Adam and Richie were quick, built for speed, and he'd put them together for that reason as much as for wanting an experienced Immortal with each pairing. It wasn't much of an advantage against bullets, but it was better than nothing and they'd lose it completely having to take care of Greta.

Both ran at the same moment and Adam was the first out onto open ground, fastest but only because he knew he couldn't die. Richie still had the remnants of a survival instinct telling him death was forever and he hesitated just long enough before leaving cover to make the gap between himself and Adam large enough for a sniper to take full advantage.

MacLeod forced himself to look away from their progress and concentrate on his own route. A shot cracked in the darkness and there was no time to see if anyone was hit, he was already moving, half carrying Greta as they ran for the awning bridge.

His feet struck the paving solidly and he counted as he ran, down rather than up. No bullets followed them which had to mean there were people ahead. They made bad targets in the darkness and rising fog and he had to hope whoever was waiting would choose to try and finish it up close and personal.

Two steps into cover there was a wash of heat at his back and the deafening sound of the barge being reduced to so many splinters. The concussive force sent him staggering further under the archway, still trying to shield the woman in his arms as much as he was able.

Something flashed in the darkness and he turned instinctively to meet it, raising his arm to block and lifting his knee into the gut of his attacker with as much force as momentum would allow him. A man folded with a pained grunt, the knife that had been in the attacker's hand slipped without resistance into his own.

Greta gave a cut off gasp behind him and he turned, throwing the blade into the forehead of the man who had tried to pull her away.

Then he fell back as another shadow became an opponent and it became mechanical, the disciplines he had studied for so long blending seamlessly without thought or reason until there was only himself, his targets and the woman he was protecting.

Harsh cries and pants echoed around the bricks and he ignored them as he ignored the occasional hits and cuts they managed to land on him. Where he could, he honoured Darius and spared a life, where he couldn't … he couldn't.

At last there were no more shadows, only still forms on the ground and Greta standing with a knife in her hand. He took in the way blood had splashed up over her face and arms and given her an almost Pagan cast. There was too much for it to be hers and, as she was still standing, at least one corpse on the ground wasn't on his conscience.

Centuries old notions that women shouldn't have to kill rose and were quashed back; there was nothing to be done now. She followed him, easy to lead as they ran deeper under the bridge. He set her down at the edge, where she could see the line of traffic above.

"I need to talk to one of them, stay here."

She nodded jerkily and he turned her face towards him and repeated the words until he was reasonably sure she'd understood them. Then he jogged back towards the small pile of miscellaneous bad guy he'd left on the ground. One of them was groaning more loudly than the others, alert enough to actually feel the amount of pain he was in.

First he checked the wrists and found them clear of the Watcher's mark, not sure whether to be happy about that or not. This wasn't a devil he knew. Carefully he knelt with one knee on the man's chest and the other on the hard, gritty cement. He braced most of his weight on one arm as he leant over to make sure his pleasant smile was the first thing his detainee saw when he opened his eyes.

"Name."

"Screw you."

"Cruel parents. Let's try this again, M'sieu You." He let more of his weight rest on what were undoubtedly broken ribs and watched the swarthy face pale considerably. "Name."

"Henri Gervais."

"You're lying, your accent's not good enough to be real. Lie again and you get to find out what it's like to drown in your own blood." MacLeod put every ounce of promise into his expression and tried not to think what he'd do if his bluff was called. He didn't have to worry; the man shuddered once and spoke almost, but not quite, pleadingly.

"Henri Montoya. Please, it's the truth, I'm telling the truth!"

MacLeod ran the accent through his mind a few times, separating the French intonations from the Spanish and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt for the moment.

"And what's the plan, Henri? Why are you here?"

The man licked his lips, blood flecks were left behind and he eased his weight away slightly. "We just get told. Go here, go there - we don't ask."

"Who does the telling?"

The Spaniard gave as much of a shrug as he was able. "If I am to die, it will be with honour. I will not tell you."

"Honour? Where's the honour in killing four innocent people!?"

"Innocent? When he sends us, it is not to the innocent."

They matched stares for a long moment before MacLeod stood and looked down on the sweating man, speaking quietly. "Then he, whoever he is, has been lying to you."

Nothing gave in the gaze that met his; he recognised a fanatic well enough when he saw one and doubted he'd get anything more from the others starting to groan their way into consciousness. Time to go.

Greta was still where he had left her, eyes on the flashing tail lights of the cars above. She didn't startle when he put a hand on her shoulder, just stood and turned to face him. Most of the blood was gone from her skin; her clothes were damp where she'd tried to wash the worst out of the material.

"I figured we wouldn't get far if I looked like Lizzie Borden."

She'd caught the line of his thoughts without prompting and now she shrugged again. "I can read expressions too, you know. I'm not going to scream and faint or anything. I might later, though. That would be okay, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah. I might join you." She might not be having hysterics but her glazed expression wasn't reassuring and he was gentle as he led her out from under the bridge and up the slope to the street.

They made it to the pavement without incident but the sound of sirens drawing closer made him pick up their pace. If he was lucky, he could claim he'd been at Adam's all evening when the police inevitably tracked him down with a polite enquiry about the state of his barge and the bodies under the bridge. LeBrun was going to have a field day.

Adam. Richie. A hundred scenarios flashed through his mind and he pushed them away. There wasn't any point in borrowing trouble and, if they hadn't made it out, there was nothing he could do while he was taking care of Greta.

There was no sense of being followed, something he'd become acutely attuned to since discovering the existence of the Watchers, but he took them on a round about route to the apartment anyway. Greta didn't complain, just silently followed where she was led, apparently happy to walk forever if it was required.

He assumed most of her mind had shut down for the moment, so he was surprised when she spoke again.

"I'm sorry about the barge."

"It's just a thing." There was a twinge, but that's all there was. Nothing that had been in there was equal to the worth a life, he'd never found anything that was. He'd never looked. What memories it had kept for him he could keep equally as well in his mind.

She persisted quietly. "It had a lot of history."

"People have more."

"I guess so."

"I know so." He spoke firmly, silencing the last of the loss.

They walked two more blocks before she spoke again. "Do you think they got away?"

"I think … if anyone could have gotten them clear, it's Adam. Can you … see anything?"

Her shoulders slumped slightly. "No. It's all gone kinda quiet. Pretty useless, huh?"

"It's not useless. They'll be at the apartment."

She smiled slightly, probably not believing him any more than he believed himself.

They weren't at the apartment and he knew it as soon as he got within range of the building. No lights were on in the windows and, more to the point, there was no Immortal presence hitting him.

Greta was looking at his expression, probably waiting for the tell-tale blankness she would have learned to recognise on Richie by now. "They're not here, are they?"

"No, not yet."

Adam hadn't given him a key but he hadn't spent so many years with Amanda without picking up a trick or two. He finally convinced the lock to see things his way and Greta stumbled into the rush of heat as he opened the door; he wasn't far behind her. The lights in the hallway were low-lit but welcoming, a cocoon against the chill of the city.

One foot fell in front of the other automatically as they climbed the stairs, still trying to compartmentalize the evening until it made something like sense. His mind skipped away from the story Adam had told, he wasn't ready to process it properly yet. A dull rage had settled in him over it and replaying the narrative was like poking at a half-healed injury, which didn't help anyone.

Details were missing and Methos had obviously been trying to make him leap to all the wrong conclusions. He held the thought for only a moment before he was almost forced admit he didn't know that for sure, he only hoped the old man was trying to manipulate him again. Sometimes it was harder to be honest with himself than it should be.

He shook his head slightly to refocus his thoughts as they reached the landing. This could wait until everyone was safely together again. Then he'd threaten Adam with a hammer or, if he was still angry, with the complete Ring Cycle as sung by the worst opera troupe currently available, until a straight answer was finally achieved. Yes, that was a plan.

One issue cleanly solved, he turned his mind back to the more pressing one. First he'd have to call Joe and then he could start to worry about Richie and Adam in peace.

Opening the apartment door was the work of a few moments, there was no extra security which surprised him briefly until he realised Adam would have several minutes warning of an approaching Immortal. He'd be able to use the fire-escape, conveniently located outside the bedroom window long before anyone got there.

MacLeod dropped into the chair by the phone after pointing Greta towards the bed, then reached for the handset and flicked on the table lamp. His fingers paused over the buttons as he noticed Adam had Le Blues Bar on speed dial below the local Chinese and he himself was third. He chuckled under his breath. Nice to know where he ranked.

Joe's home number wasn't listed and he was quietly pleased he was the only Immortal to have that. He tried Le Blues first, willing to bet the owner was still there.

The phone at the other end rang twice before it was answered. "Le Blues Bar, Joe speaking. We're closed unless you're Claudia Schiffer."

The geniality in the Watcher's tone lightened his own automatically. Joe was the solid touchstone that even Methos used for a reality check occasionally. Joe was real. "Sorry, I wasn't last time I checked. You haven't heard from Adam or Richie this evening, have you?"

"Not since you guys left … what's the problem?"

"What isn't? Look, can you run a name down for me? Henri Montoya. About thirty, maybe a couple of years either way; could have lived in France and Spain. Dark hair, dark eyes, scar above the left eyebrow, about six foot tall but that's only a guess."

He could almost picture Joe scribbling the information down. "Sure, he an Immortal?"

"He's mortal, but he might be working for one of us."

"I'll see what I can get on him; want me to bring it by the barge?"

He paused before deciding to let Joe know the extent of the situation. "The barge is at the bottom of the Seine."

There was an answering pause at the other end of the line before a calm reply returned. "Mac, you maybe want to start at the beginning?"

"It's a long story."

"I have time. This search is gonna take a while."

"Rich and his woman - Greta - were shot at, jumped into the river, ended up on the barge, some guys attacked the barge with a mine, we got split up, I'm with Greta at Adam's place."

"That was a pretty short story."

"It felt longer."

"And you have no clue what's going on? Why did they shoot at Richie and Greta in the first place?"

"I think they saw something they weren't meant to, but they don't know what. Just something being dumped over the bridge. I'm going to take a look down there when Adam and Richie get back."

Joe's voice turned tentative. "You're sure it's a when?"

"Yes. No." He glanced over to Greta, her eyes were closed but her breathing was too shallow for her to be asleep. "I'm giving them another hour; Adam might just be taking the really long route home."

And then he felt it, just a tingling at the edge of his senses, the impact of an Immortal coming closer. There was no second hit, only one person and he had no way of knowing who.

"Joe, I have to go – someone's just made it back. Or there's someone else out there entirely. I'll call."

He hung up without waiting for a reply and stood with renewed energy as the rush of Challenge preparation hit him. Even knowing who it was likely to be did nothing to stop the body's instinct to ready for a fight. As far as he knew, it was just another part of being Immortal.

A key scraped in the lock and Adam let himself in, closing the door quickly behind him and smiling briefly before crossing to the window without a word. MacLeod stood where he was and let the man make his peace with the outside world for as long as he could before he had to ask.

"Where's Richie?"

More abrupt than he'd meant to be and he was beginning to regret it before a coolness settled over Methos' features. Of course, he should have expected the old man, not the researcher.

"He was hit, I left him."

"You left him behind?"

"Last time I looked, yes I'd have to say he was behind."

MacLeod swung, the waiting rage finding its opening and taking it without hesitation. The hilt of the katana found its target, slicing open the man's cheek as he fell back onto the bed.

"He tried!" Greta sat bolt upright, scrabbling to get between them. "He couldn't drag Richie any further so he pushed him into the river and ran."

The fire banked down again, but mortification turned to a tired kind of anger as he stared at Methos but spoke to the woman in the way. "Greta, can you phone Joe and tell him Adam's turned up and Richie's in the Seine again? See if he can pick him up on the way over. Le Blues, second button down."

As she moved, casting them both dubious looks, he held out a hand to Adam who brushed it aside and rose on his own. Flickering blue wrapped around the jagged tear the hilt had left on his skin, it was the work of seconds before the mark was gone entirely.

Then MacLeod stepped forward, crowding the expressionless man back towards the kitchen. When they were inside he closed the door and spoke as evenly and plainly as he could, wondering if he was talking to a stone-wall doing an impression of a man.

"I don't know why you're trying to see how far you can push me, Methos, and right now I don't care." No response, he kept going doggedly. "I get you don't want anyone relying on you, I get you're just a guy and you like to be unpredictable and if you want to manipulate me the rest of the time, you go right ahead until you get the answers you want. But until we're done with this, you stop."

There was still no real answer, only the strange smile and slight dip of the head that had greeted him when he'd first met the Immortal and spoken his real name in a sudden flash of inspired lateral thinking. It didn't give him much hope his words had been taken to heart.

"Shall I make some coffee?" The object of his exasperation's tone was mild but not dangerously so.

He relaxed and uncrossed his arms to take a less aggressive stance. "A lot of it. And Greta needs a shower."

"So do you. You smell like … actually, no, I don't want to analyse what you smell like. You haven't touched anything that can't be burned have you?"

"I'll take a shower. You're going to have to lend me some clothes. And Richie. And Greta."

"I suppose this is some kind of karma. Mi casa es …"

"… su casa … I know." He caught the wandering gaze for a moment and gave a wry smile. "I'm sorry."

"De nada." The answering shrug was careless and as Gallic as native's and he wished, just once, for Greta's ability to know what was going on inside the ancient head.