Chapter Twenty-eight

Duncan stood still for a few moments as the scene wound down around them, watching Methos work.

Methos lifted his stethoscope from the child's still chest. He rocked back on his heels and passed his hand over the tiny face, closing the dulled brown eyes for the last time. His sharp profile was impassive above the taut set of his shoulders as he bent over the little boy, half in the headlights of a nearby jeep, half shadowed by the clump of long grass where the boy lay. He was the last one, his small body lying hidden in the grass until a few minutes before when it was all too clearly too late.

An ancient and overloaded truck had blown a tire in the bend of the road a few hundred yards from the camp and when they'd arrived the casualties had been flung across a broad area that looked more like a battlefield than a motor vehicle accident. Men, women, children had been thrown about like flotsam, hurled from where they'd clung to the top and sides of the truck with their meager belongings.

Methos turned away from the little boy and stood. "How are we doing?" he asked.

"Fifteen wounded already up at the hospital." Sweat was dripping into his eyes and he swiped his hand over his face. "Five bad ones evacced out already. Another eight dead."

Methos looked at the ground. "Including him?"

"Nine." It was too many and an indication of just how badly off these people were to begin with. Every body he'd seen had shown signs of old wounds, illness and deprivation. They hadn't stood a chance. Duncan raked his fingers through his sweat-sodden hair."You all right?"

"Better than him."

There wasn't much to say to that. "Agustinho's got a burial detail together, they'll look after him." Somehow the coordination of the scene had fallen to Duncan, the men from his own crew as well as other workers from the camp looking to him for direction. There hadn't been time to question it; there were lives at stake.

The visibility had been almost non-existent by the time they'd reached the scene – the few floodlights they'd been able to find woefully inadequate for the task – so he'd brought in all the trucks and jeeps in the camp. As long as it had working headlights, it was parked at the edges of the accident scene to light the medical staff's work. From there it had just been one task flowing into another, problem after problem to be solved – transport, supplies, manpower – until it all began to fall into place and the chaos turned into a strange kind of order.

And in the midst of it all, glimpses of Methos. Those quick, skilled hands tending to the wounded, his calm voice asking questions in three different languages while he moved from patient to patient with a controlled speed that never looked in the least bit rushed. It was a side of him Duncan hadn't seen. There was so much of Methos that he had yet to see, he realized.

He reached out and laid his hand on the back of Methos' neck. "Come on," he said quietly. "They'll want you back up at the hospital. The other doctors are already there."

Methos nodded and as they walked away, Agustinho and his men arrived. Duncan clapped a hand to the young African's back as he passed, thanking him silently. Suddenly, his throat was thick and he couldn't trust his voice to speak. The irony of all these people surviving this long to make it this far, to die only minutes from safety, was too cruel.

After a little while, Methos' arm settled across his shoulders, solid and comforting, as they strode across the dusty ground back to where the camp was disappearing into the evening shadows.

"You did well out there," Methos said quietly.

"I was just going to say the same thing." Duncan slipped his arm around Methos' waist and, in the dark, pulled his slim, sweaty body against his own and kissed him quickly.

There was a flash of fierceness in Methos' response, the tightening of his arms around Duncan's waist, before he untangled himself and went towards the hospital buildings with a whispered, "Later."

***

Methos tossed his filthy gown in the bin and washed his hands, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders. Even though they'd evacuated the worst of the casualties out to the big hospital in Lusaka, there were still several cases the medical team had needed to treat in camp. Simple fractures to be plastered, several massive lacerations to be sutured, and his own patient, a head-injured woman who'd gone into premature labor. She had to be stabilized before they could even think about moving her. For now, at least, it looked like her contractions had stopped. With luck they'd get her out tomorrow. He glanced up at the clock on the wall – make that today; it was 2am, little wonder that he was exhausted.

A door on his left opened and Daniel Mboku strode through, shedding his own gown. Methos stiffened warily. They'd already had one confrontation tonight. Daniel had been none too pleased to find Methos treating the casualties at the scene when he was supposed to be suspended from duty, and he was even less pleased to find that Methos had taken it on himself to begin treating the wounded back at the hospital.

"Still here, Booker?" Daniel rumbled as he moved to the sink.

"Oh, I'll be here a long time yet," Methos returned with only a fraction of the venom that he felt. Squaring his shoulders and lifting his head, he turned to face the other man, smiling blandly. "After all, I'm confined to camp, aren't I?"

"We wouldn't want you to get lost again."

Many people would have missed the heavily veiled undertone of menace in Daniel's voice. Methos was not one of them. Very well. Let the games begin. "No, indeed," Methos answered innocently. "Though there is a big difference between lost and abducted, don't you agree?"

Smoky brown eyes narrowed at him as he sauntered past Daniel and out the door without another word.

The night air hit him like walking into a wet sheet on a clothesline, cool and clammy against his skin. He breathed in deeply and rubbed his palms over his face, filled with an odd sense of relief that the enmity was out in the open now. Duncan had been right about Daniel – he was in this up to his eyeballs. Why and how, he didn't know, nor did he much care. But if Dr Mboku thought he was going to have this all his own way, then he was in for a nasty shock.

The camp was quiet as he passed through it; the occasional night sounds of a child's cry, a cough, or a moan all he could hear. The moon was only half full, but there was light enough for him to find his way to the quarters. The rows of huts rose out of the shadows and before he could wonder at his own mind, he found himself standing, not in front of his own hut, but Duncan's. And he was home, his Quickening humming its own peculiar harmony. It was nuts, but he just needed to see Duncan before he went to sleep.

Smiling at himself, Methos tried the door. It was unlocked and he went right in, not bothering to announce himself with anything other than the call of his own Quickening.

Duncan was in bed, stirring to grin sleepily at him, his smile very white in the darkness. "Come on in," he whispered, his voice rough with sleep. He shifted over in the narrow bed and turned up the lantern, just enough to send a warm golden glow over the room. And over the beautiful man in the bed with a thin sheet rumpled around his hips.

Methos had been tired enough to stumble through the camp on his way here, but now his body sang with desire. "Just thought I'd drop in…."

Duncan twitched the sheet aside and the words dried in Methos' throat. Damn, he wanted him. Duncan was out of the bed before Methos' heart could beat twice, standing in front of him naked except for a pair of very insufficient white briefs. Methos resisted the urge to drop to his knees. Barely.

"You look tired," Duncan said, stepping towards him.

"Damn, and I was going for irresistible."

"Oh, you are that," Duncan breathed and reached for him.

Methos melted against him, so tired he could barely stand, but still needing this more than anything. "What a shit of a day," he sighed. "I need to get out of here."

Duncan leaned away and looked into his face. "Right now?" he asked with a cocky grin.

Methos met his eyes, but couldn't return the smile. "Soon, Mac. Very soon. Just had another run-in with Daniel."

Duncan stepped back. "I told you he was involved! We have to get to the bottom of this, Methos. Before you find yourself charged with a murder you didn't commit."

Methos shook his head and turned away. "I don't care about any of that. I just want to get out of this damned camp and this damned country. Okay?" 

"No, it's not okay!" Duncan shouted.

"Keep your bloody voice down," Methos hissed at him. "You want the whole camp to hear?"

Duncan rested his hands on his hips and took several deep breaths. Methos waited in silence.

"We can't just walk away and leave this to sort itself out, Methos," Duncan went on, much more quietly. "There's a war going on and there are people in this camp who are helping to finance it." He lifted his chin. "I can't let it go on – not when I could stop it."

"It's not up to you to stop it."

Duncan shook his head. "Yes. It is. Because I can." His chest lifted with another deep breath. "Because someone has to."

"And it always has to be Duncan MacLeod, doesn't it?" Methos couldn't help the venom in his voice and right now he was so angry he didn't want to.

"This time…yes," Duncan answered simply.

"And if I decide I'm better off out of here?"

"Then that's your choice," Duncan said with the hurt in his voice all too clear. "But you'll make it a lot harder for me to clear your name if you disappear."

Great. Stubborn bloody MacLeod. He should have known he'd want to stick this out. "You can't fix everything." He sighed again as waves of exhaustion tugged at his limbs. "It's not your problem."

Methos evaded the hand Duncan reached out towards him. "It's my problem because I love you, you idiot."

The words caught him and stopped him, undid him the way they always did. Oh Duncan. Methos squeezed the outstretched hand for a second, shook his head and walked out the door.

"

Duncan was in the canteen the next morning before he saw Methos again. He'd called by Methos' quarters as soon as he'd woken, hoping to sort out this latest argument, but Methos was already gone. Checking on his patients, probably. He'd left his room in kind of a mess too. Which was odd for him. But now, here he was, sitting with at the end of one of the long refectory tables that filled the canteen area. He lifted his head and gave an uncertain smile as he saw Duncan at the door.

Duncan started towards him, but Methos leaned across to say something to his companions and eased away from the table. He nodded towards an empty corner and Duncan took the hint and headed there instead, collecting a plate of food from the servery on the way. Methos was already seated by the time Duncan got there.

"Morning," Methos said as Duncan sat down, his smile canting up crookedly as their eyes met. He looked a little better than he had a few hours before, but still ragged.

"Is everything okay?" Duncan asked between sips of coffee.

"No worse than it was," Methos shrugged.

Duncan nudged his knee under the table. "I meant with you and me – us. Are we okay?"

Methos rubbed his leg along Duncan's and one corner of his mouth curled. "What do you think?"

Duncan held his coffee mug in front of his face and lowered his voice so it was for Methos alone. "I think that if you keep doing that I might take you right here on the table."

Methos' eyes darkened and widened. The rubbing stopped.

"How are the people from the crash doing?" Duncan asked, changing the subject with something approaching desperation. He sampled the food while Methos answered. It had tasted better last night.

"Not bad. It'll be a few days yet before they're all out of the woods, but yeah, they're doing all right."

"Glad to hear it." A thought occurred to him from nowhere. "Weren't you supposed to be suspended from patient contact until the investigation is over?"

Methos shrugged. "Supposed to be."

"And?"

"And I'm probably not on Daniel's Christmas card list anymore, but I might find it within myself to carry on regardless."

Duncan chuckled more than was probably discreet. Then he sobered, realizing Methos wasn't really telling him anything. He glanced around to make sure they weren't overheard before he said, "Are you convinced that he's involved now?" There was no need to specify in what.

"More than I was – put it that way."

"Something else has happened."

"Someone broke into my quarters last night while we were all busy with the crash."

"What?" Duncan exclaimed. Methos glared at him and he lowered his voice. "Did they take anything?"

"Not much to take, but no, just turned the place over."

Looking for something. It didn't take a genius to figure out what. Duncan looked around the mess while he processed what Methos had just said. Daniel Mboku had come in sometime when he was absorbed in conversation and was now leaning against the wall near the door, towering over a slender blonde woman Duncan had noticed before but whose name he didn't know. The conversation looked intimate, to say the least, the body language familiar and deeply sexual. "What do you make of that?" he asked, tilting his head towards the pair.

"Karen Vandermeer, she's one of the doctors. Dutch."

"Pretty," Duncan observed.

Methos sighed loudly. "So's a leopard. As long as you don't get too close."

Duncan looked away from the two doctors and raised his eyebrow questioningly at Methos.

"They used to be involved. It ended badly. You know the drill."

Indeed he did. But those two didn't look like ex-lovers at all. He was about to say so when Methos spoke again.

"I'm worried about Mpande," Methos said, apparently apropos of nothing. Of course with Methos that was rarely the case.

Duncan looked up sharply and set his fork down on his plate. Sudden fear for his friend stabbed through him. "What's wrong? Did you hear something from the hospital?" And why were they still sitting here if Mpande was in danger?

Methos shook his head. "No. Nothing like that."

"What is it then?"

"Allessandro – whoever's behind all this. Both. All of the above."

Of course. Duncan had tried to push the worry to the back of his mind, tell himself they were safe here, now that they were out of Angola. It was foolishness. They had made it over the border easily enough; there was no reason that Allessandro couldn't as well.  "He'll come after us if he can." There was a part of him that hoped Allessandro would try, just so he could have the pleasure of sending the little bastard straight to hell at last. And if he had co-conspirators here, they were welcome to join him.

Methos nodded once, a familiar calculating look appearing on his face. Duncan wouldn't have been surprised to find that Methos was thinking just the same thing.

"We should get Mpande out of here."

"The sooner the better."

Duncan stood, leaving the rest of his food. "Come on, then. Let's do it."

"He won't be happy," Methos said as he unfolded himself from the bench.

"He'll live," Duncan shot back. "If I've got anything to do with it."

Methos chuckled dryly and followed him out the door.

The sun was high by now, the air as thick and hot as midday even though it was just after eight. He glanced up and saw why; the sky to the west was gunmetal gray with heavy clouds hanging low. Sweat sprang up across Duncan's forehead and prickled under his arms. Another storm and not far away.

Methos was looking up as well. "If that sets in we might have trouble getting him out."

Duncan aimed a scowl at the inconvenient sky and stuffed his hands in his pockets, lengthening his stride as he hurried to the hospital with Methos striding along beside him.

***

Mpande's reaction wasn't quite what Duncan expected.

"I don't think so, Mac. I'm a sick man – just ask the doc," he said innocently, affecting an overly dramatic groan and clutching his belly.

Methos laughed and Duncan shot him a silencing look. "Not now," he growled under his breath.

Methos straightened his face but humor still glinted in his eyes. "He's right, Mpande. It is time you went."

Mpande sat up and looked from one of them to the other. "What's the bloody rush anyway?"

The ward was crowded with patients and staff; it really wasn't the place for this discussion. He wasn't seeing a lot of other choices though. Duncan sat down on the bed next to Mpande and looked him straight in the eye. "Mpande, you've more than repaid Grant, and I..." he flicked a look up at where Methos stood watching intently, "...we owe you a great deal. But it's too dangerous for you to stay here. We couldn't have done it without you, but it's time now for you to go home."

Mpande looked up at Methos, then back at Duncan out of the corner of one eye. "Something's happened."

"No," Methos said.

"Yes," Duncan said at the same time, half a second before Methos stood on his foot. "Ow! Do you mind?" he snarled at his lover. He turned back to Mpande. "Yes, something happened. Matthew's being investigated for killing the pilot of the helicopter." He paused for a moment, wondering how much of the rest to reveal.

"Well, go on. You might as well tell him the rest now," Methos sniped.

"We think there's a connection between the diamond smugglers and the camp, someone else who's involved with UNITA."

Mpande was staring off into the distance and Duncan wasn't even sure he'd heard everything he'd been told. "That's bullshit," Mpande said at last. "I read the spoor at the crash site. The guy who did the killing, that shit-eating UNITA jackal, he hit the doc – I saw where his arse hit the ground – then he grabbed the man lying on the ground, like this," he mimed grasping his own hair from behind and tugging backwards, "then he slit the throat." Once again he mimed the action, drawing an imaginary blade across his own skin. "One go, deep, lots of blood. He's had a lot of practice," he concluded soberly.

This was it, Duncan thought, excitement rising inside, this was how they could clear Methos' name and put an end to this insanity. But when he looked up at Methos, he had gone very still. "Would you be willing to tell that to the police when they get here?" Duncan asked Mpande.

"You think it'd do any good, sure," he shrugged.

"It might be best if he gave a deposition instead," Methos said in that careful tone that usually meant something was bugging him.

The tone, even more than the words caught Duncan's attention right away. "Why?"

"How long do you think he'll last one it gets around that he can reconstruct all that? Long enough to make it to court?" His voice was pitched for Duncan alone, a low, passionate hiss. "Or long enough to eat dinner tonight? Do you think they'll hesitate in getting him out of the way?" He crouched in front of Mpande and added, still very quietly, "You have to get out of here now. I appreciate the help, but I don't want you dying for it."

"They bloody welcome to try," Mpande put in defiantly.

Methos shook his head. "Go home, find yourself a beautiful, big-bottomed girl, pay her father as much lobola as he asks and have a long life together with many tall sons and many daughters who look like their mother."

He didn't like it, but then Duncan hadn't expected him to. He did, however, nod his head and clap his hand to Methos' shoulder, agreeing at last.

Methos stood. "All right then. We have some work to do."

***

The airstrip was empty except for the cargo plane Duncan had arranged to transport Mpande south. The cartons of IV fluids had been unloaded and now they had only to wait for refueling before it could head back to Botswana. From there Mpande could travel by road the remainder of the way back to his home in the foothills of the Drakensberg mountains. It wasn't the easiest route, but at short notice it was the best they could do.

Methos watched the darkening sky with more than a little worry, trying to hide it from the other two. Mpande was in far more danger staying in the camp than he would be flying in a little weather. He didn't need anything deterring him from taking the flight. At least they'd made it through the formalities and trivialities of having him discharged from the hospital and giving his deposition without any major dramas.

Across the airstrip the pilot finished the refueling and signaled to them. It was time. Once the pre-flight checks were done, they'd be ready to leave.

"It's almost time," Methos said.

"You're a good man, Joseph Mpande." Duncan pulled Mpande into an embrace and slapping him on the back. "It's not enough, but thank you."

"Joseph? Your English name is Joseph?" Methos asked.

Duncan released the hug and Mpande turned to face him, reaching out to shake Methos' hand. "That's what my mama says." He looked puzzled.

The circularity of the universe really shouldn't surprise him anymore, but sometimes.... Smiling, Methos took Mpande's outstretched hand and used it to tug him close, hugging him quickly then letting him go. Mpande stepped back and Methos could see the smart-arse response brewing.

Duncan cut it off. "I—we once had a very good friend called Joseph."

Methos' eyes flicked across to meet Duncan's; he could meet them now, honestly and fearlessly. "He was a good man too – one of the best." And he gave me more than I could ever repay....  

"He was that," Duncan agreed, holding Methos' gaze for another long moment before returning to Mpande. "We'll miss you. Be safe."

"Sawubona, Isihlangu Shayela," Mpande said, shaking Duncan's hand in an intricate double grip. "Sawubona, Liyashonela," he said to Methos, shaking his hand in the same way. His dark eyes were bright with emotion. "Guka' mzimba, sala' nhliziyo."

Methos could only return the gesture, a little more overcome by the meaning of the words than he wanted to show. "Sawubona, Mpande." The pilot was waving at them. "It's time."

Mpande shot them each a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, turned and walked away.

"What did he say?" Duncan asked softly as Mpande made his way to the plane.

"To you he said: I see you, The Shield Who Strikes. It's a praise name -- a Zulu thing. You should be honored."

"I am. And to you?"

"I see you, One Who Survives. The body grows old, but the heart remains."

"Oh." Duncan's voice was a little unsteady, as if his throat had become as thick as Methos' own.

"Yeah."

Methos stuffed his hands in his pockets while they watched Mpande climb slowly up the stairs into the plane. Duncan was standing close beside him and Methos found himself leaning towards him so their shoulders pressed together. A sharp, sudden rush of love rose up to catch in Methos' throat. It had been a long, long time since he'd loved anyone like this. Perhaps it was just the emotion of the moment, but suddenly Methos needed to tell him so.

"Mac? I—"

"What the hell?" Duncan shouted on top of his words. He was off and running towards the plane in a heartbeat.

"Mac?" Methos started after him, his eyes searching for whatever it was that had set him off.

"Something's wrong!"

Well, he could have figured that one out on his own. In front of him the cargo plane had stalled in its takeoff, and if he wasn't imagining things it seemed to be rocking slightly from side to side as if there was some violent disturbance going on inside. Duncan was at the door in another few seconds, beating his fists on the door, hauling on the handle. Methos skidded to a halt beside him, just in time to see Mpande's face smash against the window in the top part of the door. Blood smeared the glass, seconds before Mpande disappeared, but the door handle clunked on the inside and Duncan was able to fling it open.

He dived inside and Methos followed him, still not really sure what the hell was going on other than that Mpande was in a shitload of trouble. And he really was; an African man had him down in the cargo bay, one hand around his throat and the other curled into a massive fist that smashed into Mpande's face again and again.

Duncan grabbed the man by the shoulders and threw him aside, following his momentum to pin him against the wall. Methos could hear the thuds of Duncan's blows as he reached Mpande and crouched beside him. He was breathing, even if it was in wet, labored rattles and his face was a mess – eyes swollen to slits, nose a bloody pulp. Methos ran his hands over him quickly; it looked like his broken ribs had taken quite a beating.

Methos was lifting his shirt to check just how bad the damage was when Mpande croaked, "Doc!"

He turned in time to see an enormous Vibram sole heading for his face. No time for anything other than to fall sideways, letting it sail over his head. He jammed his own boot into the other man's knee, going for the fragile kneecap. It connected with a satisfying crunch and the man fell, half on top of him. Methos twisted, grasping the man like a lover and flipping to force him on the floor away from Mpande. They rolled over a couple of times, but Methos managed to end up on top.

He was huge, whoever he was, tall as a Tutsi and heavy with it. His meaty hands came up to clutch painfully at Methos' shoulders, trying to force him back. Fetid carnivore breath gusted into his face as he went for the throat, digging his thumbs deep into tendons that stood out like ropes. Methos grunted with the effort.

His blood was up, his concentration totally focused. The only thing that penetrated was Duncan's voice calling breathlessly, "Methos? You okay?"

"Could use a hand, actually," Methos ground out through gritted teeth.

"Hang on." There was a series of thuds, then Duncan growled, "Lie down. Don't make me hit you again. Oof!" He heard the dull thud of flesh striking flesh again, punctuated by low, animal grunts.

Methos' opponent arched beneath him, still trying to free himself. Goddamn it, this was becoming tiresome. A sudden, swift movement of his head, just a few inches forwards, so that his forehead connected sharply with the other man's. A million bells and lights went off in his brain. Fuck. Stupid, stupid idea. Guy had a head like solid rock. Methos' stomach lurched and the next thing he knew he was flat on his back again, the wind knocked out of him so fast it was like dying in a vacuum.

He was looking up into the other man's eyes, reddened and blank as an assassin's, nothing there at all. Hands were closing around his throat now, work-rough and slimy with sweat. He twisted desperately, trying to bring up a knee, an elbow, anything to drive him back, break his grip. Breath wheezed painfully into his lungs. Where the fuck was Duncan anyway?

A blur in his peripheral vision was the only clue to what happened in the next few seconds. The big man was hauled off, shocked surprise in his eyes, his ragged fingernails gouging trenches into Methos' neck. Healing burned and crackled over Methos' body as he dragged himself to his feet.

Duncan flung the man against the aircraft wall; he landed awkwardly, his head clanging against the metal bulkhead. The blow must have stunned him and he swayed, crumpling to his feet as Duncan's fists and feet rained blows on him. He was still, at last and Duncan stood over him, breathing as heavily as if he'd just run a marathon.

Methos stumbled over to him. "Mac? You okay?"

It took a couple more ragged breaths before Duncan could answer, "Gimme a second." Duncan leaned against the wall and grinned at him through the blood still dripping down his face. Yeah, he was okay. Or he would be in a minute or so. "You all right?" Duncan asked him.

"Practically perfect," Methos shot back, wiping the blood out of his eyes.

Duncan's grin widened. "I wouldn't go that far."

"Yeah, yeah." Methos looked down at the bodies on the floor. "Any idea who they are?"

Duncan shrugged. "Guess we'll have to wake them up and ask them."

"Or you could ask me," a dry, familiar voice called from behind them.

"But that would make it too easy," Methos quipped as he turned and walked to Mpande.

"Can't have that," Duncan added wryly, close behind him.

Methos knelt beside Mpande, who was sitting propped against the wall. He'd definitely looked better. Mpande opened his mouth to speak and coughed instead, spitting blood on the floor away from them. Methos waited until he'd finished then leant close to listen to his breathing. It sounded okay, the blood was probably from his mouth and nose, but he was going to need a proper examination and soon. Semi-satisfied, Methos straightened and nodded to him.

"Okay if I talk now?" Mpande's swollen mouth was distorting his speech.

"Come on, Mpande. What happened? How did you know they were the bad guys?" Duncan asked seriously.

Bad guys. Why did he suddenly feel like he was Doc Holliday to Duncan's Wyatt Earp? Methos shook his head and listened to Mpande, instead of the ramblings of his clearly damaged brain.

"Didn't 'til I got on the plane and saw that one's face." He jerked a thumb at the smaller man, still comatose on the floor where Duncan had left him. "Remembered him from the old army days. He was in the UNITA troop we were liaised with. And the fact the bugger tried to knock my head off when he saw who I was."

"So, they're UNITA," Duncan said, his voice grim and taut. "Then I guess we'd better find out who sent them."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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