“Now, now, Mr. Pierson,” Immo intoned in an irritatingly soothing voice, “struggling will only make this much worse.”  Methos glared at him, still breathing hard and tugging uselessly at the restraints as Immo pulled instruments out of drawers, including a long, wicked looking probe, the sight of which made his guts clench in alarm.  He momentarily considered trying to bite one of the meaty attendants, but figured the end result would ultimately be both painful and futile.  Damn, it had been a long time since he had felt so helpless.  “I’m going to administer a sedative, and you won’t need to worry about a thing,” Immo smiled benignly.

“Right!” Methos snarled.  “You’re going to do brain surgery with a meat thermometer, and I’ve got nothing to worry about!  What kind of doctor are you, anyway?  I thought the first rule was Do No Harm.” 

“You’re assuming I took the Hippocratic Oath,” Immo smiled smugly.  “But even so, there are always trade-offs, Mr. Pierson.  The research Irons has allowed me to do has the potential for enhancing all of human life, improving health and extending life spans far beyond what we currently enjoy.” 

“And in the meantime, you have lots of fancy new toys to play with and are substantially overpaid for your efforts,” Methos sneered.  “Do you honestly think Irons will let you live for one minute beyond your usefulness to him, or that you would ever be allowed to use your so-called research for anyone’s benefit but his?”

The doctor suddenly found something else to concentrate his attention on, and refused to answer, but a few moments later the man was again hovering at his side.  “Now we need to sedate you,” he announced.  “You can cooperate and make it far easier on both of us, or I will simply have either Harvey or Carl here knock you out, and then administer the anesthetic.  Your choice.”

Methos thought about it for about two seconds, then with a smile told the good doctor what he could do with Harvey and with Carl, with his needles, his probe, his wife, his children and his mother – first in French, because it felt good to say the words; then in Afrikaans, because it sounded so nasty even if you didn’t know what it meant; then in Russian because it allowed him to spit while he said it; and finally in English. By that time Harvey had come around the bed and, with a big, meaty fist, hit him hard enough to shut him up. It took another blow to actually make him see stars.  And one more before even the stars were blotted out.

Irons sat in his study, looking through various company reports, but not really absorbing anything.  If this worked, if he found a source for his life-prolonging serum apart from the Wielder, his life – all of history, actually – might be changed.  He could take his time, could train and nurture and ultimately control the Blade Wielder instead of coercing her, or worse, try to replace her with one of a precious few, but rather unstable potential alternatives.  His power, his influence, the reach of his empire would have no limits, no boundaries of time or energy.

He couldn’t sit still, just waiting, so he threw the folder he was reading onto the desk and rose, pacing off his eager, anxious energy.  He wished Ian were here.  Irons always felt a little more calm, a little more certain and centered when Ian was around, like carrying an automatic weapon in your pocket, energy contained but always available.  The boy had such strength, such a core of power just waiting to be released at a word.  Of course, that was what resonated between Ian and MacLeod, that recognition of something primal.

Power. 

It was the ultimate aphrodisiac.  It was what had attracted him to the Witchblade, to the Wielder, to Ian, to MacLeod, and now to Pierson.

And why should they have this power of healing and long life, and not him?  It wasn’t fair, and Irons intended to take that which should rightfully belong to him.  He gave up on his feeble attempts at patience and strode out of the room, through the keycoded security door and into the research wing of his mansion, where the empty halls resounded with the hard, determined click of his heels.

He entered the main research area where he had spent millions on the latest in medical research and treatment equipment. Pierson was there, unconscious on the examination table, with one of the nurses at his head, monitoring the anesthesia.  The restraints had been removed and the lean body was exposed to the unflattering glare of the bright examination light, but even so the man looked like someone’s idealized vision of the essence of human energy.  Irons wouldn’t have guessed that such strength was hidden under Pierson’s slouching posture and bulky clothes.

“What are you doing here?” the doctor demanded, turning from preparing a tray of instruments.  He was dressed in full surgical garb, complete with latex gloves and mask.  “This is a sterile area!”  He gave a shooing motion with his hands.  “You must leave immediately.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Irons admonished, approaching Pierson’s body and stroking the long, muscular torso.  “Haven’t you figured out yet that all this is unnecessary?  I don’t have time for all this nonsense!  Just do it.”

“These precautions are hardly nonsense.  Just because a few puncture wounds healed quickly is no reason to abandon procedures that have been saving countless lives for almost a hundred years.  Now move out of the way.  I’m going to have to re-sterilize everything you’ve touched.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Irons snapped, and snatched a scalpel from the instrument tray.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” the doctor squawked, gasping in alarm as Irons swept the razor sharp blade across Pierson’s chest, the skin sliding open as though it had been unzipped, revealing the hard layers of muscle beneath, like an illustration straight out of Gray’s Anatomy.

“Watch, you idiot!” Both men looked on in breathless awe as energy crackled along the wound’s edges, and within seconds the gash had closed, leaving only a small trail of blood as evidence it had ever existed.  Irons looked over to the doctor and caught his arm as he swayed.

“I…I had no idea,” Immo gasped, his face ashen.  “This is…this is unprecedented!  That energy!  I…amazing!” he whispered.  “I think I need to sit down.”

“You can sit later,” Irons growled, shoving the now-bloody scalpel into the doctor’s hand.  “Right now, I want to get a sample of that gland.”

“But we still don’t know what effect disturbing it will do,” Immo protested.  “I need time to run some tests, to do more imaging.  We can’t just…”

“We can and we will, and it’ll be done right now,” Irons ordered.  “Or I will find someone else to do this research.”

“I…,” Immo hesitated, his face now slick with sweat.  “Yes.  Of course.  I will do a biopsy immediately.

Irons smiled.  “I’m so glad you see it my way.”

Sara moved her motorcycle into traffic, not even sure where she was going.  The Witchblade, beyond giving her a few ominous warnings and visions about Jake, was being utterly silent and unhelpful.  It was so damned frustrating.  Whenever the Blade encountered one of MacLeod’s or Pierson’s ilk, it seemed to become remarkably unresponsive.  What use was the thing if she couldn’t rely on it, couldn’t call on its powers when she needed them?  Well, it’s saved your ass more than once, a sardonic inner voice reminded her.  “Yeah, but usually only in some mess I would never otherwise have been dragged into,” she murmured.

Right now she was entirely dependent on MacLeod calling her to let her know where Singh might be. That left her to just stand around and wait and do nothing – not something she did very well.  But she knew now – about the brutal Game that Duncan and his people played, about the Rules.  Well, Jake wasn’t a part of that, and Sara really didn’t give a flying fuck about their Rules.  She knew how to kill Singh permanently, and had the means to do so. 

“Don’t be so sure, Sara,” Danny Woo’s familiar voice said behind her, and her head whipped around.  Her ghostly advisor was seated comfortably on the back of her motorcycle.

She pressed her lips firmly together as the light changed and gunned the cycle ahead, searching the street for a moment before finding a narrow alley to pull into.  She stopped, shut off the motor and yanked the helmet off her head.  She turned to view her former partner’s face, now painted with an inscrutable oriental smile that – had he been real – might just have gotten him a fist in the kisser.  “Are you anxious to have me join you in,” she waved her hand, “Spiritland, or Hauntedville, or wherever you come from?  If you had pulled that stunt while I was in traffic you could have gotten me killed, and possibly a few pedestrians in the bargain.”

“But I didn’t,” Danny replied.  “And you didn’t, now did you?”

“Yeah, but….” She gave up the argument with a shake of her head, thinking how dumb it was to attempt to argue with a figment of her own imagination.  “Okay,” she sighed, “what am I not supposed to be so sure about?”

“That the Witchblade will be useful in a fight with an Immortal.”

“An Immortal?”  She felt her stomach drop sickeningly.   Somehow the notion that MacLeod and people like him could live…forever…hadn’t seemed real until someone actually said it.  Living a long time sounded like a good thing, even if there was a pretty high price to pay with their beheadings and their Game.  Living forever – that sounded more like a curse.  No wonder MacLeod had been reluctant to use the term.

“And why wouldn’t the Witchblade help me?” she asked.

Danny shrugged.  “It is a mystical weapon of power.  Immortals are the embodiment of mystical power.  The Blade isn’t giving you much information about them, and maybe there is a reason for that.”

Sara frowned.  “You know, Danny.  Giving me a straight answer to a simple question wouldn’t kill you.”

Danny actually laughed.  “It wouldn’t matter if it did.  I’m already dead.”

“Well, yeah. There is that.” Sara considered the issue a moment.  “Well, if the Witchblade might not come through for me in the clinches, maybe I ought to get myself a little insurance.”

Danny’s inscrutable look changed to a frown.  “Sara, I really don’t think…”

“I’m not asking you to think,” Sara snapped, suddenly energized with a sense of purpose.  “This time, I’m doing the thinking.  I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my partner.   I failed you, Danny.  I won’t fail him.”  She firmly jammed the helmet onto her head, deliberately shutting out whatever the ghostly version of her former partner might have to say. 

Danny disappeared from the back of her cycle, and was nowhere in sight when she pulled up to the nondescript building near the east side docks.  The only clue as to its use was the “Talismaniac” logo inscribed on the door.  Gabriel, the youthful owner of the store that dealt in strange and rare objects, had become a friend and useful ally, providing her with some of the history and legends of the Witchblade.  Even more, he had helped her believe in the power of the Blade, and that had helped maintain her sanity, perhaps even her life. She pushed the door open, and smiled to see Gabriel look up at her entrance, his dark eyes warming in welcome when he recognized his visitor.

“Hey, pretty lady!” he smiled, and stood, bringing a small leather pouch he had been inspecting at a cluttered table full of unidentifiable trinkets.  “Wanna see something cool?”

“Sure,” she replied.  Gabriel’s youthful fascination and enthusiasm for the eclectic stuff he bought and sold always made her smile.

He opened the pouch and scattered its contents across the glass display case at the front of the shop.  His fingers delicately maneuvered each of about a dozen small gray objects, vaguely like stones, but polished almost flat.  Each had a symbol engraved on one side, and Gabriel pushed the small pieces around until they were in a pattern that vaguely reminded Sara of the layout of a Tarot card reading.

“What are they?” she asked.

“Rune stones,” Gabriel answered.  “They were used to send messages across long distances in ancient Europe.  Druids knew the special patterns, what way to angle the stones, and could read them like we read “While You Were Out” messages.  They were portable and practically indestructible.  I got these from a guy who said they belonged to a Catholic priest in Paris rumored to be hundreds of years old.”

A chill crept across Sara’s shoulders.  Another Immortal?  How many were there in the world, anyway?  “I guess God was on his side, right?” she smiled weakly.

Gabriel shrugged.  “I dunno.  The guy just up and disappeared a few years ago, after never even leaving the church grounds for as long as anyone could remember.  Very mysterious.  And in my business, mysterious is good,” he added with an impish grin.  “Anyway, is this a social call or is there something I can do for you?”

“Both,” Sara smiled at him.  It was hard not to be infected with Gabriel’s almost childlike enthusiasm for everything he did.  “I need a sword.”

“Oh, cool!” Gabriel replied.  “Which one?  Excalibur is so not available, but there are some really neat ones I might be able to locate, depending on what you need it for.  There's this keen dagger I heard about that was used by Lucretia Borgia.  Really nasty piece of work, said to be cursed.”

Her smile was a little forced as she waved away his suggestion.  “No, no.  No particular sword, just one that’s sharp enough and long enough to, say, behead someone,” she said lightly, hoping the odd request would come across as a joke.

Gabriel just cocked his head at her, his expression puzzled.  “But you have the Witchblade.  Why do you need anything else?”

Sara swallowed and cleared her throat, restlessly poking at the silvery gray runes scattered on the glass.  “Because… sometimes it’s not really reliable, and I’m going into a situation where I just need a little insurance.”

“Sara, that’s why you carry a gun,” Gabriel insisted.  The boy was far too bright for his own good.  “Why do you need a sword?”

“Because I just do!” she snapped.  “Now, are you going to help me or not?”

Gabriel put his hands up.  “Okay, okay.”  He turned, looking back towards the shelves of artifacts he kept in the back of his store.  With a sigh, he waved her past the front display counter and they moved into deep, dusty shadows.  Gabriel reached up and pulled a string hanging from a naked light bulb, suddenly illuminating stacks of cardboard boxes of every size and shape.  “You know, I don’t just go around buying any old sword.  They have to have some kind of special history for me to be interested in them.  You know there is a really keen exhibit at the Met right now.  All kinds of ancient weaponry.  You might be interested….”

“I know,” Sara snapped.  “I was there.  Maybe if I hadn’t gone, none of this….” Gabriel gave her a curious look, and she quickly stopped her self-recriminations.  “Just see what you’ve got, okay?” she said, exasperated with herself and not really prepared for Gabriel’s incisive questions.

“Sara,” Gabriel said softly, “If you’re in trouble, you know I’ll do anything to help.  Maybe a sword isn’t the answer, here.”

“Okay,” she folded her arms, and twisted her mouth.  “How about an axe?  Got anything stylish?  Maybe Lizzie Borden left a spare lying around.”

Gabriel cocked an eyebrow.  “You’re serious about this?”  He looked at the floor for a moment, then cleared his throat before he spoke.  “I don’t suppose this involves anybody with, say… a really long life line?”

Her first thought was to wonder how on earth there were so many people who knew about things like the Witchblade and Immortals, and yet most of humanity went around blissfully ignorant of such miracles and mysteries.  “What are you talking about?” she responded neutrally.

Gabriel pursed his lips, looked up at her a moment, then down again and shrugged, shaking his head.  “Nothing, really.  I just don’t want to see you get in over your head.”

Sara leaned close. “What do you know, Gabe?” she asked softly.

“You know me,” he shrugged.  “Just a walking library of old myths and legends.  Nothing important.”

“Tell me what you know!” Sara demanded, and his head jerked around and for once his eyes were hard and cold.

“We all have secrets, Sara,” he said softly.  “But trust me on this one – people who go around chopping other people’s heads off can generally be considered Very Dangerous Dudes.” 

“And I want you to trust me this time,” she answered softly, realizing Gabe was unwilling to reveal what, if anything, he knew about MacLeod and his long-lived Race.   “I need a sword, just for tonight.  I’ll return it tomorrow.”

He shook his head with a sigh, then held a finger up, indicating she should wait, then disappeared behind the rows of shelves. 

She could hear things being moved, a couple of explosive sneezes, then a satisfied, “Ah, here it is.  I knew it was back here somewhere,” before Gabe returned, his dark curly hair now decorated with a cobweb or two.  He was carrying a long object wrapped in heavy brocade cloth.  He moved past Sara and to the front of the shop, laying his bundle on the worktable.  “You’re gonna bring it back, right?” He eyed her with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, safe and sound,” Sara assured him with a nod.

“Ooookay.  Well,” he flipped back the red and gold brocade fabric, and revealed a long, elegant sword.  The golden hilt was smooth and curved back towards the blade.

“Wow,” Sara said, reaching out to touch.

“Ah, ah,” Gabriel moved her hand away.  “Don’t touch the blade, only the hilt.  Didn’t you know that?”

She just shrugged.  What she didn’t know about swords could fill the New York Public Library.  “So, what are its mysterious origins?  Attila the Hun?  Charlemagne?”

Gabriel shook his head.  “No,” he said softly.  He touched the golden hilt with reverence.  “You need a sword built for someone with a smaller frame.  She was a warrior, a teacher, a scholar, a lover….” His voice trailed off.   “She was called by many names.  Rivka of Jerash, Xanthia of Melitus, Majidah, Rebecca.  Some thought her a saint, but she was very much a woman, and a fine swordswoman as well.”

“You sound like you knew her,” Sara observed.

“No,” he shook his head sadly.  “But I’ve read about her.”  He picked up the sword, his eyes following the light as it caught on its polished surface.  “And I think she would be pleased to lend you her sword.”  He laid the blade over his forearm, formally presenting it to her.

“What’s that?” she asked curiously, indicating the shadow of an old, almost eradicated tattoo she had never before noticed on the inside of his wrist.

“That?” Gabriel glanced at his wrist, then pulled his sleeve down to cover it.  “Oh, just a mark of a gang I used to run with. The damn things are hard to get rid of.”

“A gang, eh?” Sara’s mouth quirked up at the corner.  “You don’t seem like the type.”

“Yeah, well,” he sighed.  “It was kind of a family thing.  I tried it, but decided this was far more interesting.”  He gestured around the eclectically furnished store, and leaned closer, “and I make a hell of a lot more money.  Now are you going to take the sword or not?”

“Well,” Sara hesitated.  She hadn’t intended that it be such a big deal, but she should have known that any weapon Gabriel had would have a very special history.  It also made her realize how little she knew about Gabriel’s past, his family, or how he became obsessed with rare objects of power.  She reached out and picked up the sword.  It felt balanced in her hand, but cold and heavy.  The Witchblade had always felt weightless and warm, like an extension of her own body and heart, available to kill if necessary, but mostly there to protect, to help those who needed it most.  But this – this was just a weapon.  A killing tool. 

But this wasn’t about the Witchblade.  It was about Jake, and about not losing another partner.  “Yeah,” she finally breathed.  “It’ll do fine.  And I’ll take good care of it, Gabriel, I promise.”

She could feel Gabriel’s large, dark eyes watching her progress out the door.

Ian was driving the Mercedes as quickly as he could through the heavy traffic, but it clearly wasn’t fast enough for Duncan, whose tension was palpable even though – or perhaps because – he was unnaturally still, except for the single index finger tap, tap, tapping on his thigh. 

“How far is it to Irons’ estate?” Duncan finally asked.

“About an hour,” Ian answered.  “Less if the Long Island Expressway isn’t backed up.”

“That’s not good enough!” Duncan snapped.  “I don’t know when Singh is going to call, and I have to be able to get back to the city in a hurry when he does.”  He rubbed at his forehead in distress.  “And we don’t know what Irons is doing to Me… to Adam in the meantime.”

Ian eyed his companion.  Duncan was a passionate man – that had been clear from the moment they met.  But he also seemed – Ian couldn’t identify it precisely – but there was a sense of carefully restrained frustration, as if Duncan had so much to give but no one to give it to.  Ian swallowed a hard lump in his throat, finally admitting to himself what he’d known in his heart all along – that no matter how much he might wish it, Ian Nottingham was not and would likely never be the primary focus of Duncan MacLeod’s affections.

So where did that leave him?  With Kenneth Irons?  Sara Pezzini?  One was his past, his present.  The other?  Ian reached into his pocket for his cell phone, taking his eyes off the road just long enough to dial a number.

“Who are you calling?” Duncan demanded, his dark brows furrowing, and Ian realized Duncan wasn’t certain he could be trusted.  There was probably good reason for that, but Duncan had been right all along.  It was time for Ian Nottingham to listen to his own inner voice, to think about his own future.

“Dante?” Ian spoke when the call was answered.  “I need a police escort to the estate.  Now.  I’m just getting onto the bridge…. I know it’s not your jurisdiction, just do it.  I’m in the black Mercedes, you know the license.”  Ian snapped the phone closed and smiled at Duncan’s look of surprise.  “Something Irons taught me. Never hesitate to use power if you have it.”

Duncan visibly relaxed a little.  “I’m glad something he taught you has proven useful.”

“He has taught me many useful things,” Ian responded, glancing over again.  “Duncan?  I want you to promise me you won’t hurt Kenneth.”  He looked over again, but Duncan’s face was cold and unreadable, staring ahead.  “Promise me!” he insisted.

“If Adam is alive,” Duncan answered softly, “I’ll do what I can.”

That would have to be enough, Ian decided, and he realized that there were exactly two people in the world whose sincerity he didn’t question:  Duncan MacLeod and Sara Pezzini.

As they got off the bridge, an unmarked dark sedan pulled up beside them.  The man in the driver’s seat looked over, nodded at Ian, then gunned his motor, cutting in front.  A light appeared on the car’s roof and began to flash, a siren sounded and their speed picked up as traffic cleared from their path.  Whenever necessary, the police car cut around and through whatever obstacles appeared, driving through red lights or on the shoulder.  It was a little harrowing to follow the rather chaotic route, but at least it sped their progress.

Kenneth Irons was not a squeamish man – far from it – and despite Dr. Immo’s repeated admonitions to keep his distance, he hovered nearby, watching.  The doctor and his two assistants had draped Pierson’s naked, unconscious body and prepared for a probe that was to be inserted transphenoidally, or through the nasal cavity, and up into the base of his brain, described by some as the most primitive part of the organ, near the pituitary gland.

Two monitors had been moved to within easy view.  The probe was to be guided by a tiny fibre optic camera into the delicate core of the human brain.  It was all state-of-the-art equipment, of course.  And while Immo was not exactly one of the great surgeons of the world, Irons wasn’t worried.  He had seen MacLeod’s face when Ian held the gun to his head.  There hadn’t been the slightest flicker of concern.  These people, whatever they were, were close to indestructible, and Irons would soon know why, and claim their secret for himself by whatever means necessary.

He couldn’t help the small smile of anticipation that tugged at his lips as Immo carefully pushed the probe up into Pierson’s ample nasal cavity.  Then Immo stopped with a murmured curse.

“What the hell is wrong?” Irons demanded.

“It’s just that a small incision at the back of the nasal cavity is necessary, but his flesh heals around the probe so fast, it makes it hard to keep pressing it in.  The only way to do it is if I move so quickly the wound doesn’t have time to heal around it, but if I do that I could easily damage the surrounding tissue.” Immo looked up at Irons, his face tense and tight.

“Then do it!”

“But this is a critical area.  I could kill him or do permanent brain damage if I make a mistake.  I told you I’m no neurosurgeon,” Immo protested.

Irons moved closer and held Immo’s gaze with his own.  “If you can’t do it, then you’re of no use to me, are you, doctor?” he said softly.  Immo swallowed, a drop of nervous sweat trickling down his temple.  The doctor was getting more and more difficult to deal with, but Irons did not want to use direct coercion.  It was better if the fool made his own decisions, digging himself in deeper all the time so that both success and secrecy were in his own best interests.

Immo took a long breath, then nodded with a jerk and turned back to his patient.  Irons looked up at the monitors, tracking the probe’s progress into Pierson’s brain.  Long, silent, tense minutes later, Immo let out a whoosh of breath.  “There!” he sighed in almost a whisper. Then, “What the hell is that?”

The monitor showed a mass of tissue, but it didn’t really look like tissue, and it seemed to…  “Get closer,” Irons urged, leaning towards the monitor to examine what they were seeing.  The fiber optic probe moved slightly, probably only millimeters in real distance, but bringing the view much closer in the tiny camera’s magnified view.

“It looks like it’s moving,” Immo whispered.  “And doesn’t even look real.  It’s like…living energy,” he breathed.

Perhaps it was only an illusion created by the fibre optic camera, but Irons could have sworn that the blue-tinged, tightly roiling mass actually glowed with some kind of internal light. “Take a biopsy,” he ordered. 

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Immo cautioned.  “I’m not even sure that’s really tissue, it looks….”

“Of course it’s tissue!” Irons snapped.  “What else would it be?”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Immo frowned.  “We’re dealing with something I don’t think science has ever seen before, at least no science I ever heard of.”

“You said that about developing the serum from Bronte’s remains, and look what we achieved,” Irons insisted.

“But we’re dealing with the base of the brain,” Immo hesitated.  “Autonomic functions could be affected and we’re not set up for that kind of emergency!”

“Oh, for God’s sake, just do it!  You’re just trying to create an excuse for failure!”

Immo swallowed, took a deep breath, and pushed the probe forward, barely brushing the strange mass.

Irons leaned close to the monitor, watching in fascination as what looked like an electric spark arced from whatever was inside Pierson’s brain to the probe.  There was a loud cry, and a clatter, and Irons spun around. 

Immo was staggering back, his hand still gripped around the cable of the probe.  Blue electric energy danced along the line and onto Immo’s arm, up his shoulder and all the way to his torso, crackling, popping, increasing in light and intensity until it almost seemed like a giant hand had grabbed the hapless doctor and thrown him against the wall, where he was held tight, his glasses askew, his extended hand still holding the dangling probe like a living thing, vibrating uncontrollably.  Then the energy seemed to suck right back into Pierson in a flash, leaving the room eerily silent except for the sibilant hiss of the monitors, now displaying only gray snow.  The doctor collapsed to the floor like a discarded rag doll and the sharp, unpleasant scents of burnt hair and electrical insulation lingered in the air.

Both attendants had backed far away from the table.  “Jeez,” Harvey said in a shaky voice.  “What the fuck was that?”

“That,” Irons said, leaning over Pierson’s unconscious body, touching the man’s face where the probe had pulled loose, leaving behind a small stain of blood on his upper lip, “was life,” he whispered.  He ran his hand along the torso, sweeping the green paper drape out of the way so he could touch smooth warm skin.  “Perpetual, perhaps even immortal…life,” he added with a smile.

Pierson’s eyes snapped open.

Irons jerked back a little in surprise, then cocked his head curiously, wondering whether the man could truly see anything, or whether opening his eyes was just some unconscious muscle twitch.  The pupils seemed impossibly black and large, and Pierson’s expression was as hard and as cold as any Irons had ever seen.  Then his hand snaked out, and grabbed Irons around the throat in a crushing grip as the “patient” sat up from the operating table.  Irons clutched at the hand, but found it utterly immovable.  He tried to cry for help, but all he could do was flail at the two nurse attendants to get their attention.

Carl, who had backed almost to the door, dove in his direction, grabbing at Pierson’s arm, but without even appearing to look, Pierson’s right hand found an instrument on the nearby surgical tray, and with a hard jab, embedded it into Carl’s chest.  Carl made an ugly gurgling sound and staggered, crashing into the monitor, then the table. 

Harvey had gone to the doctor to see if he was still alive, but was now just staring stupidly. Carl gagged and clutched at the stainless steel handles protruding from his sternum, blood streaming from his mouth.

And still Irons couldn’t breathe, could barely move, his vision quickly narrowing to an ever-darkening funnel.  He knew he should feel panic or fear, but it was hard to feel anything but astonishment.  Pierson shouldn’t even be conscious, but he managed to swing his legs off the table, stand and push Irons back, stopping only when they bumped into some equipment that blocked any further progress.  Irons pushed out, flailing with his hands, but Pierson’s bare flesh was covered in a fine, slick sheen of sweat, and as Irons’ strength weakened, he found his blows just sliding off a marble-hard body.

Thankfully, Harvey at last abandoned the unconscious doctor and grabbed Pierson from behind in a chokehold.  Pierson was forced to let Irons go and stagger back as he drove an elbow hard into Harvey’s gut, but the big man held on, a forearm locked around Pierson’s neck.  Pierson bent forward with a jerk, and Harvey flew over Pierson’s shoulder, landing against the second television monitor and knocking over the whole equipment table with an enormous crash, complete with an explosion of smoke and flying glass.  Irons threw up his arms to protect himself from flying debris and bent low, groping quickly along the wall, still gasping for air from a bruised throat.  His mind had settled into that cold, analytic space that put his own survival first and foremost.  If he could get to the door and down the hall, he could summon more guards and have them shoot Pierson down like a dog.  If he had found one of Pierson’s kind, he could find another, but no one attacked Kenneth Irons and lived to tell the tale. 

He heard a feral snarl and glanced over his shoulder in time to see Pierson coming after him in a flying leap, dragging him to the ground.  Then he was on his back, with long, strong fingers again closing around his throat.  Pierson’s face was primal, elemental and utterly savage, his teeth bared as though he could happily - and easily - tear out his victim’s throat.  Then Pierson’s eyes widened, and he looked up with a jerk.

The police escort peeled away quickly once Ian turned onto Irons’ property.  Mac was feeling more and more anxious, and as they drove up the long driveway, the fear spiked into something very close to a physical reaction as a sharp, hot sensation began somewhere at the top of his spine and spread out, tingling every nerve ending.

“Hurry!” Mac gasped.  “Something’s wrong.”

Ian gave him a hard glance, but pushed the accelerator even further down, and instead of pulling up to the front door of the massive house, he drove the Mercedes to a side gate and came to a fast, sliding halt.  They jumped out almost before the car had come to a complete stop near an iron entry door, where Ian quickly punched in a security code. 

Mac’s sense of urgency was pushing him once again into a run, until they reached a turn in a maze of corridors in what appeared to be an underground facility.  “Which way?” Mac demanded.  Ian jerked his head to the left, and the two men trotted in that direction, their coats billowing behind them.  Then Mac felt Presence.  He rushed ahead, following his instincts, turning right at the next corridor and banging through a set of double doors at the end of the hallway.

The room was a study in chaos.  There was an electrical fire still smoldering amidst some equipment on the other side of the large space, and a man in surgical scrubs was lying unconscious on the floor.  Another large man appeared to be dead, half draped across a surgical table with something shiny and silver sticking out of his blood-soaked chest; and a pair of legs could be seen on the floor on the other side of a table.  Most importantly, in the center of the room was Methos, naked, sitting atop Irons, both hands wrapped around the man’s throat. 

“Let him go!” Ian shouted, and Mac jerked around, slapping at the gun Ian had drawn and pointed at Methos.

Ian swirled and kicked out, catching Mac in the thigh throwing him to the floor.  He managed to get only halfway back to his feet by the time Ian had Methos once again in his sights.  Mac launched himself towards Methos, intent on either getting the man off of Irons, or taking the bullet with his own body.

But when he landed, Methos was gone, and Mac ended up landing atop Kenneth Irons, who was choking and gasping for air, barely conscious.  What the…?  He jerked around, and Methos had Ian up against the wall, a bloody scalpel held to Ian’s throat.  He was barely held back from slicing Ian’s jugular by one of Ian’s hands around Methos’ wrist even as his other held a gun to Methos’ head.

“Methos!” Mac yelled.  “Don’t!”  In a heartbeat, Mac was on his feet and standing next to the two men locked in their deadly embrace.  Methos’ face was as hard and cold as Mac had ever seen it, and his eyes were black pools of deadly intent.

“Ian,” Mac whispered urgently.  “Lower the gun.”  Ian shot him a look of disbelief. “Trust me, Ian.  Lower the gun.  Otherwise he will kill you and I’m not sure I can stop him.”  Mac slowly moved his hand to Ian’s wrist, adding his own strength to prevent Methos from slitting Ian’s throat.  After a few tense, interminable seconds of all three of them breathing hard, Ian pulled the gun back a few centimeters.

“Methos,” Mac said softly into his friend’s ear.  “It’s MacLeod.  I want you to let this man go.  I want you to let him live.”  Methos blinked, his eyes still frighteningly blank.  “Do you hear me?  I want him to live.” 

Methos jerked in a harsh breath, his hand shaking just a little, then he swallowed and blinked a few more times.  Mac moved his hand so his flesh was between the edge of the scalpel and Ian’s neck.  “I want him to live,” he said again slowly and firmly, and he placed his free hand on Methos’ nape, kneading it gently. 

“Mac?” Methos whispered, and finally relaxed his death grip on the scalpel.  It rattled noisily to the floor, and he staggered back a few steps, looking stunned and disoriented.

“Kill them!” a hoarse voice grated behind them.

Mac clasped Methos to him and turned.  Kenneth Irons was barely standing, hanging on to the table, still holding his throat.

“I said kill them, Ian,” Irons repeated.  “Kill them both!”

Ian slowly raised the gun in their direction once more. 

“Ian?” Mac asked softly.  “Don’t do this.” 

“Damn it, Nottingham, I gave you an order!  Kill them!” Irons screamed, still clutching his throat.

The gun steadily rose, now pointing directly at Mac.  Mac heard a low growl and glanced at Methos.  He could feel the tension gathering in Methos’ lean frame, which once again seemed the living embodiment of violence and death.

Mac’s phone rang, its electronic chirp sounding incongruously cheerful amidst the deadly tension.

Ian blinked, taking in a sudden, deep breath.

“It’s Singh, Ian,” Mac stated quickly.  “If we’re going to save McCarty, if we’re going to help Sara, I have to answer it, but I can’t do that if you shoot me.”

The gun slowly lowered, and Ian gave a jerky nod.

Mac reached into his coat pocket for his phone, then swirled when he heard a step behind him.  Irons’ face was flushed with rage, his throat already livid with bruises.  Mac didn’t know whether Irons intended to take the gun from Ian, or simply attack with his bare hands, but Methos turned and effortlessly backhanded the man, lifting him almost off his feet, but Ian caught him and broke his fall. 

“MacLeod!” Mac snapped into the phone at the same time he grabbed onto Methos’ forearm to discourage him from any further violence. 

“What’s the matter, MacLeod?” Singh asked smoothly.  “Having a bad day?”

“Is McCarty all right?” Mac demanded, keeping a firm grip on Methos as Ian clutched Irons.

“Oh, his situation is a little…explosive,” Singh sounded amused.  “But he is alive for the moment.” 

“Let him go,” MacLeod demanded.  “He is no part of this.  I’ll meet you where ever you want.”  He heard a low chuckle.

“I’ll decide what to do with the detective when you’re dead, but the only way you can be sure of his continued good health, at least in the short run, is to meet me within the hour in Brooklyn,” and Singh rattled off an address that one part of Mac’s brain was busy processing while the other was calculating how long it might take to get there.  “I’m outside New York, Singh, I need time to…,” but the line went dead.  “Fuck!” he shouted to the ceiling, barely managing to control the urge to throw the phone across the room.  He took a large, calming breath and looked around, going very still.

Methos was poised on the balls of his feet, ready to attack, and Ian was holding a semi-conscious Kenneth Irons in his lap, one arm thrown protectively over his mentor, the other once again aiming his gun at Methos.  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Mac muttered in disgust.  He started to take Methos by the shoulders, but then thought better of it.  The man seemed to be operating in some base survival mode, and any quick moves might just get somebody seriously hurt.

Mac walked around, putting his own body between Ian and Methos.  “It’s okay, Methos,” he said gently.  “It’s over.  He’s not going to hurt you.”  He moved closer, and Methos backed away a step.  “No one is going to hurt you, Methos.  I won’t let them,” he added softly, meaning every word.  Irons would touch Methos again only over Mac’s dead body. 

There was a long silence, during which Methos cocked his head, then shook it as though he couldn’t quite figure out what the hell was going on.  He reached a hand up to his temple, rubbing it absently.  “Bloody awful headache,” he said softly, then almost in slow motion, he crumpled, and Mac barely managed to catch him before he hit the floor.

“Now what?” Ian asked in the following silence.

Mac looked down at Methos' pale face.  A smear of blood was still on his upper lip, and he carefully wiped it off.  He shook himself, forcing his brain to concentrate on the next crisis.  “Now I have to get back to New York, fast.  Singh gave me an address in Brooklyn and wants me there within the hour or he’ll kill McCarty.”

Ian frowned a moment, one hand reflexively stroking Irons’ pale forehead.  “I think I can get us there, but I’ll need a moment to get some clearances.”

“What kind of clearances?”

“The helicopter,” Ian jerked a chin towards the ceiling.

For the first time that day, it seemed like something might go right.  “You can fly it?” Mac asked. 

Ian nodded, easing himself from under Irons’ body.   “What about these two?” Ian asked, indicating Irons and Methos.

“I won’t let them hurt each other,” Mac promised, hoping he was up to the task, but Ian seemed to have no doubts, because he nodded and disappeared out the door.

Mac realized he, too, was reflexively stroking the body held in his lap, and stopped at last to take a long breath, and hold Methos a little closer.  “I’m sorry, my friend,” he whispered.  “I wish I had gotten here sooner.” 

Time was pressing, though, and he pulled out his phone, dialing Sara Pezzini’s number.  She answered on the first ring and he quickly relayed the address.  “Singh said something that made me think he’s got McCarty wired up with some kind of explosive.  You deal with that, and I’ll take care of Singh.”

“Right,” Sara answered.  “See you there, MacLeod,” and she cut the connection.  Mac frowned at the phone.  The sinking feeling in his gut told him that Sara Pezzini was constitutionally incapable of doing what she was told.  Well, if they hurried, maybe he could get there before she even arrived and get all the mortals out of harms’ way. 

A groan echoed through the space, and the man in scrubs stirred and slowly sat up, pushing his glasses back onto his face and looking around in astonishment at the carnage.  “Who…who the hell are you?” he stuttered at Mac.

Mac didn’t even bother to answer.  This was probably the asshole who had tried to perform some experimental procedure on Methos.  “Where are his clothes?” Mac demanded, nodding at the body in his lap.

“Huh?” The guy pushed groggily to his feet.

“Find me his clothes, and the coat he was wearing.  There was a sword in it.  I want it all, right here, right now!”

“Now wait just a damn minute.…”

Mac eased Methos to the floor and rose, pulling his katana from his coat.  “No, you wait.  See all these people?” he waved the sword, indicating the four dead or unconscious bodies lying around.  “Unless you want to join them, you find me his clothes and belongings and bring them to me in the next sixty seconds.”

The expression on the man’s pale, sweaty face evolved to pure panic and he jerked into action.  He stumbled to a large gray cabinet, his surgical mask now dangling off one ear.  He yanked open the door and fumbled inside to gather what had been stored on a shelf, then staggered back to Mac, holding them out like an offering to an angry god.  “Here!” he said breathlessly.  “Whatever you want!  Just take them!”

Mac smiled, but he suspected the expression was hardly reassuring.  He took the bundle of clothes, and was glad to feel the long, heavy weight of Methos’ sword among them.  He jerked his head towards the exit, giving permission for the man to leave and in seconds, the doctor had stumbled out the door.

He leaned down again beside Methos, wondering if he should try to dress him.  It would be difficult to do while he was unconscious, but Mac would prefer Methos not wake up naked as well as confused and disoriented.  He’d had a bad enough time of it already.

“What are you?” a harsh whisper sounded behind him, “I want to know.”  Irons had risen up onto one elbow and was struggling to stand.  “I have a right to know!”

A flash of white-hot anger suffused Mac’s body and in two steps he had Irons by the collar and slammed him hard against the wall, but the man only raised his chin defiantly.  “You won’t kill me,” Irons announced with a small smile, the arrogant effect slightly spoiled by his barely audible, damaged voice.

Mac smiled in response.  “No,” he said softly.  “Not this time.  You deserve much worse than killing, and I suspect someday Sara Pezzini will see to that.  But if I ever hear of you taking one of us again, of you hurting any of us – and I will know, Irons, trust me on that – I will find you and make you wish you were dead.  Do you understand me?”

“Duncan!” Ian shouted in alarm from the doorway.  “You promised!”

“Do you understand me?” Mac slammed Irons against the wall again, and finally the veneer of arrogance slipped. Irons blinked, swallowed, and nodded.  Mac stepped back and let him go.  Irons sagged a little, holding himself up by pressing his hands against the wall.

Mac heard a groan and turned to find Methos weakly attempting to push himself to his feet.  “Here,” Mac picked up Methos' clothes and shoved them at Ian, then he leaned down, grabbed Methos’ wrists and pulled the man’s weight over his shoulder.

“MacLeod, what the…!” Methos protested, his words a little slurred.

“Quiet!  We’re in a hurry,” Mac snapped breathlessly, shifting Methos’ weight a little and ignoring Methos’ muttered insults.  Ian waved him out the door and was following him down the long hallway when Mac heard the door open and close again.  His back tingled with the imminent sense of threat, but he didn’t turn.  Irons would do them no more harm.  Ian would see to that.

“Nottingham!” The voice was still raw and hoarse, but rage had pushed it to a roar.  “Ian, come back here!” Irons screamed again, but Ian kept on going, moving past Mac and never looking back as he led them towards the rooftop helicopter.
 
 

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