Kenneth Irons wore only the finest tailor-made clothing, but on him they seemed more like costumes.  With Duncan, beautiful clothes seemed a natural extension of who and what he was, and Ian was certain he would look at ease in whatever he chose to wear, remembering the elegant clothing from the crude 18th Century portrait he had discovered. He lifted the sleeve of the jacket, breathing in the subtle scent of aftershave, then froze as he heard the suite’s door open.

He slipped into the closet, listening as Duncan moved into the bedroom.  Ian watched through the narrow crack in the door as soggy sweat clothes were stripped off with a tired sigh, and he caught a glimpse of hard thigh and a golden bare behind before the shower came on. 

Kenneth Irons’ intent to substitute Duncan for Sara as a source for his life-prolonging serum had, admittedly, troubled Ian greatly.  But now that Kenneth had Pierson for his experiments, he had given permission for Ian to be with Duncan, at least for a while.  Ian licked his lips in anticipation.

Ian moved quietly back into the suite’s living room, looked around one last time, then sat and waited.  It didn’t take long.  Soon, he could hear Duncan in the bedroom, and Ian went to the door and leaned against the frame, watching appreciatively while Duncan rummaged in his drawer for fresh clothes, his back muscles rippling with every move of his arms and shoulders.  Then those movements slowed and stilled.

Ian could have sworn he didn’t even blink, but suddenly the sharp edge of a katana was pressed into his throat.  The two men froze for several heartbeats before Duncan pulled the blade back a few centimeters.  “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to knock?” he asked with a frown.

“Actually, I was taught never to announce my presence,” Ian returned.

“Somehow, deficiencies in your upbringing don’t surprise me,” Duncan replied with a twisted smile. 

Ian ignored the deadly blade still hovering close to his jugular.  "Sara Pezzini has made a similar observation, but I assure you I had only the finest tutors."

"But no mother to teach you manners, I suspect." Duncan put the katana on the dresser and pulled out briefs and slacks to wear.  "Why are you here, Ian?"

"To see you, of course."  He let his eyes caress Duncan’s body.

Duncan pulled on his clothes with quick, jerky movements, coloring slightly.  “Well, I had intended to talk to you today, anyway, before I left for England this evening.”

“Leaving so soon?  But there are so many things to do and see here,” he offered, moving closer, wanting to touch, to be close.  To keep him close.  “After all, it is the city that never sleeps.”

“Ian,” Duncan sighed, and sat heavily on the bed, reaching for his shoes.  “You have amazing physical and intellectual gifts.  What you do with those gifts is important – to you, and to everyone you care about.”

“Then stay and teach me,” Ian urged.  He sat and took the shoes out of Duncan’s hand, dropping them back on the floor.  “You don’t have to hide anything from me, if that’s what you’re worried about.  I know what you are,” Ian said.  Duncan’s expression instantly lost its warmth, his eyes slowly shuttering closed and open again as he contemplated Ian’s claim.  “I know you are very old, and very wise,” Ian hastened to assure him, and reached up to touch Duncan’s face.  “And I want you,” he whispered, moving in to taste that sensuous mouth again.

“Oh, God,” Duncan murmured, turning away before their lips met and rubbing his forehead in distraction.  “This is getting out of hand.”  He stood and walked into the living room, pacing in front of the windows. Ian followed.

“What did I say?” Ian asked.  “If it is about your age and... and what you can do, you know your secret is safe with me.”

“This….” Duncan turned to pace the other way.  “This thing you and Sara seem to have, it has to have something to do with the Witchblade.”

“You know about the Blade?” Ian asked, initially alarmed.  Then he smiled to himself, of course Duncan knew.  “All the more reason for you to be my teacher,” he insisted.  “You said what I do with my gifts is important.  Show me!” Ian stopped Duncan’s restless pacing by putting himself directly in his path and placing his hand on a broad, bare chest.  “Now I’m sure this is supposed to happen.”  He could feel the energy radiating off flesh still warm and slightly damp from the shower.  He didn’t think he had ever met anyone as alive, physically or emotionally. 

Duncan placed his own hand over Ian’s, his eyes focused intently on Ian’s face.  “No, it’s not supposed to happen.  I shouldn’t have anything to do with the Witchblade.  And you don’t need me, Ian.  If you have a mission in life, it is to protect Sara Pezzini, to help her however you can, no matter what Irons’ private agenda is. You just need to trust your own heart, to value your own judgment.”

“No!” Ian spun away, clutching his head in confusion, almost in pain.  "I need you!"  When he was with Kenneth, things seemed so clear, but when he was with Duncan, he ended up questioning everything in his life.  He took a deep breath, controlling the surge of anger that he knew was rooted in his own uncertainty.  Focus.  “I must have a teacher, and you are the only one I want.”  He turned back, feeling a little more in control.  This time he moved in quickly, decisively, taking Duncan’s face in his hands and hungrily covering that mouth with his own.  Oh, yes.  This was what he wanted.  His body responded instantly, and he pressed even closer, closing his eyes to concentrate as his hands slid to Duncan’s shoulders, pulling him close so he could explore Duncan’s face with his lips.

Duncan kissed him back, gently, sweetly, but didn’t respond to Ian’s passion.  Instead, Ian felt hands on the side of his face and he opened his eyes, not really wanting to see what he was sure was in Duncan’s face.  Anger, or worse.  Pity, disgust, disdain.

But he saw only sadness.  Duncan gently stroked Ian’s cheeks with his thumbs, then cupped the back of his neck.  “Oh, Ian, what has Irons done to you?” he whispered.

Ian jerked away.  “He has been my creator, my mentor, for all of my life.  He is the one who wants me to have a teacher.  How can you fault him for that?”

“I can fault him if he has left you feeling that you have no will of your own, no life outside of his shadow. To make you so dependent on others,” Duncan insisted.

“Kenneth Irons has built an empire out of nothing, done things no man has ever done before.  If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t even exist!”

“And Irons believes he is above things like law, humanity, honor, compassion and morality, doesn’t he?” Duncan persisted.  “Those same beliefs Sara Pezzini puts her life on the line for every day.  The beliefs you find yourself admiring, even emulating because they come from somewhere deep inside you, from a place Kenneth Irons can’t touch, can’t corrupt.  He has used you, Ian.  Used you like a weapon, without thought, without conscience, without any regard for your needs, your beliefs, your compassion or your honor.”

“He… he cares about me,” Ian ground out, desperately defending the only source of love he’d ever known.  Or was it love?  Maybe it was something else entirely.  “He knows what is best for me.  For everyone.”

“Does he?” Duncan asked.  “Does he really?”

Ian pressed on his temples where a headache had settled in behind his eyes.  This was not what was supposed to be happening.  This was not why he was here.

The drive was paradoxically both tense and boring.  Methos made some deliberately insulting comments, then asked some demanding questions, but the balding guy who had flashed the captain’s badge just glanced at him with a narrow-eyed look that he interpreted as a combination of distrust and distaste for the chore he had obviously been ordered to perform.  When all Methos’ efforts at conversation were ignored, he gave up for awhile, concentrating on memorizing exactly where they were taking him.

He found it unsettling that they made no attempt to blindfold him or in any way disguise exactly where he was being taken – towards Long Island.  They were headed into the meticulously forested landscape of the extremely wealthy, where glimpses could be seen of enormous mansions at the end of long, curving drives, frequently guarded by electronically controlled iron gates.  Wouldn’t want the riff raff to get too close, after all, Methos thought with a smirk of self-amusement, if only to distract himself from the small seed of panic growing in his gut.

That generated a curious look from his chief captor, and Methos tried another conversational gambit.  “So, Irons has his own private police dogs, eh?  What currency does he use?  Oh, don’t tell me, let me guess.”  He closed his eyes for dramatic effect.  “Let’s see.  He always knew the right people to get you a promotion, and had just enough hints at who the bad boys were that, at various critical moments, you caught some arch criminal and got all the credit, right?”  Methos opened his eyes, catching the quickly veiled look of confirmation in the cop’s eyes.  “Oh, then, of course, there are the direct cash deposits to some account in, say, the Cayman Islands?” 

Ah, right on the nose, he thought as the second cop sitting in the front seat turned the muzzle of a .38 in Methos’ direction.  “Shut up,” the man snarled.  “He said we could hurt you if we had to, just so long as we got you there, so just keep flappin’ that mouth and I’ll be happy to put a bullet in it.”

“Ah, but then you’d get blood all over the back seat, and it can be such a bitch to clean up after a murder.  But then you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” he couldn’t resist saying.  The man had clearly been watching too many episodes of The Sopranos. 

Predictably, the cop’s mouth tightened, his shoulders bunched, his face flushed, the grip tightened on the gun, and the captain, sitting beside Methos in the back seat, finally reacted.  “Put the gun away," he snapped.  "I don’t want to have to explain blood in the back of a squad car.  As for you,” he said to Methos – the captain’s fist popped out and Methos attempted to duck, but had no room to maneuver.  “Open your mouth again, and I’ll use something a lot harder than my fist.”

Methos looked his captor in the eye, smiled, and slowly licked at the blood oozing from a split lip.  He deliberately leaned back, stretching his legs as far as they could go in the restricted confines of the car and chuckled just under his breath, where he knew it could be heard.  Irons obviously knew he wasn’t really mild-mannered Adam Pierson.  Maybe it was time for his alter ego to make an appearance.   The captain attempted to lock eyes with him for a moment, but then looked away, suddenly fascinated with the scenery rolling past. 

The rest of the trip was spent in silence.

Mac ached in sympathy as he watched Ian struggle with whatever inner demons were bedeviling him.  To have such powers of mind and body, with no outlet for them that gave him any sense of identity or achievement – Mac knew what that felt like, the torments of guilt and indecision.  And he had had over four centuries, and some of the wisest teachers in the world to help him.  Ian – all he had was Kenneth Irons. 

“Ian,” he touched the iron-hard shoulder, turning the man towards him.  “I’m not the teacher you need.  You need someone wise and gentle and kind, someone who understands the human heart and mind and sees your potential.  There are some monks in Malaysia, at a monastery where you can take all the time you need…”

“You are wise and gentle and kind!” Ian insisted.

Mac almost laughed at that, except that Ian might have misinterpreted the painful irony for actual humor.  “I am a killer, Ian,” Mac replied, deliberately harsh.  “I’m caught up in a battle you can’t even comprehend.”   Ian’s gaze was downcast and sullen, so Mac put both hands on the sides of his neck, lifting Ian’s face until he could see into those dark, troubled eyes.  “Don’t you understand?  I can’t teach you.  I can’t be your lover.  I can’t even be the friend I would like to be.  All I would do is drag you into a kind of danger even you couldn’t survive.  I’ve lost my mentor, my friends and my family to this battle.  I won’t drag anyone else into it.”

Ian looked deeply into his eyes for a long moment, and Mac hoped he had finally gotten through.  “What about Adam Pierson?” Ian asked, unexpectedly.  “All this is just an excuse, isn’t it?  You don’t mind putting him into danger.  What is he?  Your friend?  Your lover?  Did he get jealous and tell you not to see me anymore?  Is that the real reason you won’t teach me?”

At that, Mac had to step back and take a deep breath.  “No!  Adam is… it’s not like that,” he insisted.  “He’s different.  He’s a good friend who knows how to deal with the chaos in my life.  He’s stepped in over and over again to help me when I needed it most.”  That sounded lame, but how could he possibly explain about Methos?

Ian smiled tightly.  “Well, it seems he just up and left, so he can’t be that much of a friend, can he?”

Mac let a few heartbeats go by while he absorbed that statement and its implications.  “What are you talking about?” he finally asked.

“It seems your loyal friend wasn’t so loyal, after all.  I guess you didn’t see his message.”

“What message?” Mac demanded.  In answer, Ian just pointed towards Methos’ bedroom.  Mac went to the door, instantly observing that all the subtle signs of occupancy were gone.  No CDs, no books, no clothes strewn about, only one piece of paper left neatly on the nightstand.  He picked it up, noting the familiar scrawl he’d seen only the night before in Methos’ journal, except this time it was in English instead of a complex code.

“Duncan ~~ had something come up I needed to deal with, so I caught an earlier flight.  I’ll call when I can.  A.”

A cold chill crept over Mac’s shoulders, and he gripped the note tightly enough to crumple it a little.

Then the phone rang.

“MacLeod,” he answered. 

“Jake’s disappeared.” Mac recognized Sara’s distinctive, husky alto voice. 

“Jake?”

“McCarty.  My partner.  You met him yesterday morning.  And I… had a vision… a sword, and the face of the man you were fighting in the park.”

“You had a vision?”  Mac felt like he was one step behind in a race he hadn’t known he was running.

“The Witchblade, MacLeod,” she snapped.  “I know it’s hard to believe…”

“No, no, I believe you.  But why would your partner even know about Singh?” 

Duncan heard Sara sigh before she answered.  “It’s a long story.  Somehow, my captain heard about the fight in the park, and that someone matching Singh’s description was killed.  He put McCarty on the hunt and things just… deteriorated from there.  Jake found where Singh was staying and he’s just stubborn enough to try to tail the guy even after I told him to back off.”

“Singh is no fool, Sara.  If he spotted Jake….” Mac didn’t really want to say what he thought the detective’s chances were in any confrontation with an Immortal.

“You think I don’t know that?” she snarled.  “The question is what to do about it.  I checked and Singh isn’t at his club.  The night doorman says he left about 1 a.m. and hasn’t been back since.  I figured maybe he had contacted you to… you know, do whatever you guys do.”

"He hasn't yet, but I've been expecting some kind of confrontation," he replied.  "If he's got Jake, he may end up using him as some kind of guarantee of non-interference.  Or he may just kill him, but Singh didn't strike me as that kind of man, since he was determined that the fight would be by the rules. Did what you saw give you any clues about his location?"

"Not really.  A dark room, with the shadow of a moving fan on the wall.  Could be anywhere.  I'm running a search on Singh and his holdings to see if there are any locally, but it takes time, and I don’t know how time we’ve got!" She sounded desperate.

"Take it easy, Sara," Mac urged.  "If the Witchblade is giving you clues, you need to trust it.  My guess is Singh is going to call me soon and set up a time and place to meet.  That should give us a lead to where Jake is.  I'm going to give you my cell phone number so you can reach me if you get any solid information, and I'll do whatever I can to help."  He could hear her take a deep, steadying breath and could easily picture her mouth tightening in resolve.  He almost smiled.  Singh had made an enemy he could ill afford.  But then the notion of Sara getting caught again in the midst of an Immortal battle made his blood run cold.  “Sara,” he couldn’t help adding, “just… just don’t try to take Singh on.”  He heard her soft, humorless laugh, and quickly continued.  “I’m not certain, but I don’t think the Witchblade will be of much help against one of us, and I don’t want to see you hurt.”

“I can take care of myself, MacLeod.  Right now, the one we have to worry about is Jake.”

Mac gave her his cell phone number and pleaded with her again to avoid direct confrontation with Singh, but figured his words fell on deaf ears.  He hung up, and the dread that had settled over him when he found Methos’ note was even heavier.  He still had the note in his hand and looked at it again.

“That was Sara?”  Ian asked.

Mac nodded, still studying the note.

“Something happen to McCarty?”

He looked up.  “Possibly.  Things suddenly seem to have gotten very… complicated.  It seems that Detective McCarty has vanished, and Sara believes the man I fought with in the park might be involved.”

“The man in the park was dead,” Ian stated flatly.

“It was dark and you were injured, Ian.  Singh is very much alive.”

“He is like you, then?”

Mac sighed and closed his eyes.  His life seemed to be spinning completely out of control.  “Whatever he is, he is still a threat, to me, and evidently, to Jake McCarty.”

“Anything I can do to help?” Ian offered, stepping close.

Mac looked deep into Ian’s eyes, seeing nothing there but concern and caring.  The man was good, but then he’d had a master for a teacher.

“You could tell me the truth,” Mac replied softly.  “Adam also seems to have disappeared.”

“What do you mean?  Isn’t the note from him?”

“It certainly looks like his writing.”

“Then why do you suspect something?  Or maybe you just don’t want to believe he would abandon you like that.”  Ian stepped back and crossed his arms, watching him implacably.  All the earlier distress and concern seemed to have vanished and a mask of amused arrogance had dropped into place.

Mac dropped the note back on the nightstand.  “Oh, he is perfectly capable of behavior that can drive me to distraction, including disappearing without so much as a by-your-leave.  But something else has happened.  It might be connected with McCarty’s disappearance, but I don’t think so.” He turned and fixed Ian with a hard look.  “And the only place Adam had planned to visit today was Kenneth Irons’ office.”

“What are you thinking, Duncan?  You think he is in danger from Kenneth?” Ian asked, his expression troubled.

“Don’t you?”

He shrugged.  “What would Kenneth want with Pierson?  I know he bought a tomb rubbing and some other items from him, but otherwise he hardly knows the man.  Maybe that guy you were fighting took on Pierson, instead.  And you still haven’t told me why you think your friend didn’t write the note.”

Mac studied Ian carefully.  The man was good.  But he had made at least one mistake.  “Several things,” he answered as he returned to his bedroom to finish dressing, “But for one, Adam doesn’t call me Duncan.” 

After a quick call to Joe, only to find that the Watchers had a) lost track of Methos after he left Irons’ building; and b) they didn’t have a clue where Rahvi Singh was, Mac left a message on his hotel room’s voicemail recording giving his cell phone number, so that Singh could reach him if he called.  What a strange blessing, that modern technology allowed him to attend to more than one crisis at once. 

The cab ride to Vorschlag Industries’ building was tense and silent since Mac chose not to press Ian about his role in Methos’ disappearance.  It would only make him defensive – or worse, force him to lie even more.  If Mac hoped to salvage Ian from the ravages of Kenneth Irons’ influence, he needed to give the man room to find his own reasons for doing the right thing.

Ian took him right past the security desk to the express executive elevators that led to the top floor.  Even so, Kenneth Irons did not look at all surprised when Ian led Mac into the large office.  Mac glanced around at the ostentatiously expensive antique furniture and original artwork.  None of it was to his taste at all. 

“Mr. MacLeod,” Irons rose from behind his desk with a tight smile.  “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Where is Adam Pierson?” he demanded.

Irons cocked his head curiously.  “Why?  Has he gone missing?”

“Don’t jerk me around, Irons.  He came to see you this morning.  Now he’s disappeared, and this innocent act isn’t going to fly with me.”

Irons chuckled, crossing his arms and looking his visitor up and down as though Mac were some kind of biological specimen.  “Oh, I’ve never thought of myself as an innocent, Duncan.  Come.  Sit,” he gestured to the couch.  “Ian, would you bring us some tea?  You do prefer tea, do you not?”

“I prefer,” Mac had to work to keep an even tone, “for you to tell me what you’ve done with Adam Pierson.”

Irons sat, stretched his arms across the back of the couch and crossed his legs.  “Well, Dr. Pierson is a fascinating and attractive man, but as of yet, I haven’t done anything with him,” he replied with a small smile.  “Although I wouldn’t turn down the opportunity.”

Mac smiled, but put no warmth into it.  “I seriously doubt you’ll get the chance.”  He resented Irons’ oily innuendos and word games at a time when Methos might be in jeopardy.  Mac was riding a razor’s edge of anger and aggression, similar to that all-too-familiar rush of adrenaline when facing a hostile Immortal.  The katana slid into his hand almost before he realized he had reached into his coat.  But as the sword’s point hovered in front of Irons’ chest, Mac heard the tiniest snick of mechanical sound, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Ian holding the muzzle of a large automatic near his temple.

Irons seemed unperturbed at the frozen tableau of barely constrained violence, examining Mac with an arrogant smile. “Checkmate, Duncan.  You see, Ian’s first priority is my safety and he will kill you at my command without giving it a second thought.  Whatever your remarkable healing ability, I somehow doubt that even you could survive your brains splattering all over my carpet.  As to your friend….” Irons shrugged.  “I assure you he left here this morning completely healthy and under his own power.”

Mac studied Irons for a moment, holding the katana steadily at Irons’ sternum, but the man was inscrutable.  “I don’t believe you,” he finally answered.  “And I assure you that as good as Ian is, I am better.”

Irons just smiled.  “It doesn’t really matter.  I know you wouldn’t hurt me since it would put Ian in the position of having to choose between two people he cares deeply about, and an honorable man like you wouldn’t do that, would you?” he asked with a narrow-eyed smile, then turned to Ian.  “Put that away, Ian,” he ordered.  “And pull up this morning’s images from the security desk.”  He rose, looking down his aristocratic nose at Mac.  “At your age, I would have thought you would have learned that there are better ways to get information than with physical threats.”

Clearly, Irons and Ian had investigated enough of Mac’s background to suspect his ‘healing ability’ also extended his lifespan.  How much they knew beyond that was anyone’s guess.  “At my age, Irons,” Mac said softly, “I’ve learned the difference between a threat and a promise.”

A tiny flicker of hostility, or perhaps doubt, flashed somewhere behind Irons’ cold, blue eyes.  “Show him, Ian,” he said at last, turning away.

Ian had moved to Irons’ desk, and he now turned the monitor so Mac could see it.  “This is the security recording from 7:52 a.m. this morning,” he announced.  The three men watched in silence as “Adam Pierson”, carrying the large portfolio case, was shown signing in. “And this,” with a few keystrokes Ian fast-forwarded the image, “was recorded at 8:37 a.m.”  The screen showed “Adam” again, this time without the portfolio, signing out, and walking away.

“As you see, Duncan,” Irons observed, “Dr. Pierson came, dropped off the tomb rubbing we had discussed, then left shortly thereafter.  I haven’t seen him since.  Have you, Ian?”

Ian shook his head.  “No.  He and I met at the elevator, but that was the last time I saw him.”

“How very… convenient,” Mac commented dryly, then looked up at Ian.  It was obvious he was going to get no information from Irons without some coercion, which didn’t seem practical at the moment.  “Of course, I am aware that Adam’s condition for handing over the rubbing was that you and Ian were to permanently… disassociate yourselves from either Adam or me.  Why, then, did Ian come by my suite this morning?”

Irons raised an eyebrow.  “Contrary to your evident belief, Duncan, Ian is not an automaton.”  He shrugged.  “Dr. Pierson made it clear that you were leaving the country, and it doesn’t surprise me that Ian wished to see you once more before it was too late.”  He glanced at his minion, who ducked his head.  “I hardly blame him.  It was a minor transgression.”

Mac tucked his katana back into his coat.  This was a waste of time, and was only going to make him even angrier, and anger wasn’t going to help anyone, especially Methos.  He turned to go, but reached the door and turned back.  “By the way, Irons, have you ever heard of the story “The Ransom of Red Chief”?”

Irons cocked his head.  “Ah, yes.  O. Henry, I believe. Why do you ask?”

“There is a lesson there you would do well to consider,” Mac replied coldly.

Ian followed Duncan to the elevator, and Duncan gave him a cold, sidelong look.  “Did Irons send you to follow me around?”  Ian shook his head almost imperceptibly, and Duncan raised an eyebrow, but said no more as they rode down the elevator and walked out into street.  “All right, Ian, what the hell is going on?” Duncan swirled and demanded as they stood on a street corner, pedestrian traffic streaming past.

Ian looked down at his folded hands, then back up again.  “I just don’t want to see you go against Kenneth Irons, Duncan.  He is a dangerous man and even you cannot hope to defeat him.  Because he is right.  His protection is my first priority, and if I have to, I would kill.  Even you.”  Just saying it hurt, almost a physical pain, but it was true and Duncan deserved do know.

“I don’t give a damn about Irons!” Duncan snapped, his whole body tense as a bow drawn tight, ready to fire. “I just care about Adam.”  He lifted a blunt finger to Ian’s chest to drive his point home.  “Listen to me, Ian.  You think I’m dangerous?”  He waited, and finally Ian nodded the obvious truth of the statement.  “You think Irons is dangerous?”  Duncan asked.  Ian had to nod to that, as well.  “Well, Adam Pierson, should he choose to be, is far more dangerous than both of us put together.  So, I’m not just concerned for Adam, as a friend, even though that is part of it.  I am concerned that if you mix Irons’ capacity for trying to manipulate people to his own ends, and Adam Pierson’s capacity for… almost anything, together, you will have the ingredients of a disaster.  For Adam, for Irons, for you, for me, and for everyone in the general vicinity.”

“But…,” Ian started to protest.

“But, nothing!  You don’t know what you’re dealing with here!  Damn it, if you know where he is, tell me!”

All the lies, the misdirections, the knowledge of exactly where Pierson was and what was being done to him caromed around in Ian’s head like pinballs out of control.  “I can’t!” he finally sighed, closing his eyes to shut out the intensity of Duncan’s very presence.

“Because you don’t know?” Duncan insisted, crowding uncomfortably close.  “Or because Irons controls your every action, your every thought, your every feeling?”

Now there was a question.  Was he Irons’ toy, his tool, his weapon to be used at will and without thought or conscience or honor?  Was that what he wanted to be?  And if Pierson was far more of a threat than Irons even understood or could handle, what was his true responsibility?  To Duncan, to Irons, to Sara, to the Witchblade itself?

Then Duncan’s phone rang again.

The sunlight coming from the vent had brightened considerably, casting bright streaks of light into the room that were slowly crawling across the wall as time ticked slowly by.  It was almost a relief when the door lock rattled, and Singh entered then carefully locked it behind him.  He put a briefcase down then came around to look at Jake, hitching a hip onto the only other intact piece of furniture in the room, a battered old desk with one leg slightly shorter than the rest.

“Well, detective, how’re we doing this morning?”  Singh asked with a smile, his white teeth and his white turban almost iridescent in the dim light.

Jake just cocked an eyebrow at him, given that the duct tape over his mouth provided no other means for communication.

Singh chuckled.  “Oh, sorry about that.”  He reached out and ripped off the tape. 

Jake gasped, and worked his lips for a few minutes until the burn subsided enough to even begin to speak.  “Fuck!” he finally managed to say, since it was the first word that came to mind.  “Was that really necessary? Jeez!”

“I hear it is better done quickly rather than through a slow torture of ripping off your flesh bit by bit,” Singh replied with a little more relish than was probably necessary.

“Yeah, well, if you’re into ripping off tape, you can undo my arms and legs, too, and let me at least go to the john.”

“I’d rather not, since I’d just have to tape you up again.  I’m afraid you’ll just have to hold it.” He shrugged.  “Or not.  It is hardly the worst thing that could happen to you.”

Jake couldn’t help the twisted smirk he knew was crossing his face even though it had gotten him into trouble way too many times.  “Should I even bother to ask what you consider the worst thing that could happen to me?”

Singh just looked at him for a long moment.  “I suppose,” he finally said softly, “the worst thing that might happen is that I live.  If so, then I’ll have to decide what to do with you.  If not,” he shrugged.  “You’re someone else’s problem.  I don’t know if MacLeod will kill you or not.  He is known for protecting you people, which is why I didn’t simply dispose of you in the first place.”

“You people?” Jake asked, doing his damnedest to maintain a cool façade.  “Let me get this straight.  You had some kind of fight with this MacLeod dude in the park, right?  And if the reports I got were even remotely accurate, you got the worst of it, but the fight broke off before it was finished.  Now, you’re trying to force another one?”  He shook his head.  “Now that’s just dumb, man.  If MacLeod beat you before, what makes you think he won’t beat you again?”

“He allowed others to interfere,” Singh snapped, standing and pacing the floor.  “That’s against the rules.”

“Against what rules?”  But Singh just gave him an enigmatic smile. “Hey, man, it’s your funeral,” Jake shrugged as best he could with his body wrapped like a leaking pipe.  “What did MacLeod ever do to you anyway?”

“It isn’t what he did.  It’s what he is.  What he represents.”

“And what’s that?” Jake asked.  If he could keep this bizarre conversation going it might give him some small tidbit of information that could prove useful, or just use up time, if nothing else.  He didn’t know whether Singh was some insane criminal or a government agent, or even an alien from outer space.  And he wasn’t sure if he cared much at this point.

Singh paused in his pacing, staring off into space.  “Power,” he said softly.  “Perhaps even the Prize itself.”

“The prize?  You mean Ed McMahon shows up at your door with MacLeod in tow?” Jake asked.  “Man, I think I’d rather have the million bucks, or even the subscription to Reader’s Digest.”

Singh laughed.  “You are a funny man, detective.  I will be sorry to have to kill you, but perhaps I can manage just to disappear.  I’ve done it before, but it gets more difficult every decade.”

Jake shrugged, “Hey, works for me, man.  Take off the turban, shave the beard, change your name, I’d never find you.  And I’d probably not try real hard, anyway.”

Singh’s smile almost seemed affectionate.  “Now, now, detective, I think you are not telling the truth.  At least we can be honest with one another.”

Jake rolled his eyes.  “Oh, yeah.  You kidnap me, tape me up, stick me in a dark room and won’t even let me take a piss, but it’s important that we be honest?  Well, let me give you a little honest advice, my friend.  I’m a cop.  Kidnapping anyone is a federal offence that can get you the death penalty, but kidnapping a cop is in a special category labeled:  How to Really Piss Off A Lot Of People Who Have the Power to Make Your Life an Unmitigated Hell.”

Singh’s dark eyes just blinked.  The man seemed utterly unaffected by the trouble his actions were going to bring down on his own head.  “I’m sorry, detective.  It is a shame that you got caught up in our little game, but it is your own fault.  I have broken no mortal law, and yet you shadow me as though I were a criminal, when I am merely doing that which I was destined to do since long before you were born.”

“You mean this is some kind of religious thing you’ve got going with MacLeod?”  Jake sighed and shook his head.  “Oh, man, I do not need this shit.”

“Well, my friend, it will be over soon, one way or another,” Singh replied, and pulled a cell phone from the breast pocket of his suit.  He dialed a number and Jake watched as he waited a moment, then asked for Duncan MacLeod’s room.  There was another wait of a minute or more, and Singh frowned as he listened, then rang off and reached into his pocket for a pen and paper, writing something down.

Jake squirmed.  Whenever he had nothing else to think about, his mind wandered to the uncomfortable state of his bladder.

Finally, Singh dialed again, his body tensing as he listened.  “Well, MacLeod, you must have been expecting my call…..  Why, yes, I am acquainted with Detective McCarty.  He’s sitting here with me now.  We were just having a most pleasant conversation…..”  Singh chuckled.  “And what are you going to do?  Kill me?….  Tell you what, I’ll make it easy for you to find me, and if you find me, you’ll eventually find him, if you live that long.  But come early, and he dies.  Send anyone else, and he dies.  If anyone interferes, he dies.  Do we understand each other?…. Yes, I thought you would.  When everything is ready, I’ll call you with the address.”  Singh snapped the phone.   “See?” he said to Jake.  “I told you it wouldn’t be long.”

He rose from the desk, reached for the briefcase he had brought with him and opened it.  Jake’s blood went cold when he saw what was inside.  There was a block of gray material that looked uncomfortably like plastique.  Singh took out some wires, a timing device and a remote controller, and began making a bomb. 

Sara observed Captain Dante and Jerry Orlinsky, both looking decidedly irritated, go into Dante’s office and close the door.  Even with the door closed, she could hear the Captain yell at Orlinsky, and through the blinds Sara could see Dante stab his finger repeatedly at his detective as they spoke.  Sara listened carefully to try to catch the words as well as the obviously hostile tone.  Thankfully, the Witchblade assisted, and suddenly she could clearly hear Orlinksy snarl, “I’m a cop, not a delivery boy for Kenneth Irons!”

“You’re whatever I say you are,” Dante snarled.  “And you sure as hell know better than to flash your gun around when you don’t intend to use it.  That was a stupid rookie stunt.  If you want to be part of my team you’ll do exactly as you’re told and keep your mouth shut.  Are we clear on that?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Orlinsky frowned.  “But that guy had a smart mouth,” he added as he went to the door, and Sara became absorbed in her computer, avoiding Orlinsky’s eye as he walked by her desk.

Damn.  If Dante was an errand boy for Kenneth Irons, was it Irons who had told Dante about Singh?  And had Irons now absconded with someone else… or was it Irons who had Jake?  Jake would definitely qualify as having a smart mouth, but somehow that notion didn’t feel right.   Her head was starting to ache from tension, worry, exhaustion and too many impossible puzzles to solve.

“Yo, Pezzini!” Dante called from his door, waving her into his office.

“Yeah, cap?”

“You hear from McCarty yet?”

“Uh, no, but I think you’re right.  He probably just got hung up somewhere and forgot to call in.  I’ll give it another few hours.”

Dante looked up from his paperwork with an appraising stare.  “You sure?”

Sara forced herself to smile.  “Yeah.  I’m sure.  I’ll keep you posted on it, though.”  She turned from the door, and stopped as another view flashed in front of her eyes.  A red light, flashing slowly on and off.  Wires, leading to blocks of gray explosive.

“You okay, Pezzini?”

She looked around and Dante was standing at her elbow, eying her curiously.

“Yeah,” she smiled.  “Just remembered something I had to do.”  She grabbed her leather jacket and fled out the door.

On the street, she paused, uncertain what to do next.  The records search for property had garnered nothing.  If Singh owned property locally, it was hidden under layers of shell corporations, probably foreign, with only the name of a local agent given in the available records.

She stared at the Witchblade in irritation.  “Can’t you give me something specific?” she murmured, but the Blade was annoyingly unforthcoming.

Mac stared at his cell phone in frustration.  How much time did he have to find Methos?  How much time to rescue Jake McCarty?  Who was in greater jeopardy?  He looked up to see Ian staring at him impassively.  “You have to choose, Ian,” Duncan said.  “Right here.  Right now.  You have to choose who you are.  Who you want to be.  We both know Irons has Adam.  I don’t know why or what he intends to do with him, but I have absolutely no doubt about the fact that he has him.  I also know Adam is nowhere in there,” he said, pointing to the high rise behind him. 

“How…”

“Never mind how I know, I just do.  Now, listen to me, Ian,” Duncan said intently, taking Ian by his shoulders.  “Listen very carefully.  Adam Pierson is the most important person in the world to me.  I owe him my life, and I will do whatever it takes to free him.”  His grip tightened as he realized the truth of his own words.  “Whatever it takes, do you hear me?  I can do this with your help, in which case, hopefully, no one will get too badly hurt.  Or I can do it the hard way, and I make no promises about you, about Irons, or anyone else who gets in my way.”

Ian jerked out of his grasp and turned away, running his hand over his hair in distress.  “You’re asking me to betray him!”

“No, I’m asking you not to betray yourself.  Look at me, Ian,” Mac spun the man around to face him.  “Hear me!  I am over 400 years old.  I have known and battled men who would make Kenneth Irons look like a delinquent schoolboy.  And I’m telling you that in taking on Adam Pierson, Irons has no idea of the risk he is taking!  By helping me, and getting Adam away from him, you would be saving your master, not betraying him.  And you would be saving yourself.”

“Is Pierson really that much of a threat?”

Mac had to chuckle at that.  “You have no idea,” he answered.

Ian looked up, and Mac followed his gaze as a helicopter lifted off from the rooftop far above them.  Mac waited as Ian thought for a long moment, his whole body thrumming with tension.  He didn’t want to have to fight Ian.  It would be a terrible battle, but the outcome was not in doubt.  He had spoken the truth.  He would do whatever was necessary to free Methos.

At last Ian swallowed and turned slowly.  “All right,” he nodded.  “But I’m doing this for Kenneth, as much as for you.”

Mac convulsively squeezed Ian’s shoulder.  “Dammit, No, Ian!  Do this for yourself.”

The torture chamber was a remarkably cheerful place, full of prints of flowers and seascapes plastered against sunny, light yellow walls.   The only real indicators of its true use were the banks of computers and medical equipment efficiently stored in various sections of the large, tiled room.  Methos had already been put through a standard physical exam, a CAT scan, and had his blood taken in fairly copious quantities.  So far, the experience had been humiliating, but relatively painless.  Unfortunately, he feared they were now getting down to the ugly nitty gritty.

The two cops had disappeared after delivering him into the hands of Dr. Immo, as the man smilingly introduced himself.  Of course, the good doctor only frowned curiously at Methos’ muffled snicker at the introduction, not understanding the absurdity of his own name.  The cops left, replaced by a couple of male ‘nurses’ with large necks and biceps, who did not appear to be there for their contributions to research, except perhaps as examples of the benefits and risks of heavy steroid usage.   Their presence had not been particularly necessary, since after taking his blood, Methos had been shot full of some kind of sedative that put him in a twilight, nebulous state for a while.

But his system, always quick to flush out any drugs – sometimes to his great disappointment – had adjusted itself, and he was all too conscious as he was turned over on his side, his wrists and ankles tightly strapped to the padded examination bed like a calf at a rodeo event, and a cold swab slathered over his right hip.

“Be very still,” Dr. Immo instructed.  “This may hurt some even though I’ve given you a local.”

“How considerate of you to warn me,” Methos responded dryly.

The hands at his hip paused.  “You’re far more alert than I expected.  Very interesting,” the doctor observed, and then returned to his task.

“Taking bone marrow?” Methos asked conversationally.

“Why yes, as a matter of fact, I am.  Have you had medical training, then?”

“A little,” Methos replied.  “But I try to keep up on my reading, in any case.  I can tell you now what you will find, you know.  There’s no need to go through all this.”  He heard the doctor chuckle behind him. 

“Oh, I seriously doubt you know what I’m looking for, Mr….Pierson, is it, I believe?”

“You are looking for stem cells.  Specifically, to see how many are in my bone marrow, since you’ve already found a much higher percentage than usual in my blood.  You won’t be disappointed.  I have approximately five times the number of stem cells usually seen in adult human bone marrow.”

The hands at his back paused.  “Five times?”

Methos turned his head as far as he could, and could just see the gray-haired man’s face and forehead peering over Methos’ surgically draped right hip.  Then they both looked up as they heard and felt the distinctive rhythmic vibration of helicopter blades almost directly overhead.

The doctor’s face blanched and he quickly went back to his work.  Methos ended up hissing at the sudden burn deep in his hip, a burn that grew steadily more intense for at least a slow count of ten, making him clench his fists for a moment, then breathe carefully through the pain.  Then it happened again, and again, and again, until Methos was sweating profusely and growling with each new probe inserted into his flesh.  A few minutes later, the doctor concluded his procedure, and the pain gradually faded to a bone-deep ache.  Methos was just getting his breathing back to normal when he heard authoritative new steps on the tiles behind him.

There was a pause of sound and movement, and Methos could feel his jaw tighten.  His whole backside was exposed.  The thought of Kenneth Irons just standing there scrutinizing it considerably notched up the deep anger that he had been nursing since the moment he had been forced into that squad car.

“Enjoying the view?” he finally asked.

“Very much,” Irons replied, and Methos could hear the smile in his voice.

“As long as you’re admiring my arse,” he couldn’t resist saying, “you can kiss it.” 

He heard a chuckle before he felt a hand caress his right buttock, then slide along his thigh. “Remarkable,” Irons observed softly, and Methos wasn’t sure whether he was talking about the already-healed puncture wounds or making a general comment about the quality of his bum.  When the hand crept lower and slipped between his legs, Methos forced himself not to react.  Irons paused, then pulled his hand away with another annoying laugh.

“There will be plenty of time for that, Adam,” Irons answered, and came around the table so Methos could see him.  “And for whatever other diversions we might be interested in.”

“The only diversion I’m interested in at the moment has to do with sharp blades close to your jugular,” Methos answered evenly.  “What on earth makes you think you can get away with this?”

Irons cocked an eyebrow.  “Because I can,” he replied.  “Your friend MacLeod is very irritated because he thinks you up and left for Europe without telling him why, and Ian is busy consoling him for his loss.” He smiled.  “You know, that notebook you gave me from your “uncle” was written in a very distinctive hand, easy to imitate.  It seems Adam Pierson left an enigmatic note about leaving early for Europe, and as a result, no one knows where he is, and no one cares.  So you see,” he leaned close, putting a cool hand on Methos’ shoulder.  “You’re mine for as long as I want you.”

Methos considered his options – actually he had been considering them for quite some time – and did what he’d known he would have to do, as distasteful as it was.  He relaxed, let his lids lower slightly, then looked up and smiled.  “Well, it’s always nice to be wanted,” he said softly.

Irons chuckled, his hand moving gently along Methos’ flesh like he was stroking a cat.  “I think you will be a very dangerous, but very entertaining pet,” he observed, but then stepped away.  “What have you learned, Doctor?” he asked of the man Methos had heard moving around behind him.

“Well,” the doctor said after a silent pause.  “It’s very interesting, but it gets quite technical.”

“Doctor, I’ve been dealing with advanced medical research for longer than you’ve been alive.  I could probably teach you a few things,” Irons snapped.  He looked down at Methos.  “And I suspect Adam could, as well,” he added.

Immo’s snort of disbelief only confirmed Methos’ view that doctors were an arrogant lot.  He ought to know since he’d been one at several points in his long life.

“As I was telling the good doctor,” Methos drawled casually, “he can expect to find five times the expected number of stem cells in my bone marrow.  And he will find that the cells are mostly multipotent, but with a significant percentage of those being pluripotent.”

Irons cocked an eyebrow at him.  “Someone has already done the research? Why haven’t I heard about it?”

“You think if there were some realistic application for our healing physiology, we would have kept it hidden?  We may be careful about the world knowing we exist, but we’re not complete barbarians.”  Then he added softly, “At least some of us aren’t.”  Then he continued.  “You want to isolate, stimulate and multiply my stem cells, then try to create a serum for yourself that will replicate what you’ve done with Elizabeth Bronte’s remains, right?”  He was rewarded with a flash of surprise across Irons’ normally carefully controlled expression.  “Well, it won’t work.  Outside of our bodies, the cells rapidly disintegrate, and can actually do harm if injected in any quantity into someone like you.  They contain an energy charge that stimulates healing in my body, but would only be seen as some kind of attacking virus by yours.”

“And I’m supposed to believe this from someone who has probably spent multiple generations hiding who and what he was from the world?” Irons asked dryly.

“And this is exactly why we hide!” Methos snapped.  “You think you’re the first to try to figure out what makes us tick, or even the most clever?  If there is one thing I have learned in what has admittedly been a longer than average life, it is that humans have an infinite capacity for cruelty in the name of the betterment of humanity.”

“Are you two finished growling at one another?” the doctor inserted.  “Because if you are, I’d like to share something I find very interesting.”

Irons looked up, and Methos frowned, unable to resist tugging at the Velcro restraints around his wrists.  This could get bad.  Really bad.

“I’ve taken a quick look, and Pierson may be correct about the stem cell count in his bone marrow, although I’ll have to run some tests to see whether he is also correct about the nature of those cells.  Also, his bone marrow generally looks more like that of a child than an adult.  But there is something else, something that showed up on the CAT scan.  Something very interesting.”  Dr. Immo led his patron over to a computer monitor within Methos’ view, sitting at the desk and typing in instructions that pulled up a brightly colored screen.

“Hey!” Methos protested.  “Could someone please at least throw a blanket over my naked bum?  It’s cold in here.”  If he got his body covered, he might at least be able to work on loosening his restraints, but his complaint was ignored.

“See here?” Dr. Immo indicated a spot on the screen.  “There is an anomaly.  In anyone else, I might have thought it was a tumor, but this is right at the base of the brain, near the pituitary gland, and of substantial size, with some large vessels feeding it.”

“What is it, then?” Irons asked.

“I don’t know, but I’ve never seen anything like it.  It has the appearance of a gland, but I have no idea what purpose it serves.”

“Take a tissue sample,” Irons ordered.  “Do a biopsy.”

“Now wait a minute,” Immo protested with a frown. “This thing is deep in the brain stem.  I can’t just…”

“Yes, you can,” Irons insisted.  “I told you this man heals even faster than the Wielder, and you saw those puncture wounds heal within seconds.”

“But this is his brain we’re talking about.  What if it is that gland that allows him to heal?  Until we know more about what it is and what it does, we could do irreparable damage.”

“I said, do it!” Irons insisted.  “If he dies, then I can get another test subject you can work on,” Irons insisted.

“You have another one?” the doctor asked, looking up at Irons with a distinctively acquisitive gleam in his eye.

Irons just crossed his arms, and waited.  Immo sighed, shook his head and pushed himself to his feet.  “All right, I’ll do the procedure, although I can’t take responsibility if anything goes wrong.”

The seed of panic that had been sitting in Methos’ gut quivered and grew.  He yanked uselessly at the restraints and ended up growling curses at the doctor, at Irons, at modern technology, and finally ending with a frustrated, sub-vocal, “Shit!  Why isn’t there ever a boy scout around when you need one?”
 
 

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