Chapter Two: Modern Day Cowboy

The Louisiana air hung hot and heavy in the early morning darkness. A midsummer heat wave had struck several weeks earlier in the Bayou country. For two weeks straight the mercury has stretched into the low nineties. The heat alone wouldn't have been bad, but the sweltering humidity had a way of draining a person of their strength, their energy.

Night offered little relief.

At most the temperature dropped by no more than ten degrees. The humidity never wavered. It hovered slightly above saturated.

Any day the skies would burst and the rain would bring much-needed relief.

So people said.

The manor house was palatial in size. The tract of land it sat upon was vast, especially in comparison to the much smaller estates surrounding it.

It spoke of old money, older blood.

Deep inside the sprawling mansion, in a room that was bathed in moonlit shadows, soft words of love and passion, desire and contentment were being whispered between fervent kisses; rushed, heated touches.

In the dark everything was more intense.

"I can't believe…" Calloused fingers brushed back golden brown strands of silken hair.

Everything felt newer.

"I know…" The husky reply came.

It was all fresh.

"It's been so…" Slender fingers lightly graze sleek, tone flesh rippling with hardened muscles. "…Long."

"Long."

The two voices strained as one as they reached for each other. Clasped together, he slid above her, between her.

The door banged open with a resounding crash as it rebounded off the interior wall. "I've found him," an all too familiar voice, loud and boisterous, boomed into the shadowy darkness.

"Jack!" Will shouted emphatically at the man. "We're in the middle—"

The click of a light switch going up preceded the lights coming on by the slimmest margin. "Oh…" The simple sound took an exaggerated length of time to leave Jack Sparrow's mouth. "So you are." He dragged out those three words as he openly admired Elisabeth's well-crafted beauty.

With a cold glare at Sparrow, Elizabeth wrapped one of the thin silk sheets around herself. They had known each other a very long time. For herself, Elizabeth Swan Turner and her husband William Turner, their first meeting had been on the decks of the H.M.S. Dauntalis while the remnants of a merchant ship burned upon the calm sea. It had been another decade before they encountered the walking, talking conundrum that was, Captain Jack Sparrow. Along with Admiral James Norrington, they had known each other for more then three hundred years, almost three hundred and fifty years now.

She had grown up reading his exploits, listening to the exaggerated tales of his adventures, the suave swashbuckler that caused women to swoon simply by walking in the room, the daring robber baron whose enemies practically gave up as soon as he drew steel.

The truth behind the myth however was far less appealing.

The allure didn't shine as bright.

A certain brand of women found his coarse type of charm irresistible. Jack Sparrow won far more engagements than he lost and even when he did lose, he never really lost. His one good quality was that he didn't know he had lost. He simply refused to believe that he could be beaten.

Like now.

"So you are," he said again. Slower, lower. As if some hidden meaning could be discerned from the simple words.

"Get out," Elizabeth snarled.

Jack jerked his thumb back at the still open door as he said, "I should probably be going?" As if it were his own idea. "Let you get back to what you were doing." He pivoted on his heel, a simple maneuver that he turned into a larger-than-life production. "Barbossa can keep," he said as he pulled the door close behind him. His tone made it clear he was completely unconcerned about the information he had burst into their room to deliver just a minute past.

Will's pupils dilated at the sound of Barbossa's name. His blood felt frozen solid, as if it had been replaced with Arctic water. Beads of sweat broke out along his brow as an inferno raged in his gut. "Wha…"

Elizabeth grabbed Will's forearm; her slender fingers dug in with the tenacity of a beer trap; manicured nails drawing welts of blood as they pierced flesh.

Normally Elizabeth would never cause her beloved any injury, would suffer the gravest of wounds herself to ensure his safety. Time and time again. With the way he was now, she had little choice. Besides, the pair of them were made of sterner material then most. A little cut would hardly kill either of them.

The words might have been tossed away with a callous indifference, but Elizabeth knew Jack well enough after three hundred plus years to know his words were calculated to cause a specific reaction. As he normally did, Jack had chosen his words well. He knew the effect Barbossa's name had on Will and he used it with deliberate purpose.

She forced Will to look at her. Her eyes pleaded with him. Her expression begged him. "Wait. Think. Don't rush into this. A few hours won't make a wit of difference."

Will's expression wilted fractionally under Elizabeth's gaze. He reached out, his callused palms gently caressed her cheek, strong fingers brushed dark hair aside. He choked on his words, had to swallow them back down. "He's hurt you too many times."

In a soft voice, Will strained to hear Elizabeth words, "The only way Barbossa could ever hurt me, is if he were to kill you."

"Never going to happen," Will assured her. His thumb rubbed a gentle pattern along her temple.

She leaned into his touch. "It's almost happened more times then I care to count."

"Not this time." His hand slipped behind, cupping the back of her head. He pulled her to him as he leaned forward. He pressed his lips to hers forcefully. In that one moment he tried to convey all the passion he felt, all the love he had for her, all his hopes and dreams for their future together.

Elizabeth wasn't used to the roughness of the embrace, but quickly responded to the desire she felt. Deepening the kiss, she soon matched Will's erupting passion with her own.

Will pulled back slowly, his lungs starving for oxygen. He would gladly drown in her essence. He drew in a deep breath, filling his nostrils with her unique, dew covered, honey Mango scent. Even after all these years, she still smelt of Port Royal and the Caribbean. "I have to do this," he whispered into her ear. "Knowing Barbossa is out there, if I don't at least try to put an end to his evil." He stopped, taking a breath as he rested his forehead against her head. "I'd be as culpable as he for whatever villainy he is about."

He knew she wasn't happy and didn't need to see the red glint in her eyes to know just how furious she was at the moment. Nor did he need to see the clench of her jaw to know that she was nibbling delicately on the inside of her lip as she worked things around in her head.

They had been eight years old when they first met and he had watched her grow up, grew up alongside her. He knew her moods and her little eccentricities as well as he knew his way around a forge or the subtle intricacies of the sword.

"I've got to do this," he said again. He placed a quick kiss on her forehead. Pulling back, he bounced slightly as he got off the bed. "Where's he supposed to be?" He asked Jack as he padded across the rosewood floor to his armoire.

Jack cleared his throat from where he had been waiting, fidgeting with all the good grace he possessed. "From what my source tells me, Barbossa is bringing some Asian strumpet into Los Angeles." He answered with little of his usual posturing.

"Source," Elizabeth whispered harshly. Jack always had a source, throughout all the years, but never had any of them met his source. She wondered if it was the same source or if he cultivated them like a dog cultivated fleas.

Will finished pulling on his pants, a pair of study denim jeans. He grabbed a dark blue T-shirt as he twisted to face Jack. "We're going to Los Angeles?" His accent wasn't quite as thick as it used to be, but every now and then, usually when he felt hurried, it was more noticeable.

Jack leaned against the door, folding white silk covered arms across his chest pushing the edges of his black leather vest together. He cocked a booted heel against the oak door, his leather clad knee bent ever so slightly. "Way I hear it he plans on selling this sweet little morsel he has with him to the highest bidder. Plans on making himself a tidy profit on this here little overseas venture of his."

Will's head popped through the opening with a disgusted grunt. "Does Barbossa get more…" The creak of the bed brought Will to an abrupt halt as he shoved the hem of his t-shirt into the waistband of his pants. He twisted his head enough to glimpse the bed. "Elizabeth!"

The word jumped out of his mouth as his wife flounced out of their mammoth four-posted bed. The young seeming woman allowed the blanket to fall away. It was so thin it did a far better job of hinting at what it was suppose to cover then actually covering it.

Elizabeth had little concern about modesty. Besides, this was hardly the first time Jack Sparrow had seen her naked, and Will was her husband.

Jack openly admired the radiant beauty on display before him. At an age where most people were nothing more then dust and bones, buried in the earth, Elizabeth was, if possible, even more beautiful today then she had been the first time, he saw her. Then she had been a piece of exquisitely crafted finery tossed amongst a bleak shoal. Now she was the sun set in a sapphire necklace.

Jack pushed himself off the door, an admiring grin splitting his face. "Stairmaster's been getting…"

"Jack," Will shouted at the pirate.

"Right…"

"What are you?"

"If you think…" Elizabeth balanced on one leg as she began pulling on a pair of panties. "…for one minute…" she put one foot down and quickly slid the other in. "…that I am going to let you…" she jerked the underwear all the way up, somehow making that violent action seemed dainty. "...go traipsing…" turning on him, Elizabeth grabbed a white tank top from out of her drawer. Her full breast heaved from the exertion. "…all over creation…"

"Los Angeles only," Jack piped in. Elizabeth turned the full force of her glare on him. It rolled off his slick hide like water off a greased pig. "Swear it love. Quick jaunt… If Barbossa ain't there its right back here and you'll never even know dear William was gone."

"Jack," Will hissed.

"With him," Elizabeth seethed pointing an accusing finger at Jack Sparrow.

She knew she had gone too far once the words left her mouth. A brief flash of pain glinted in his dark eyes, there and gone, almost too fast to be seen. If she hadn't been looking right at him, she never would have seen the imperceptible flicker. Jack was extremely good at masking his feelings. He's had a long life to practice.

The statement was unfair to Jack. The pair of them, along with Norrington, were the only family he has left. The second crew he had hobbled together to retake the Black Pearl had been family as well, his and theirs for a time, but the long years had taken them, while the four of them remained perpetually young, unchanged down through the centuries.

"Jack, I am so sorry. I have no…"

"Quite alright love," Jack said waving off her clumsy apology. "We all know I'm hardly the most dependable person around."

The words were spoken with his normal, easy going lilt, but Elizabeth could still hear the slight tremble in his voice. "Nonsense. You have never let us down, not when it was important," she clarified.

"Elizabeth," Will's voice had taken on a pleading quality. "Will you please finish getting dressed?"

At her husband words, Elizabeth suddenly became aware of her nudity. She hardly batted an eye, but still pulled the tank top over her head and settled it around her torso.

Elizabeth almost found Wills prudish attitude about nudity amusing. By themselves, he was quite at ease, but if there was another woman in the room, her husband would have a blanket pulled up to his chin. The fact that he said anything because it was Jack just made it that much more comical.

"I should probably go," Jack said gesturing towards the door. He took half a step backwards while he continued saying, "let the two of you hash this out? Will, let me…"

"Hold it right there," Elizabeth ordered with a snarl. "You think you can come in here and drop this on us and then walk away?"

"Hadn't really thought about it," Jack answered. "Norrington's probably going to beat us to Los Angeles."

"You've already talked to Norrington?" Will asked, momentarily forgetting about the Elizabeth's states of undress.

"Said he'd meet us at that restaurant the two of you fancy whenever you're in the city," Jack explained.

"The Sky Temple?"

The clothes felt strange to Algren. It had been more then a hundred years since he had last worn the uniform he had been wearing when he arrived in Japan. They had been kept in immaculate condition, but were still an ill fit now; hanging loose on his shoulders, his belt needed to be cinched tighter.

He hardly believed how much weight he had lost over the years since Taka died, quietly and in her sleep on June eighteenth, Nineteen Twenty-Nine, he barely ate enough to sustain his life, yet he was still alive.

As much of a surprise as the fit of his clothes were to him, his first sight of Tokyo in more then eighty years left him feeling small and insignificant, it was beyond recognition. If not for the fact that everything he saw proclaimed the city as being Tokyo he would have questioned his sanity.

In his youth, a tall building had been a ten-story structure made of brick, stone, and mortar. Now glass and steel towered above him, surrounded him on every side, rose thousands of feet into the air.

Kela had shown him what a modern city looked like on that computer of hers. He had seen, but he hadn't believed. He had seen the occasional movie and the rare television show, but had written those images off as movie magic; something created for the effect it would have. Much like some of his favorite novels: Dickens classic, "Christmas Carol", Tolkien's, "Lord of The Ring", and C. S. Lewis', "Chronicles of Narnia". More recently Jordan's, "The Wheel of Time".

He thought the directors were simply constructing an image; in much the same way those great authors used words to craft their world's unbelievable scenery: cities of such scope and magnitude and painstaking detail, landscape so breathtaking, so real you could feel the loose stone crunch under your feet, taste the dew in the morning, breathe the frost in the heart of winter, gaze in wonder at beautiful sunsets; characters that came alive in front of you, that just leapt off the pages at you.

Now his beliefs were being shattered.

If not for the fact he was so focused on finding Kela he would have been gawking at the city like a raw recruit in a whorehouse for the first time. As it was, he could barely contain his racing heart, the claustrophobic rush threatening to shove him over the edge.

It had been more than a hundred years since he's had a taste of liquor, but Algren knows a strong scotch would surely settle his nerves right about now. Only the last time he had lived his life out of a bottle he had been attempting to numb himself to the horrors he witnessed, he committed, while serving in the United States Calvary. He didn't want to risk returning to what he had been. Not when it had taken so much to pull himself out of the abyss he had lived in for so long.

Many of the people he passed on the streets stared at his antique uniform, most however simply ignored him when they weren't cursing him for some reason or another. Wearing his old uniform made Nathan feel like an antique. Sometime soon he was going to have to update his wardrobe, possibly before he left Japan.

His granddaughter was smart, resourceful, and looking for a way to get to America without any questions. He had no doubt she was on her way already, having managed to smuggle herself off the island nation. He knew where she was heading though, just as he knew the person she was looking for; Sunnydale was the town and the man was Rupert Giles. The Watcher who had come looking to recruit Kela for some sacred war he was on the brink of fighting.

He had seen enough wars to know none of them were sacred.

Still it was possible he should have heeded Rupert's advice and gone with Kela to America. Maybe then those distorted monsters wouldn't have attacked his home. Maybe more of his family would be alive at this moment.

She was alone in the world.

He knew Kela was more prepared for it than he was. She had grown up in this modern area. Its technologies were as familiar to her as the horse was to him.

That aside though she had grown up in isolation from the world; in an environment where everyone was thoughtful and considerate and thought no more of harming you then you did them. She had no idea what people, outsiders, were like. Didn't understand that when these people looked at her they were measuring her, judging what they could get from her, get away with her, what the cost would be to them. Weighing the gain against the risk and if it…

A whirring buzz, like an air raid siren, exploded inside his skull. A chilled electricity hummed over his flesh while the short hairs along the back of his neck tried to stand on end; only his last hair cut had been several decades ago and they had grown too long in the interval.

He stopped in the middle of a crowded sidewalk; hunched over, left hand cupping the side of his head, over his ear, eyes squinting, trying by force of will alone to make the intrusive sensation to go away.

People bumped into him, jostled him, shoved him, attempting to get him out to their way. They shouted at him, cursed him, cursed his ancestors all the way back to the first monkey to ever jump out of a tree. "White, round eye, Yankee dog," was the gentlest epitaph hurled his way. Most were much more inventive and colorful than that.

He was aware of it all the same way he was aware of the sun high overhead, the air all around him.

None of it mattered to him, not the sun, not the air, and most definitely not the people.

Hours passed in an icy haze.

Nathan knew it couldn't have been more than a handful of seconds. Time had stretched out and compressed all at once.

As quickly as it began, it ended.

The world snapped back.

He staggered to the side clutching for breath. His eyes scanned the crowd as he leaned against the side of the building. He could feel eyes upon him.

Then Algren spotted him. A dozen yards away. There was nothing special about him. Nothing that distinguished him from anybody else in the throng of people. Except he knew it was him. That they were alike, the same. That everybody else was somehow less. While they moved, he watched him with the intensity of a hawk circling a rabbit.

He was a young looking man, in his early twenties. His blond hair flowed behind him like a lion's mane. With his white blazer, pale blue button-down shirt that was open almost to his solar plexus, and white slacks made him look… Slick, he believed the term was. At lease it had been the last time he watched television; the show was called, "Miami Vice".

The man smiled generously, gave Algren a mock salute before ducking into an alley, and disappearing down it.

Nathan gathered himself and followed the stranger into the alley. Halfway down the passageway a heavy steel door swung shut with a solid thunk.

The alleyway was sparse, a few crates and pallets; a bit of litter, newspapers and wrappers covered the ground; a quartet of large green dumpster line the back wall at sporadic intervals.

There were always reasons for setting a trap and this had the distinct feel of one. Only he didn't know what for?

Curiosity outweighed caution and he pulled the door open and plunged into the darkness beyond.

The building were so tall that even with the door open there wasn't the slimmest sliver of light allowed in.

Ladders and scaffolding had been set up. Sheet rock, drywall, and prefabricated ceiling tiles had been laid out. Other supplies were scattered in an orderly fashion. As if a work crew had been here, set up for the day, and then… left.

Trap. He could hear Katsumoto's whisper in his ear.

He moved deeper into the building. Following…

He wasn't sure what he was following. His gut maybe? Some other internally instinct?

He didn't know.

All he did know was that the man was inside this building. Somewhere in the direction he was heading.

He passed through several more partially finished rooms before he came to a heavy fire door. It had been propped open with a small wedge of wood.

Trap.

Algren pushed the door open slowly, peering into a stairwell that ran both up and down. Since he was on the ground floor he could assume down led to a parking garage. Stepping all the way into the stairwell he looked up trying to see if there was anything suspicious above him.

Not seeing anything he moved toward the stairs heading down.

A door click shut with a solid thwich from somewhere up above him.

Trap.

Somebody wants us to go up, he answered the voice.

He gazed up the stairs once more. He could walk away. The way back, the way he had come, was clear.

That way there were no answers.

Sweat made his shirt feel sodden. As if he had taken a bath in the thing after marching thirty miles over rough terrain in half a day.

His foot touched the steel reinforced concrete…

And nothing happened. No anvil had been dropped on his head. The building hadn't suddenly exploded.

Nothing.

It took Algren almost ten minutes to climb the four flights of stairs. He was moving with an obscene amount of caution, making sure he didn't overlook the smallest clue that might have been left behind.

Whether discarded deliberately or accidentally dropped.

Dragging the time out would also have the added benefit of making his advisory impatient. If he was good, this little bit of showmanship wouldn't faze him in the slightest. If he wasn't, if he let the forced tension eat at him then the chances of him making a misstep at the crucial moment were in his favor.

Nathan almost kept going, but the glint of steel by the door drew his eyes. He knelt down and picked up a small key, the kind used on padlocks, a small padlock.

Trap! Katsumoto's voice screamed in his ear.

He jerked around just in time to see the man lunge down the stairs at him with a soundless roar. A Spanish styled broadsword drawn, the sharp point aimed at where his heart had been.

Fast as he was Algren was faster.

A hundred plus years training snapped into place.

His mind just fell away.

The instant slowed down to snail's pace. Everything happened with crystal clarity.

He swung his duffle bag around as he surged up to meet him. The bag knocked the sword aside as he began to pivot; his right hand grabbing the boy's right wrist in a crushing grip as he threw his hip into the boy's pelvis lifting him off his feet.

They flew the rest of the way to the landing and crashed through the heavy door. Algren made sure the boy bore the brunt of impact.

Algren's left elbow smashed into his face at almost the same time the back of his head bounced off the floor. There was a satisfying crunch of bone.

He rolled backward landing in a low crouch and had to jump back as the boy's sword reached out toward him. Clearing space so he could hastily climb to his feet.

With blood covering the lower part of his face he didn't look so slick anymore.

"You broke my nose!" He grated through gritted teeth.

Algren crocked an eyebrow at him. "You ambush me? Then complain when I defend myself? For the youth of America, I surely do hope you aren't the rule, but rather…"

"Ah!" The boy came at him with a roar, slashing low in an attempt to spill his guts all over the floor.

Algren skipped back smoothly as the sword whispered past him. With an underhanded toss he hurled his duffel bag at the boy's legs.

The bag tangled in his legs. Algren stepped forward, his right hand grabbed the boy's forearm, his fingers dug into cable like muscle.

The boy grunted as he caught himself. He threw a right cross.

Algren caught his wrist, stepped inside, and twisted.

The boy flipped over. Air exploded from his lungs when he smashed into the floor.

Algren continued to twist as he dropped to the floor, slamming a solid knee into the back of the boy's neck and right side of his chin; pressing the left side of his face into the unforgiving linoleum. Algren twisted hard on his arm wrenching his shoulder painfully.

The sword clattered to the floor.

Algren's other knee smashed into the boy's kidney forcing the boy to support the majority of his weight.

He grunted in pain, grasped for breath but couldn't get any oxygen. Algren's shin was pressing into his throat cutting off the flow of air.

Algren frowned. He had the boy trapped, disarmed and disabled. Now he had to decide what to do with him. "Normally a man tries to kill me, I leave them lying in a pool of their own blood-"

The boy tried to say something, but it came out a garbled mess.

Algren rapped him on the back of the head. "I didn't say you could talk," he admonished. "Where was I… Right… pool of their own blood, but you're like me? Death doesn't stick so well with the likes of us. I'm interested in why. You're going to tell me… If, when we're done…"