Who Watches the Watcher?
A Highlander novel by Sisiutil
This story is fictional and does not contain any references to any actual persons living or dead. All characters contained in this story who appeared in the Highlander franchise are the property of Warner Media/Davis Panzer Productions, Inc.
Chapter 10: Ortega
Theresa and Marcellus were parked in a dark, mostly-empty parking garage beneath a hotel near downtown, waiting like two cops on a stake-out. They both sipped from cups of take-out coffee and sat quietly in his car once he'd finished his tale. Marcellus' katana was carefully placed beside his right leg, its hilt resting against his hip.
"Wow," Theresa muttered quietly. She blinked rapidly, then turned away from Marcellus as she wiped away a tear that rolled down her cheek. "Okay. That was...even more romantic than I'd ever imagined. I mean, it was terrible too, but...still." She shook her head, then turned to look at the pensive Immortal, who stared straight ahead, his gaze intent on a black limousine parked a few yards away. "Thank you," she said.
He stole a glance at her. "For what?"
"For sharing that with me," she answered, her eyes shining.
"We had some time to kill," Marcellus said with a shrug, his eyes back on the limo.
Theresa stared at his impassive profile as they sat in silence and waited. She had known Marcellus' story for most of her adult life, but she had not truly known the man. Not until last night—and she knew she was only scratching the surface.
Theresa knew the Immortal was a man of deep, turbulent passions—passion for Rome, for his wife, and now for revenge. But he didn't let that show. He'd just shared the most intensely personal story of his life with her, but now he shut her out completely. He sat stonily in the car as though they'd been discussing nothing more important than the weather.
She thought about saying something, about pushing away that controlled, emotionless facade as Alodia had. But she knew she wouldn't succeed. Marcellus had loved Alodia, that's why he had let her in past his barriers and defenses. Theresa herself was...a distraction, at best, she told herself. She wished she could be more, but that was impossible. He was an Immortal. She was a Watcher.
And yet, here she was, talking to him and querying him about his past—a complete violation of the Watchers' most fundamental protocols. She found herself questioning those rules she'd lived by for so many years. How rewarding it was to contact one of these people, to hear their stories first hand! Perhaps Joe Dawson was onto something.
Or maybe the other Watchers, particularly the ones most critical of Dawson, were simply jealous. They'd cautioned her, Simons and the other Watchers, especially because of her family's close relationship with Dawson, not to follow in his footsteps. Lizzy Knight had made that easy; Theresa had never wanted to get closer than twenty feet to the woman, and even that often felt too close. But to be talking to Lucius Gaius Marcellus, to be hearing his love story first-hand...it was the sort of thing a Watcher dreamed of, but never admitted.
Theresa shifted her gaze back to the limousine they were watching. On the other hand, she wondered if the more traditional Watchers had a point. It was one thing to talk to Marcellus about his life. It was quite another to be helping him hunt another Immortal as she was. If the Watchers found out about this, she'd be thrown out faster than she could blink.
Or worse; at one point, the Watchers had put Joe Dawson through a kangaroo court and had then attempted to execute him. Theresa tried to imagine facing a firing squad as Dawson had. Would she be willing to do the same? Just to help Marcellus avenge the woman he'd loved for a thousand years? Theresa glanced back at the stoic Roman. Yes, she realized, I would. The revelation shocked her, but she realized it made sense. Just by being here, I'm sacrificing all the principles I've lived by for over a decade. Why wouldn't I be willing to sacrifice my life as well?
"That's why you told me the story, isn't it?" Theresa suddenly said.
"What?" Marcellus responded, frowning.
"That love story. You and Alodia," she went on. "You told it to me to make sure I'd be willing to help you."
Marcellus shifted a little uneasily in his seat. "I told you the story because you asked me to," he said. "You'd already agreed to help me. Insisted on it, in fact."
Theresa smiled softly and shook her head. "It doesn't matter," she said, then sighed. "Your story did a number on me long ago. At the tender, impressionable age of sixteen, I read the tale of a warrior who swore off war for the sake of a love that lasted a thousand years," she said poetically, her voice soft and wistful, "and I was doomed."
"Don't say that," Marcellus murmured. He gently covered her hand with his. Her heart skipped a beat at his touch. "Don't tempt the Fates like that." Before she could respond, his body tensed and he removed his hand. "Here they come," he said.
Theresa looked out the window of Marcellus' car and saw four figures approaching the limousine. She quietly opened her car door and slid out, staying low and ducking behind a nearby concrete pillar to stay out of sight. Her black pants and jacket made her difficult to see in the gloom of the parking garage. Marcellus remained in the driver's seat and prepared to start the engine.
The four men approached the limousine, opened the doors, and climbed in—two in the front, two in the back. The limo's engine started; the lights came on. The big car began to back out of its parking space. The driver turned the car as it backed up until it pointed forward, towards the parking garage's exit.
Marcellus' car was parked in a spot ahead and to the left of the limo. He fired up his engine and, just as the limo began to pull forward, lurched his car forward into its path. The limo tilted forward and its tires squealed briefly as the driver hit the brakes to avoid a collision. The doors of the limo opened and a grim smile curled the corners of Marcellus' lips. He had assessed his opponents correctly. These men weren't the type to back away from a confrontation. When caught in an ambush by an unknown opponent, the wisest course of action is retreat. Wisdom, however, obviously played second fiddle to machismo with drug-dealing thugs.
Marcellus threw open his door and, as he emerged, pulled a special pistol from inside his leather coat. He aimed the gun over the top his car's roof and took two quick shots. He hit the driver and the man on the front passenger side, both of whom had just emerged from the limo. They were drawing their guns but were hit before they could bring their weapons to bear. The impact of the shot threw each man back against the open door behind them, and they then slid down to the pavement, unconscious.
Marcellus had used a high-tech tranquilizer dart gun to incapacitate the two men out of deference to Theresa. He had no desire to make her an accessory to murder, even if the world would be no poorer for the loss of the two hoodlums. With the first two men incapacitated, that left the two men in the rear of the limousine. Marcellus would see to Mr. Duke, leaving the remaining man to Theresa's not-so-tender mercies.
The young Watcher had sprung into action the moment she saw the limo's doors open. Theresa had been in position next to the concrete pillar near the big car's left side. She left the other three men to Marcellus and targeted the man emerging from behind the driver. She recognized the thug as the sandy-haired pervert who had felt her up when he'd frisked her the night before. Oh goody, she thought as she moved in on him.
The driver standing in front of the man denied Marcellus a clear shot at the sandy-haired thug, and vice-versa. He drew his weapon just as Theresa reached him. She kicked at the door, slamming it against the man. The top of the door caught his right hand, which held his weapon. The man flinched and grunted in pain, but held on to his gun. Theresa threw the left side of her body heavily against the car door, pinning the man and allowing her to face him. She viciously struck out at the man's right wrist with her left elbow once, twice, making him yell in pain. He dropped his weapon after the second strike. It clattered to the concrete as he angrily shoved the door open; Theresa deftly kicked the gun under the limo then danced around the door to face the thug.
"Hi there," she said with a smile as she took a defensive Tae Kwon Do stance, "remember me?"
The man's lips peeled back into something resembling both a sneer and a lecherous grin, indicating that he did. Good, Theresa thought. The man stepped towards her and swung his right arm in a roundhouse punch. Theresa easily side-stepped the telegraphed punch, and when the man had fully extended his arm and was off-balance, she grabbed his right wrist with her right hand and drove the palm of her left hand into his elbow. The man's arm broke with a sickening snap. He shrieked in pain and dropped to his knees.
"Guess you don't have much luck with girls unless you've got a buddy holding a gun on one, huh?" Theresa remarked. She then pulled her right leg back and swung it forward, catching the man's head with a low roundhouse kick. The impact threw his head against the edge of the car door and he fell to the concrete, unconscious.
Meanwhile, Marcellus saw Duke's burly figure emerge from the right rear side of the limo. Duke was reaching inside his coat, fumbling for a gun. Marcellus dropped his tranquilizer gun onto the roof of his car, reached inside his coat and deftly pulled out a Japanese throwing star. As Duke pulled out his gun, Marcellus flung the star with an accuracy honed through centuries of practice. Duke bellowed as the star hit the back of his right hand, the pain forcing him to drop his weapon. He could have tranquilized Duke as well, but he needed him awake. And afraid.
Marcellus pulled out his katana and ran around his car towards Duke. The burly criminal was on his knees behind the rear door, his left hand fumbling for the gun he'd dropped. Just as he latched on to it, Marcellus stepped around the car door and swung his katana, just stopping it as it touched Duke's wrist. The razor-sharp edge of the sword made a tiny incision in the man's skin, and he froze. He looked up at Marcellus, a mixture of fear, anger, and astonishment registering on his broad face.
"Did I ever tell you what happened to the last person who drew a gun on me?" Marcellus asked with a confident grin.
Duke released the handgun and Marcellus kicked it away, underneath a nearby car. He motioned for Duke to stand, then shifted the sword so its cutting edge rested against the man's throat. Marcellus stole a glance at the other side of the limo just in time to see Theresa take down her sandy-haired nemesis.
"Do you feel better now that you've vented your feelings?" Marcellus asked clinically from the other side of the car where he still held Duke at sword-point.
"Much," Theresa answered as she dragged the three unconscious men away from the limo. She took the guns from the men, tossing them into the front seat of the limousine. She then walked over to Marcellus' sedan, tucked the dart gun into an inside pocket of her jacket, and casually backed up his car into the parking space where it had been sitting for the last few hours while they waited for Duke and his men.
Marcellus had spent several weeks studying Ortega's organization, his men, and their habits and movements. On this particular day of the week, he had discovered, Duke always came to this hotel in the early evening to have supper and conjugal relations with his mistress. A minimal escort accompanied him for the event, and they parked in an underutilized area of the parking garage, making it perfect for an ambush.
Theresa walked back to the limo and settled into the driver's seat, while Marcellus motioned for Duke to climb back into the back of the big car. Once inside, Marcellus and Theresa closed the doors and she steered the limousine out of the parking garage. Marcellus kept his sword trained on Duke, who was now sweating nervously. He stared at Marcellus, wide-eyed and suspicious.
"You're like him," Duke said to Marcellus. The Roman slightly raised his dark, heavy brows at the remark. "You're an Immortal."
"It's the sword, isn't it?" Marcellus said with a casual smile. "It's a dead giveaway. Didn't used to be. Ah, the good old days."
"What's your beef with him?" Duke asked, frowning angrily.
"None of your business, you fat lackey," Marcellus snarled, then eased back in his seat a little. "Now, I know a little about your operation. Lewis has a portable drug lab. Its location changes every week. It begins operation in its new location tonight, and Lewis will be there to oversee it. The one piece of information I'm lacking is its location. Take me to it."
"Go to hell," Duke replied, then sucked air through his teeth when Marcellus shifted the blade closer to his neck.
"Allow me to explain your position to you, Mr. Duke, since you're obviously too thick to understand it on your own," Marcellus said in a low, threatening tone. "Taking me to Lewis is a win-win scenario for you. We'll fight; if he wins, you've brought your employer an enemy to eliminate. If I win, you're in position to take over."
Marcellus shifted his weight and leaned forward. He pressed the sword against Duke's throat, making the stocky criminal lean back in his seat.
"But if you don't cooperate…well, this is a Japanese katana; once unsheathed, it must draw blood. I can easily be persuaded to draw yours instead of his. That would, I suppose, be quite a display of loyalty on your part. In return, I'm sure your boss will chip in for a very nice headstone."
"All right!" Duke cried out, his eyes wide in fear. "All right, you crazy bastard! I'll take you to him! You can chop each other's heads off for all I care!"
Marcellus settled back in his seat, but kept the sword edge close to Duke's throat.
"That's just grand," Marcellus said with a smile. "I suppose you're smarter than you look, though not by much. Please give the directions to my lovely and talented assistant in the driver's seat."
Just under a half hour later, the limousine pulled up to an old factory south of downtown, near the docks. The blocks around the factory were filled with mostly abandoned and decrepit industrial buildings. From outside, the occupants of the limo could see lights inside the factory, indicating activity.
"This is the place, is it?" Marcellus asked. For the whole ride, he'd held his sword to the burly criminal's throat. It was still there. Duke's forehead was glistening with sweat.
"Yeah, it is," Duke replied. "You gonna let me go now?"
"Oh, no, Mr. Duke," Marcellus replied. "I wouldn't want you to miss out on the fun. You're coming in with me. My dear," Marcellus said over his shoulder to Theresa, "once we get out of the car, I want you to leave. Return to the apartment. Wait for me there."
"Hey!" Theresa exclaimed angrily, turning around in the driver's seat, "That wasn't the deal! Where you go, I go, remember?"
"You will obey my orders or face my wrath," Marcellus said with a snarl. "Now do as I say!"
Theresa exhaled angrily but remained in the driver's seat. Marcellus climbed out of the limo, then led Duke out at sword point. He closed the rear door, and then signaled to Theresa. She reluctantly shifted the big car into gear, then drove away from the factory. She drove a little over a block away and parked the limo on a dark side street. She grabbed one of the guns she'd obtained from Duke's thugs, got out, and pulled a dark wool cap over her head. She ran back to the factory, sticking to the shadows.
A few minutes before, Andrew Howard had parked his car outside the factory and walked inside quickly. The Watcher appeared agitated, his pace brisk, his manner somewhat nervous.
"Andrew!" Ortega said inside the factory, surprised to see his lieutenant there, since Howard did not oversee operations. "What are you doing here?"
Howard, visibly concerned, approached Ortega and drew him aside. Around them, about two dozen men were in the final stages of putting the drug lab into operation. Large barrels of chemical compounds surrounded the factory floor; metal tubing connected them to stainless steel mixing vats and stills. Some of the equipment would be used to process cocaine into crack; others would create Ecstasy for sale at rave parities; still others would produce the relatively newer, more potent and dangerous drug, Methamphetamine, or Crystal Meth.
"I would have used the cell, but…" Howard began to say. Ortega waved away his excuse; they never risked discussions of Immortals or drug operations over insecure cell phone lines. Important conversations on those topics occurred face-to-face. "Marshall is an Immortal. And he has a female Watcher who fits the description Duke gave us."
"All right," Ortega said, nodding sagely. "So now we know what we're facing. How old is this Marshall?"
"We're not sure; he only appeared on the scene as an Immortal a year ago."
"Really?" Ortega said with a sneer. "Doesn't sound like he'd be much more of a challenge than that child you brought to me yesterday."
"I wouldn't be so sure," Howard replied. "Marshall has quite a record. Over a dozen confirmed kills in the last year. Some of them against very old Immortals. Three of them were older than you."
"Indeed?" Ortega said as he turned to look at Howard. His sneer changed to a smile. "Sounds like more of a challenge then! Good! Let's see if we can find this Marshall and bring him to the gym…" Ortega paused, then looked around as his head and neck tingled, indicating the nearby presence of another Immortal. "Never mind. It looks like that won't be necessary."
Howard followed Ortega's eyes across the factory floor. There, walking in from behind some abandoned machinery, was Ortega's other lieutenant, Robert Duke. The burly man was red-faced and sweating profusely. Behind him was another man, not much taller than Duke, but in much better shape and preternaturally calm. He had a long Japanese sword held to Duke's throat. His head was shaved bald, save for the neatly-trimmed, dark Van Dyke beard he sported on his upper lip and chin. He wore a long, dark leather coat over equally dark clothing. His cold gray eyes had fastened onto Ortega's from across the room.
"For Christ's sake don't shoot!" Duke shouted, his hands held up, as a half-dozen of Ortega's men leveled their weapons at him and the Immortal behind him.
"Weapons down!" Ortega shouted, and his men obeyed. "So. You are Marshall?" Across the room, the man holding Duke hostage slowly shook his head.
"You know who I am, Ortega," Marcellus said, his voice low and cold. It sounded like ice grinding against stone.
Ortega blinked, surprised to hear the other, supposedly young Immortal use his real name. Then he paused for a moment as he tried to place the man's face, but couldn't. He looked at Howard, who only stared back at him blankly. Then realization dawned on him. His head swung back to look at the Immortal facing him. Blood drained from his face.
"Marcellus," he murmured.
The other Immortal nodded slowly. Beside Ortega, Howard's eyes widened in amazement. For a moment, no one in the building said anything. Then Ortega began to laugh. He laughed softly at first, but it quickly grew louder, becoming a full belly-laugh, and the Immortal drug lord had to wipe tears from his eyes. His men looked between this interloper and their mirthful boss uncertainly. Marcellus remained impassive. Finally, after a couple of minutes, Ortega spoke.
"You know," he said, still laughing softly, "I never completely believed you were dead. It was just…a little too convenient."
"So why come out of hiding?" Marcellus asked.
"Because I was sick of hiding!" Ortega shouted back at him. "Sick of living like a dog, running from town to town, always looking over my shoulder!" He paused and drew a breath, then smiled again. "You know? I'm glad you're here. I really am. We can settle this, once and for all. We should have done this years ago." He signaled to his men. "Robert and Andrew will stay here. The rest of you—leave." The other men hesitated. "GO!!" he shouted angrily, and the other two dozen men rapidly left the factory.
Once they had gone, Marcellus pushed Duke forward. The stocky criminal ran from him, joining his boss and his colleague on the other side of the factory floor.
"Why the audience?" Marcellus asked. He held his katana casually in his right hand, its blade held slightly in front of his right leg, its tip pointed at the floor. He stood beside the heavy machinery for a long conveyor belt. The four men in the room knew it would provide him with cover if he needed it.
"These are two of my most trusted lieutenants," Ortega explained. "They witness all my fights."
"And never interfere?" Marcellus asked. "I was led to believe that you consider yourself an honorable man."
"I am an honorable man!" Ortega insisted angrily. "I am of pure Spanish noble blood! I served under Ferdinand and Isabella! I have never broken our rules, Marcellus!" He paused a moment and smiled. "Not even when I fought Sanchez. And not when I fought your wife. I won and took their heads in fair combat."
"Do you really think I care?" Marcellus said flatly.
Ortega smiled and snorted. "They will not interfere. You have my word. But there is one thing you should know before we begin. If I win, I win. If you win, however…they know about Immortals. They will take your head while you are still weak from the Quickening."
"And you consider that honorable?" Marcellus asked contemptuously.
Ortega shrugged. "It is what it is. So I'm a sore loser. Sue me. But I give you this one chance, Marcellus: walk away now. Leave this city—this continent. Never cross my path again. I give you this chance out of respect for your adopted son and wife, who both fought bravely."
The two Immortals paused a moment, then Marcellus spoke. When he did, his voice was calm and even, with the firmness of finality.
"Alberto Luis Ortega. I am Lucius Gaius Marcellus, Citizen of Rome. You killed Antonio Sanchez, my adopted son, and Alodia, my beloved wife. You possess their Quickenings. You have no right to them. I am here to claim them, and to claim the right of vengeance and justice. Draw your sword and prepare to die."
"So be it," Ortega said, nodding. He gestured for Howard and Duke to walk away and stand at opposite sides of the factory floor. He stepped over to a nearby table and opened a long, slender metal carrying case. From inside it, he drew out his dueling rapier from Toledo. He turned to Marcellus, held his sword upright in front of his body, and gave his opponent a brief bow. Then the two men stepped guardedly into the middle of the empty factory floor, their swords held low and extended towards each other.
Unnoticed by the four men below, Theresa had entered the factory through a side entrance and had climbed to a catwalk that was one storey above the factory floor and ran around it, clinging to the walls of the building. She found a wide support pillar and hid behind it, carefully checking for any of Ortega's men who might have remained and taken up position on the catwalk as well. She saw none, and turned her attention to the factory floor.
She had arrived just in time to hear Ortega's threat that Marcellus would die regardless of the outcome. That much, Marcellus had anticipated. It fit with Ortega's history, which Marcellus had studied extensively, largely thanks to Mick Porter. Marcellus had also confronted Grayson at one point. He had given his fellow ancient Immortal a choice: fight me or tell me everything you know about your former student, Ortega. Grayson was a practical man and loyal to no one but himself; he might have taken Marcellus in a fight, but why take the chance? He'd told Marcellus everything he wanted to know.
Theresa drew the gun she had acquired from Duke's thug from her jacket pocket. She rejected using the tranq gun out of hand. She was reluctant to kill anyone, even scum like these men, and with what Marcellus had planned, leaving someone unconscious in the factory would be a death sentence. She looked at the factory floor, picked her target, and waited.
The fight between the two Immortals continued on the factory floor. The two men had circled each other warily at first. Now they clashed ferociously, Toledo and Japanese steel ringing as their swords met time and again. Marcellus knew he would not have an easy victory; Ortega seemed his equal in every way. No wonder both Antonio and Alodia had fallen to him.
Every one of Marcellus' thrusts, Ortega parried. Every feint, he anticipated. Every attack spawned a dangerous counter-attack. Finally an attack got through Marcellus' defenses. He just managed to parry a low lunge, but the blade of Ortega's rapier still cut through the leg of his pants and into his thigh. Marcellus grimaced at the pain and backed away.
"You think I did nothing for eighty years?" Ortega shouted as he forced Marcellus to a defensive retreat. "I practiced! I learned! So that when you finally found me, I could defeat you!"
Ortega feinted to Marcellus' left then swung his sword tip to the Roman's right. Marcellus had to pull his katana back, holding its tip up and the blade vertical to block the swipe at his right shoulder. Ortega pushed forward and knocked Marcellus back against a high table, their swords crossed, his rapier's edge blocked from the Roman's neck only by the Japanese blade.
"Good!" Marcellus shouted, then elbowed Ortega in the ribs, forcing him back. "I wouldn't want this to be over too quickly for you!"
Ortega clutched his side and retreated a few steps, eyeing Marcellus warily. Marcellus pushed himself away from the table and pointed his sword towards his opponent. The two injured Immortals glared at one another, awaiting the other's next move. Suddenly, Marcellus frowned quizzically. He dropped his sword tip slightly.
"Time out," Marcellus said evenly.
"What?" Ortega asked, frowning with incomprehension.
"Time out!" Marcellus repeated. "Don't you ever watch American football?"
"I know what it means!" Ortega shouted back at him. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"I wanted to ask you something," Marcellus said calmly.
"Do you want to fight or talk?" Ortega demanded, his expression reflecting his exasperation.
"Consider it a dying man's last request," Marcellus said. "You've already indicated I'm dead either way…"
"Fine!" Ortega responded impatiently. "What?"
Marcellus glanced left and right at Duke and Howard, standing at opposite ends of the factory floor. He raised his voice a little so they could hear.
"Have your men seen a Quickening before?" he asked.
"Yes," Ortega said with a condescending smile. "Several. And today they'll see yours!"
"Hmm," Marcellus nodded. "A rather explosive event, a Quickening, wouldn't you say?"
"What?" Ortega demanded? "What do you…"
Ortega was cut off by a nearby pop, followed by a sudden explosion which threw him to the ground. He barely managed to hang on to his sword as he fell. Several yards behind him, one of the vats of chemicals had exploded. He lifted his head to see Marcellus on the ground a few feet from him. The two Immortals looked at each other and scrambled to their feet. Ortega kept his sword pointed at Marcellus, but glanced around the factory, noticing the chemical fire behind him. He looked at Marcellus again. The Roman was smiling wolfishly. Perfect timing, little Watcher, he thought. And a perfect shot. Just as we planned it.
"Should be quite a show, gentlemen!" Marcellus shouted. "Stick around!"
He lunged at a stunned Ortega, who barely managed to parry in time. Ortega retreated around a table; Marcellus leapt on top of it, kicking beakers and platters aside, lashing his sword at a defensive Ortega, who ran away and awkwardly parried each blow.
At either end of the factory, Duke and Howard had fallen to their knees when the blast went off. They looked at the two combatants, their fight growing wilder by the second, then at each other. Both could see the same thought in the eyes of the other man: they might survive this, but we won't. As one, they rose to their feet and ran for the door.
"No!" Ortega shouted when he saw, in his peripheral vision, his two lieutenants leaving the factory. "Get back here, you cowards!"
"Good help is so hard to find, isn't it, Al?" Marcellus remarked as he jumped down from the table. "Now it's just us, as it's supposed to be." He stood a few feet from Ortega. He held his katana over his head, its tip pointing at his opponent, and extended his left arm, his palm held up and facing the Spaniard. He bent his knees slightly; his weight rested on the balls of his feet. He awaited his opponent's next move.
Ortega turned and glared at him. The Spaniard sneered, then shouted angrily. He ran towards Marcellus, his sword held high to strike at his opponent's neck. The Roman stood his ground. Ortega had almost reached him. Suddenly Marcellus stepped backwards and pivoted to his right. He lowered his left arm, reached across his body, and pulled his shorter sword, the wakizashi, from his coat. Ortega swung his blade. Marcellus parried with the short sword, sending Ortega's blade low and away from him. The Spaniard stepped past him. Marcellus slashed the long katana at his neck. Ortega took perhaps two or three more steps without a head before his body collapsed to the concrete factory floor. His sword clattered to the concrete. Marcellus stood stock still, looking over his defeated opponent's corpse with a cold, evaluating eye.
"It's over, my love," he said softly. "It's finally over…"
Up on the catwalk, Theresa ran to a nearby ladder that lowered to the factory floor. She pressed her heels on the outside of the ladder's metal poles and quickly slid down, her hands deftly rappelling her down each rung. She hit the concrete factory floor and ran towards Marcellus. She was only a few yards from him when the Quickening began. She immediately threw herself under a large, nearby table.
A thin bolt of mystical lightening arced to the factory's ceiling. Marcellus watched it with his head bent back, and spread his arms wide, a sword held in each hand. The lightening followed a parabolic arc and fell back towards him. It gathered strength and size as it fell. It struck the ground in front of the Roman's body with a loud boom and he fell to his knees. His swords fell from his hands. Before him, the Quickening's energy glowed white-hot in a column that reached to the building's roof.
Theresa watched, her eyes wide with amazement, as the column of energy changed shape. It narrowed in the middle and at the top. It shrank down to the height of a person—of a woman. Two arcs of energy extended out from its side, like arms. Marcellus knelt before it, tears streaming down his face. Then the column of mystic energy moved forward and enveloped him. He tossed his head back, closed his eyes, and a deep shout of equal parts agony and ecstasy rose from his throat. His body shuddered. He gulped a breath, arched his back, and yelled again. As he did, energy exploded from him, arcing to the containers of chemicals nearby. The large vats and barrels of explosive chemicals blew apart in a deafening, fiery frenzy.
Beneath the table, Theresa curled into a fetal position, squeezed her eyes shut, and held her hands over her ears while the Quickening ran its course. She heard a huge barrel fall and bounce off the top of the table. She gasped and opened her eyes. Around her, most of the vats and barrels used for the drug lab had caught on fire. Some of them had simply spilled instead, and flammable chemicals ran across the concrete floor, threatening to engulf the two of them in flames at any moment. She looked over at Marcellus. The Quickening had ended; he'd fallen onto his side and lay on the ground in exhaustion, his eyes rolled back in his head, his mouth slack as he gasped for air.
Theresa pushed herself out from under the table. Another container exploded behind her. She ducked and screamed, but ran towards Marcellus. She grabbed him underneath his arms and pulled him to a sitting position. He seemed to be in a trance. His cheeks were wet with tears. She slapped his face.
"C'mon, centurion!" she shouted. "On your feet!"
"Huh?" Marcellus grunted, then flinched when another explosion went off nearby. The fire was spreading; the factory would be a blazing inferno within minutes.
"We have to get out of here!" Theresa shouted. She looked towards the factory's main door, the one Marcellus had entered. There was a gap in the spreading flames. They could just make it, if they hurried. "C'mon, let's go!"
Marcellus shook his head, then reached out and weakly grabbed his swords. Theresa helped him to his feet. She threw one of his arms over her shoulder and struggled to move his weight. Together, they stumbled through the fire growing around them towards the gap that led out of the growing blaze.
Outside, moments before, Howard and Duke had run out to find the rest of Ortega's drug lab crew gathered around the entrance to the factory, waiting and wondering what the hell was going on.
"Get out of here!" Howard shouted to them. "The place is gonna blow!"
They didn't need to be told twice. Every man took off at a dead run. Drug labs had to use a number of unstable and highly explosive chemicals for processing. Everyone knew the places could become fiery deathtraps from just one spark. At that moment, they heard an explosion from inside the building. Lightning seemed to be erupting from the roof. Through the huge factory doors, Duke and Howard could see a ferocious blaze starting.
"Come on, Duke!" Howard shouted to his colleague, "we have to get away from here!"
But Duke was standing, looking back into the entrance to the factory. He had caught one of the security goons before he ran off and had taken his handgun.
"Goddamn bastards…" he was muttering. "Goddamn Immortal bastards! Freaks! They're gonna ruin everything!"
"Jesus, Robert," Howard shouted at him, "let it go! Come on!"
"No!" Duke shouted back. "I'm staying here! Either one of those sons of bitches steps outta there, I'm gonna kill him!"
"You don't even have a sword, you idiot!" Howard shouted, but Duke ignored him. Howard waved at him dismissively, then ran away from the factory.
Duke waited just outside the entrance to the factory. He could see the flames spreading inside, destroying a huge investment in equipment and raw materials. And if Ortega was dead, a gang war would erupt, with him right in the middle, fighting for his life. Everything he'd worked for was about to crumble apart, lost in a flash. All because of two centuries-old freaks with a grudge.
Suddenly, the growing flames backlit a dark figure—no, two dark figures emerging. Both of them? Duke didn't care. He'd shoot them, then while they were disabled, run up and grab one of their swords and chop both their damn heads off. The two figures were coming closer to the door. He could see one, slightly smaller, was holding the other up.
Duke lifted the gun and took aim at the larger figure first. He squeezed off two shots and saw the man fall. The smaller figure was not Ortega, he then could see; it was a woman. That bitch from last night—it has to be, he thought. She was bending over the man who'd just fallen. He took aim and fired at her, two quick shots. Just as he did, the woman turned and pointed something at him. Robert Duke felt two rounds hit him square in the chest. He fell backwards, felt his head smash against the cold pavement, and that was all he ever felt.
Marcellus grimaced. The Kevlar had held, but it still felt as though a mule had kicked him in the chest. He painfully pushed himself to a sitting position. He saw Theresa kneeling beside him.
"Bastards don't know when to quit, do they?" he remarked, then glanced outside the factory doors to see if any other opponents remained. Seeing no one else nearby, he then turned his head to look at Theresa. Her eyes were open, unblinking, looking at him in confusion. Something was wrong. "Theresa?" he said, reaching out for her. She tried to stand up, but couldn't. She fell over, her hand clutching her side. "Theresa!" he shouted, and crawled to her.
He knelt beside her, then lifted her by the shoulders and cradled the young woman in his arms. He gently pushed her hands away where she was pressing them against her side. He unzipped her jacket and spread it apart, then tore open her shirt, buttons popping off and landing on the pavement as he did so. He saw two entry wounds, bleeding profusely—one in her lower right side, directly into her kidney, the other one higher, just beneath her bra, probably into her lung. He'd been on enough battlefields to know mortal wounds when he saw them. He pressed his eyes shut and shook his head. He heard a soft sound over the roar of the fire behind him. He opened his eyes. She was trying to say something. He leaned forward, his head bent towards her.
"Sorry…'bout the drink," she whispered. The corners of her mouth twitched briefly into a smile.
"I'll have one for you," he told her, his voice a rough whisper. He brushed her short auburn hair off of her forehead. She nodded weakly. Her hazel eyes looked into his and shone for a moment, then she shut them tight.
"It…hurts," she said through clenched teeth.
"I know," he answered softly, "but only for a little while." He caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers, and then she was gone. Her hazel eyes seemed to stare into his without blinking. He sadly reached down and closed them. Behind him, the fire spread and the factory continued to burn. The Fates were not done with punishing him, it seemed.
From a distance, standing beside the car which he'd parked on the street outside the factory, Andrew Howard watched the scene with detachment. He would file one, last report to the Watchers—he owed them that much. And what a report it would be! The return of Lucius Gaius Marcellus and the deaths of Alberto Luis Ortega and a Watcher. Once he finished it, he would quit the Watchers. With both Ortega and Duke gone, there would be a power vacuum in this town, and he intended to fill it. He got into his car and drove away.