The Power of Love
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Part Nine
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Methos sat lotus style on the bed, attempting to hang onto the anger that kept him warm and distracted him from the less pleasant aspects of his current abode. His jailor, whom Methos had privately taken to calling Ghoul, had come and gone twice since his original visit. He seemed to take inordinate pleasure in filling Methos in on Richie's minute by minute activities.
Methos' lips curled up in a private smirk. Little did the ghoul know, far from rattling him, it had been reassuring. While it bothered him that Ghoul was having Richie followed, knowing that the younger Immortal was alive and had gone to the Dojo more than made up for that.
The stranger Richie had taken with him, however, was a source of concern. Who was he? The Ghoul obviously hadn't known, hadn't even bothered to describe him very well, except to say that he out-massed Richie by at least 75 pounds.
Methos sighed. It was difficult to hold onto the anger when he was fighting boredom. Boredom was the antithesis of strong emotion and staying sharp. Unfortunately, it was also an integral part of any confinement. While the fear he'd felt from the very beginning continued to curl in his belly, it wasn't urgent, nor was it overpowering. Only an idiot wouldn't fear the situation, but so far it remained a dull inconvenience, hours on end of waiting interspersed with irritating episodes of Ghoul's amateurish attempts to intimidate him.
Of course, there *was* a certain amount of amusement in casting his own digs back at Ghoul and watch the man's impotent anger grow. Methos shook his head. It was most amusing watching him shove it aside, because he obviously wasn't anything more than a lackey who couldn't afford to hurt "Adam Pierson". *That* had become abundantly clear early on. He supposed that was part of the reason it was so difficult to ignore his common sense that told him, egging his captor on wasn't exactly the most intelligent thing to do. Every man had limits.
Breathing slow, regular breaths, he tuned out the fading light, the growing chill in the air, and the increasing emptiness of his stomach. Boredom could be overcome. Meditation was the key to that, so he turned his senses inward.
"Well, well," came a familiar, surly voice, "I didn't know you were into that sissy yoga stuff."
Behind closed eyelids, Methos' eyes rolled involuntarily. **The man *has* to be a bloody idiot.** Refusing to be baited this time, Methos kept his eyes closed, and pretended to continue his meditation.
A long silence was followed by a chuckle, that to Methos' ears didn't, quite mesh with what he knew about Ghoul. Something had changed, but, despite a flutter of unease, he didn't outwardly react. He waited. He was good at waiting -- at least he was good at looking like it.
"I've discovered something very interesting," Ghoul remarked.
The silence stretched on and finally Methos slowly opened his eyes to glare balefully at his captor.
Ghoul grinned.
Methos frowned sourly. **Round one to Ghoul!**
Glancing down to closely inspect his fingernails, Ghoul continued. "I have it on very good authority that the rather hefty stranger your *friend* was hanging around was shot earlier today."
Methos' eyes narrowed.
"He looked *awfully* healthy for someone who'd been shot in the chest less than half an hour before he was seen on the back of your friend's bike."
**Immortal. What the bloody hell is Richie doing riding around with an Immortal?** Methos forced himself to remain still and unresponsive while he thought through the implications. **Was it someone Richie already knew? No, it had to be something else.**
"Until you," Ghoul continued, oblivious to Methos' inner monologue, "I'd never even heard of people who 'healed' like you do, but less than 12 hours after discovering you, I discover a second."
Methos tensed. He *really* didn't like where this guy's thoughts were headed.
"Let's just see if I can do the math here." Ghoul's grin widened. "You *and* someone else we discover at your apartment turn out to have these...unusual abilities."
**That Immortal was at *my* apartment?**
"What are the odds that the third person involved in our little soap opera *also* has your talents? Hmmm?"
Methos' mind worked frantically. It was obvious this Immortal that Ghoul admitted had been shot, had been the one he'd sensed. Of course, that tended to limit the possibility that he was involved with Ghoul's little group. So, who the hell was he? And why had Richie taken the unknown Immortal with him.
Methos' mind worked frantically. It seemed obvious that the immortal he'd sensed at his apartment had to be the one who was now with Richie. If the impression Methos was getting from Ghoul was correct, and this stranger had been shot by Ghoul's men, it limited the probability that he was involved with them. So who the hell was he? And why had Richie taken the Immortal with him?
**Gods, I'm getting a headache!**
"Statistically speaking, the odds would be pretty low," Ghoul said speculatively, staring intently at Methos. "After all, there can't be that many of you around."
**Statistically speaking? What the hell?**
"But I think the odds would be wrong." Ghoul stepped closer to the bars, his eyes and mouth both telling of a malicious glee. "You know the old phrase...birds of a feather and all that..."
Methos fought against trying to wet his quickly drying mouth. **What they hell happened to the idiot I've been dealing with all day?** Methos only half listened to Ghoul's taunts as he tried to figure out who the stranger was.
**Okay.** Taking a mental moment to marshall his thoughts, Methos attempted to make sense of all he'd learned. One; It had been at his apartment that Richie had run across the unknown Immortal. Two; Richie felt comfortable enough to take this unknown Immortal with him. Three; it was likely this was the same Immortal that he'd felt, causing him to flee his apartment. Four; evidence suggested that this Immortal was not involved with those who'd shot and then kidnapped him.
So what the hell could he make of all this?
The abrupt crashing sound of metal sliding across stone wrenched Methos from his speculations, and his eyes focused on a set of heavy, metal manacles skidding to a stop in the middle of his cell.
"Put them on."
Methos didn't move.
A second laugh sounded, this one grating across his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. "I could always simply shoot you, then put them on you myself."
Methos still didn't move, refusing to look up.
The double ratchet of a gun's slide-stop being set, caught his instant, and undivided attention. His eyes snapped up and he stared warily at the man standing on the other side of the bars.
"I thought that might get your attention," Ghoul said, grinning. "It may not kill you permanently, but I bet it still hurts."
'No shit!' Methos thought irritably. When he'd heard the sound, he'd expected a pistol of some sort. He certainly hadn't expected to be staring down the octagon barrel of a 30-30 hunting rifle. The slide-top he'd thought he'd heard was actually the cocking of the heavy rifle. Even at fifteen feet away, it was not a pleasant experience. Of course, being on the business end of any gun wasn't exactly what he would call 'fun'. "You could say that," he replied drily, not moving an inch.
"Get up and put the manacles on. Now."
Methos rose slowly and crossed to the manacles. Never once taking his eyes off Ghoul, he knelt down and picked up the detestable things.
He peripherally noticed that others had come this time. The two large men dwarfed Ghoul and Methos wondered if they were perhaps bodyguards.
He snapped the metal around his wrists as he quelled a touch of rising anxiety, a slight tremor passing down his spine. He disliked having his hands restrained at the best of times. Right now, when he was in such an unknown situation, it called up the worst of his fears. He drew in a deep breath, waiting stoically for whatever would come next.
At least if he was out of this cell, his chances of escaping would rise exponentially. He would simply have to bide his time; do nothing until the time was right to do...something.
The gun barrel never wavering, Ghoul nodded to one of the newcomers. "Get him out," he ordered, then backed up several paces.
'So,' Methos thought with satisfaction, 'you are afraid of me, despite your denials. He didn't move as one of the new goons unlocked the door, then both headed toward him. Instead, he kept his gaze locked with that of his main captor.
/Unh huh,/ a voice in his head responded. /Either that, or it *is* possible he's simply more intelligent that you've given him credit for. You know, 'don't get too close to someone you've pissed off'./
With deceptive meekness, Methos allowed the two new goons to yank him forward. Keeping his eyes on Ghoul until it became impossible, Methos thoroughly enjoyed the increasing discomfort in the other man's eyes.
/Don't fall for it, idiot!/ that same voice sounded in his head. /He's playing you for a sucker!/
Climbing the stairs between his two forceful escorts, Methos reconsidered his position. It was possible, he supposed, that he had, inadvertently, underestimated his jailor's mental capacity. And it was equally possible that he had, perhaps, misjudged the danger he found himself in.
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Part Ten
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As they topped the stairs, Methos rolled his eyes. He'd been under a warehouse. Could his life *get* any more cliche?
Immortal presence slithered down his spine, further unnerving him. **Guess so.** It did not set him at ease when the presence quickly faded. Who was it? And what, if anything, did they have to do with what was happening here? His eyes narrowed and his stomach twisted into knots.
Was it merely coincidence? He certainly didn't think so. He didn't believe in coincidences -- at least not Immortal ones.
He started silently when Ghoul's voice whispered from close to his ear.
"That friend of yours got desperate," he taunted, chuckling maliciously. "He went into *my* neighborhood looking for clues to your whereabouts."
Methos' eyes narrowed with his desire to demand that Richie be left alone. Instead he forced a smirk. "In other words, I'm being moved because he's getting too close."
He saw the hand that snapped out, and resisted his instinctive response to either grab it just short of his face, or duck. It connected across his cheekbone, the sound echoing through the cavernous room. He allowed his head to snap sideways, lessening the damage from the impact. However, it did nothing for the sting of wounded pride.
Now, he wasn't a man of excessive pride. Most of the time he believed pride could go take a hand-basket ride, especially when survival or freedom was at stake, but there was just something about being *slapped* that pushed buttons inside him. It took him a couple of moments to master most of the indignation that coursed through him. "Feel better now?" he asked snidely, in spite of every instinct that yelled at him to simply 'shut the hell up'.
Surprisingly, Ghoul burst out laughing. Methos had to admit that it was just a touch unnerving. It added to the growing dichotomy in how Ghoul had acted for most of the day and how he was acting now, and a shiver slid through Methos as he tried to ignore his growing anxiety.
/You're letting him get to you,/ the voice in his head laughed mercilessly. /Kronos was right; you've gone soft./
With iron determination, Methos shook off the sense of unease those words invoked within him. *Never* would he allow Kronos' words, nor his opinion, rule his life. The man was dead and he did *not* have control over anything. He most certainly no longer controlled Methos!
"Yes, actually, I do," Ghoul said brightly, then circled around behind Methos.
**Oh, just great!** Methos attempted to turn, trying to keep the man in sight, but the grip of the two men holding him turned bruising. He didn't fight them.
"He's mine, you know," came Ghoul's whispered words directly behind him. "He made a very big mistake trespassing on my territory. It made my task *so* much simpler."
**Made?** Methos forced himself to remain silent. **Did Ghoul already have Richie?**
"If he's not like you, you'd better tell me now, otherwise I might...inadvertently do permanent damage."
"He's not," Methos whispered. "I'm rather...unique." Behind him, Ghoul chuckled and really Methos didn't like the sound of it.
"That was too easy," Ghoul purred. "You're entirely too transparent. You know that, don't you?"
**Oh, I don't think so!**
"You don't give anything away unless you want to, I think. I'd be willing to bet that your easy answer means your friend *is* like you."
Methos tensed as a single finger traced along his spine.
"The real question is, why are you trying to protect him? You see, I'm not as stupid or ineffective as I've led you to believe. I've been watching you assume I was exactly what I pretended to be." Ghoul pulled back, circling back in front of Methos. "Having you consider me nothing more than a street bully with a puffed up ego was very convenient. It has taught me a lot about you."
**Shit!** It had been awhile since Methos had let his arrogance dig him into quite this much trouble, and he wondered just how much work it was going to take to get out of.
"I've taken your measure, *Mr.* Adam Pierson. There's more to you than meets the eye -- a lot more."
**Well, no shit! I thought we'd already established that!**
"What? No sarcastic comment this time?"
Biting his tongue, Methos remained silent. **Nope, not this time.**
"What I think," Ghoul continued, "is that you've just discovered you've miscalculated. I think you're used to being in control of every situation, regardless of who *appears* to be in control. I also think you're just beginning to figure out just how much danger you're in."
**Score one for the asshole!**
"You don't like that, do you?"
**You just *love* understatement! Get a new shtick.**
Ghoul grabbed the hair at the base of Methos' skull, yanking his head backward, and instantly causing Methos' eyes to tear up.
**I *knew* I was gonna regret letting it grow!**
"Well?" Ghoul growled.
"No one...enjoys fearing for their life," Methos answered diplomatically, attempting to placate the enigma Ghoul had suddenly become.
"What I'm really wondering is, is this friend of yours, perhaps, more than *just* a friend, hmmm?"
Methos clenched his teeth, willing his body to make no further outward response to Ghoul's question.
Staring at him intently for several long moments, Ghoul suddenly laughed out loud again. "I think I'm going to enjoy taming you."
Methos shuddered, for one instant hearing Kronos' voice saying those exact same words. For the long moment between one breath and the next Methos was back in the horsemen's camp, Kronos hovering over him, his breath hot against Methos' neck as the other horseman taunted him.
"Interesting," Ghoul commented, his purring voice jerking Methos back into reality. "Someone tried to tame you once, didn't they?"
Methos clenched his teeth around a scathing retort. "No," he answered simply and felt the faintest breath of knowing laughter from Ghoul as the man moved entirely too close for comfort.
"I just wonder if that friend of yours will be half as much fun as you," Ghoul said sighing dramatically. "Somehow, I doubt it."
A side door opened, drawing Ghoul's attention away, and sending a draft of cold air over Methos. Methos shivered in the abrupt temperature change, goose-bumps raising instantly. As Ghoul moved away, Methos drew a relieved breath, his mind speeding over the possibilities.
One disturbing element could be laid easily to rest. Casting aside more amazing coincidences, especially since he still didn't believe in them; the Immortal that he'd sensed, and Richie had subsequently taken to the dojo, *had* to be someone Methos knew. That didn't leave a very wide open field. He just hoped it was friend and not foe.
Actually, he could think of only one person who might come to him. Mark Richards. Methos almost shook his head. Mark was an odd one, gods knew, and it wasn't simply because of the astonishing ease with which he had accepted Adam Pierson's Immortality in the months following the night the kid had stumbled across the end of an Immortal challenge.
**Gods! Has it really been five years since that first night?**
/// Five years ago
On his hands and knees in the dirty alley, Methos gasped air into his raw lungs. The Quickening he'd taken coursed through his veins, sending aching need throughout his body. He trembled as he hung his head. It had been a head hunter, a reasonably old one, and the power was not going to easily settle. He swallowed convulsively and surveyed his surroundings. He had to get rid of the body.
**One of the hazards of being an unknown Immortal.**
Methos chuckled wryly, sounding more of tension than true humor.
"Adam?" came a timid, fear-filled voice from out of the darkness.
**Fuck!** Methos' head snapped up, and as he stumbled to his feet he peered in direction of the voice, a faint pre-immortal buzz only now making itself known. "Who's there?" he asked, exhaustion and concern making his voice harsh. **This is *all* I need.**
"Adam, It's me, Mark."
"Mark? Mark Richards?" Methos asked, finally recognizing the voice. A 16 year old part-time student at the University, and an odd duck if ever there was one.
"Yeah," Mark responded, finally stepping close enough that Methos could see him, his voice still shaky. "Are you all right?"
"I will be," Methos replied cautiously. "How long have you been here?"
"Too long, I 'spect."
"Look, Mark," Methos said softly, soothingly, "this isn't exactly what it seems."
Marked looked surprised, then edged forward a few steps. "Oh? Looked to me like you were in one doozy of an ass-kicking fight for your life, and that you won." Mark swallowed convulsively, glancing only quickly at the headless body.
Methos almost chuckled. "Well, in that case, it *was* exactly what it seemed."
"And then there was that...that...that -- what the blistering biscuits *was* that anyway?"
**Blistering biscuits?** "It was a Quickening."
"Really?" Mark exclaimed, then frowned. "What's a quickening?"
Methos gave a quiet snort of laughter. "We can't stay here," he said. "Let me just finish up here, and then we can go someplace and I can explain, OK?" Methos turned, then realizing how...cold, how casual about death that sounded, he winced.
Mark hesitated, "I understand," he murmured so softly that Methos almost didn't hear him.
"You understand what?" Methos asked, frowning.
"That you have to kill me."
"What?!" Methos gasped.
"For knowing too much. Like I said, I understand."
Methos blinked, momentarily nonplused. **This kid's been watching far too much television.**
"No," Methos said firmly, "you don't understand. Unless you do something really stupid like attack me, I'm not planning on killing you."
"Now that's cool! I can spin."
Once again Methos found himself at a slight loss for words, and he stared at the youngster in bemusement. **He could what?** He searched for something to say in response.
Mark shrugged. "Don't worry," he said. "I'm used to people not understanding me."
Methos nodded once, accepting the boy's words at face value. He didn't have time to figure it all out right now. He had a body to get rid of, and they both had to get out of here before someone came nosing around, attracted by the strange light show.
He took one step toward his defeated opponent, and stumbled.
Mark rushed forward and grabbed hold of his arm, preventing him from falling. "You're hurt. Sit. I'll put it sets."
**What?** Methos lamented the child's language skills, but between exhaustion, the wounds his body had not yet healed, and the rather incredible strength in those bear-like hands, he found himself lowered to the ground.
From there he watched in utter shock as Mark, quite obviously forcing back his very natural reaction to the gruesome scene, quickly scanned the alley. Then, collecting the body under one arm, he grabbed the head with his free hand, and dumped both into the dumpster. Methos smirked as he realized the boy had done almost all of it with his eyes firmly shut.
Mark returned to him, looking very green around the gills, but not wearing the haunted expression Methos had expected. He shook his head. This kid was fast becoming a fascinating puzzle with contradictions piling up faster than Methos could keep track. While he was trying to sort out whether he wanted to do a quick and dirty explanation that would satisfy the kid and do a disappearing act or whether he wanted to stick around and see if he could figure Mark out, the kid's attention was drawn away from him.
Mark strode off suddenly, bending to pick something up several yards away.
**Ah! The other sword** Methos instinctively reached for the hilt of his, but froze halfway there at Mark's next nearly whispered words.
"There's blood on it," he said, sounding confused and lost.
**He can dump a *fresh* headless corpse into a dumpster like yesterday's trash, but a little blood on a sword gets to him?**
"Yeah, mine," Methos replied, pulling his coat more tightly around himself. "We were sword fighting, remember?"
Mark looked over at him, dropped the sword, and rushed back. "You're hurt," he said.
"No, I'm fine," Methos protested. He certainly hadn't expected this response. "He just scratched me."
"No way," Mark insisted. "There was *way* too much blood on that there blade for it to be 'just a scratch'. Let me see." And despite Methos' continued protests and attempts at evasion, Mark whipped open Methos coat, encountering the sliced, blood-soaked sweater beneath.
"Holy shit on a half-shell!" he exclaimed, yanking the sweater up to search for the damage that had caused all the blood, then stalled, his hands dropping away.
Pulling his sweater back down with as much dignity as he could muster, Methos straightened. "See, no harm no foul."
"You don't have a scratch on you, not a single mark."
"That's what I tried to tell you."
"No," Mark shook his head. "I *saw*."
**Damn!** He'd hoped Mark had come after that particularly vicious strike across his stomach. Methos sighed, resigned to a more in-depth explanation than he'd planned on. "That's all part of what I promised to tell you." ///
**If it is Mark, what's he doing in Seacouver? And when did he become Immortal? Is he the Immortal I sensed, or did Ghoul's goons trigger his immortality?**
Methos took a deep breath, if he *was* right, he was glad Richie had taken him to the dojo. MacLeod would be able to look after the kid until Methos could get out of this mess and train the boy himself. While Methos hadn't taken on a student in over 300 years, there had been something about this young one that made him willing to do so now.
Sparing a glance to make sure Ghoul's attention was still occupied, Methos began a surreptitious survey of his surroundings. There had to be a way out of this, but as he looked around, his hopes sank. Even discounting the irrelevant fact that his hands were shackled; he could work around that -- barring interruption by sword-bearing Immortals -- there still wasn't much here he could make use of, not against gun-bearing opponents.
The presence he'd noticed earlier once again toyed with his senses, and just as quickly faded. He had time to do nothing more than tense before Ghoul turned back toward the three of them, crossing the room wearing a satisfied smile.
Methos' gut twisted.
"Transport has arrived," Ghoul said, then nodded to the two still holding him firmly in place. "Take him outside."
"Outside?"
**Like this? Where the hell are we -- the middle of bloody nowhere?**
Ghoul chuckled. "Yes, outside. You didn't think I brought you up here for your health did you?"
Methos snorted. "Not likely," he replied drily.
And with a wave of Ghoul's hand, the two thugs began dragging him toward the door.
He began fighting in earnest. He had no proof that the other Immortal was Richie, but as long as there was a chance, Methos wasn't going to go quietly.
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Part Eleven
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Richie wasn't extraordinarily superstitious. He didn't believe in bad luck. He didn't believe in magic. He certainly didn't believe that the Fates were set against him. Today, however, he was starting to reconsider his opinion. Too many things had gone wrong. Right now, he was once again learning that immortality wouldn't save him from the everyday aches and pains of too much exercise.
As he saw the dojo come into view, Richie lengthened his tired stride. His mood improving rapidly, it was with stark relief that he yanked open the first floor dojo door. He'd be able to get off his aching feet as soon as he reached the loft. That would be the highlight of this miserable day. Not only had he *not* found any trace of Methos on his ride through town, he'd had to leave his bike behind, and he'd spent the entire walk home trying to convince himself that having his bike shot out from under him had nothing to do with Methos' disappearance, and everything to do with the neighborhood he'd been in.
He hadn't been entirely successful. Of course, the fact that he'd been herded by the assholes afterward certainly hadn't helped him convince himself. It had taken every skill he'd learned over the last several years to dodge them all. Twice they'd come far too close for comfort. He'd ended up shot the second time. Luckily, their aim wasn't as good as their apparent tracking ability and he'd been able to keep moving long enough to heal.
As he keyed the elevator into motion Richie sagged back against the wall. Wishing, not for the first time, that he'd been able to get through to Mac on the phone instead of having to walk all the way, he resolved that Mac would hear about keeping the phone busy.
A couple of times Richie had been tempted to wait when he had found a working phone, However, each time he'd considered it, he'd nearly run afoul of color-wearing gang members. It had convinced him it wouldn't have been the best of ideas. Remaining in gang territory after dark wasn't particularly healthy. So, of course, he'd kept moving. By the time he'd left gangland, and despite his growing fatigue, he'd decided it would be ridiculous to call for a ride when he was now so close. **Yeah, I was close alright, *if* you consider *miles* to be close!** He rolled his eyes at his own pigheadedness. Next time, he'd damn his pride and keep calling.
He stiffened and pulled away from the wall as the expected Immortal presences swept over him. **It's just Mac** Richie rested his hand on the hilt of his sword as the elevator slowed to a stop, raising the gate one-handed. He relaxed and managed a wan smile of greeting as he strode into the room, flopping immediately down onto the couch.
It wasn't until he started removing his shoes that he noticed he had the undivided attention of everyone in the room.
"What?" he exclaimed, looking up.
"Where have you been?" Mac demanded hotly, striding toward Richie.
"Walking!" Richie retorted angrily, returning his attention to his shoes. "Which you would already know, if you'd get off the phone once in a while!"
Mac stopped. "Oh," he replied sheepishly. "You called? Wait a minute -- walking? Why were you walking? What happened to your bike?"
Richie sighed, and dropped back, leaving his shoes untied, but on. "Would someone be willing to get me a beer *before* I answer to the inquisition?"
Looking surprised, Mac faltered momentarily, then chuckled. "Sorry Richie," he said, heading toward the kitchenette. "It's just that this idiot has been calling every ten minutes for the last three hours trying to get a hold of you. It's been annoying."
Richie frowned. "Who?"
"Some guy named Frank," Mac answered, shrugging. "He wouldn't leave a--"
Richie vaulted up over the back of the couch, stumbling slightly as one loose shoe shifted when he landed. He didn't let it slow him down. He quickly regained his balance and dashed for the phone. **Shit! How much time has been wasted because I just *had* to go out searching on my own, because I couldn't wait for Frank's people to do it right.** Digging in his pockets for the scrap of paper that held Frank's number, he ignored the perplexed looks the other three men were giving him and each other.
"Who's Frank?"
Richie didn't respond to Mark's question, merely grinned when he found the number and immediately started dialing. **Come on. Answer.**
"I have absolutely no idea," Mac answered instead.
"Well," Joe offered, from his seat by the kitchen counter, "it's obviously someone important."
Despite the repeated ringing on the other end of the line, and his growing agitation that he might not be able to reach Frank, Richie nearly laughed out loud at the irritated, eye-rolling looks Joe got for his smart-ass comment.
He shook his head and turned his back on the three men as an unrecognized voice finally answered with 'Frank's place'.
"This is Richard Ryan. I need to talk to Frankie."
//I'm sorry Mr. Ryan, *Mr.* Finelli gone out.//
Richie frowned, the trying events of today all culminating in a desire to reach through the phone line and strangle the toad-sounding man on the other end. "And when do you expect him back?" he asked instead, his voice with that too soft, overly patient sound of someone holding onto their temper by the thinnest of threads.
Richie continued to argue with the officious little toad for several more minutes before finally having enough. "Fine! Tell him Ryan called," he said, slamming the phone down. Then, he turned back around to find the other three waiting expectantly. "He wasn't there."
"We figured *that* out for ourselves, Richie," Mac retorted drily. "So who *is* he?"
"He's who I went to see."
Joe's eyebrows shot upward. "That was fast. Just what kind of connections does this guy have?" he asked suspiciously.
Richie grinned knowingly. "The kind you not only don't want to know, but would be better off not knowing about," he replied seriously.
Joe rolled his eyes, then shook his head. "I hope you know what you're getting yourself into, Richie. You really don't want to be in debt to these people."
**God! When will everyone quit treating me like a child? I only *look* nineteen.** "I know that Joe, believe me. What I *did* was call in one owed to *me*," Richie responded, satisfaction flashing through him at their astonished looks.
Mark stepped forward, his eyes wide. "I'm making all sorts of...interesting connections here, and, if I'm right, what I'm wondering is this; how did you manage to get someone highly enough placed to help, owing you a 'debt'?"
"Oh, that's a very long story," Richie replied, a brief shudder running through him. "Let's just say I was at a really bad place, one thing led to another and I ended up saving his life, and leave it at that."
One glance at Mac was enough to tell Richie the older Immortal had a pretty good idea of when he was referring to. The hooded eyes and closed off expression said it all. The time following Mac's dark quickening hadn't been pleasant for either of them. The constant fear he'd lived with had made Richie far more angry than the actual assault had, and it had taken him a long time to come to terms with it, even longer to come to terms with what he'd done because of that anger.
For most of that time, he'd blamed Mac. The anger hadn't even begun to lessen until he'd realized that no matter what anyone did to him, ultimately, he was responsible for his own actions and couldn't hold anyone else to blame. It was then that he'd been able to look at the aftermath from Mac's point of view. What would he be doing, feeling, if it had been him in Mac's place?
What had happened wasn't something you could apologize for. An apology would be patronizing. *I'm sorry,* just so did not cover it, that to say it would have belittled the magnitude of what had happened. The words would want to be said, and sometimes, every once in a while, Richie could see them hovering behind Mac's eyes.
But mostly, were he in Mac's position, Richie would want to simply put it behind, forget it happened, forget the incredible guilt that must have come afterward, and probably still did come late at night.
Richie shook himself free of his morbid thoughts and produced a bright grin. "But that was then, and this is now," he said, looking pointedly at his mentor. "And right now, we are *stuck* waiting for him to call back...again, because of my stupidity."
"Speaking of missed calls," Joe interrupted, "how about you quit beating yourself up long enough to tell us exactly how you lost your bike and ended up walking. As for 'stupidity', Richie, wanting to be actively doing something isn't stupid -- it's sometimes not the best thing, but it's not stupid."
"He's right on both counts, Richie," Mac offered quietly. "I certainly can't fault anyone for wanting to *do* something when a friend is in trouble."
Joe laughed, nearly choking on his drink. "That'd be like the pot calling the kettle black, MacLeod!"
Mac ducked, a hint of a blush staining his face. "Yeah, there is that," he said, purposely not looking at Joe. "How about that story now?"
Richie struggled not to laugh at Mac's obvious attempt to get the attention off of himself. "Right, well, it started out with a sniper shooting my back tire."
"A sniper?" Mac exclaimed, and Joe threw him an irritated glance for the interruption.
Richie was stalled in his response by the sound of the elevator's call bell and all four men shared surprised looks.
"Hold that thought, Richie," Mac said, heading toward the elevator.
Richie watched as he sent it down, and moved to wait expectantly near his sword. Mac visibly relaxed as the elevator started back up and the half expected buzz didn't come, but he didn't immediately move away. Trouble didn't always come in the form of Immortals.
As the faces of their surprise guests came into view, Richie jumped up from his place on the couch. **What the hell is he doing here?** He started forward just as the gate was lifted.
"Hello, I'm looking for-- Oh, there you are," Frank Finelli said, his voice surprisingly quiet, and came barreling into the loft, two men right behind him.
Mac moved to block Frankie's beeline.
"Don't Mac," Richie said immediately, reaching out a hand to stop him as the two brutes accompanying Frankie stepped in Mac's way. Richie groaned. This was exactly the sort of thing he'd wanted to prevent. "He's a friend, Mac. You can relax."
Mac looked between him and the two obvious bodyguards, a look of 'you can't be serious' clear in his expression, but he did back off.
"Richie! Where the hell have you been?" Frankie fairly bellowed. "I've been trying to get a hold of you."
"I was out," Richie said flatly.
"I told you to *wait* for my call."
Taking a deep breath, Richie pushed aside the urge to simply tell Frankie off. "You've got news?" he asked instead.
"Yeah. Is there some place we can talk?"
"Right here, Frankie. These will be the people helping me, and I'd just have to relay the information. Why don't you have a seat and make yourself comfortable?" Richie offered as if they were the only two people in the room.
"Don't mind if I do," the mortal replied, grinning broadly. Making his way toward an unoccupied chair, he waved his two shadows to stand behind him.
Forcing himself to be patient, yet again, Richie headed toward MacLeod's liquor cabinet. "Can I get you something to drink?" he asked, casting a glare toward Mac at the older Immortal's start of surprise. **Please don't say anything, Mac.** For an instant Richie thought the message hadn't been received, or had been ignored, when Mac stepped toward him.
"I'll help you," he offered courteously instead, and Richie breathed a sigh of relief. "Anyone else want one?" Mac asked turning toward the others.
Both Joe and Mark nodded.
The two bodyguards didn't respond.
Mac shrugged, turning back toward him, and Richie sent a grateful look.
Together they delivered the drinks, taking seats themselves as the round of introductions were made.
Several long moments passed as Frank savored the single malt. Beside him, Mac started to move restlessly.
"An impatient sort, your friend," Frank observed.
Richie's mouth twitched upward, a mischievous thought finding its way out of his mouth before he could stop it. "He's a Highlander," he said, as if that made everything clear.
Frank nodded sagely. "That explains it."
Mac bristled instantly, while Joe and Mark snorted their drinks.
That was all it took for both Richie and Frankie to burst out laughing.
Mac glared across at Richie and he valiantly tried to stop, gulping in air, and he finally managed the feat, wiping away tears. "Sorry, Mac. I couldn't resist."
"Try harder next time," Mac responded drily, then looked pointedly toward their guest.
Richie sobered instantly and took a deep breath. "So, you said you had news?"
Frank nodded slowly, leaning forward. "You're not going to like it."
***************
Part Twelve
***************
"It didn't take nearly as much digging as I'd thought it would, mainly because this isn't any ordinary snatch. What it is, is a paid contract."
"Someone put out a contract on Adam?" Joe exclaimed in utter dismay.
Frank nodded once. "Yes, in fact, it's a high price contract -- $500,000."
A stunned silence followed Frank's announcement, Joe recovering first. "$500,000," he whistled. "That's an awful lot of money for a *grad student*."
Three very sober faces turned toward Joe, but Frank merely nodded in agreement. "That was my first thought too, so I did some deeper checking." Frank started a deep breath, which halted midway as he suddenly found himself the focus of very intense stares.
Richie forcibly relaxed his expression as Frank's return gaze grew speculative. "And you discovered...?" he asked casually, allowing his voice to trail off.
"One of the most important things I discovered is the fact that I *can't* discover who actually put out the contract on him. *That* really bothers me," Frank paused a moment, then continued. "And another thing; it's such an odd contract."
"How so?" Richie demanded, before Frank could continue.
"It's dead or alive, nothing unusual in that, but it had a proviso. His *head* had to still be attached. It doesn't make any sense. Dead is dead. And it's not as if your average hit man goes around cutting off heads anyway. It's easier, cleaner, and safer to just shoot your target."
Richie's thoughts were spinning. He'd known from the very beginning he'd been taking a pretty big risk in contacting Frank. If the man was good enough to find out what Richie had needed to know, there was the danger he could stumble onto far more. Half the facts were already laid out in front him. How much digging had he done? Had it been enough for him to discover more than any of them wanted him to know? And if so, just how much more?
Before Richie could come to any conclusions, Frank leaned further forward, his expression turning hard. "Just how well do you know this *Adam Pierson*?
"Pretty well," Richie responded cautiously. "Why?"
"Because his name *isn't* Adam Pierson."
"It isn't?" Richie asked, radiating surprise and innocence. **Shit! We don't have time for this!**
"No, it isn't. Until 1984 Adam Pierson was a paper person, a very good paper person, I'll be the first to admit. In fact, it's a good enough paper trail that we almost missed it."
"So who is he?" Joe asked, saving everyone else from the necessity.
Frank glanced down before answering. "We haven't figured that out yet," he admitted. "He had another alias he went by, David Colby."
Richie shifted, growing even more uncomfortable with this conversation. "Is that really Important right now?" he asked, trying to divert Frankie.
Frank straightened suddenly, and Richie wondered at the odd look of satisfaction that flashed through his eyes. "No," he replied casually, "if it doesn't matter to you, then it isn't. I actually figured you might be more concerned with getting him free, before you worry about who he really is, so instead of waiting for the results of the background check I decided to come by with the rest of my information."
Richie jumped up. "You know where he is! Why didn't you say so in the first place?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he sat back down, noticing that Mac had to do so also. What he didn't understand was why both Mac and Joe were being so quiet. "Sorry," he said quietly, wincing. Calm and patient, that's what he had to be here. He certainly didn't want to offend their only source of information. Debts owed aside, he really wanted to walk away from this with Frankie still a friend.
"It's alright, Richie. I do understand. Now, to answer your questions, yes, I do know where *Adam* is and who has him. The man's name is Garren Fuller and he's bad news. He's a fairly minor player, but is rising quickly, as well as becoming well known for his ruthlessness." Frank shook his head. "He's a bit of a contradiction. He graduated college at the tender age of 16 with three different degrees, so that he is highly intelligent is a given. Unfortunately he is also something of a sociopath."
**A sociopath?** Richie paled. "Isn't that someone who doesn't believe rules apply to them?"
"Close," Mark replied, blushing slightly when every eye in the room turned toward him. He cleared his throat self-consciously.
"Go ahead," Frank encouraged.
"People who fall under the clinical definition of sociopath display a number of antisocial behaviors, including, but not limited to, pathological lying, lack of remorse or guilt, callousness, and sexual promiscuity. They are usually highly intelligent, charming, and cunningly manipulative. Consequently, they can often be successful at whatever career or life they choose." Mark stepped forward, warming to his subject. "They have an over inflated sense of their own self-worth, and tend to live parasitic lifestyles. Fortunately they can also usually be identified by early behavioral problems." Mark paused a moment, then added thoughtfully, "assuming, of course, that someone takes the time to notice those early problems."
Dead silence met the end of his definition.
Frank was the first to speak. "You in college, boy?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Good. What are you studying?"
"I'm majoring in Psychology with a minor in socioeconomics."
"Good," Frank said with a nod, then turned back to Richie. "People who've dealt with Fuller in the past say he seems to be two different people, one of whom seems to be an idiot, easily manipulated, easily angered, that sort of thing. The other "personality" on the other hand, is perceptive, and manipulates people with the ease of a long time professional. If your friend isn't awfully quick, Fuller will be able to worm out any secrets he has, some of which your friend won't even be aware he's giving away."
One corner of Richie's mouth twitched up. "Oh, he's quick all right. I don't think we have to worry about him giving away anything that he doesn't fully intend to give away."
Frank shrugged. "He's being held at an old estate that was converted about 50 years ago to a warehouse. It's well--"
The ringing of a phone interrupted Frank and he frowned in irritation.
"Sorry, Boss," the big man behind and to the left of him said, then reached inside his jacket to pull out the offending cell phone.
Everyone listened in tense silence to the one sided conversation.
"Yes, we're here now."
"What?"
"You're sure about that?"
"If you're wrong--"
"No, no, I understand. I'll relay the info."
"What?"
"Oh, yeah, thanks."
The big man flipped closed the tiny device and slipped it back in his pocket. Then, after smoothing down the lines of his suit, he leaned forward, whispering in Frank's ear.
Richie instinctively leaned forward, wanting to hear what was being said. He couldn't, but Frank's frown and the sudden fire in the Mob man's eyes, made Richie's heart pound. What could have gone wrong now?
Frank nodded once, then his guard stepped back, resuming his previous statue-like position.
"We've got a problem."
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^ Sociopath: Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary defines it simply as -- "Sociopathic person."
Sociopathic: Same source -- of, relating to, or characterized by, asocial or antisocial behavior.
The Characteristics of a sociopath were found at the following website. I make no claims as to the scientific or medical validity of the claims of this website. I simply made use of them for this fictional story.
http://www.geoffmetcalf.com/psychopath.html
