At that moment, I think Jin came close to walking out. But Jacob quickly assured us there'd be no killing on holy ground. Jin was the only one of his followers he'd expect to fight at all, and even he would just have to knock out some Watchers. Jacob guessed there wouldn't be many of the phony monks, since their sole duty was to care for comatose Immortals. But they would be heavily armed. His plan was that Cracker Bob, newer students Carlos and Winston, and I would charge up to the place on motorcycles, acting like Hell's Angels gone mad. We'd scare the Watchers into not just "killing" us, but using up most of their ammo on men who hadn't touched them. Then Jin Ke, who even I admitted was our best martial artist, would come riding up. He'd actually fight, and disable--temporarily--as many opponents as he could. Probably, he too would eventually be "killed." Even if the Watchers suspected what we were, they'd feel a false sense of security after defeating Jin. But while they were distracted, Jacob would have sneaked onto the scene, disguised as another "monk." He'd take out--again, temporarily--the ones who were still standing, before they had time to remove our heads. And then? Jacob said we'd find MacLeod and the other drugged Immortals, truss them up, and drag as many as we could off holy ground. When MacLeod came to, we'd force him to watch while we executed the others-- telling him it was because of him, his fault. He'd be crushed. And Jacob, wearing a monk's hood, would still be able to conceal his identity. For all the plan's cruelty, it sounded safe enough for us. *** Carlos and Winston hadn't been around in '92. Cracker Bob believed every word that came out of his leader's mouth. I couldn't read Jin Ke. But I kept remembering Jacob's lie to Faith about Rachel Ellenstein... Then I told myself not to worry. What he said he meant to do seemed--not *reasonable*, but workable. And it was, after all, he himself who'd taught me never to kill on holy ground. Sure. *** We rode out to attack the Sanctuary on the tenth anniversary of MacLeod's disappearance. October in the Catskills--I've heard it can be beautiful. But on that day a choking fog hung everywhere. What foliage we saw was dull, dead brown...the color of monks' robes. A maze of dusty back roads brought us to our destination: a crumbling pile of dirty gray stone, its main entrance marked by flickering torches. It wouldn't have looked out of place in the Middle Ages. An abode of ghosts. But there was nothing ghostly about its Watcher guardians. When we went into our bikers-from-hell routine, a half-dozen of them rushed to defend the place, whipping astonishingly big guns out from under those robes. As expected, they were more than ready to kill-- and overkill. They riddled me with bullets at close range. When I came to, I felt like a pincushion. But I didn't have much time to feel sorry for myself. Bob was standing over me, saying in a scared voice, "All these Watchers are dead." Jin hadn't revived yet, but we didn't need to be told he wasn't the culprit. Winston was sure Jacob had continued on into the monastery. We stood around debating whether the outdoors--where he'd killed the Watchers--really was holy ground, or only inside. A very sober Jin Ke joined us. He said that based on his two thousand years' experience, all a monastery's property had to be considered sacred. And that held true even if it was no longer a real monastery. All that mattered--as with the holy places of ancient cultures-- was that we had a way of knowing it had once been a site devoted to prayer or meditation. "So there's no shit goes down if you kill mortals on holy ground." Carlos sounded as if he was filing away the information, but would have preferred not to know. "If Jacob's really all right in there," Jin said grimly. None of us wanted to follow Jacob into that building. But crossing him didn't seem like a particularly good idea, either. So when Jin strode toward the door, we were all at his heels. *** As we prowled through empty, gloomy corridors, I felt the spirits of *real* Capuchins hovering all around us. I could almost hear their angry murmurs. And I didn't know who made me more nervous, the dead, or those mysterious *un*dead somewhere below. We descended two flights of rickety stairs without sensing other Immortals. Then, in the dim light, Winston almost fell through an open trapdoor. Jin caught him in the nick of time. But we figured Jacob had left it open for us, so we all scrambled through it and down a seemingly endless ladder. We emerged in a tunnel hewn out of solid rock, lit by more of those spooky torches. And at last we sensed the others. There was no doubt which way we should go. Even so, we walked for what seemed like five minutes. Then the tunnel opened out, and we found ourselves in a vast, eerie cavern where every footfall produced an echo. It was lit by electricity, but the lights weren't much more than bare bulbs, strung haphazardly along the rough ceiling. We hardly noticed that. All our attention was drawn to our fellow Immortals. Those who had a right to be there...and the one who did not. *** That first glimpse of the Sanctuary dwellers made my blood run cold. I hadn't known what to expect, but the reality was more ghastly than my worst imaginings. Dana Brook had been unsure how many there were. I counted ten. All men, I decided, though the absence of noticeable breasts was the main clue. They wore near- identical brown jumpsuits. They were reclining, strapped to metal frames arranged in a semicircle. Conscious, they couldn't have been comfortable. But I knew they were never conscious. When the Sanctuary was moved from Europe, maybe? Had the old Immortals been wakened and told what was going on, or transported in their sleep? If some had been confined for a thousand years, they wouldn't have known what "America" was. One thing for sure--in their drugged stupor, they were conditioned to accept a background sensation of other Immortals. The arrival of several more didn't rouse them. Their wrists and ankles were cuffed, helmets bolted down, faces mostly concealed. Some of them had shockingly long hair, beards, and even fingernails; others did not. I guessed that had less to do with age than with the whims of their caregivers. What other outlet for creativity did the Watchers have? Each of those grotesque beds was surrounded by a tangle of IV tubing. I gagged at the thought of healthy men being kept alive by intravenous feeding--sedated, *stoned*. A travesty of hospital care. The full horror of it was driven home when I saw muscles twitching spasmodically, just like those of real coma patients. I had to look away. But the only other place to look was at Jacob, and he disturbed me even more. *** Jacob was openly gloating, mocking the foolish Immortals who'd chosen this retreat. Sneering at their helplessness. I hoped desperately that he'd go back to his plan, take them far away before he killed them. It was *Quickenings* on holy ground that were the real danger... He wouldn't risk his life and all of ours, would he? Cracker Bob slunk half behind Carlos and rested his chin on his shoulder. A scared kid hiding behind an adult. I think that was when I knew what was going to happen. "Which one is Connor MacLeod?" Jacob demanded of no one in particular. He loosened some of the bolts on the helmet nearest him, and raised the visor. The man's eyes fluttered open in shock, then closed again. Still only half-conscious, he moaned a protest against the light. He didn't sense danger, didn't struggle against his restraints. Jacob's sword clove through his neck. Dying, he made a sound that was half-gasp, half-gurgle. Every conscious Immortal--except Jacob--let out some kind of cry. And that was enough to revive one of the trapped victims. We saw his fists clench and his body stiffen, heard his tortured growl. The one who'd been in the Sanctuary the shortest time, who hadn't drifted as far from reality as his companions...*Connor MacLeod*. Jacob gave an exultant whoop. And then he moved faster than I thought possible. Before he could be struck by the Quickening, he raced down the row of defenseless men, severing more heads that couldn't fall. Nine of them! He skipped only MacLeod--who was, by that time, blood-spattered and screaming. I heard myself cursing those idiot Watchers. Why hadn't they used helmets that protected the vulnerable necks? What would have happened if Jacob had been forced to spend five minutes removing armor before he could make his first kill? Would we have found our courage, overpowered and stopped him? I'll never know. My gaze was riveted on him until Bob, moaning, clutched me and made me look back at the first victim. The dead body was convulsing, as trapped Quickening lightning started to *ooze* from the bloody cut that ringed its neck. The bolts attached to helmet and cuffs began a chorus of angry rattles. Other corpses--one, two, three--reached the same stage. And suddenly, shrapnel-like bolts were flying in all directions. I dove for cover as one of them ripped my cheek open. But only some had popped out; none of the dead were freed, and they continued their mindless jiggling. Then came bolts of another kind--savage lightning that rent the bodies as it erupted and streaked toward Jacob. Its crackling strands collided, ricocheted, grazed and burned every one of us before finding their mark. But somehow, when their combined force tore into him, he kept his feet. He was the only one who did.