time. And again Fairbanks blocked the move; this time backing it up with a flick of a wrist that caught Huissen by surprise. His blade twisted in his hand, bending his wrist at a painful angle. He felt the tendons snap and made to toss his blade into his other hand.

The weapon was midway between his hands when Fairbanks' blade caught it, smacking it out of the air like a bat with a baseball with the flat of his blade. The sword flew just beyond Huissen's grasp, landing harmlessly on the newly mown grass of the Whitaker's neighbor - the one who had reported the wayward nephew.

Jonny didn't wait for Huissen to move - or to speak. He simply switched the direction of his blade back the way he had just swung it, angling it upward. In the blink of an eye, the wakizashi neatly severed the neck of Ferdie Huissen.

"Next time I say "piss off," perhaps you'll listen," Fairbanks hissed. He hesitated, then moved into the center of the neighbor's lawn, where the Quickening would do the most damage, and waited.

xxxxxxxxxx

02 January 2000
Paris, France
Bel Ami Hotel

Sophie had finally stopped sobbing after Locke had informed her of the raid against Ashton's faction a week before. She had not taken the fact he had been gunned down and been rendered completely helpless well at all.

"Why do you do these things?" she demanded. "They could have killed you."

"But they wouldn't have," Locke insisted. "It's against our rules."

"The hell with your rules. You say all the time that these Hunters are breaking the rules. What is to stop other Immortals from doing the same?"

Locke had no answer for this and just stared at her. Tears flowed down her cheeks again, her cries continuing unabated. He gave her an annoyed look and went back to his meal. At times like this, he never knew when he'd get another one.

"I'm sorry," Sophie rasped, still shaking. "I'm sorry."

"Shhh," Locke soothed. He suddenly realized his arm was still around her shoulder and moved it abruptly.

"I don't feel very well. I think I need to lie down." Sophie cradled her head in her hands. It was true. She did look frightfully pale.

"You can take the bed in the other room," Vincent offered.

Sophie nodded her thanks. "Can you get me a glass of water?" she asked of Vincent. "And some Tylenol, if any one has any. Oh! Do you get headaches?"

"Oh, yes. Most of them inevitably inflicted by something Irish."

Sophie disappeared into the bedroom and Locke followed, requested drink and Tylenol in hand. He set the glass and the medication on the table and started to leave.

"Vincent," Sophie said hesitantly, pushing a strand of her shoulder length blonde hair behind her ear. The timing was off, she knew, but Locke's endangerment, and the sight of Payton Swift's head weeks before – a sight which had never left her mind since - had brought home the realization that this wasn't some Hollywood movie where the director could yell "Cut" and they could all just get up and go home. This was real, and if she was going to die, she was going to die knowing, not just wondering.

Locke turned from the bedroom doorway. "Yes?"

"Keep me company a while." She reached past him and closed the bedroom door firmly. "I don't want to be alone." She'd wanted him to herself all day, but the opportunity had never presented itself - until now. She tried hard to push the image of the severed head to the back of her mind, knowing that the memory would ruin any sort of romantic mood.

Locke swallowed nervously, his eyes dancing around the room, looking everywhere but at the young woman standing beside him. The touch of her hands on his chest made him jump. Sophie giggled.

"Vincent, you act like you've never been alone with a woman before."

"Of course, I have," he muttered. But I don't think my dentist counts.

Suddenly, her cool palm was against the side of his face, forcing him to look down at her. Their eyes met briefly, then her lips were touching his.

Locke automatically slid his arm around Sophie's waist, more to stop himself from falling than anything else. It must have been the right thing to do because she leaned into him, pressing her body to his.

Locke suddenly remembered the kissing scenes in several movies he had watched. Experimentally, he opened his mouth slightly, wondering if his boldness would frighten Sophie away.

It didn't.

Her tongue swept inside his mouth, shocking him. Locke gave a little cry and pulled back.

"What?" Sophie questioned. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No," Locke replied hurriedly, cursing himself. He was over four hundred years old, not some fifteen-year-old teenager. He shouldn't be acting this way.

"Then - where were we?" Sophie murmured, kissing him again. She didn't wait for him to open his mouth this time, simply nibbling his lower lip until he complied, then sweeping her tongue inside to rub playfully against his.

Locke's head was reeling. It was all he could do to remain standing. Now this was a kiss!

It took him several full minutes to realize that Sophie had managed to undo all the buttons on his shirt and was now sliding one hand inside. Her palm felt cool against his burning skin, and he could feel the goosebumps beginning to rise.

"Sophie, I think we'd better...," he began.

"Yes, Vincent. I think we'd better," she replied, stepping back and pulling her sweater over her head.

Locke screwed his eyes shut. "Sophie, that's not what I meant."

"You don't like me. I'm sorry, I thought you did." Sophie bit her lip and tried to hide her disappointment. She'd felt the attraction the first time he'd spoken to her in the alleyway. The entire time he had been telling her about Immortals, her gaze had been firmly planted on his lips, fighting the urge to kiss them.

"No, it's not that. I like you." Locke swallowed deeply. "I like you very much."

"Then it's her, isn't it? That redhead, Sinead, or whatever her name is."

Locke looked at her, trying to think who she meant. "Oh, you mean Siobhan."

"Yes, that's it. Siobhan. I didn't realize you two had something going." Sophie lowered her gaze. Damn and blast that woman! She had seen the almost proprietary look she had given Vincent, and Sophie hadn't liked it. Not one bit.

"Siobhan and I are just friends - that's all," Locke hurriedly reassured her. It was suddenly very important that Sophie knew that.

Sophie brought her gaze back up to meet Locke's. She breathed slowly. "Well, then..."

Locke tried to calm the loud pounding in his chest, sure that not only Sophie, but everyone behind the bedroom door could hear it. "Yes, well then...," he echoed, unable to think of any excuse as to why they should stop. If the truth be told, he was having a hard time thinking at all.

xxxxxxxxxx

Sophie wiggled in his arms, and gave another little sigh. Locke could just hear it over his thundering heartbeat. He lay back, head against the pillows, eyes closed.

"Vincent," Sophie began. "Are you sure you've never done that before?"

It had been just like the movies - and not the kind he and Tokawa rented from that little shop on the corner with the windows blackened (although there were a few similarities). This had been perfect!

"Believe me, Sophie, if I had done that before, I would have remembered," he assured her.

"Mon Seigneur! Parlez de doué!" (My lord! Talk about gifted!) she exclaimed.

"What?" Locke asked, his French not quite extending to an understanding of her sentence.

"Never mind," she told him.

They sank into a companionable silence, one that was neither uncomfortable nor uneasy. Sophie traced lazy circles on his chest. Locke could feel the goosebumps starting over again. Just as he was about to say something, Sophie shifted, pulling herself over him.

"What...What are you doing?" he stammered.

"Voyant si c'était la chance du débutant," (Seeing if it were just beginner's luck) she told him. She covered his mouth with hers, not giving him the chance to ask for a verbal translation.

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The next time Locke opened his eyes, it was morning. He felt the press of a naked back against his side, and heard a soft sigh.

Certain parts of his body had obviously been awake before he was and he was suddenly afraid to move. He didn't want to offend Sophie any more than he probably had done already.

What had come over him? He'd never acted so brazen before in his life. Locke lay completely still, letting the recollection of the previous night run through his brain, feeling his face become hotter and hotter with each memory. Hell, he should be thanking the gods that he hadn't killed her with his enthusiastic energy. The best thing for him to do now would be to make a graceful exit. Let Sophie have some time to herself to come to terms with the nightmare through which she had just lived. After this he'd be lucky if she could look at him again without slapping his face, let alone talk to him.

Locke tried to extricate his arm from beneath Sophie, but only succeeded in waking her more. She rolled over to face him, gracing him with another of her brilliant smiles.

"Good morning," she murmured.

"Good morning," he parroted. The quilt was halfway down the bed, leaving them both naked from the waist up. Vincent tried to concentrate his gaze on Sophie's face, but frequently found his eyes shifting lower. He waited for her vehement tirade to begin.

Instead, she giggled. "Oh, Vincent, you are a delightful surprise."

"I am?" he gulped. He could feel the goosebumps starting again.

"Yes, you are."

Locke felt a small, soft hand in places that, last night, only he had touched. He gave a little gasp.

"Sophie, it's daylight."

"Uh huh," she replied, smiling. "Time for me to see what I missed last night. I still can't understand why you wouldn't let me turn on a lamp." She silenced his protests with a kiss.

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Almost an hour later, Locke lay prone and panting on the bed. He felt Sophie move, and managed to raise his head slightly, watching her pad naked to the bathroom. She stopped and gave him a come hither look over her shoulder. His response was to lay his head back on the pillow - and groan.

Once she was gone, Locke quickly dressed and let himself out of the bedroom. The woman was insatiable and he desperately needed to catch his breath. Then, he'd go back for more.

Tokawa, MacBane and Faaris were gathered in the living room, all watching the morning news. Tokawa and MacBane's heads swiveled round with lightning speed when they heard the bedroom door open.

Locke came into the suite, saw the three of them, and halted.

Tokawa stared at him, goggle-eyed, mouth hanging open. Before he could ask the question, Locke graced him with a withering look and stalked out of the suite, muttering something about fetching coffee.

"I do believe you gentlemen each owe me a hundred dollars," Omeir Faaris remarked, his eyes still on the T.V.

Silently, Tokawa and MacBane both reached into their wallets.

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02 January 2000
Seattle, Washington

The Quickening left him gasping for breath, heart racing and head reeling. Fairbanks was on his knees, the charred remains of what had been the neighbor's front lawn beneath him. Slowly he rolled onto his side, groaning. He didn't know how long he lay there, at first waiting for the house lights to come on. Later, when he realized they weren't going to, he wondered what sort of drugs someone would have to take to sleep through the sound of a Quickening.

"Jonny?"

The voice startled him. He'd been so deep in his reverie he hadn't noted the presence. Inattention, he knew, was only good for one thing - getting him killed. Fairbanks rolled quickly to his knees, fingers clasped around the hilt of his sword.

"Jonny? It's Todd. You okay?"

Fairbanks recognized the voice and relaxed. "Yeah. I'm fine."

"Sheila and I saw the light. Any one I know?" The seemingly older man was standing over Fairbanks now, looking around intently.

Todd Whitaker looked in his mid-thirties, but was, in reality, almost two hundred. Raised the son of a southern plantation owner, he still retained a hint of a southern accent; the drawl becoming stronger when he was under stress. David Ashton had been his teacher, something Todd was eternally grateful for. He hadn't hesitated in saying yes when Ashton had called him about providing a home for Fairbanks. Sheila Whitaker, his mortal wife, hadn't been, and still wasn't convinced it was a good idea. That was what their earlier fight had been about.

"Ferdie Huissen," Jonny replied. He shakily pulled himself to his feet, shaking off the last of the Quickening's effects.

Todd gave a low whistle. He knew of Huissen's reputation for prowess in battle. "Man, you play in the big leagues." Secretly he was glad Huissen had found Fairbanks. Todd wasn't sure he'd have survived the fight if Huissen had knocked on his door first.

"Trust me, I'd rather be in the minors," Jonny replied. He moved over to Huissen's headless body, contemplating what to do.

"Hey, I'll take care of him. Ahmmm, you got a message." Todd hesitated, not sure if the message was from a friend or an enemy. Perhaps he should have waited until tomorrow. "A guy named Darren called a few days ago. I've been waiting to give you the message. He left a number in France."

Fairbanks' head came up abruptly. "Darren? Darren Dublin?"

Todd nodded.

"Where's the number?" Fairbanks was already on his way toward the house.

"By the phone," Todd replied, turning his attention back to the decapitated Immortal on his neighbor's front lawn.

Fairbanks took the front steps two at a time, not bothering to kick off his shoes at the door. He moved directly to the kitchen, eyes scanning the various pieces of paper that were pinned to the corkboard. Finally, he found it.

'Darren Dublin/011-33-1-43-59-9300/802'

He didn't hesitate, but reached for the phone and dialed. The pips of a long-distance call sounded, then an unfamiliar ring, followed by a click and a crisp female voice, speaking in French.

"Bonjour. L'Hôtel Raphael. Comment est-ce que je puis vous aider?" (Hello. Hotel Raphael. How may I help you?)

Fairbanks easily slipped into the same language. "Bonjour. Oui. Suite huit zéro deux, s'il vous plaît." (Hello. Yes. Suite 802 please.)

"Un moment, s'il vous plaît." (One moment, please.) More clicks and unfamiliar rings. Jonny gripped the phone, willing Dublin to answer, but the phone simply continued to ring.

After a while, the hotel operator came back on. "Je suis désolé. Il n'y a aucune réponse. Aimez-vous laisser un message ou appeler encore plus tard?" (I'm sorry. There is no answer. Would you like to leave a message or call again later?)

Fairbanks sighed. "J'essayerai encore plus tard. Merci. Ah, ce qui veuillez être votre adresse?" (I will try again later. Thank you. Oh, what is your address please?) He reached for another piece of paper and a pen.

"Nous sommes localisés à 17 Avenue Kléber," [We are located at 17 Avenue Kléber,) the operator replied.

"À Paris, droite?" (In Paris, right?)

The woman laughed. "Oui, Monsieur, nous sommes à Paris?" (Yes, sir, we are in Paris.)

"Merci."

Fairbanks hung up the phone. He paused only a second before turning and heading down the hall toward his bedroom. Once there he began to stuff his clothes into a carryall. Dublin didn't call often, and he only left a number when there was a problem. Fairbanks already knew what the problem was.

Hunters.