–Sorry about yet another cliffhanger. I promise, I won't take so long to update this time! Well, I hope you like chapter 3. Keep in mind, this is a rough draft so detail, style and dialogue will eventually be refined! So again, if something doesn't make sense or seems a bit off, let me know! I will be editing the story once it is complete! ::Evil:: --
Murphy's Law, well known to most, states that anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. The past three days had offered more than sufficient evidence as to the veracity of that law for young Richie Ryan. His head throbbed. He could hear the blood rushing in his veins just behind the incessant ringing brought on by the several strikes to the skull. When he tried to bring his hands up, he found that they were trapped. Metal clanked against metal. Oh, shit, he cursed in his mind. Richie's eyes flew open; his head whipped around as he frantically surveyed the room. Hanging on bare wire from the ceiling was the obligatory single, bare light bulb that illuminated the small, basement like room. The walls were cinder block, the floor solid concrete. There was a single, solid metal door. Windows had been sealed shut by red bricks, giving the illusion of huge spots of blood on the dull grey walls. Dirt and bits of garbage were the only things present other than himself. It was cold, but not freezing, and the air was wet. It smelled like mildew and wet dirt.
He was sitting on a short bench, his hands were cuffed behind his back and attached to a metal ring at the top of a thick metal post embedded in the concrete floor. His legs were bent with his ankles passing under the bench and attached with leg irons to a ring at the bottom of the same metal post.
"This can't be good," he muttered to himself. He couldn't remember anything after being pulled into a car by two big thugs except when they cracked him in the back of the head, mostly to shut him up he supposed. That's what usually happened whenever he was kidnaped or anything like that.
Time was vacuous in that place, alone. Had it been a full day? Or even two or three? There was no way for Richie to determine. His wrists were rubbed raw from pulling at the handcuffs, struggling constantly, not allowing his body to heal the self inflicted wounds. His mouth was painfully dry and his stomach roared with hunger. A few more days and he would be dead of either dehydration or starvation, whichever came first, only to come back to life and do it all over again, if no one ever came for him. The boy's heart sank just thinking about it; spending an eternity trapped alone in an endless cycle of starvation, death and rebirth. Just when he thought he might actually break down into tears, something caught his attention. Voices.
The latch clicked as the door handle swung smoothly down and the door opened. Two men in dark suits entered silently, a third followed behind them pushing a cloth covered metal cart. He was almost relieved that he was no longer alone. Almost. One man was tall, over six feet, wearing a charcoal colored suit. His counterpart was the shortest of the them. Dark haired. Sullen eyes. He wore a solid black suit and shirt. The tender of the metal cart was about Richie's size, also in a grey suit.
"Good day, Mr. Ryan," the smaller of the three men said. "We have a lot to talk about, so let's just get straight to it, shall we?"
"Who the hell are you," Richie croaked.
"None of your business, freak!" the tall one snapped.
"Hold your temper," the small one said calmly. "There is no need to validate our authority here. It's perfectly clear who is in charge, am I right Mr. Ryan," his eyes gleamed mischievously; a small smile played on his lips.
"Screw you buddy," he spat back.
"Indeed. Now, as I said, down to business," he replied.
The cart-man lifted the canvas cloth from the tray to reveal an intimidating array of medical instruments. Richie sucked in a short gasp. His pulse quickened when he saw the tray filled with scalpels, needles, clamps...
Holy shit, is that a bone saw!? he screamed inwardly.
Adam arrived in Paris in the late morning. Throughout the flight he had retreated into his memories of atrocities past. It did nothing to improve his demeanor, to be sure. A familiar and terrifying coldness threatened to retake him. Emotional walls that he had fought so long to tear down were rebuilding themselves at a frightening pace. He didn't want to lose himself to the monster he once was. It would be so easy to lose control; to slide back into the role he held for over two millennia. And in some primal way, he would enjoy it. That was what truly frightened him.
Methos resolved himself to concentrate on the task at hand. Not much time was wasted at the hotel, where he dropped off his bags and changed clothes. Too many things needed to be done, and they all required immediate attention. First order of business, he decided, was to find Dana Shea, the person Richie was last seen with. Breaking into the Watcher's database was relatively easy. Dana's file was easy to find as well. Methos jotted down her address on the little notepad on the night table and turned off his computer.
"About time I dropped in on you, old friend," he commented to the note.
Fortunately, Dana Shea's apartment building was fairly close to his hotel, so he didn't bother getting a taxi. A brisk ten minute walk and he was right in front of her door. Buildings in that part of town were old, not one newer than 150 years. Even so, all were renovated and fitted with new electrical lines and some, like Dana's building, had intercoms put in when the row homes were turned into apartments.
Looking at the intercom box, there were two buttons, but only one name. The other sticker had only the letters "DS".
"Number two it is," Methos said as he pressed the top floor apartment's buzzer.
"Hello, who is it?" the speaker buzzed.
"Dana Shea?" he asked.
"Yes?"
"Good to hear your voice again, pixie," he said smiling, hoping she would remember his old pet name for her.
"Thomas?" she breathed.
"Actually, it's Adam now..."
The intercom clicked loudly. He heard quick footsteps coming down stairs behind the door. The buzz of another Immortal washed over him like cool water. He already knew she was there, so it didn't elicit the same anxious feeling as sensing an unknown quickening. The locks snapped open, then the door. Dana stood staring at him for a moment, dazed. Tears welled up in her eyes and she jumped at Adam, nearly knocking him over as she threw her arms around him.
"Rowan told me you lost your head," she half sobbed, hugging him tighter.
"Well, Rowan never was terribly reliable when it came to gossip," he laughed.
"And I'm glad for it!" she said. Finally she released her death grip on her former lover and showed him inside. "Come in, come in!" she said excitedly.
"Well, you sure know how to make an old man feel welcome," Methos grinned.
"Welcome? Dear heart I thought you were dead for the past 200 years. Welcome is hardly sufficient a word!" she replied.
"I'm sorry for that. I had to leave so suddenly...I wish I had been able to say goodbye. At least you would have known that I was alright." he apologized.
"It would have been nice," she winked. "How did you find me?"
"Oh, I have my ways," he looked down at the floor. "But...I wish I was here just to see you. The truth is...I came here because I need your help."
"My help? How so?" she asked.
"A friend of mine has gone missing. You were the last person I know of that saw him. I think he is a lot of trouble."
"Wait...you don't mean Richie do you?" her worry clear on her delicate face.
"Yes. Richie Ryan. No one seems to know where he is. The place he was staying is trashed...there was evidence of a fight...blood. Please Dana, is there anything you know that might help me find him?"
"Saints alive...I knew something was going to happen...I should have made him stay here," she said, rubbing her temple lightly.
"Then you do know he's in trouble."
"Yes," she sighed. "A few nights ago, he was at this bar. There was a woman there threatening him. She wanted a sword that Richie had taken. He thought the place he found it was abandoned, that it didn't belong to anybody. Apparently he was wrong. But...he didn't want to return it to her. I don't really understand why. Something about not trusting that it was actually hers...I couldn't convince him otherwise."
"Do you know the woman's name? Where I can find her?"
"No...there was another man there. He shot Richie and the woman. I was barely able to get Richie and myself to safety. I don't know what happened to her after that."
"Damn. Where did he find the sword?"
"An old root cellar, out in a field in the country...not far outside the city."
Methos thought hard. French countryside, root cellar, sword...it seemed familiar...
"I think I know where that is...and it makes sense that she would be involved!" he realized. "Thank you. I wish I could stay, but I have to find this woman, and hopefully Richie as well."
"Wait, I'm coming with you," she got up from the couch.
"No, Dana please, you can't get involved. This is much more complicated than it seems. I don't want you to get hurt too," he said firmly.
"Thom...sorry. Adam. Richie is my friend now too. I can help. I need to help."
"I'm sorry, it's just...there's so much you don't know."
"Then tell me!" she demanded. "Tell me what I'm getting myself into so I can be prepared. You know full well that I can handle myself. I am already involved. I won't back out on my friend."
Methos sighed. "Dana...I can't. I'm sorry. You must promise me you will stay here."
"I can't do that. I won't stand by and do nothing. You know me Adam. I just can't."
"I know," he said, rising from the couch. She rose with him. Only inches apart, Methos reached quickly into his coat and in one smooth motion pulled out his black handled hunting knife and buried it in Dana's chest. "I'm sorry," he whispered as she fell to the floor, staring into his eyes, shocked.
What is that about you always hurt the ones you love? He wiped the blood from the blade on a cup towel from the kitchen. Better I stab you in the heart now than let you lose your head by getting caught up in this. Methos left the apartment calmly. Quietly. He had a pretty good idea where this "abandoned" root cellar was. There was an old mansion just outside of the city that he had been to once before. A mansion he had hoped he would never have to go to again. A mansion with a root cellar just out of sight of the house. But as things stood, it was his best bet on finding Richie, and on finder her. And then there was this sword. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his stomach knotted. There was a sword, one like no other. He could only hope it wasn't the same one Richie had taken. Because if it was...things were about to get a whole lot worse.
No one answered the door after pushing the buzzer five times. Duncan was about to turn and go back to the barge, since obviously no one was home. He had hoped he could find out more about Richie's activities the past few days, maybe get some bearing on where he could be. There were no other real leads so far, and as each second went by MacLeod became more worried.
Click, "Unh....hello?" a weary female voice answered, at last.
Duncan's hand flew to the call box, "Yes, hello? Ms. Shea?"
"Who is this?" the shaky Irish tinged voice called back.
"My name is Duncan MacLeod. I was wondering if I could speak to you for a moment," he said.
"MacLeod? Yes, yes, come up," the speaker crackled. The door buzzed and MacLeod entered the converted row home. He climbed the stairs and sucked in a breath as he sensed the other Immortal.
The slim woman met him at the door, her white blouse ripped and the front mostly turned red. "You will excuse me while I change Mr. MacLeod?"
"Aye, of course. Uh, what happened?"
"A friend of mine has a funny way of making a point," she answered angrily.
"Some friend," he replied.
"Sometimes I wonder," her voice was muffled through the bedroom door. A few minutes later she came out wearing a soft crimson sweater. "So, Mr. MacLeod,"
"Please, call me Duncan," he interrupted.
"Duncan. I suppose you're here to ask me if I know where Richie is?"
"Well, yes. How did you know?" he asked, surprised.
"Must be in fashion today. I'll tell you what I told Adam, but I must insist that you don't stab me when I insist on coming with you to find Richie."
"Adam? Adam Pierson? He was here? He stabbed you?!"
"Yes, I guess so, yes and yes, in that order,"she answered dryly.
Duncan just rolled his eyes. "I am so going to kick his ass when I catch up with him..."
"Take a number love," she laughed. "Well, let's get to it then. I'll tell you what I know, then you can tell me how Connor is doing on the way to wherever we end up going to look for Richie."
I think I'm going to like this lassie...I think I'm going to like her a lot.
They sat down in the kitchen and she began the whole tale again.
Darkness and pain. Large pools of blood and red footprints spread across the floor like a scene out of a bad horror movie. His eyes were swollen shut. The bones in his legs bent in unnatural directions. Clamps stuck out of his chest and arms, holding the deep wounds open, his body unable to heal them. He had already been killed twice. Come back twice. He could feel his body slipping into the third. His interrogators decided to take a break while he recovered from the latest torture session. Richie was terrified. They knew what he was. They knew how to kill him, they made that much clear at the beginning. What wasn't clear was their true intentions. They had already spent hours asking questions he was not able to answer. Questions about the strange man-creature and the woman that was after him. About the Quickening, how it worked, where Immortals came from. Only one question could he have answered, but at the same time could not, unwilling to give up his friend to these people. He meant it when he told Methos he would die before giving him up to anyone. No matter what. It was a promise he knew he had to keep at all costs. It was true they didn't get along much. Methos thought Richie was impulsive and reckless. Richie thought Methos was a stuffy old coward. They were friends, nonetheless. Also, he understood how important it was to keep his secret. Not just to keep him safe, but to keep his Quickening away from the less humane Immortals. 5,000 years of training and experience would give another Immortal a deadly edge, and in the wrong Immortal it would be twice as deadly.
Thoughts of what his 'hosts' would ask next, what method of persuasion they would employ to tear the answers he did not have from him, made him convulse with fear. Bloody tears ran hot down his battered cheeks.
I have to get out of here...I have to...someone will find me...oh God, someone please find me...he prayed as he slipped into temporary oblivion.