After hearing about the security breach in Germany, Joe wasn't surprised to find that Richie was identified as the culprit. It was only natural to assume that MacLeod, the elder, was behind it. Knowing what they had found it was also natural for Joe to assume that it was only a matter of time before it all came back to him. So, when Richie breezed into the bar just three nights after he disappeared from Germany, it was only natural. What wasn't natural was Richie's all-business attitude.

"Can we talk?" he asked in an eerily Duncan-like tone.

"Sure. My office."

Once the door was closed, Richie put a file on Joe's desk.

"How could you guys miss this?" He demanded. "I thought your people lurked around every corner?"

"My people?" Joe repeated.

"How can you screw up like this?"

"Calm down, kid," Joe sighed. "I know you'd be coming and I looked into it. When we went from Arsenios to Sladkie it was during war."

"He was a top advisor to Ivan III, I read it, too. Tell me something I don't know."

"We didn't exactly have cellular phones and the internet back then."

Richie stood across from Joe, hands on the desk, looking surprisingly intimidating for a young man his size. "Where is he now?" he asked slowly.

"I can make some calls." It was scary to see the kid acting like this. He could almost swear it was Duncan lording over him. Especially when Richie handed him the receiver.

"Call."

. . . . . .

Somewhere on the page where words. He was sure of it. He tried so hard to concentrate in class; he couldn't have scribbled nonsense all 90 minutes.

"Spanish?" Rachel asked from over his shoulder. "Que bueno."

Richie blinked and suddenly the letters formed words. He had been trying to read in English. "Thought it was Western Civ," he mumbled to himself.

"Richie," Rachel moved his notebook aside and leaned against his desk. "You've been like this ever since Germany." She put her hand on his shoulder. "The only thing that trip proved is that he changed identities."

"So, you think I'm crazy, too."

"I've been behind you from the start. I just hate seeing you like this."

"Well, it won't last long."

"What?"

"I'm going to take care of it." He moved his notebook back in front of him. "But first, I have finals."

"Richie, what do you have planned?"

"Nothing I haven't been planning."

Rachel folded her arms and stared him down. "I don't like the sound of that."

"You don't have to."

"What am I Meredith now? I thought I was the one you liked? Why are you giving me the attitude?"

Richie didn't look up from his notes. "I got work to do."

. . . . . .

"Your little boy seems to be getting ready for something big." Sladkie dropped a file on the floor at his feet. "I thought you would like to see him before I break him."

He waited for Sladkie to leave before he reached for the file. Inside were photographs, blown up to a full page, each of Richie working out and training. He couldn't help but feel pride swell up in his chest getting to see the serious immortal Richie had become. It seemed he was training in everything from yoga, to kendo, to kick-boxing. He looked so strong and mature. Richie barely resembled the goofy teenager he remembered. He could tell even form just a few photos that Richie's whole demeanor had changed and it was because of him.

. . . . . .

Feet and fists were flying at him from all directions. It felt like a whole army was attacking him at once. But he knew better, there was only one man.

"Concentrate, Ryan!" his trainer yelled from ring-side. "Wake up!"

Richie shook his head to clear it, but he couldn't concentrate. He was bored. Besides, he had more important things to worry about.

"Goddamn it, Ryan! What the hell's wrong with you?" his trainer demanded, this time at his right ear.

"Sorry." Richie spit his mouth guard into his trainer's hand. He dimly realized he had lost the match. His opponent beamed proudly at his own trainer. At least it wasn't a real match. This had been nothing more than a testosterone battle. Only for bragging rights.

"You should have beaten that clown just by showing up!"

"Sorry," Richie mumbled again, taking off his gear. So he had lost the top spot at this gym. His legs were too short for him to be a good kick-boxer anyway.

"Get out of here," his trainer pushed him firmly out of the ring. "Don't come back until you have some fight in 'ya!"

Outside the gym the cool mid-march breeze chilled his sweat moist skin. He shrugged into his jacket and let his defeat drip down his back with the sweat droplets. Connor had warned him as he signed up for different gyms that eventually he would surpass all the other members and after that he should be beaten. Not because his opponent was better than him, but because he was too bored to pay attention. When that point came it was time to move on. So, on his way out he had cancelled his membership.

He only belonged to two gyms now: the yoga studio and the karate dojo. Maybe it meant soon he will have outgrown it all: the gyms, the city, maybe even Connor. What would happen then?

His phone trilled at him from his back pocket.

"I quit Stewart's," he said after accepting the call.

"The time as coming. I called Chang's. Pick up dinner. Meredith and Rachel are here." It wasn't mentioned in conversation, it was a warning.

"I have homework anyway."

"Of course."

They disconnected. Things had been strained at home ever since Germany. It had been meant to humor Richie, to give him proof that Duncan was dead. Instead, the new evidence fueled his belief that Duncan was still alive. He felt he was wrapped up in some conspiracy. Disbelievers, miss-labeled files... it was all like a badly written dime-store novel.

Mechanically he stopped by their usual take-out Chinese place, merely nodding his head at the busy owner as he took his order that was waiting for him at the counter. He didn't check it, it was always right. He didn't pay; they'd just charge the card they already had on file, if they hadn't already.

Once home he was forced into polite conversation over eggrolls and fried rice. He begged out as soon as he could and hid himself in his room to do his "homework". He set up his desk, laying out a partially done lesson plan that he had been working on the train. It wasn't due for another two weeks, but it made for a good cover story.

With his cover set up he pulled out a file folder with a stack of neatly printed contacts and notes. He took out his private cell phone, which he paid for with the money me made in underground fights. He paid for his p.o. box the same way.

He dialed a number and slipped into his alter ego.

"Jefferson's beauty supply," a female answered.

"I'm calling about the beagle ad I read in the paper," he repeated the same code-line he heard Joe use that night at the bar. Either Joe was wise enough not to rat him out, or really had no idea he had gleaned the code.

"The paper printed the wrong number." And she gave them the number of the secure line of their regional head quarters.

Once he dialed that line he passed some pathetically lame security points and got the information he wanted. Even though the Watchers knew he had broken in once before they hadn't beefed up security anywhere. They were that sure of their methods.

He repeated the act two more times first with an elementary school and then with an office supply store both of whom had had their numbers misprinted by the local paper in an ad looking for a good home for a beagle.

Everyone he talked to gave him slightly different information, but it all boiled down to Sladkie had recently taken an interest in a young immortal named Ryan. Sladkie was having him followed by a mortal who met him weekly on the same subway platform in Queens.

Richie took out a subway map and found the stop. Next week he'd spy on his spy and see what information he could get from him.

The ball was in his court and Sladkie hadn't heard the starting buzzer.