Chapter Twenty-five
So much for his continuing good karma -- damn it all to hell. It was the same officer he'd stolen the jeep from, back at that village, the one with his arm in a sling. The same one he'd almost barbecued at his makeshift roadblock. What were the odds of that being completely accidental? Duncan squared his shoulders and tightened his grip on his weapon, despite the small troop of soldiers drawing down on him.
"Drop the gun," the officer ordered, shouldering his AK and leveling it at Duncan's head. "You too, Doctor."
What the...? Beside him, Methos turned around slowly, his rifle clattering to the ground. "Allessandro," he said dully. "Wish I could say it was a pleasure."
Allessandro? Wasn't that the one he'd killed, back at the UNITA camp? Well, obviously not killed, seeing he was standing right in front of them, but the one he'd shot and thought he'd killed. The same one who'd captured, beaten and tortured Methos. The bastard. Duncan had wished for the chance to kill him again, and it looked like he was going to get it. Just not right now. But that was all right, he was a patient man, he could wait. Duncan edged closer to Methos.
Allessandro had his finger on the trigger and the muzzle had drifted to point directly at Mpande. It was too much of a risk; Duncan set his rifle down and straightened up to glare back at the little prick. At the edges of his consciousness he became aware of pressure settling over his foot and intensifying -- Methos was standing on it, a clear signal for him to cool down. Reluctantly, Duncan dropped his gaze.
"I'm sure the pleasure will be all mine." A small, cold smile spread across Allessandro's face. "When I have what I want."
"And what do you want?" Methos hissed, the edge of anger in his voice all too clear.
"For a start I want you to come with me, and then we will talk some more." The captain nodded at the soldiers and Duncan found himself, along with Methos and Mpande, being herded back along the road they'd just traveled.
There was a truck, not unlike the one they'd just lost, waiting for them just around the bend. Duncan caught Methos' eye as the three of them were shoved against the side of the truck. As his hands were yanked behind him and handcuffs slapped around his wrists, Duncan saw the small flicker of fear in Methos' eyes. Duncan wondered who he was more afraid for.
Pain shot up his arms and flared in his shoulders as his hands were tugged up behind him. He gritted his teeth and refused to cry out. He staggered backwards, just managing to keep his feet when he was pulled away from the truck and propelled around to the back. Methos and Mpande were being treated the same way; he could hear them behind him, their feet slipping and crunching on the dirt road.
Duncan baulked at the tailgate, waiting for Methos and Mpande, and steel bit at the back of his neck. He wasn't getting in the truck without them. As bad as the situation looked -- and it looked damned bad -- it would be a hell of a lot worse if they were separated. Then they were beside him and all three of them were being shoved up and into the back of the truck.
He climbed up the tailgate a little unsteadily; it was damned difficult with his hands cuffed behind his back. He would have made it too, except for the hand that hit him squarely between the shoulders and sent him sprawling. His face scraped along the wooden floor and there was a crunch that was probably his collarbone.
Two thumps near by, then the truck went dark. Duncan lay still and waited to heal.
"Mac?" Methos' voice was close beside him, and at least he sounded okay. "You all right?"
Duncan twisted onto his back, hissing with the pain. He managed to sit up and he could feel blood trickling down his face on top of the buzz of his healing. "Yeah, he answered. "I'm fine. Think we're headed back into town?"
"Maybe."
"Is Mpande okay?"
"I'm okay," came Mpande's voice from somewhere beyond Methos.
So they were basically all right for the moment. Duncan wasn't kidding himself that they could take that for granted. The engine rumbled to life and he was thrown forwards as they began to move away.
***
The truck lurched to a halt and the jolt threw Methos backwards into Duncan's shoulder. His heart beat a little faster and he ran through mental scenarios a little desperately; whatever happened next he wanted to be prepared for it. There was the crunch of footsteps on the ground outside and then a moment later the back of the truck was thrown open and light poured in, searing his eyes. He blinked desperately, trying to regain his sight as the soldiers jumped up into the truck and hauled them out.
He narrowly avoided falling flat on his arse when he was dragged down from the tailgate. Soldiers surrounded the three of them, crowding in around as if they were on the ten most-wanted list. Perhaps they were. All Methos knew was that he was pushed and shoved into a long, brick building, down a short corridor rank with inmates past, and hurled headfirst into a cell, his hands still cuffed.
The door clanged shut behind him and he looked around to find Duncan and Mpande. They were standing in front of the next cell and a soldier was unlocking their handcuffs. Duncan burst into action, struggling with the soldiers, resisting being pushed into the cell. Mpande was shoved past him, but it wasn't until the soldier pistol-whipped Duncan across the back of the head that he finally allowed himself to be locked up.
What a bloody waste of time and energy.
"You all right, Mac?" Mpande asked as he helped him up from the concrete floor.
Duncan touched the back of his head and Methos could see the blood on his hand as he lifted it away. Duncan nodded and clapped Mpande's shoulder.
"Of course he'll be all right," Methos snapped, picking himself up from the floor. "If he stops doing bone-headed things like that."
"Thanks for the sympathy." Duncan didn't sound particularly thankful, but they all had had more important things to worry about now than his hard head.
"You're welcome." Methos looked around him. The jail cell was predictably primitive, iron bars and concrete, which, apart from providing a respite from the blazing heat outside, was going to be damned uncomfortable for any kind of extended stay. Not that he intended to be there long. "So, any ideas on how we get out of here?"
There was a movement in the darkness of the cell opposite, a rustling noise, then a voice called softly, "You don't."
He knew that voice too. "Well, hello, Ms Asenge," Methos said, refusing to show his surprise. "Long time, no see." Not long enough, of course.
Kumari came to the front of the cell, clutching the bars and leaning her head against them. He could see her clearly now and what he saw didn't reassure him at all. Her clothes -- not her Sangoma costume, but the stolen fatigues she'd escaped in -- were shredded and filthy, her face smeared with dirt. Her eyes, when she lifted her face so he could see them, were as cold and hopeless as he'd ever seen them. And that was saying something.
"Hello, Doctor."
"Thieving Xhosa whore," Mpande muttered under his breath.
Methos had 'shut up' on the tip of his tongue, but Duncan beat him to it, hushing Mpande quietly and dropping a warning hand to his shoulder.
Far too late for her not to hear, though. "Zulu dog," she hissed back.
"Now, now, children," Methos chided. "Play nice."
"Kumari," Duncan broke in, "what happened? How did you get here?"
And there was a good question, Methos thought, calculating the odds of them all ending up in the same place at the same time. Bloody long odds. He wouldn't be rushing to trust her.
"I was captured trying to get across the border," she said simply.
"And Allessandro?" Methos asked, not wanting to say too much in case the walls has ears. "What does he know?"
"Everything," she said, bowing her head again.
And she was still alive? Something wasn't right about that. If Allessandro knew that Kumari had killed his brother, then how the hell was she still alive?
She seemed to know what he was thinking. "I am supposed to die tomorrow."
"We'll get you out of here," Duncan said, as if iron and concrete didn't surround them.
Methos had to smile, just for a second. Typical MacLeod. Show him a damsel in distress and he was in his element. Only this was no damsel, and Methos was yet to be convinced that her distress was real.
Mpande too, if he was hearing correctly. The tracker was in Duncan's face, whispering urgently. Methos edged closer to hear the rest.
"--left us to die, man!" Mpande was hissing. "I'm not taking her anywhere."
"She was afraid, you know what happened to her -- what was done to her. Whatever she did was out of fear, she doesn't deserve to die for it."
"Bullshit! She didn't give fuck whether we died, why the hell should we care about her?"
Methos could sense Duncan's temper rising. Duncan pushed Mpande back, out of his space. "That's enough. We're all getting out of here and that's all there is to it." Duncan folded his arms across his chest and glared at Mpande.
Mpande set his jaw and glared back. Testosterone and stubborness...a dangerous combination.
"You might want to direct some of that energy into working out how," Methos dropped into the stiff silence.
It broke the deadlock. The other two separated, their tension easing visibly -- a little.
Duncan leaned against the bars between their cells. "Any ideas, O wise one?"
Brat. Methos shrugged. "Find out what they want and give it to them?"
"And if we can't?" Duncan replied.
He had a point. "Then we wait and see."
"Not good enough, Methos. You spent five days with these people, you must have some idea." Duncan was keeping his voice low, but Methos could hear his impatience.
"Well, obviously it's something to do with...recent events," he answered, casting his eyes towards Kumari in the opposite cell.
Duncan gave him a 'well, of course' look, but Mpande looked puzzled.
"The Sangoma and the recent tragic passing of the captain's brother," Methos told him, switching to Zulu. "Be careful what you say," he added.
Mpande nodded and looked around. Methos hadn't seen anything resembling a listening device, but that meant next to nothing. Besides, Kumari was listening to every word they said, he was sure, and there was no telling where her loyalties lay.
"Francais?" Methos asked, raising an eyebrow at Duncan.
"Oui."
Methos shot a look at Mpande. "Tell you in a minute," he said in Zulu again. Methos sighed to himself. All this switching languages was making him dizzy.
"So this is about the murder, you think?" Duncan said in French, launching them back to where they'd left off.
"That's the obvious conclusion."
Duncan didn't miss the inference. "If that's true then why aren't we all lying by the side of the road with bullets in our brains?"
"Good question." He'd asked himself the same thing when they'd been in the truck.
"There has to be more to it."
"So it would seem."
Duncan frowned. "But what? And what the hell are we going to do about it?"
"Standard response." He knew it sounded flippant, but it really was his only answer.
"Nothing?" Not a popular answer, by the sounds of things. He hadn't thought that it would be.
"Watch and wait. He'll tell us what he wants, one way or another. Unless you have a better plan?" Methos was betting that he didn't and hoping Duncan would see it his way; the conversation was beginning to go around in circles. And all this French was bringing back too many memories of Paris.
Duncan still looked distinctly unhappy about it, but he grumbled his agreement and walked off to the other side of the cell, leaving Methos with the tiresome task of having the same conversation all over again with Mpande.
***
"Doctor?" Kumari called quietly from her cell.
Methos looked up from where he was sitting on the floor, trying to keep the circulation going in his hands. The fact that he was the only one still cuffed hadn't escaped him. A little message straight from Allessandro to him, about who the real target was in all this, Methos guessed.
Kumari was speaking in Xhosa, her native tongue, and he answered her in the same language. "What is it, Kumari?"
"You are angry with me." Damn, he could almost believe the contrition in her voice. He was glad Duncan couldn't understand what they were saying, he'd have fallen for it for sure.
Methos sighed. "What do you think? We could have all been in Zambia by now, instead of enjoying the hospitality here at the UNITA Hilton."
She appeared out of the gloom to stand against the bars, wrapping her hands around them. "I know. I was very foolish."
"To say the least," Methos shot back. She bowed her head and was silent. Methos grunted a little with the effort it took to push himself to his feet. He walked to the front of his cell, fully aware of Duncan and Mpande watching them intently. "What does he know?" he asked her. No need to specify which 'he'.
"He knows why his brother died -- though he did not believe me." She paused and looked up at him. "He knows that it was me."
Methos sought out her eyes. "And yet you are still alive."
"He wants something else." Something he couldn't name slid across her gaze before she could hide it.
"What?" He knew it; there had to have been some other reason for Allessandro's demented pursuit across half the country. "What does he want?" he asked, fully aware he was betraying his urgency.
She shook her head and his heart sank. "I do not know."
That was a lie, but before he could challenge her the door clanged open and the soldiers strode in. Kumari fled to the back of her cell. Methos held his breath and moved away from the door, but they hadn't come for him; they threw open the door of Kumari's cell instead.
She shrieked as they grabbed her, twisting in their grasp, real panic in the sound of her voice and wildness of her eyes as she was dragged past him. She was still struggling when they hauled her through the door and she disappeared from his view, a writhing, ragged figure dwarfed by the broad khaki backs that surrounded her.
Despite everything, Methos found himself wishing her luck.
***
Duncan watched the door slam, his gut gone cold. He didn't have to imagine too hard what was in store for her and he wouldn't have that happen to a dog.
But not so Mpande, apparently. "Good riddance," he spat while the slam still echoed.
The grim satisfaction in Mpande's voice was just the trigger his frustration needed. "Shut up, Mpande!" Duncan growled, turning on him. The African shot him an eloquent look and turned his back, ending the exchange without saying another word.
Duncan looked back to where Methos stood, very still in his cell, staring at the closed door. His eyes were shuttered in his pale face. "Methos?" Duncan whispered.
"We have to get him out of here -- get us all out of here." His voice was clipped, terse.
Well, that was a given. Mpande was the most vulnerable of them all. "He's right," Duncan said, grasping Mpande's shoulder. "If you get the chance -- even if we can't go with you -- you have to go."
Mpande looked at him for a long moment, as if he was reading what was in Duncan's face and not in his words. He nodded at last.
"Good man," Methos said. "I don't suppose I could convince you to be so sensible, MacLeod?"
Methos really should have known better than to even ask. "Not a chance, Methos." Duncan reached out through the bars and beckoned him closer. "We are both getting out here -- correction, we're all getting out of here. I'm not going anywhere without you." Ever again, he added, just with his eyes.
Methos stepped closer, shaking his head. "What am I going to do with you?" he asked softly, the tone at odds with the bleakness in his eyes.
"Live." Duncan slipped his hand into the warm junction between Methos' arm and his body, over his ribs where the skin beneath the torn shirt was thin and silky. He would have liked to be able to take Methos' hand, but this was good too, with the smooth warmth under his stroking fingers and Methos' barely perceptible shiver under his skin as he looked into his eyes, watching the bleakness melt. "Live...with me." He'd never wanted anything more, but all he could see in Methos' eyes was a familiar wary hunger.
There was a noise, somewhere close in the building, the echo of a far-off crash and the hint of a stifled cry. Methos stepped back out of reach and Duncan's hand curled around the residue of his heat. When Duncan sought his gaze again, all he could find was the familiar calculation. He knew the wheels and gears of that intricate mind were turning busily.
"They may well separate us -- it's a common enough tactic -- we have to be prepared for that. It may seem terribly romantic to say we have to stick together no matter what, but it's just not very practical." Methos began to pace up and down, agitation in every step.
Duncan didn't like where this was headed. "But--"
Methos carried on over the top of him. "But nothing, Mac. Grand romantic gestures only work in novels -- we have to be practical. If one of us can get away--"
"Blah, blah, blah..." Duncan drawled. That got his attention; Methos was staring at him as if Duncan had finally lost his mind. He didn't need to hear the rest of Methos' 'survival first' speech, he'd heard it before and it was all just words anyway. Methos talked a good game when it came to putting his own survival above all else, but the reality was something quite different. Methos was no more likely to run off and leave them there than he was.
Methos stopped pacing and narrowed his eyes at him. "Something to say, MacLeod?"
"Wasn't it you who got all bent out of shape when I left to get the truck? You didn't want me going off on my own."
A fine, dark eyebrow arched. "And you went off and did it anyway, as I recall. This is a completely different situation."
Duncan leaned forward against the cell bars and met his gaze evenly. "We agree on something at last...this is completely different. I wasn't leaving you and Mpande in danger then."
Methos shook his head again, but it looked more like exasperation than denial. "Whatever. The whole subject is moot anyway, if we can't find a way out of this mess."
In that, at least, he was right. They had more important things to think about. Like how the hell they were going to escape. Duncan eyed the locked door at the front of his cell. He'd have given a great deal for a set of lock picks right now, hell, even a rusty wire. The locks on the cell doors were as old and low-tech as the rest of the building; it wouldn't take much to break them. If he had the tools. Or Amanda, who always seemed to have the Houdini touch, though he wouldn't have wished this little adventure on her for anything.
Duncan patted his pockets. The soldiers had taken all their weapons and anything else they could get their hands on back on the road when they'd been captured, so it was a basically futile gesture. And Methos and Mpande's pockets were as empty as his own, he knew without asking. So picking the locks wasn't going to be an option; he'd just have to wait for some other opportunity to present itself.
Beside him, Methos sighed. He was rolling his shoulders and tilting his head from side to side. He'd been cuffed for a couple of hours now and he had to be in considerable discomfort. "C'mere," Duncan called quietly, beckoning him back into reach. "Let me help you with that."
"I'm all right." Methos stopped what he was doing mid-shoulder roll and straightened quickly.
"No, you're not -- damn, you're stubborn, Methos -- just get your ass over here and let me see your hands."
Methos sighed and edged over at last, turning his back so Duncan could reach him. Duncan pushed through the spaces between the bars, grasped the pale, cool hands and began to rub them around the tight cuffs. "You know, you're the stubbornest man I've ever met in all my life."
Methos' fingers twitched beneath his. "Looked in a mirror lately?"
Duncan circled his thumbs over the fine bones of Methos' hands and wrists. "I am not stubborn." He kept his touch light, feeling the skin warm beneath his fingers.
"God, that's good. No, you're mule-headed." Methos exhaled loudly and Duncan continued the massage up his forearms, shifting the thin skin back and forth over the hard muscle. The man had truly beautiful arms.
But-- "Mule-headed?"
"As in 'stubborn as' -- I'm sure you've heard the phrase, MacLeod. Mmm...higher...."
Duncan worked his hands up along the ropey muscles; they were tight as hell. "I am not stubborn -- I just know what I want."
"And heaven help anyone who stands in the way of that. Oh, yeah. Just there."
"And what's wrong with that? At least I'm not stubborn just for the hell of it, like some people I could name." Methos' shoulders were even tighter, though he hadn't thought it possible, the precise tuck of deltoids into biceps and triceps iron-hard. He dug his fingers in and worked them patiently.
"Everything I do is for a reason. I never do anything just for the hell of it." Methos was practically purring now, the knots easing one by one, turning malleable by degrees.
Duncan couldn't let that one by. He leaned close and pressed himself as close as he could to the bars that separated them, not massaging Methos now, just holding him with his palms cupped around Methos' shoulders. "Then why did you kiss me that first night?" he whispered.
Methos turned his head, just enough for Duncan to see his face in hawkish profile. "Because you scared the hell out of me, you stubborn fool," he breathed. Duncan could hear the affection in his voice, despite his words. "Kneeling there with O'Rourke's sword at your throat, ready to throw your life away for no good reason. I couldn't--"
Whatever else Methos was about to say was lost as the prison door was flung open. Duncan pulled his hands back and spun around towards the sound, peripherally aware of Methos doing the same behind him. It was Kumari, far more subdued than she'd been half an hour before, being led back to her cell, a soldier on each arm. Tears glossed her cheeks and she kept her eyes down.
Anger surged up inside Duncan as he imagined what she must have gone through. He watched them shove her back into her cell, more roughly than they needed to -- she was offering no resistance. Her door clanged shut and he could hear her sobbing quietly. His hands tightened into fists.
He glared at them as the soldiers walked past and they sneered at him. Anger and frustration mixed and welled with nowhere to go except into the impotent slam of his hands against the unforgiving steel. There had to be a way out of here.
***
Methos was almost asleep, despite the discomfort in his bound hands, curled half-sitting in the corner of his cell, Duncan leaning against him on the other side of the bars. He wanted to tell him to move away, that it was too dangerous for them to be seen taking even this small comfort from each other, but he couldn't find the strength to push him away. Mpande was snoring in the opposite corner, his head resting on his chest.
"Methos?" Duncan whispered, barely above a breath.
"Hmm...?"
"You couldn't what?"
"What?" Methos was exhausted and his brain was running a few steps behind his mouth.
"Earlier. When I asked you why you kissed me that first time. You couldn't, what?"
Methos remembered and found himself smiling tiredly. "I couldn't wait any longer for you to kiss me first."
"I would have though."
Despite his tiredness, Methos smiled. "I know...."
He shifted closer to Duncan feeling his warmth through the iron bars, giving in to the need to let his presence soothe him. It was a weakness, he knew, but it was small enough. Sleep was dragging him under, making his limbs and eyelids heavy and it wouldn't be long now....
The door at the end of the room crashed open and he was awake in an instant, adrenaline flooding, making him dizzy as he pushed awkwardly to his feet, the wall scraping his back. Beside him, Duncan leapt up, but Methos couldn't spare him a look; Allessandro and three soldiers were striding down the corridor, armed to the teeth. Methos swallowed down his dry throat and waited, pressed up against the back wall of his cell.
But they hadn't come for him. The key rattled in the lock of Duncan's cell and the door was thrown open. Allessandro stood back, smirking, but the other three men poured into the cell. Methos could only stand and watch, his impotence making his stomach turn, while Duncan fought them off. Mpande dived into the fight, managing to smash one soldier's nose before a rifle butt to the gut took him down. He fell to the floor and lay there, still.
Methos barely registered it; he couldn't take his eyes off Duncan. Blood spattered across the floor -- his and theirs -- but there were three of them and it was only ever going to end one way. Finally a gun butt connected with Duncan's head with a sickening crunch and Duncan fell. And lay, unmoving.
Methos pressed himself closer to the wall to stop the shaking in his legs. He wanted to call out, to say something, anything that would make some difference to what they were going to do, but there was nothing. He knew he was hyperventilating as he watched two of the soldiers grab Duncan's arms and begin to drag him out of the cell, but he couldn't seem to stop.
Allessandro was there, watching him, that hateful little smirk firmly embedded on his mouth. Methos wanted to kill him, wanted to tear his still-beating heart from his chest and feed it to him, but instead he concentrated on showing him the only the mildest concern, forcing his breathing under control. Letting Allessandro know how much watching this was hurting him would be the most dangerous thing he could do. For Duncan as well as himself.
Duncan had to be out cold, he realized; he was utterly limp in their hands, his feet dragging behind him as they hauled him out and down the corridor. Allessandro nudged him with his foot as they passed him, carelessly, as if he was already dead meat. Methos felt his mask slip for a moment and his eyes met Allessandro's. A frown flickered across the captain's face, just for a second, then it was gone. He turned his back and followed he soldiers dragging Duncan away.
It wasn't until the door had slammed and the echo had completely died away, that Methos gave in and let himself feel the fear. Back at the crash site again, Allessandro's hand in Djube's hair and blade at his throat, slicing deep, almost to the bone, almost taking his head. Off. The same blade at his own throat, biting at his skin with the promise of death. Oh fuck. Methos slid down the wall and sat resting his head on his bent knees, barely able to breathe for the shaking.
A noise -- the scrape of a boot against the concrete -- startled him and he looked up. Mpande was staring at him from where he sat on the floor, blood still dripping from an abrasion on his forehead, confusion and betrayal in his eyes.
"You fucking coward," Mpande said slowly and deliberately. He shifted to turn his back on Methos.
Oh, here we go.... But Mpande's anger was easier to deal with than his own. Easier than the fear, certainly. His shaking eased and he could breathe again. "Listen, pal," he began, but Mpande cut him off.
"Not your bloody pal!" he spat, standing and rounding on Methos. "But I thought you were his. He's gone to fucking hell and back for you and you fucking stood there an' let them take him without a fucking word."
"And what should I have said?" Methos asked quietly. "Do you really think there was anything I could have said that would have changed a damn thing?"
Mpande looked at him for an elongated moment, his contempt clear. "You could have tried," he said at last.
"And made things even worse."
"You think they could be?"
"Trust me, Mpande, things can always get worse." Methos put his head back down on his knees and tried not to think about how many ways they could be.
***
And things did get worse, but Methos didn't have time to curse himself for being right. He was beginning to lose track of time in the dark and airless prison, but it had to have been several hours since he'd felt Duncan's presence fade away -- sometime in the early hours of the morning -- when the door clanged open again. For a second, his heart leapt, filled with irrational hope that they'd brought Duncan back, despite the lack of presence.
But it was Allessandro striding in, flanked by soldiers -- different ones this time. Methos had a few seconds to wonder what the hell was happening now, before they were in his cell and steel-capped boots were driving into his body, sledgehammer hard. It didn't matter that he wasn't resisting. They hauled him to his feet, their hands tight around his upper arms, making the handcuffs bite into his wrists.
"I can walk, y'know," he snapped when their tugging made him stumble. He wasn't going to show them his fear if he could help it.
They didn't hold off; they pulled him along the corridor and out the door without speaking a single word to him. Allessandro strode along in front, not paying him the slightest notice. It didn't make him feel any better; he was in deep shit and it was rising by the second.
He couldn't feel Duncan anywhere around. Which could only mean one of two things, either he was out of range or dead. Just how dead Duncan could be was something Methos couldn't think about.
Allessandro didn't head towards the vehicles as Methos had half-expected he would. Instead he went around the back of the building and Methos had a chance to see more clearly where they were. The prison was a small building in a collection of others, mostly temporary-looking and mostly decrepit. As they turned the corner of the building, Methos noticed two wooden doors in the otherwise featureless red brick wall. Allessandro opened the first door and went straight in.
Methos was pushed in after him, barely managing to keep his feet as he tripped into the small, plain room. Allessandro turned to face him, just as Methos regained his balance. Alessandro was quiet while Methos took in the bare, small room: a scarred wooden table, two folding metal chairs and little else. Except for a rust-colored stain on the floor that looked ominously like old blood.
Allessandro met his eyes. "Have a seat, Doctor," he said. As if they were just going to have a friendly chat.
Methos swallowed. He recognized the technique, but it didn't stop the frisson of fear that ran down his spine. Allessandro was a dangerous creature and he, Duncan and Mpande were in his power. Still, he had little option but to do as Allessandro said and sit down, his bound hands making him awkward.
The chair scraped on the cement floor as he slid it a little further away from the captain, announcing his discomfort more loudly than he would have liked. "What can I do for you, Captain?" he asked as blandly as he was able.
Allessandro grinned, all teeth and no eyes. "I like the way you put that, Doctor. Yes...what can you do for me...." He propped his bent elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. "Yes, indeed."
He was being toyed with. Not terribly well by Methos' standards, but Allessandro was giving it a good try. Methos fixed his face into a mask of blank inscrutability and waited. Allessandro tapped his forefingers together and watched him. Methos watched back, ruthlessly stifling his impatience.
Until, Allessandro's eyes began to lose focus, as if he was lost in imagining something quite fascinating. Methos' impatience began to give way to a fine edge of fear. Any minute now....
"Do you remember Comrade Serao, Doctor?" Allessandro asked quietly.
"Of course," Methos answered easily, not offering any more.
Something dangerous flickered in the captain's eyes. "He is dead. Did you know that?" he went on, his voice still barely audible.
Methos didn't answer; there was more coming.
"Of course you did, you were there when the witch murdered him." Allessandro looked decidedly non-griefstricken at the fact.
Methos was hard-pressed to discern any emotion at all in the man. Harder still to see where he was going with this.
"Then you know I didn't kill him," Methos said. "So why am I here?"
Wrong move. But Methos didn't realize it until Allessandro burst into life, springing to his feet and shoving the table forwards so it slammed into Methos' gut. "You are here because you have something that belongs to me!" he roared.
The air burst out of Methos' lungs with a grunt and he doubled over, gasping to replace the lost breath. He kicked back desperately, trying to ease the pressure, trying to move himself away from the threat. He managed to push the chair back with a nerve-rattling screech of metal on concrete. Dragging the breath back into his body, he kept his head down, letting Allessandro think what he liked about his degree of submission. He needed a few moments to gather his thoughts -- work out what the fuck was going on and what he was going to do about it. Allessandro was quiet, but Methos could feel him looming, poised for action.
At last, Methos looked up and met his eyes. "I have nothing you want," he said evenly.
"You lie!" The table shot forwards again, hitting him again, but this time pushing his chair so far back that it began to topple backwards, until it -- and he -- fell with a smack to the floor. Fuck. The room grayed around the edges, but he held onto consciousness, more by sheer stubborness than anything else. Over the blood rushing in his ears, he heard the thud of a footfall on the floor close by. Shit, he was too vulnerable lying there on the floor with his legs in the air.
Methos twisted away from the fallen chair and managed to get his knees underneath him. He was almost back on his feet -- muscles tensed and pushing up -- when he felt the blade at his throat and froze. Fear flooding his veins with adrenaline, Methos forced himself to look up into Allessandro's face. It was blank, but for the anger in his eyes. Methos swallowed and concentrated on keeping very still.
"You. Lie," Allessandro repeated, his voice gone cold and tight. "Serao had something that belongs to me. When he died, he did not. The witch does not have it. That only leaves you. And I want it back now!" With the last word the machete pressed deeper ito Methos' throat.
His thighs burned as he leaned away from the blade, craning his neck backwards as far as he could without falling over. The last thing he needed was to be lying on the floor and even more vulnerable than he already was. "Let me up and we can discuss this reasonably," he said, icy-calm despite his fear.
Allessandro blinked at him and Methos could see the thoughts running through the captain's head. But it was another few seconds before the blade was withdrawn and he was allowed up.
"Very well, Doctor. I am a reasonable man, let us discuss this reasonably." Allessandro went back around the table and took his seat, not sheathing the blade but simply laying it on the table in from of him.
Reasonable wasn't a description Methos would have used, but he wasn't going to mention that. Methos' chair was still lying on the floor and short of picking it up with his teeth that was where it was going to stay, so he levered himself to his feet and stood facing the captain, shoulders back, head high.
"Tell me what it is that you're looking for."
Cold, dark eyes flickered over him, but Allessandro didn't speak. Instead, he reached into his pocket and took out a miniature tape recorder, the kind Methos had used many times when he'd been a student. Without taking his eyes from Methos' face, Allessandro pressed the play button and set it on the table.
Static hissed for a second, before Methos heard the sound of his own voice, interspersed with Kumari's soft, rhythmic tones as they spoke in Xhosa. Methos frowned. This wasn't what he'd expected at all; there was nothing especially incriminating in that conversation at all, that he could recall. What the hell was Allessandro playing at now?
The conversation went on for a few minutes more and while Methos winced internally at how sloppy his accent had become, there was absolutely nothing at all in the tape that caused him the slightest concern. He was still listening to Kumari's voice when Allessandro stopped the tape with a look of supreme triumph. Methos just stared back at him with a puzzled frown.
"You did not know that your treachery was being recorded, did you, Doctor?"
Methos let his face convey his confusion. "Treachery? I don't know what the hell you're talking about." There was something very strange going on here.
"Of course you do," Allessandro shot back quickly. "You have the diamonds Serao had hidden."
What fucking diamonds? Methos wanted to ask, but he sensed it was a subject best avoided. He remembered only too well Allessandro's outburst at the camp when the subject of Serao's stolen diamonds had come up. But he'd thought they were long gone. "Hidden, how?" Methos asked instead. "He had no belongings that I saw and he was quite naked the entire time."
Allessandro tilted his head and dropped his eyes below Methos' waist.
Methos wrinkled his nose theatrically. "Are you sure?" He didn't see how Allessandro could be, but it wasn't as if he was dealing with a rational human being here.
"Yes!" He jumped to his feet and slammed his hands down on the table. "And I want them back!"
Methos let the anger pass him by, choosing instead to ask with quiet skepticism: "And you worked out that I have them exactly how?"
"By your own words, of course!" Allessandro bellowed. "You are damned by your own words."
This was too bizarre. Methos had had enough. "The tape says nothing about any damned diamonds. Fuck it, Allessandro, do you even speak Xhosa?"
"I do not need to. The witch has kindly provided a translation of everything on the tape."
And she, of course, had no reason to lie. "She's lying to you, you fool. The diamonds, if there ever were any, are no doubt long gone and the profits in her hot little hands."
"She had no chance to dispose of them before she was captured." Allessandro lifted his chin stubbornly. "Unless she gave them to you."
"She killed your brother, why would you believe a single word she has to say?" The words were out before he could censor them.
The blade was in the captain's hand again before Methos could blink. Another breath, a second to curse himself for not thinking before he spoke and then the blade's tip was at his throat. Methos backed up, unable to take his eyes from the machete.
"Allessandro, this is stupid," Methos said quickly. "She's lying to you to try to save her own skin, can't you see that?" He kept backing up, knowing all the time that there was only so far he could go. "Maybe I could help you, maybe she'll tell me where she's got them."
Allessandro didn't appear to hear the frantic babbling. "He was not my brother," he said slowly, the cold seeping through Methos' veins. "And all I want from you is my diamonds."
The wall was behind Methos' back now and he pressed himself against it. The blade dug into his skin and the bricks into his cuffed hands. "I don't have them."
"Well, I am certain your friend, MacLeod, does not have them."
Bile rose in Methos' throat and questions choked him.
"Oh yes." Allessandro's voice turned bright and brittle. "He's quite dead, didn't I tell you? My men had to search him...deeply -- question him very very thoroughly. In the end, he was only fit to feed the fish, so that was what he did." A smile twisted across the captain's face. "Very many tiny pieces...."
Methos wouldn't -- couldn't -- believe him. Unwanted images flooded his mind. He forced his face blank and ordered his legs to stop shaking. This was just another of Allessandro's games. If Duncan was dead he would know. Of course he would. Or maybe he was kidding himself.
No.
"You're lying," he spat.
The fist came out of nowhere and pain exploded into black.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~