Elena tried to breathe and felt a stabbing pain deep in her abdomen. She ignored it and turned back to Dawson, instinctively lowering her voice. She could think of a hundred reasons but still had to ask, "How is that possible?" Dawson took a deep breath, let it out. "The Immortal in question uses a gun. They've been interrupted twice already--too much noise, I guess. But thanks to the miracle of technology, we now have silencers," he said glumly. "Then Duncan knows ... " Elena began, her breath catching again. Damn this dress! How did those women breathe? "What the hell good will that do him, Elena?" Richie was redfaced and angry. "You know Mac. He'll never use a gun and he'll never turn down a challenge, either!" Boy scouts, Elena thought, could be a pain in the ass in so *many* different ways. She believed firmly in the principle of noninterference, and she despised the Watchers. The correct thing to do would be to wait here with Richie until Duncan returned triumphant. But what if this gun-toting assassin ... !Carajo! She couldn't let Duncan die with no one but a voyeur for company. She grasped Dawson's sweater and hissed in his face, "Tell me *exactly* where they are." The crippled old mortal was surprisingly strong. He broke her grip none too gently and headed for the door. "Piss off, Duran. Hey, Pete, watch the place for me?" he called over his shoulder, not stopping to listen for an answer. Elena stormed after the Watcher, her steel-tipped shoes thundering across the floor. Men! Mortal or Immortal, they always wanted to save all the action for themselves, keeping their women corseted, clumsy, and unable to breathe--unless they were naked and on their backs, of course. She was long past the days when she would willingly submit to such a role. She caught up with Dawson at the door--no thanks to Richie, who kept stepping on her train. Elena ignored the sound of ripping fabric. What was that to her now? "My car, Watcher," she threatened. "Or no car." Dawson turned on her ferociously, fear and anger deepening his already powerful voice. "Not even you can bend my knees into a sports car, Duran. And if you think you can stop me, go ahead. Give it your best shot." !Cono! The Watcher's foolishly premature grief infuriated Elena, but even so she couldn't vent her frustrations on such a man. She growled and yanked open the bar door, gesturing angrily for Dawson to precede her out onto the dark street. Richie loped ahead, unhindered by petticoats, and helped the Watcher into his specially equipped sedan. Cursing inwardly, Elena got in the shotgun seat and slammed the car door on the ridiculous train of the ridiculous fucking skirt. Richie piled into the back seat just seconds before Dawson pulled the car into the street, burning rubber. Elena turned back to Richie, who looked sick at heart. Was this how her battles affected her own adopted son? The thought made her queasy. "Are you drunk?" she asked, which was the closest thing to kindness that she could muster at that moment. Richie drew himself up indignantly. "I am not *drunk*!" He then doubled over and vomited onto the car floor. Dawson looked in the rearview mirror and quickly averted his eyes. "Sorry, Joe," Richie mumbled. "Food escape!" "No, you are not drunk," Elena murmured. It was good that Richie was weak. If there was vengeance to seek, she would have no competitors for the job. "Why aren't we there yet?" she asked Dawson. "By the time we get there, it's going to be over," Dawson said, without looking at her. "One way or another." And it was. The rain, which had been only a slight drizzle when they left the bar, was a downpour by the time Dawson found the right pier. He parked where the wharf's planks met the embarcadero. And there it was, at the end of the pier. Lightning! "It's not MacLeod," Dawson said--asked--turning with a worried look to Elena. She met his glance. Keeping her voice calm but doing nothing about her expression, which she knew was scaring Dawson, she said, "You are paid to watch him die, aren't you?" She let him ponder that for a while before relieving his fears. "No one just died on that pier, Watcher." "C'mon, Joe," Richie contributed from the back. "You know Mac doesn't kill easy." Confused, Elena turned in her seat. "You mean he doesn't kill easily, or he isn't killed easy? Easily?" "Yeah," Richie answered. "I hope," he added quietly. Elena pointed through the window, through the rain, out at the water. "Lightning, plain lightning! If there had been a Quickening, we would know it. Are you so drunk that you can't tell the difference?" She tried to keep the disdain out of her voice, but didn't succeed. She was annoyed and relieved and worried, and the combination was making her stomach churn. Richie closed his eyes and put his hands to his head, looking for all the world like an onscreen employee of the Psychic Friends Network. Elena half-expected to hear that her prospects for love were diminishing and that this was an auspicious time to consider a change in her appearance. After a moment, Richie nodded. "Yeah. No Quickening. She's right, Joe." He opened his eyes and rubbed his neck. "Man, this is making my head hurt!" "My head hurts too," she said. "And of course I'm right!" she exclaimed. "So where are they and what the hell are they doing?" Dawson wondered aloud. "Get on your little phone and find out where his opponent's Watcher is," Elena snapped. "And, by the way, what is this Immortal's name?" Dawson shook his head and pulled out his cell phone. "I'm a member of the Watchers, Duran, not the World Wrestling Federation. I'm not here to set you and her up in some little morality play." Richie smothered a laugh, which turned into a cough. Again. "And in this corner," he squawked, "the Angry Argentine ... " "*Her*?" Ignoring Richie, Elena leaned in to give Dawson a closer view of her best one-eyed glare. As she shifted in her seat, her dress ballooned up in front of her. !Que mierda! She punched the dress down with her fists, but the many layers of petticoats were not subdued. "A female Immortal?" she spat. "No wonder Duncan hasn't killed her. You know what a fucking gentleman he is." "Lucky for you, huh?" Richie said from the back seat. Elena blushed. At their first meeting, Duncan had spared her life because she was a woman. And also because, let's face it, she and the Highlander had been horny for each other. "Who is she, Dawson?" she persisted. Dawson dialed, spoke a few words, listened, and then closed up his cell phone. "Her Watcher lost them in the rain. And, no, I'm not telling you her name." She shrugged. "If Duncan's alive, he'll tell me her name. And, if he's dead, *you* will." Dawson shrugged, too. "So, what's the plan?" Richie groaned. "We have to have a plan? Just call Mac, Elena." "I do not have a cell phone," she answered, irritated now that she hadn't gotten one. She had been determined to protect her privacy, not be always available. It had been a good idea--at the time. Dawson dialed again. "Mac's still got his phone turned off," he declared after a long, frustrating moment. Richie rested his head against the back of Elena's seat. "So, we're back to square one. Why don't you drive around until we find him, Joe?" Joe shook his head. "On these rickety piers? We'd be swimming in no time. In Davy Joneses' locker." He grinned and indicated the door with a gracious wave. "But if you want to get out and search, Duran, be my guest. At least you have some chance of homing in on MacLeod." "You want me to search in the rain in this dress?" she exclaimed, her eye shooting sparks. "Yeah, that might be hard," Joe commiserated solemnly. He reached for his door. "Better let the gimp do it. After all, this isn't exactly a safe neighborhood for a lady." Elena sighed in exasperation. "I can take care of myself even in this outfit!" Although, if compelled to fight, she'd have to strip down to her garters just to take a free step. "Hell," Dawson responded, "I'm not worried about you. I was just hoping you wouldn't add to the body count." Elena favored him with a brittle smile. "You are a charming man, just as Duncan is so fond of saying." Richie snickered. "I will go," Elena said loftily. "The only thing I hate more than walking in tap shoes in a tight dress in the cold and the rain is waiting. I am not a patient woman." She held up a hand to block the comment she knew was coming. "Hey, I was only going to agree with you," Richie piped up from the back seat. "Then, since you're so agreeable, let's go, Richie. You go south, I go north." "Me?" Richie sputtered. "I'm sick." "Drunk," she said. "Fine. I'll go alone." Neither man protested. Giving them both a withering stare, she declared, "Men are useless!" and got out of the car. Standing in the wind and rain, she tied her sword belt around her waist, but the flounce was so wide the sword stuck out over her right hip at a forty-five degree angle. She struggled into her coat, which floated from her waist like the wings of a bat, but couldn't fasten its buttons. Water--freezing cold water--dribbled inside the lace that framed her low decolletage. "I feel like a drowned rat," she murmured. "At my own formalwear funeral." She heard the car door slam, and Richie was standing next to her, shivering. "Let's get this done," he moaned. "I hate cold and wet." "You're going to get a lot colder and wetter." "Wet is wet, isn't it?" he said, crossly. "The saturation point or something?" She marveled that Richie seemed to have learned something, chemistry no less, and pounded on the car, signaling Dawson to leave. When nothing happened, she opened her door and bent down to look in. Dawson was turning the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered out. Closing the door again, Elena leaned against the car and, with rain streaming down her face, enjoyed a hearty laugh. Richie sneezed violently. "What's so funny?" "The car won't start," she explained. "And while it might be cold and wet out here, at least it doesn't stink of vomit." "Poor Joe," Richie said with a slow smile. "I'll guess we'll have to go get help." Elena turned up the collar of her trenchcoat, sending a flood of cold water down her back. !Cono! "If this is some pinche wild goose chase, I'm going to kill Duncan myself! Very, very slowly." "Hey, Elena," Richie said, pointing toward a bobbing flashlight that was headed toward the car. "Maybe help is coming to us." *******