"One may not reach the dawn save by the path of the night." -- Kahlil Gibran
Chapter 4
It was quiet outside the warehouse by the time Sydney and Adam carefully approached the rear. They had left Nigel parked half a block away, with strict instructions to stay put, and keep an eye out for any surprise visitors. The plan was simple: sneak into the warehouse, take a quick look around for the smuggled items from the Aerino cache, and leave, to alert the police. At least, that was the plan Sydney had come up with. Adam had an agenda of his own.
Sydney realised, with some surprise, that the lean man beside her was very good at moving silently. He was dressed in black, as was she, though she had a professional looking jumpsuit on, compared to his jeans and sweater.
The window was rigged with an alarm. It took Sydney a couple of minutes to disarm it. She got the window open as quietly as she could, and was through it in a moment. Adam followed her, moving as quickly and quietly as a cat burglar, handing her the bulky knapsack she had brought along. They landed in a darkened room, filled with massive shipping containers.
Adam tapped her shoulder and motioned at the surveillance camera mounted on a wall. Sydney nodded; it was a temperature sensitive device, a make she was familiar with. Pretty hi-tech for an ordinary warehouse, she reflected, pulling a black box out of the knapsack. She flipped a switch and put it down on the floor. It was a powerful radiator. In moments, the ambient temperature of the room would be several degrees higher than the range of human body heat. Effectively, the device would be rendered blind.
Sydney risked turning on a small flashlight, playing it over their surroundings. Chemicals from Ferrars' factory, she concluded.
That had been unexpected, discovering that David Ferrars was a part of the Antiquities black market. He had always seemed so respectable, so clean and above board. But his close links to the University, and to the history department had probably helped him keep a foot in both worlds. And the bastard was at the fund raiser right now, playing the generous benefactor.
Time enough for recriminations later, focus on the job at hand, she reminded herself. She cautiously headed into the next room, which was dimly lit by a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Another black box from her bag of tricks took care of the camera. But the area beyond the door on the far side was brightly illuminated, and from the sound of voices, it was occupied. She sidled up to the door, which was ajar, and peeped around. Three disreputable looking men were sitting around the loading area of the warehouse, talking. One was telling a fishing story, if his gestures were any indication.
Sydney glanced around for her partner in crime, and realised he wasn't there. She cursed silently, and was about to go looking for him, when he emerged from the first room, looking cautiously around. She beckoned him over, making a shushing motion as she did so. He ended beside her, flat against the wall, and trying to catch a glimpse of what lay beyond the door. She explained, in a low voice.
Further reconnaissance told them that there were several interesting crates lying in the lighted area, one in the back of a pickup truck parked just inside the entrance. The three men, one dressed in denim, and the other two in leather jackets, were easily recognisable as hired muscle. Their presence meant that Sydney and Adam would have to be be very careful, and quiet.
The room they were hiding in also contained similarly marked crates stacked neatly in a corner. Sydney eased the door closed, and turned her attention to the latter. Adam was before her, carefully prying the lid of the nearest one loose. Sydney barely restrained her whoop of triumph.
It contained a set of armour that matched Sandro's description. She picked up the breast plate and turned it to see what was inscribed inside. The markings were in a cleanly incised cuneiform script: early Akkadian, Sydney recognised. She squinted at the writing in the dim light, struggling to recall her knowledge of the script: Me-tu-tu? What did that mean? She laid it aside for the moment, and looked at her companion, who was staring, like a man turned to stone, at something else within the box.
It was a visor, or a face mask, elaborately fashioned to look like a skull. Sydney nudged her companion, bringing him abruptly back to the present. He nodded as she gestured to the other boxes. They quickly had them all open, discovering an assortment of precious items, though not from the Aerino cache. There was a mix of statuary, ivories, and some old jewelry that resembled the findings at Troy. What a diligent bunch of grave robbers, Sydney thought. Some of this stuff had come from as far afield as China. She was just about to suggest that they get the hell out of there and call the police, when fate took a hand.
There was a crash in the corner of the room. Startled, both she and Adam turned to look: it was a cat, who had just pushed a small ceramic statue off the top of a crate and on to the floor. Sydney exchanged a horrified glance with her companion. This was sure to bring the men from the front of the warehouse in here to investigate. She noticed that Adam closed his eyes for a long moment, and the oddest expression flitted over his face.
Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase 'cat burglar'. Did I break some feline taboo somewhere? What is it with cats when I'm trying to break into places? he mused, before turning his mind to the more immediate problem. Those goons would be in here in a minute, and there was no way their intrusion would go undetected, not with the crates lying open in plain sight. He ran through and discarded several options as they occurred to him: it looked like they would have to do this the old fashioned way.
Sydney signalled to him, silently; you go left, I'll go right, she mouthed. He nodded, and silently glided to the opposite side of the door. The man who walked through the door had just enough time to say, "Hey, umph," since Sydney's kick caught him squarely in the temple and knocked him cold.
"Joey?" a voice queried seconds later. When there was no response, the two remaining men glanced each other and then rose, drawing their guns. They moved as a well coordinated team, standing on either side of the door, with their backs to the wall. The larger of the two swung rapidly to face the door and kicked it open. The door bounced off the wall on the other side, but brought no further reaction.
The denim clad goon stepped cautiously into the room, his gun extended in front of him. He turned around cautiously, and screamed as a bundle of hissing, spitting, clawing fur landed on his face. He dropped the gun to fight off this disconcerting menace, and was promptly clubbed senseless by Adam's flashlight wielding hand.
The other thug charged through the door and had the gun kicked out of his hand by a fierce looking woman. He put his hands up in a defensive position, but to no avail, as she punched him, kicked him in the stomach, and then put a knee in his face as he doubled over in pain.
"Nice kitty," Adam said, kneeling to run a caressing hand over the back of the small tortoiseshell cat who had been the cause of their discovery. She purred and rubbed against his knee, apparently forgiving him for picking her up and throwing her so unceremoniously at the nasty man's face.
"If you're quite finished," Sydney prompted acidly. He raised a hand in surrender, and went to look for something to secure their prisoners with. He came up with a roll of duct tape, which he then used to bind their ankles, wrists, and mouths very tightly indeed.
Sydney returned from the front room to signal that the coast was clear, and they walked out into the loading area. The crate in the pickup truck proved to contain a good portion of the coins from Sandro's find. One of the other crates on the warehouse floor revealed what Sydney was most interested in: a rolled-up set of scrolls, carefully protected from the outside air by a layer of clear plastic film. At least Ferrars was taking every precaution, Sydney thought sourly.
Fascinated, she failed to notice the cold, fixed expression on Adam's face. She pulled a cell phone from her pocket to talk to Nigel. "We've got it. The stuff's here." She paused to listen. "No, no trouble. We'll be out in a few minutes."
She saw Adam stiffen, and was about to ask him why when the main loading door rolled open unexpectedly. There were four men on the other side, four large, dangerous looking men with guns tucked conspicuously into belts and shoulder holsters. The two parties froze for an instant, staring at each other. Adam and Sydney moved first, diving in opposite directions for cover.
A hail of gunfire erupted, tapering off to a halt as the one of the men shouted, "Stop! You'll damage the merchandise!"
Sydney heaved a sigh of relief. Except that this now left the two of them to handle four, hand to hand. And she had no idea how well Adam would do in that sort of confrontation, despite the surprising inventiveness he had shown earlier. Oh well, no use worrying: she had faced worse odds. The reckless joy that she always felt during a fight welled up, and she grinned dangerously.
"Let's do it!" she said fiercely, and leapt out to meet the first of their opponents. She was quickly engaged in a fast moving fight with two of the men, rolling, kicking, blocking and striking.
Instead of immediately following her example, Adam remained where he was. Unseen by anyone, his face was for a moment, quite unrecognisable. He drew a small gadget from under the baggy sweater, and pressed a button. There was a tremendous explosion from the back of the warehouse, followed by the roar of a rapidly spreading fire.
The chemicals in the storage tanks had ignited, and the flames were spreading quickly. Everyone was caught by surprise, and Adam seized the opportunity afforded by the sudden calm to scramble into the driver's seat of the pickup truck. The key was still in the ignition, and the engine roared to life. "Come on!" he yelled at Sydney.
The sound of sirens approaching had the four men running for the exit after a brief confused hesitation. Sydney looked torn. "We can't leave this stuff!" she cried out.
"We can't be caught here! The firemen will be here any minute, let's go!"
"At least let me get the scrolls!" she insisted, running for the crates.
"No wait, I'll take care of them. You have to cut those guys in the back room loose! They'll be trapped!" Adam countered.
Sydney hesitated, then looked at the rapidly gaining fire and ran for the back door. She emerged soon after, urging two of the men forward with the aid of a captured gun. The third man, still unconscious, was half-carried, half-dragged by his companions.
Released, the hired guns ran out with great alacrity, taking their insensible comrade with them. By this time, the roof was blazing, and in imminent danger of collapse. "Come on!" Adam yelled again, and Sydney noticed with horror that several of the crates in the front room were on fire. Probably sparks from the ceiling, she realized.
She threw herself into the passenger seat, and they drove out with a screech of tires. They exited the building just in time, as the roof fell in.
Adam didn't stop until they were confronted by a frantic-looking Nigel. He had a distinctly manic expression until he saw that both Sydney and Adam had made it safely out of the raging inferno which was all that was left of the warehouse.
"Did you manage to save the scrolls?" Sydney asked urgently.
"I did manage to get a couple of boxes loaded, but there was no time to check which ones," Adam explained regretfully. "There were pieces of debris dropping from the roof, and a few of the crates were on fire."
Sydney and Nigel scrambled into the back of the pickup to check the contents of the boxes. One contained coins, and there were two more, containing priceless statuary and jewels. But no scrolls.
"Damn it!" Sydney slammed a fist into the side of the truck. "We were so close! And now they're gone forever."
"I'm sorry," Adam said gently.
"It wasn't your fault," Sydney admitted grudgingly. "How the hell did that fire get started anyway?"
"Probably an electrical spark or something. Those chemicals were highly flammable," Adam suggested.
"Yeah. First the cat, then the fire; there was a jinx on the whole affair. And here we are, with no scrolls, no armour... Damn!"
"It's not like we're completely empty handed," Nigel reminded her. "The coins and the statues are quite a respectable haul. Should provide material for lots of interesting research."
"It's not the same, and you know it. That suit of Bronze Age armour, for instance. That was a piece of history!"
"Maybe some history is meant to stay buried," Adam said.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"Boss, the cops are all over the place now!" the leather-clad leader of men from the warehouse said urgently into the phone.
David Ferrars scowled and turned his back on the sounds of the fund raiser in the ballroom behind him. "Describe the two people you caught at the warehouse before the fire," he demanded.
"It was that Sydney Fox woman from the University. And the other guy was the skinny character you had us take a shot at last night. Funny thing though, his shoulder didn't seem to bother him at all. I know I got him, boss."
"It doesn't matter. Get out of town and lay low for a while. I'll contact you in Chicago."
"What about you, boss?"
"I'll pick up a couple of things from my place, and move on. We may have to relocate operations - time enough for that later. Just get moving quickly."
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"What happened?" Amy Thomas asked Methos as he climbed into the car she had waiting.
"There was a fire," he said briefly.
"Yes, I realize that - the news is all over the emergency channels," she said drily, gesturing at the police band radio in the front of the car. "What about the scrolls?"
"Gone." He was still curt and uncommunicative.
She studied his blank expression for a few silent moments and then started the car. "Did you have to burn them? You could have brought them with you - at least then the knowledge of those missing years wouldn't be lost completely."
"It's not lost. It's still up here," he said coldly, tapping his head. "I'm not sure the rest of the world is ready to hear about it just yet."
"Ferrars drove off from the fund raiser in a big hurry," she said, when he appeared disinclined to say more. "Like a bat out of hell, his Watcher said."
He looked at her, and his face softened. "Thank you," he said softly. "I appreciate your help, Amy."
"It's nothing," she said uncomfortably. "What now?"
"Now, I go and keep an overdue appointment with my relic smuggling friend," he told her. "This is where I get off, I think."
"Don't be ridiculous. I'd just have to drive behind you all the way. Besides, your coat's still in the back of this car."
He stared at her for a long moment, amusement growing, till she turned to snap at him, "What?!"
"Just thinking: like father, like daughter. Do you know your eyes look just like Joe's when you're angry?"
"Oh, shut up!" she snarled, resolutely keeping her eyes on the road.
"You even sound like him," he said, chuckling irrepressibly.
They drove silently the rest of the way to David Ferrar's luxurious estate. He lived alone, except for a housekeeper who came in first thing in the morning. His Watcher noted that he preferred a secluded lifestyle, with even the help leaving in the evenings. Convenient, for an Immortal who engaged in illegal activities outside the scope of his day job.
Amy parked the car just outside the open wrought iron gate. They both got out, looking at the empty path that led to the colonial style mansion. The grounds were brilliantly flood lit, but the house itself was in darkness. Methos drew his Ivanhoe and moved forward, his movements assuming a spare, deadly grace.
"Where's his Watcher?"
"Around somewhere, I suppose. She did say he had left the party, but they may not be here yet. We were driving pretty fast."
Methos smiled grimly. "He's here, all right."
Oh. Of course, he would know, Amy realized. She followed him across the ornamental lawn toward the front door. It was standing open, though all the lights were out. All was still and quiet, unnaturally so. Methos approached the door with that odd, relaxed readiness that somehow suggested danger. She had seen him this way once before, when he had confronted Morgan Walker.
"Aren't you supposed to announce yourself or something?" she blurted nervously.
"You've been listening to Joe talk about the Highlander," Methos said, smiling crookedly. "He's the one who goes around shouting, 'I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.' Somehow, I don't think that 'Adam Pierson of nowhere in particular' has quite the same ring, do you?"
Amy had to smile at that. "Be careful," she said as he inched past her.
"Always," he said softly, his eyes focussed ahead. "Stay back here," he told her, before vanishing into the stygian blackness on silent feet.
She rolled her eyes. Oh yes, as though I would go scurrying around behind him in the dark. She settled down to wait.
Methos walked, poised for trouble, into the narrow hallway of the mansion, feeling Ferrars' presence nearby. He emerged into what seemed to be a large open room, and heard the door slide closed behind him. Remote controlled, he surmised. There was not a glimmer of light anywhere.
Coming in from the dazzling brightness of the grounds, his eyes would take some time to accustom themselves to the gloom. So, the man wanted to play games in the dark, did he? Well, Methos knew all the games, had invented many of them, and to tell the truth, loved to play. As long as he made the rules.
Catching a whisper of sound, he sensed Campbell -- no, it was Ferrars now, wasn't it -- glide down the room to his right. No doubt the younger Immortal thought he was completely undetected. But the ancient man he was trying to stalk had been night-fighting for nearly as long as his eidetic mind could recall.
Ferrars had used this trick before. He had just been about to leave when he felt the other man arrive. Drawing his weapon, he had waited in the dark, knowing that it would take a few critical minutes before the other man's eyes adapted to see in the utter blackness that surrounded them. Moreover, this was Ferrars' own territory: he knew every inch of the space around him, giving him all the advantage over his blind adversary.
But there were other senses than just sight at Methos' disposal. There was hearing. A dozen little scrapings and rustlings, almost indistinguishable from the faint sounds that houses always made: a board creaking and settling, warped by age, the stir of a curtain in the breeze, the subdued gurgling of water in the pipes that ran through the walls.
Then there was smell; the traces of expensive after-shave still lingering around Ferrars. The distinctive prickle of fine brandy: probably Armagnac, Methos identified absently, every nerve preternaturally alive and turned to the task of sensing his opponent. The odor of perspiration mixed with the unmistakable scent of excitement and fear. Methos almost grinned in anticipation. Fear was an old friend.
And last but not least, there was feel. There were a million stories to learn if a man were paying attention. The slight displacement of air against Methos' bare forearms, that meant his opponent was moving. The minute shift in the direction from which the telltale buzz emanated. The tiny vibration in the floor when the other man walked.
When Ferrars swung at his target's neck, the blow was perfectly parried. And returned with frightening accuracy. Suddenly, the aggressor found that he was being pursued and forced to retreat from a series of perfectly controlled, relentless strokes that were aimed with uncanny skill.
The man must have eyes like a cat! Ferrars thought, and hastily decided to change tactics. He turned and ran for the wall and flipped the hidden switch that waited there.
"Fiat lux," Methos commented sardonically, as the enormous room was suddenly awash with the brilliance of half a dozen chandeliers. He hesitated not a whit, chasing the other man down, crowding him against the barrier of the walls, till Ferrars made a desperate rush for the ornate staircase that wound its stately way down the middle of the hall.
The younger man was panting slightly, not so much from the exertion as from the force of his shock. He was struggling now to parry his whipcord thin opponent, who had never given him any indication of this level of skill before. His reluctance to fight had made Ferrars discount him as a threat.
The tactics with the dark room were merely an attempt to put his opponent off balance; for David Ferrars was a careful man. He had learned early to gain every advantage he could, and saw no reason to waver from his usual pattern. His combination of caution and cunning had always brought him success before. And yet, this lean, impudent Doctor, apparently more scholar than knave, had brushed his preparations aside like so much chaff.
Now the red-haired Immortal was fighting for his life, backing slowly up the stairs as the pale, dark-haired man he faced pressed home his advantage, wielding his 40-inch broadsword like an extension of his arm. To Ferrars's eyes, the end seemed to come in slow motion. He watched, unable to bring his sword up in time as the smooth reverse strike caught him across the ribs, hard enough to shatter bone. When he stumbled forward, he knew the sword would slice into the back of his neck as he fell.
The quickening was relatively short, but sufficiently spectacular, at least to the bedazzled eyes of the Watcher who witnessed its effects from a safe distance outside the mansion. A sudden terrible misgiving shook her, as she wondered which man would emerge from the aftermath of the pyrotechnic display. Until this moment, she had not doubted that Methos would win. Ferrars was not reckoned to be an extraordinary swordsman, and from everything Joe had said, the mild-mannered 'Adam Pierson' was extremely skilled.
But there was always chance. Wars had been lost on the uncertain whims of fortune, and Amy found that she was holding her breath when a lone figure emerged from the backdrop of the now lighted hallway. She let it out slowly in a sigh, at the sight of the unmistakable silhouette. Contrary to her instincts, it had been a short fight, less than five minutes in duration, she realized, glancing at her watch, even counting the dramatic beginning in utter darkness. The Quickening had lasted for about the same length of time.
Do all Watchers feel this way? she wondered. Or will time start flowing normally when I grow more accustomed to witnessing Immortal combat?
Methos approached, sword negligently held point up against his shoulder. He cocked a half-friendly, half-mocking grin at her and she found herself returning it.
"I'm glad to see that you do take good advice on occasion," he said, tucking the sword neatly away into his coat with a quick motion.
"Just going by the book," she retorted. "'Stay a safe distance away from the fight, especially if there is the likelihood of a Quickening inside an enclosed space. Unexpected side effects like electrical fires or exploding windows can injure careless bystanders who get too close.'"
It was a quote from the Watchers manual, and one of the first lessons drilled into a rookie's head. Of course, it was also frequently ignored by Watchers who could not resist the temptation to witness the excitement of the fight itself.
They walked away from the house, and were well past the gate when a loud explosion rocked the night. The shock of displaced air flung both of them forward onto their knees in the grass. Amy spun around to see the pillars framing the doorway of the mansion collapse. With a dull roar, the entire building seemed to slowly implode, falling inward on itself. Flames licked their way up the walls that still remained standing.
"What was that?" Amy gasped, eyes wide.
"One of those unexpected side effects you were just talking about," Methos explained blandly.
She glared at him, "Do you like blowing things up and setting places on fire? First the warehouse, and now this. Why on earth would you want to set a bomb here?"
He made a deprecating gesture. "The police will be here any time, you know." He levelled a speaking glance at her. "Did you want them discovering a decapitated corpse? This way, hopefully, it will look like one of his bad business decisions caught up with him. Smuggling antiquities is a dangerous trade."
"Right, and the fact that you couldn't be sure he hadn't kept a scroll or two for himself had nothing to do with it," Amy stated drily.
"Nothing to do with it," he echoed. "All the scrolls were in the crate back at the warehouse. I checked."
The sound of sirens in the distance warned them. "That's our cue," Methos said, pulling the car door open for Amy.