The driver-side door swung open and a revolver pressed against Joe's temple. "Out of the car! Now!" "Oh, Jesus," Joe mumbled. He'd managed to break every rule in the Watcher handbook today. Now even the cops were involved. He looked up at the pimply-faced youth behind the gun and smiled. "OK, officer, whatever you say. I'm kind of slow on my feet, though, seeing as I don't have any, so let's not expect Carl Lewis, OK?" "Get out!" the young man screeched. "I have a gun!" Joe pulled himself out of the car and wobbled to a stand. "I can see that, son. You got me." Once outside the car, it became obvious that the "officer" was a minimum-wage security guard in an oversized blue jacket. The wind pushed the rain into Joe's face. He shook his head and peered at his fellow prisoners. Richie sneezed and looked chagrined--his hands were cuffed behind his back. Duran wasn't cuffed, but she held her arms in the air in a token gesture of surrender. In that get-up she was wearing, Joe guessed, the guard probably thought she was the harmless one. Hoo-boy! The junior guard hadn't even frisked her, or he'd have found at least one sharp piece of cutlery. Talk about your fundamental mistakes. He winked at Duran. She lifted one shoulder in a shrug and muttered another imprecation for him to add to the list of useful new Spanish phrases he was acquiring today. He decided against any more smart remarks for the time being. Duran might be tempted to forget that he wasn't bulletproof. "Get down on the ground!" the security guard ordered. Joe gaped at him. "Look," he said, lifting his pant legs in an attempt to reveal his artificial limbs. It was too dark to see clearly. He tapped twice on each leg. "Silicone feet. And a carbon-fiber frame with flexible thermoplastic sockets. Even so, if you want me down on the ground, you're going to have to put down that gun and help me." While the guard pondered this problem, Duran advanced surreptitiously toward the arm that held the gun. Tiptoeing in an attempt to soften the thunk-thunk-thunk of her shoes, she slipped on the wet planks and splashed face down into a puddle of water. Richie made a sound that might have been a laugh or a moan, and then broke into another fit of coughing. "Now, see," Joe said, taking care not to look threatening, "that's the kind of agility that you just don't see in my people." "Stay down!" the guard barked at Elena. He placed a foot on her back, nearly drowning her, and motioned Richie to lie atop her. Richie shook his head, raising his shoulders in an "I don't know what the hell you're talking about" gesture. "Get on top of her! Now!" the guard practically screamed. Richie reluctantly complied. My Immortal heroes, Joe thought fondly. Best-trained fighters in the world. I wish to God I had a camera. "Put your hands on your head!" the guard yelled, and Joe quickly obeyed. With his free hand, the young man patted Joe down and appropriated his cell phone. "What kind of mobster works without a gun?" he asked. "Mobster?" Joe blinked. Did he look that much like a capo? Hmm. Richie could be taken for a punk. And what did that make Duran? He grinned. "What makes you think I'm a mobster?" "Some mook has been using this place for the proverbial long walks off short piers," the guard snapped. "We pulled in a *head* today, after one vic got away and called it in. You back here looking to finish the job?" At this news, Richie grunted and rolled off Duran. She sprang to her feet, water dripping from her in sheets. "Who?!" she demanded. "Who was killed?" Alarmed by the sudden flurry of activity, the guard grabbed Joe and pressed the gun to his head. "Back off!" Richie struggled awkwardly to a seated position. He leaned backward, nearly toppling over, and tugged on Duran's skirt with his cuffed hands. "Yeah, doll," he pleaded in an atrociously bad Italian accent. "We don't want nobody to hurt Don Martini, do we?" The poor guard was truly scared now; his gun hand was shaking. His story about a recently discovered head had Duran scared, too. Joe didn't care for his position if the tension got any thicker. "Look, pal," he said, picking up Richie's accent, "we don't want nothing but to know who went down. Whose head was it? You tell us that and we're outta here, no harm done." He could hear the guard swallow. "I don't know," the man confessed. "But it was a broad." "!Gracias a Dios!*" Duran mumbled, and Richie lit up with a wide smile. His companions could have been a bit more sympathetic, Joe thought, but he decided to give them the benefit of the doubt--perhaps they were simply playing up their mobster personas for the benefit of the guard. Besides, he too felt considerably better knowing that MacLeod had finally brought himself to kill the blasted woman. "Ah," Joe said to his captor, "we appreciate this bit of good news you have brought us." He tried to sound like Marlon Brando at his most magnanimous. "It is always sad, of course, to hear of the murder of a woman, but now we know our friend is safe. We are grateful. Let us go, and we will trouble you no further." The guard laughed. "Yeah, you'll let me go all right. I may be outnumbered, but I'm not a fool!" He stepped slowly away, keeping his revolver aimed at the 'capo'. "Get in your car and get out of here! I don't phone in your plates, you stay away from my family, and everybody's happy!" "Oh, come on, buddy," Richie pleaded. "The car won't start, and Don Martini can't walk in this rain." "Then carry him! Get out of here now!" Duran reached down and took Richie's arm, helping him to his feet. "At least return the Don's phone," she demanded. "Go!" the guard shouted, and he fired a shot over Joe's head. "Hell!" The blast of sound nearly knocked Joe over. He had to remove his hands from his head just to keep his balance. As soon as he could, he stopped flailing about, took a shaky step forward, and threw an arm around Duran's shoulders. He couldn't manage a wet surface alone, not without his cane. "Believe me, Duran," he growled, "I don't like this any more than you do." "You'd be surprised," she murmured, but took his weight. They started a slow walk down the embarcadero, halting every few steps so Duran could hike her skirt back out of the way. Richie trailed behind them. "You could at least have asked for the key to the handcuffs!" he wailed into the wind. Duran tugged Joe's arm closer around her neck. "You're lucky that kid didn't just shoot us all," she scolded Richie. "Don *Martini*?" "I didn't hear you come up with anything," Richie protested. "Smooth talking, Rich," Joe agreed. "But you made some nice moves, Duran," he added, feeling the need to compliment his lovely assistant. She grunted in disgust. He could feel her shiver. He was freezing himself. They trudged toward the nearest building. As soon as they turned a corner and were out of sight of the guard--not that he could have seen them through the rain--Richie said, "Wait! We gotta go back." "To the car?" Duran asked, while at the same time Joe said, "To the guy with the gun?" "I left my sword in the car!" Duran froze. Knowing what she was thinking, Joe spoke for both of them. "I don't care how drunk you are, that's the stupidest damn thing I've ever heard in my life!" Richie sighed and collapsed onto the wet pavement. "Fine! You go ahead, and I'll go get it myself." He began to twitch and roll, and for a moment Joe thought he had gone into some sort of weird seizure. Eventually he realized Richie was trying to "step through" his cuffed hands. Duran abandoned him and went to Richie's assistance. Her sadistic tug on the cuffs, combined with a shove to Richie's legs, accomplished the trick. Richie yelped in pain. From the sound of it, Joe estimated that several sets of muscles and tendons had ripped together with the seat of Richie's jeans. The kid lay panting on the ground for a minute before swaying to his feet. "Like to see some musclebound Highlander do that," he grumbled. Duran smiled. "I would like to see that myself." Apparently recovered--which fact made Joe extremely envious--Richie grinned back at her. "Be right back," he said, and he trotted back toward the car. "Get my cane!" Joe yelled after him. "If we hear a gunshot--" Duran shouted. "Ah, hell," Joe interrupted. "Why bother? He doesn't follow instructions anyway." Duran shook her head and sighed. "I know. He's the eternal teenager. All right, come on," she said, dragging Joe toward an overhang. "Let's wait for him somewhere dry. Drier. Less wet." Joe's original impression of a Bulgarian weightlifter hadn't been too far off the mark--Duran was practically carrying him, although with considerable effort. When they finally got to their drier spot, she eased him against the wall. "Do your legs hurt you a lot?" she asked softly. He nearly retorted "What legs?" but then considered the tone of her voice. It was possibly the first kindness she'd shown him tonight--or any time, come to think of it. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and lie. "Nah," he said. She nodded, and he murmured, "Thanks." Things were looking up. Duran was being polite and, with any luck, Richie would bring back his cane. "So who was she?" Duran demanded. Joe made a sour face. So much for the tender heart of Elena Duran. "Why, are you going to fish her head out of the water and use it for a spittoon?" he asked. She leaned back against the same wall that held him erect, clutching her stomach. "No, an umbrella stand. Just tell me her name. What's the damn problem?" The damn problem was that he was going to be stubborn about this, Joe decided. He reconsidered immediately, though, when Duran removed her coat, hung it on a nail in the wall, and slowly pulled her sword out of its scabbard. Joe had heard that metallic swish many times before--usually just before someone died. There were only two someones here. The other someone--the one with the sharp sword in her hand--was grinning at *him*. ******* Translations (Spanish): !Gracias a Dios! - Thank God!