Tessa lay in the dark beside Andre, listening to the distant wail of sirens.  Her lover was sleeping the deep sleep of the sated and happy, but Tessa could not seem to relax.  He had been so sweet tonight, so attentive and supportive and understanding.  He was everything anyone would want in a lover, perhaps everything she would want in a husband.  So why didn’t she feel content?  She slipped out of bed and pulled on a robe, quietly padding over the cold floor into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of orange juice and smoke a cigarette.

          She felt like such a bitch, selfish and petty, wanting something but not even able to identify what it was.  Her thoughts meandered back to that afternoon on the tourist barge when that young man had practically hijacked the boat. What was his name?  MacLeod, he had said.  Duncan.  It was a nice name.  The verbal sparks that had been generated between them, the bantering, the look of teasing admiration in his dark eyes, and what a wonderful smile he had, one that lit up his whole body as though he lived life on a grand, glorious scale and enjoyed it to the fullest.

          She wanted to live life like that.  Sex shouldn’t just be about orgasm.  It should be about love, about worship of the human body and spirit.  Art shouldn’t be about gallery showings and sponsors, it should be about exposing the hidden places of the soul.  Tessa stubbed out her cigarette and picked up the jeweler’s box she had left on the table before they had gone to bed.  It was a lovely, small solitaire diamond.  No doubt Andre had gone deeply into debt to purchase it.  He had declared his love, but when it had come right down to it, Tessa had not been able to return the gesture, offering her body instead of her words, as if that would suffice.

          The sirens had faded away, and the night was silent except for the soft, distant snoring of one of her apartment mates.  She moved to the window.  If she leaned to one side, she could just see a small sliver of the Seine several blocks away, and wished she could go for a walk.  But she could not escape the direction of her own thoughts.  She couldn’t accept Andre’s proposal, not with this many doubts crowding her thoughts and her emotions.  Even though it was irrational, didn’t make any sense at all, she would have to reject what might be her only chance at emotional or financial security.  She wondered if she would have had the courage if a young Scot hadn’t leapt onto her barge and showed her, even for one afternoon, how to live large.

          Bond pulled his Astin Martin up into the secure dock behind the building housing “Universal Exports”, and heard the metal door slowly rattling closed behind him.  He got out of his car and watched as a gurney was pulled up to the back of the van and the body loaded onto it, the agents solemnly gathered around.  MacLeod, his utility company overalls stained with blood, moved forward and for a moment put his hand on Nazlimov’s arm.

          Bond came closer, not sure what to say, but feeling the need to make some sort of statement.  He had known that feeling of helpless, impotent anger too many times not to be certain of exactly how the agent was feeling at the loss of someone he was supposed to protect.  “I’m sorry, Duncan,” he said softly.  “Maybe if I had…”

          The body on the gurney jerked, gasped and coughed and the Chief, who had been standing by the van, still and pale, stepped close, reached to Nazlimov’s chin and yanked, peeling off a latex mask barely in time as Duncan MacLeod leaned over the edge of the gurney, coughing and spitting blood onto the concrete floor.

          Bond jerked the shoulder of the man standing in MacLeod’s overalls, ripping off the hardhat that had thrown the face into shadow.  The face was pale, the eyes wide and dilated, lips thin and pressed together in anxious fear.  “Nazlimov?” Bond asked, hearing the surprise in his own voice.  The Russian gave a jerky nod as he turned back to the gasping figure of MacLeod, still clutching the sides of the gurney and wiping his mouth.

          “You were dead!” Nazlimov whispered.  “I saw you.”

          MacLeod took a moment to get his breath before he shook his head.  “No, Vitali, as you can see, I’m not dead, although I could sure use a shower and some orange juice.”

          “No!  There was no pulse…all the blood.”

          “A trick, that’s all.”  MacLeod tapped his chest.  “Blood packets.  Pretty realistic, eh?”

          Bond looked closely.  Underneath the shirt, MacLeod had on a flak vest with pockets designed to spray blood if he was hit.  Not bad, he thought.  Incredibly risky, but quite creative.  There was still something that bothered him, but he would have time for more questions later.

          The Scot struggled to his feet, wavering slightly, but Nazlimov grabbed him in a bear hug, effectively holding him upright.  MacLeod’s face twisted in pain for a second, then relaxed into a smile as he returned the embrace.  “It’s okay, Vitali.  They believe you are dead now.”  He held the Russian at arm’s length.  “Go to your family, my friend.  You have done all that you could, and more.”

          “And someday we will have that drink in Prague, eh?  You, me and Vaclav Havel?  When the nation is free?”  Vitali’s voice was rough with emotion.

          “Aye.  Someday.  When the nation is free,” MacLeod answered.  The two men clasped hands, embraced briefly, and then Nazlimov was led off by another agent to be cleaned up, given a new identity and sent on his way to a new life.

          The Chief watched the highly-charged exchange between MacLeod and the Russian with carefully restrained emotions, first among them being impatience.  She had a laundry list of concerns and questions running through her mind and just wanted to get on with more pressing issues.  She would have to double check to make sure the Russian-cum-Czech was handled with discretion, that his new identity and location could work for at least a few years.

          Then she had to have several conversations, including a post-mortem with the entire team.  She would have preferred to deal with MacLeod first, but practicalities intruded.

          “MacLeod,” she said to catch his attention as the man watched Nazlimov leave.  MacLeod turned and she inspected him once more.  Blood was everywhere, streaking his mouth, neck and arms and chest, even on his trousers.  His normally swarthy complexion was unusually pale, his lips slightly bluish.  Things just weren’t adding up in her mind.  “I assume you have a spare set of clothes in the locker room?  Go get a shower and change, then I want to see you in my office,” she announced with a jerk of her head towards the building’s interior.  Their eyes met for just a second before MacLeod’s slipped away, his eyebrows raising slightly as he smiled to himself before he obeyed her instructions.

          “As for you,” she turned to 007.  “What the hell were you doing there?”

          Bond had always been an infuriating man, wielding his considerable charm like a weapon.  The blue eyes sparkled, one eye brow climbed and he smiled.  “Thought you might need some help,” he stated.  “I think I was right.”

          “No,” she answered, moving up the stairs to the dock and pushing inside the building as Bond followed.  “You just couldn’t stand the thought of a mission that didn’t require your remarkable talent for getting into trouble.”

          “Well, there’s that,” Bond responded.  “But I also have a remarkable talent for getting out of trouble.”

          The Chief stopped and snapped her head around, catching the man in a sly grin.  She could have kicked herself when her own lips involuntarily curled up at the corners.  The man was incorrigible.

          “And Havel?” she asked, turning away again and heading to the elevator to her office.

          “All tucked away, safe and sound,” Bond assured her. 

          The doors opened and, despite the late hour, her secretary, Mrs. Hawkins, was there, ready with a cup of hot tea and a pile of urgent messages and papers.  The Chief took them from her, glanced at them briefly, then closed the door as Mrs. Hawkins left, and dropped the messages on her desk for later.  She opened her credenza, extracted a bottle of Tanqueray and poured each of them a half tumbler of liquor.

          She sat sipping her drink and watched as Bond prowled around her office, going to the window and looking out, then circling the chair in front of her desk before he sat with smooth grace.  He was like a sleek, black cat, lean and elegant.  Leashed power.  Except it occurred to her that you can’t really leash a cat.  The image made her smile.

          “Something amusing?” Bond asked.

          “What did you think of tonight’s little operation?” She asked, ignoring his question.

          Bond was quiet for a moment, taking a sip of his drink before spoke.  “Nice little bit of slight of hand,” he offered.

          “Fooled you, did it?”  For a second she thought he was going to deny it, but he surprised her with a slight smile and a nod.

          “And I’m not easily fooled,” he said, stating the obvious.  “I wouldn’t have thought that anyone could have survived that kind of automatic weapons fire unscathed, even with a flak jacket on.  I assume this was MacLeod’s idea?”

          The Chief nodded.

          Bond shook his head with a frown.  “The Service is no place for agents with a martyr complex.  The object should be to complete the mission and survive.”

          “It may run in the family,” the Chief informed him. “MacLeod’s uncle was the agent who was in the bunker with Hitler when we tried to assassinate him with the briefcase bomb.”

          Bond raised an eyebrow at her.  “Well, well.  I was beginning to wonder if the man even had a past.” 

          The Chief smiled.  “Did you think he emerged, fully formed, like Athena from the head of Zeus?  We do a full background check on all our agents, 007.”

          Bond leaned forward.  “Then why am I getting the impression you, too, have some unanswered questions about Duncan MacLeod?”

          A tap on the door drew both their attentions.

          “Enter,” the Chief called, and the topic of their conversation came in, looking much improved in clean trousers and a soft, clinging white sweater.  His hair was slightly damp, combed back, but a few curly strands had already sprung loose and decorated his forehead.  His color was also better and he looked no worse the wear for his earlier adventure.

          “Drink?” the Chief asked, offering him some of the gin.

          “I’m a scotch man myself,” MacLeod demurred, but the Chief merely reached again into her credenza and poured two fingers worth of Glenlivit into a glass.  He took it and sat, sipped the drink and sighed with appreciation.

          For the next several minutes they discussed the details of Nazlimov’s travel plans and the nature of his new identity.  The conversation then turned to Havel, who was scheduled to leave for Prague the next morning.

          “Then I assume you’ll be headed back to London?” the Chief addressed her question to Bond.

          The “00” agent nodded.  “I have no doubt “M” will find something useful for me to do.”

          “No doubt,” MacLeod agreed, smiling grimly into his glass before taking another swallow.

          “You are quick to judge, MacLeod,” Bond said softly.  “But sometimes what I do is the only way to insure that those who would drag us into another Holocaust do not succeed.”

          “There are times when killing is necessary,” MacLeod replied in an equally gentle tone.  “But the older I get the more I think that there are few instances when it isn’t more effective to deal with the acts that are evil, not the actors, when those individuals will eventually die in their own time.”

          “So says a man who almost threw his own life away not an hour ago,” Bond snapped.

          “Enough, gentlemen,” the Chief intervened before the two predatory cats started to unsheathe their claws.  Panther and tiger, she observed.  Bond was all slim, sleek and dark while MacLeod was all tawny muscular power.  Both remarkably dangerous.  “007, I suggest you check on Mr. Havel once more, then I doubt that I’ll see you again before you leave for London.  Assuming all goes well and Mr. Havel is seen safely onto his plane back to Prague, I will expect your summary report on the assignment within a week.”

          Bond finished his drink and stood at the obvious dismissal.  “Yes, M’am,” he smiled and nodded.  “A pleasure as always.”  He turned to the other agent.  “MacLeod, I will see you tomorrow to escort your friend to the airport.” he met the other agent’s eyes one last time in a challenging glance before he slipped noiselessly out the door.

          Mac took another sip of his scotch as the door closed behind him.  He had downed a bottle of orange juice from a vending machine downstairs.  It hadn’t quite replaced the extensive blood loss, though, and he probably shouldn’t be drinking alcohol, but the liquor warmed him in a way nothing else did.

          The Chief was eyeing him closely and he had to force himself not to shift under her intense scrutiny.  The bullets that had strafed his legs and arms had been a risk he was prepared to cover with a story about all the blood coming from the packs embedded in his vest, but the one that had sliced his jugular and bled him out was awkward, to say the least.

          “Duncan,” the Chief began.

          Not good.  She rarely used his first name.

          “There is something I would like for you to explain to me,” she went on.

          He kept his silence.

          She leaned forward, leaning her forearms on her desk.  “I’ve seen a lot of death in my time.  It’s not something I’m proud of, but I do feel I have enough experience to know what death looks like.”  She tapped a well-manicured forefinger on the well-polished surface of her desk.  “I have to agree with Nazlimov. You were dead.”

          Mac summoned a well-practiced tolerant smile.  “Chief, I was supposed to be dead.  Dead enough to fool inspection by the Soviet agent.  I told you I could feign death quite effectively.” 

          She nodded.  “A quick inspection in the semi-dark of something we had already set up for them to be pre-disposed to believe.  But I saw you in the van afterwards.  I felt no pulse at your neck.  I examined your pupils.  They were unreactive to light.”  She sat back and crossed her arms.  “I repeat.  You were dead.”

          Mac spread his hands.  “I certainly don’t feel dead.  The latex hides a jugular pulse and meditation techniques do the rest.  It just takes me a few minutes to come out of it.  I told you that might happen.”  He had found over the centuries that it was best  to ride out any doubts with the obvious evidence that they were wrong.  Eventually she would begin to question her own memories and perceptions.

          The Chief opened a desk drawer and pulled out an old, tattered redweld folder, the kind that closed with a tie.  Mac’s skin went cold as she undid the tie and pulled out a sheaf of papers yellow with age.

          “I enjoy puzzles and mysteries,” she said as she sifted through the papers.  “And I don’t stop until I have solved them.  That’s how I got my nickname,” she looked up with a sly smile.  “Yes, I know what the agents call me,” then her expression darkened.  “You are a quite puzzle, I’ve discovered.”  She interrupted his attempt to deflect her from her point.  “But everything I have found only complicates the picture.”  She pushed over an old, grainy black-and-white photograph for him to view.  “It took some digging to find, because your uncle had a remarkable talent for avoiding having his picture taken, but this is a photo taken at a tavern in Berlin in 1939.  We were tracking several Nazi operatives at the time, and he was among the agents assigned to gather information.  If you will look carefully, you will find him dancing with a pretty young fraulein, even while he is keeping an eye on his quarry.”

          MacLeod handed the photo back with a shake of his head.  “Sorry, this is too grainy, and I don’t think I have ever seen any photographs of my uncle, so I wouldn’t recognize him anyway.”

          The Chief smiled.  “Oh, I think you would.”  She rose, bringing the picture with her.  She stood in front of him and pointed directly at a figure in the background of the photo.  “Because he looks exactly like you.”

          MacLeod squinted at the picture, holding it close.  “Hmm.  Well, yes, I guess there is some family resemblance there.  Interesting.  But I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”

          Mawdsley chuckled.  “Please, MacLeod, I’m not a fool.”

          “I hardly think that, Chief.”  He was hating the direction this conversation was taking.  “But could we continue this conversation another time?  I’m quite tired and have to meet Bond in only a few hours to escort Havel to the airport.”

          She retreated back behind her desk and sat, absently fingering the old photograph.  “There is something very, very odd going on, MacLeod, and I will find out what it is.  The likeness between you and your uncle is too strong, and when you read his file, the similarities between the two of you are beyond eerie, and the incident this evening too bizarre for me to think there isn’t some larger piece of this puzzle that needs to be found.  And make no mistake,” she warned softly.  “I will find it.”  She leaned forward, pining him with a sharp gaze.  “It would be easier on everyone if you simply told me what it was.”

          MacLeod made himself chuckle.  “Perhaps I am my uncle reincarnated?” he offered.  “Or maybe I am actually almost 90 years old and I am merely very well preserved for my age.”

          “I am not joking, MacLeod.”

          He cleared his throat, then stood.  “I’m sure you’re not, Chief.  Permission to leave?”  She nodded.

          MacLeod ended up walking back to his flat, despite his weariness.  The conversation with the Chief had stirred up all kinds of worries and memories.  Maybe it was time for him to find a new life, a new direction.  He had spent his first 200 years as a warrior of some sort because that was his only marketable skill, a soldier fighting some cause he felt worthy, or merely a mercenary or guard for hire to a noble family.  Then he had traveled to the New World, and it had been an exciting adventure, learning the secrets of nature and the unspoiled land, living with the native peoples until “civilization” and all its evils overtook them.

          He shuddered at the chill that crawled over his shoulders at that ugly memory.  It had taken decades for him to put that tragedy behind him.  Perhaps he never had.

          But he had emerged from his self-imposed isolation at last, staying in small towns, gradually learning to live and love again and using the skill he most wanted to develop, his mind, becoming a newsman and publisher in the Northwest Territories.  Finally modernization and population shifts meant that those with greater talents at turning a phrase than he took over that task and once again he had moved on, returning to Europe.  But there was no new territory to explore that called him, and he was tired of being a warrior in a conflict where good and evil was entirely a matter of perspective.

          He had reached the bridge to the Isle de la Cite just after sunrise, no closer to finding peace of mind than when he had started.

          Tessa watched the light change from gray to gold as the sun rose, drinking coffee and smoking.  When she heard one of her roommates stir, she roused herself at last and tiptoed back into her bedroom.  The thought of facing a hectic morning as the crowded apartment’s residents bustled about their morning routine was too awful to contemplate, especially knowing she was going to have to face Andre.  She had never been good at disguising her feelings, and he would know something was wrong, for sure.

          She slipped on pants, shoes and a sweater, ran her fingers through her hair, grabbed a jacket and almost ran out of the apartment.  The sun had made an appearance at last, but the morning was still slightly chilly.  She headed towards the river, looking for an open bistro where she could sit outside and have a coffee and a croissant.  The streets were relatively empty this early in the day, mostly people on their way to the Metro, traveling to other parts of the city to office jobs.

          She supposed she would have to get such a job, though the thought made her shudder.  It was better than being dependent on someone else, though.  She spotted a few people sitting outside of a small restaurant along the quay, huddled over their steaming cups of coffee, and she crossed the street, then almost stopped in the middle of the road.  There he was, the young man from the tourist boat.  He was dressed better than she had seen him before, in a nice leather coat and a creamy white sweater.  He wasn’t wearing a hat, though, and his dark hair was blowing in the gentle wind coming in off the river.  He looked lost in thought, almost sad.  Tessa realized her feet had taken her right up to his table.

          “Hello,” she blurted.

          He looked up, then stood, his face warming into a brilliant smile.  “Well, hello!”

          Tessa realized her mind was blank, that she was just staring into his eyes, thinking how beautifully expressive they were.

          “Duncan, remember?” he put out his hand, and she tentatively took it, feeling her face flush with heat.

          “Yes,” she managed to say.  “The man who hijacked my boat.  Duncan MacLeod, right?”

          The smile on his face brightened even more.  “You remembered.  I’m impressed.  Join me?” he waved to an empty chair at his table.

          As he pulled out her chair like an old fashioned gentleman, he also signaled the waiter.  “Coffee?” he asked, when she nodded, he asked again.  “How about something more substantial?  I haven’t eaten yet.”

          “That would be lovely,” she replied, thinking how lame and formal that sounded, but Duncan just nodded, then ordered a small selection of croissants and some orange juice in flawless French. 

          He sat again and she had to turn her head to pretend to watch the street, blushing hotly while he examined her as though he wanted to memorize every feature.  “So what are you doing out so early in the morning?” he asked.  “Surely the boats don’t start their tours for at least two or three hours yet.”

          “No, I just wanted to get out and get some fresh air.  I live only a few blocks away,” she answered, busying herself pulling out her cigarettes.  Duncan was there with a lighter before she could pull out her own.  “What are you doing here?”  She cursed herself for sounding vaguely accusatory.

          He shrugged.  Tessa hadn’t really remembered how imposing he was, from shoulders that strained the leather of the coat he was wearing to big, broad hands with blunt fingers.  “I was out for some fresh air, too,” he answered.  “Walking and thinking.”

          “Deep thoughts, no doubt,” she said, partly as a tease, partly just for something to fill the silence.

          “Oh, very.  World peace.  Feed the starving children.  The nature of life and death, that sort of thing,” he smiled again, and Tessa couldn’t help but smile back.

          “Is that what you do?” she asked, leaning back as the waiter brought her coffee and a large plate of breads still warm enough to send small tendrils of steam into the air.  “Think deep thoughts?”

          “Oh, yes.  I’m a professional thinker of deep thoughts,” he answered, his face getting serious before he looked up at her from his plate of a now-crumbled croissant, his eyes dancing with humor.  “Unfortunately the pay is lousy.”

          Tessa found herself laughing, the tension she had let tie her in knots loosening a bit at long last.  “Seriously,” she urged.  “What do you do that makes you jump onto tour boats after they’ve left the dock?”

          “Would you believe I’m a spy, and that I was running from an international assassin?” he asked with a wry gleam in his eye.

          “Really?” she breathed in mock fascination and admiration.  She leaned forward and asked in a conspiratorial whisper, “Did you save the world?” 

          He held a finger to his lips, looking around surreptitiously.  “Yes, but nobody is supposed to know,” he whispered.

          “Your secret is safe with me,” she whispered back, patting him on the hand.  His skin was warm and he smelled clean, like he had just stepped from the shower.  For a moment, their faces were only inches apart and he was looking deeply into her eyes.  Tessa’s heart almost stopped when she realized he had a wonderful mouth, lips bowed and reddened, almost childlike, and looking so soft.

          “I don’t tell my secrets to everyone, you know,” he said, his expressive face suddenly looking quite serious.  “And I don’t even know your name.”

          “Tessa.  Tessa Noel,” she replied, mesmerized, unable to break eye contact.

          “Tessa,” he whispered, reaching across to move a strand of hair that had blown across her face, tucking it gently behind her ear.  “Tessa,” he said again, with a slight note of wonder in his voice.

          The strangest silence descended, as though all the traffic stopped at the same moment. 

          “Tessa!” a new voice intruded, and the bubble of silence burst.  Sounds and movement rushed in, louder and brighter than before, almost shocking in their intensity.

          Tessa looked up and Andre was striding towards them, hands jammed into the pockets of his frayed denim jacket.  Duncan turned, standing as Andre reached them, but Tessa felt rooted to her chair, unable to move.

          Andre looked at Duncan, then at Tessa.  “Tessa?” his voice was higher than usual, like an adolescent boy.  He cleared his throat, brought himself up to his full height, which managed to make him about half an inch taller than Duncan.  “I woke up and you were gone,” he announced, his eyes making a constant swivel between her and Duncan.  “I’ve been looking for you.  Is everything alright?”

          “Of course,” Tessa finally found her voice and made it to her feet.  “I just needed some fresh air.  Uh, Andre Charpin, this is Duncan MacLeod.  Duncan is…” she hesitated, uncertain how to explain just who he was without Andre jumping to unwarranted conclusions. 

          “…a student at the Sorbonne,” Duncan put out his hand, which Andre hesitantly took.  “I’m working on a graduate degree in medieval history, focusing on art and weaponry.”

          “Art history?” Andre smiled tightly and raised an eyebrow.  “Interesting.  Tessa and I are also at the Sorbonne, but we prefer to make art rather than read about it.”  He shrugged, managing to fully express his disdain with the gesture.  “But each to his own, I suppose.”

          Tessa wanted to say something conciliatory, but feared it would only make things worse.  Andre moved to her side, possessively holding her arm. 

          “Duncan was kind enough to share his table,” she began.  “Why don’t you…?”

          “Actually, I have an appointment I really need to get to,” Duncan spoke up.  He glanced at his watch.  “I didn’t realize it was getting so late.”  The intimate, intense warm sparkle that had lightened his dark eyes was gone, and his expression was set in a carefully neutral smile.

          “Oh, I didn’t mean to break up the party,” Andre said with a hard edge to his voice.  “Besides, we’re still celebrating from last night, aren’t we, dear?” he leaned over to kiss Tessa on the cheek.  “I’ve asked Tessa to marry me,” he announced by way of explanation, his arm now circling her waist and pulling her close.

          “Then I wouldn’t want to intrude.”  Duncan buttoned up his coat, and slipped several bills under the edge of his abandoned coffee cup.  Tessa wanted to protest, and especially   wanted to kick Andre for being a possessive ass.  “And please don’t let those croissants go to waste,” he nodded at the bread still steaming inside its napkin on the table.  “It was nice to meet you, Andre.”  He reached across and took Tessa’s hand in a grasp that was not quite a shake, more of a caress.  “I wish you both all the happiness in the world,” he said softly.  He retreated quickly away, and Tessa’s chest tightened in a moment of unfocused panic.

          “Duncan!” she pulled away from Andre’s grasp and stepped forward.  Duncan slowed and turned.  His dark eyes so sad and tired, it was all Tessa could do not to reach out to him.  “I…you…” she couldn’t think of anything to say.  “The senior graduation exhibit is coming up,” she finally blurted out.  “I’d love to know what you think of my work.”

          “Well,” his eyes dropped to the sidewalk before they slowly rose to meet her pleading gaze.  His face was rearranged once again into neutral friendliness.  “I don’t know if I should.  Or if I can,” he added softly, and for a second his eyes crinkled with a sad, teasing smile. “After all, I have all those deep thoughts to think. But I’m flattered that you asked.  Goodbye, Tessa.”  He turned and strode away, quickly absorbed into the stream of people hurrying off to work.

         Don’t look back.  Don’t look back.  The litany sang quietly in his head with each step.  The urge was impossibly strong but somehow he resisted, keeping his focus rigidly ahead, step by step until he made it to his apartment.  He shut the door and leaned up against it, his eyes closed, taking long, deep breaths.  He could conjure her with no effort at all, right there in his mind’s eye.  The laughing eyes, the full, wide mouth, the soft golden hair.  For a few soaring moments he had thought…

          Mac made himself stop with a firm shake of his head.  He couldn’t let himself do that.  Fantasies were nice, but this was far more than a daydream.  He felt like he’d been sucker-punched.  Once before he had allowed himself to fall deeply, obsessively in love with a woman who already had a relationship.  It had been a miserable, unmitigated disaster that had taken him years to get over.  He would not do that again, to himself or to her.  Tessa.  Tessa Noel.

          He took another long breath and pushed away from the door.  He had a job to do.  It was important.  People’s lives depended on it.  He needed to focus on that and nothing else.  Maybe he needed to consider double-0 status.  It might get the Chief off his back, and Bond really didn’t seem like the hardened, mindless killer he had assumed such agents became.  And it wasn’t as though he hadn’t or couldn’t kill mortals.  He’d killed.  Dozens.  Probably hundreds.

          He found some orange juice in the refrigerator, drinking several long swallows out of the bottle, thinking about how much he hated killing mortals.  Their lives were so short anyway, to cut them off even more, unless they presented a direct threat to other lives…

          It was an old argument, one he had with Darius on a regular basis.  The ancient priest, his mentor and friend, did not really approve of his current occupation, but acknowledged that the Soviet regime was responsible for the suffering and death of thousands, and had all the hallmarks of the kinds of authoritarian government that made horrors like the Holocaust possible.

          He shoved the orange juice back into the refrigerator and slammed the door shut, realizing his thoughts were just disjointed, distracted ramblings.  Enough.  He needed to check on Havel.  Do your job, he reminded himself.  Concentrate.  Mortal relationships were a bad idea, anyway.