Chapter Twenty-six
Methos was awake long before he opened his eyes. He registered the cold, rough concrete beneath him, the cool air that promised darkness around him and the dull throbbing of his arms that meant his hands were still cuffed behind his back. He listened to the darkness and felt his body heal, the absence of pain a breathtaking relief.
Not enough for him to risk opening his eyes yet, though.
He listened carefully, examining the small sounds around him, sifting them like sand through his fingertips for anything that felt out of place. He could hear the distant splash of a water pump, a far-off engine, closer still, the cawing of a flock of crows -- a murder of crows, he corrected irrelevantly. And, closer still, he could hear beneath it all, the quiet rhythm of someone breathing. His skin prickled.
Without looking, he knew that he was face-down in his cell, his left cheek pressed against the cold, concrete floor, still alive but not alone. He risked cracking open one eyelid, peering through the shadow of his eyelashes. Bare concrete, iron bars, a battered plastic bucket tossed in a corner. But there was no one in his field of vision. He inhaled deeply, smelling the ripe musk of an unwashed body. It could have been anyone. Anyone but Duncan.
Memory rushed up to hit him, driving him into a wall at one hundred miles an hour. It wasn't true, it was just another of Allessandro's lies; there was no way Duncan was dead. Methos wanted to believe that, more than he could ever remember wanting anything before, but a small, cold part of himself knew what Allessandro was capable of, knew his madness, knew how easily he could have taken Duncan's life as if it were nothing.
The fear shot through him, as real and sharp as a knife in his guts. As much as it killed him to think it, it could be true -- Duncan could really be dead. And everything he was and might have been could be lost. What a fucking waste. Hot, bitter tears stung Methos' closed eyes, before he squeezed them away.
"You awake yet, Doc?" Mpande's voice called from behind him.
Methos swallowed down his fear and turned himself over so he could sit up. Mpande was sitting crosslegged on the other side of the bars, watching him intently through the lifting morning darkness. "So it would seem," he answered, though his words felt strange, like he was listening to himself from far away. He shook his head and felt the remnants of the pain -- the physical, at least -- burn away. One punch shouldn't have put him down for the count for this long, but one punch was all he remembered. Perhaps that was for the best.
"Where's Mac?" Mpande asked.
Methos couldn't look at him. "Allessandro says he's dead."
Two beats, no more, then Mpande said, "You believe him?"
And there was a good question. Did he? "No," he answered, looking up into Mpande's face at last. Saying it made it real, even if it wasn't. "No, I don't."
Methos could see Mpande examining him closely. Wondering whether to take his words at face value or not if the expression on his face was any clue. Methos endured the scrutiny silently until he saw the almost imperceptible nod that marked Mpande's acceptance.
The sharp silence was suddenly difficult to bear and he rushed to break it. "Are you okay, Mpande?" he asked.
"Yebo, Doc. They haven't been here since they tossed you back. Just me an' the cockroaches, hanging out, shootin' the breeze. I been in better cells, though. Been in worse, too."
"Been in a lot of lock-ups?"
"Doc, I grew up in South Africa. I missed curfew once or twice." Mpande's voice was dryly flippant, but the layers of meaning and memory were all too clear. Oppression left its mark, tattooed like a bootmark on the neck.
There wasn't much Methos could say to that. He'd been locked up too, more times than he cared to remember, but he had no taste for swapping war stories now. Sweat and dirt were making his face itch and he rubbed it against his shoulder awkwardly.
"You really think he's okay?" Mpande asked, getting up and stretching against the dividing bars.
There was no need to ask who. "Yes, I do. MacLeod's a tough one. And if Allessandro told me the sky was blue I'd still want to go outside and see for myself." And if he kept saying it, maybe the niggling doubts might fade away.
Mpande gave a short, mirthless snort of laughter. "Know what you mean, man."
"Then you're a fool," a broken voice said. Kumari. "If he says your friend is dead, then he is surely with his ancestors now and there is nothing you can do."
Anger rolled through him, simmering just below the boil. Methos stumbled to his feet to face where she stood in her cell. A part of him was amazed she had the gall to speak to him at all. But then, lack of stones was never her problem. "If he is dead," Methos told her in a cold, hard voice, "then you'll have worse things than Allessandro to worry about."
"You can do nothing to me."
"You mean your little translating trick didn't save your worthless hide? What a shame..." he sneered. Her eyebrows shot up, but she didn't respond. He barreled on regardless. "Yes, Allessandro told me what you told him -- did you think he wouldn't?" He didn't give her time to answer, battering her with words instead when he'd rather have battered her with his fists. "Stupid, stupid girl! MacLeod would have done his damnedest to get you out of here safely and you went and sold him out to that lunatic instead. You're going to die here, and you'll only have yourself to blame. But you won't be taking us with you."
"Don't be so sure of that," she said, the cold self-possession he'd always associated with her back in full force. "You underestimate Allessandro if you think he will be so easy to escape."
"Easier than you will. Don't you have a date with the firing squad today?" If anyone ever deserved having the knife twisted, she did.
He saw her smile. The effect was fittingly reptilian. "Captain Allessandro has wisely decided that I am still useful to him."
"Cost you much time on your back?" Anger was making him spiteful -- and careless.
But she didn't take the bait, not in an obvious fashion, anyway. "Really, Doctor.... As if you wouldn't do exactly the same thing if you thought for a second it would help you."
So Allessandro was fucking her. No surprise there. "And you really think he'll let you live, just for that? You're even more stupid than I thought."
She lifted her chin and glared at him. "We will see who is stupid and who will die, and I do not think it will be me."
Methos could feel his ragged fingernails digging into his palms as he fought to keep his temper under control. "So, what did you really do with the diamonds?" he asked evenly, hoping to put her off balance.
But she just smiled at him slowly and turned away, slipping back into the shadows of her cell.
***
Hours of tense boredom later, he was dozing lightly, a small part of his consciousness keeping watch, when the two soldiers came again. The door banged open and he was awake in an instant, his heart thumping with the flood of adrenaline. He'd manouvered his feet underneath him by the time they were halfway down the corridor, but again they hadn't come for him; they stopped in front of Mpande's cell instead.
Poor bastard. Methos could only stand and watch, his gut twisting sickly, as they cornered Mpande and muscled him up against the cell wall, cuffing him roughly. Mpande fought them; it wasn't in his nature to do anything else, as much as Methos knew that it would do him no good. He was still weak from malaria, and they outnumbered him. Fists, knees and feet battered him into submission. Seconds later, the soldiers were dragging him, subdued and bleeding, out of the cell. His eyes met Methos', just for a moment, before Mpande was taken through the cell door.
"Hamba kahle," Methos called to him softly. Go well. Goodbye. It was unlikely Methos would see him alive again. But the words were a mistake.
"Hold him!" one of the soldiers barked, shoving Mpande to the wall. He turned back towards Methos, a shark-like grin splitting his face.
Methos backed up, but there wasn't anywhere for him to go; the rough wall stopped him cold after a few steps. He was trapped there like a rat in a cage. The soldier was heavy-set but not tall, with a vague childishness about his face that was the only clue to his age. He pushed the key into the lock and threw the door open.
Twisting his body to avoid the onslaught only meant that Methos was pushed off balance more easily. He hit the floor hard, feeling the shock jarring all along his left side. The young soldier stepped back for a moment, prodding Methos with his boot and laughing mockingly. It was all the opening Methos needed.
He kicked out with his right foot, catching the soldier's kneecap and sending it sideways with a satisfying crack. The soldier went down screaming, clutching the knee. Perfect. Methos rocked backwards and lifted both knees up to his chest -- he was crushing his hands beneath his back, but he couldn't care -- and then he was slamming his feet up into the soldier's face before the boy could move. Impact jarred down Methos' legs, the soldier tumbled backwards and Methos took the chance to scrabble unsteadily to his feet.
Out in the corridor, he caught a glimpse of movement, heard a shout. Mpande had twisted free of the other soldier's grasp, driving a knee up into his groin and head-butting him lightning-fast. Sharp, dark exhilaration knifed through Methos' chest with the scent of blood in the air.
The soldier at his feet stirred and Methos hammered another kick into him, refusing to flinch at the sound of bone fracturing beneath his foot. He looked up and found Mpande again; he was struggling with the other soldier, doing his best with his hands behind his back, but clearly coming off second-best. No time for delicacy. Methos sent a kick with the toe of his boot into the boy's chin that snapped his head back. The soldier lay still.
Methos was out of the cell and into the corridor in a heartbeat. Mpande and the other soldier were still wrestling, but the disadvantage of his cuffed hands was too much. Mpande hit the floor, but he managed to trip the soldier and take him with him as he fell, the thud mingling dully with their cries.
The soldier was on top of Mpande, pummelling him with his fists, their low grunts echoing around the cell block walls by the time Methos reached them. He went in hard, stomping down on the soldier's hand as he propped himself up to hit Mpande again. He cried out, collapsing on top of Mpande, who arched beneath him and threw him off. Methos caught a glimpse of the shock and fear in the soldier's eyes, before Methos drove his foot down into the unprotected throat and closed the soldier's eyes forever. Methos didn't look down, but the unforgotten sensation of flesh and bone beneath his sole rippled through him all the same.
The quiet echoed. All Methos could hear was the sounds of gasping breath -- his and Mpande's. There was no time to stand about and process what had just happened; they were still in danger, every second they stayed. His hands jerked against the cuffs. He had to get free; they were very far from being safe. And he still didn't know where Duncan was.
The keys. Find the keys. Leaving Mpande to make his own way to his feet, Methos went back to his cell and the soldier lying on the floor. He hadn't moved. Something glinted dully, dangling out of his pants pocket and Methos' heart leapt. For once his luck was holding, and about fucking time, too. He nudged the pocket with his foot and the keyring clattered to the floor.
Now he just had to pick the bloody things up and actually manage to use them. Resigning himself to more awkward manipulation, Methos kicked the keyring away from the body to give himself a little more room to move. Barely-healed muscles burned as he squatted carefully with his back to the fallen soldier, edging back and forth with his fingertips grasping for the ground and his heart thundering in his ears.
It only seemed an age before his fingers curled around the cold metal -- but it couldn't really have been more than a minute. He flicked the keyring up into his palm and held it tight, sharp edges digging into his skin. He was standing in the space of another heartbeat.
"Mpande?" he was able to call at last. Methos turned to find him leaning against the cell wall wiping the blood from his face with his shoulder.
"You got 'em, Doc?"
Methos nodded. Behind his back he was sorting through the keys by touch, trying to find the one small enough to belong to the handcuffs. Another age until he found it. "Come here," he said urgently to Mpande, all too aware of the seconds flying by, every one that passed bringing them closer to being discovered. But they had to get their hands free; until they did they were safer inside than out.
The key felt slender and narrow between his thumb and forefinger as he maneuvered it into position, feeling with his other hand for Mpande behind him. He found the metal tightly encircling Mpande's wrists easily enough. But he still had to find the locks. He smoothed his thumb over the metal, feeling for the small indentation that would be the keyhole. There. Methos inhaled slowly and tightened his concentration even further.
The key slid into the lock first try. Methos turned it, felt it engage, heard the click. Yes! His fingers scrabbled to open the cuff and free Mpande's hand. It gave, then stuck -- Methos could hear Mpande's shuddering breaths behind him -- Methos forced his fingers underneath it and pulled again. Then it was free.
Moving very quickly now, he passed the keys to Mpande, letting him free himself completely. Seconds later, Mpande had unlocked Methos' cuffs and let them clatter to the ground.
"C'mon, Doc, let's get outta here."
Rubbing his wrists and rolling the stiff agony out of his arms and shoulders, Methos followed him out of the cell. They were steps from the door when a voice called, "Wait!" and he stopped short. Kumari. He'd almost forgotten she was there; she'd been so silent throughout the fight. Keeping her head down and her options open, no doubt. Anger flared again at the sound of her voice.
"What?" Methos snapped, rounding on her.
"I know where he is."
"She's lying," Mpande spat, grabbing Methos' arm as if to pull him towards the door.
Methos tugged his arm away. "Hold on a second, Mpande." She was probably lying, more than probably, but if there was even the smallest chance she could help him find Duncan, then he was willing to risk it.
"Who?" he asked, watching her as carefully as an uncoiling cobra.
"Don't waste time, Doctor. You know who -- your friend MacLeod. I know where Allessandro took him. I can take you there" Her words, her eyes, were steady but that meant almost nothing; he already knew she was an adept liar.
Fuck it. He didn't have time to debate. If she was playing him again, he'd kill her, simple as that. Methos ran back to the cell and picked up the keys and the handcuffs, unlocking her cell and dragging her out. "So, he is alive."
"I am not sure," she admitted, not bothering to struggle as his fingers dug into her upper arm. "I think so."
"If you're lying to me," he whispered harshly in her ear as he hauled her close. "You'll wish Allessandro has killed you. I will tear your fucking heart out and feed it to you. Do you understand?" He shoved her in front of him without waiting for a reply. Anger and fear were mixing inside him, putting a hard, cold shell between him and the world. He slapped the cuffs onto her wrists and closed them tight. A deep shudder ran through her.
A hand touched his shoulder and Methos started. "Company comin'," Mpande said, leaning away from him to peer out the door.
Methos could hear the distant rumble of an approaching vehicle, but it sounded too far away to be an immediate concern. But they did need to get moving; too much time had gone by already. He gestured impatiently at the dead men. "Get their weapons," he ordered, scenarios snapping into view. "And quickly."
***
"Which way now?" Methos asked as they came to another fork in the road. He took a deep breath of warm air that tasted of sage, odd as that seemed. They'd been walking for more than an hour now, following a rough side road that was barely more than a track; they had to be getting close by now. But he still couldn't sense Duncan.
Kumari paused and he could see her looking about the gray-green forest uneasily. Then her eyes narrowed and she nodded and inclined her head to the right. "It is this way."
Methos still wasn't sure he believed she knew where Allessandro had taken Duncan, but in the absence of any other choices.... "Come on, then. Let's get moving." He nudged her in the center of her back with the gun muzzle, just to remind her what was at stake. In reply, Kumari simply lifted her head higher and strode forward.
As they walked on, Methos became aware of a low buzzing, barely a sound, more a vibration in the air. He slowed, cocking his head to listen harder. A plane. And flying low, by the sound of it, he realized, as the noise became louder. "Cover. Now," he barked, shoving the woman towards a thick clump of bushes.
He didn't have to tell Mpande twice, the tracker dived for the bushes, scrambling to flip himself over and stare at the sky. "There," Mpande said, pointing upwards as Methos pushed Kumari down between them. He wasn't going to give her any more opportunities to betray them.
Methos grunted in acknowledgment as he watched the sky. The plane came into view, an older, twin-engine job, painted camouflage colors. It swung in a lazy arc overhead, descending as they watched. Landing? It looked that way, and there were small airstrips all over the country, essential in a place where the ground beneath your feet was more treacherous than quicksand. He watched as the plane settled into an approach, gliding down until it disappeared from view and the noise from its engines faded.
He was on his feet in a second. "Come on. We need to keep moving." Distantly, he knew he sounded high-handed and abrupt, but too fucking bad. Mpande levered himself to his feet slowly, not managing to hide his pained grimace in time for Methos to miss it. Shit. He stopped Mpande before he could walk away, grabbing him by the upper arm and so that the tracker turned to face him. "Wait a minute," Methos said urgently. "Are you wounded?"
Mpande snatched his arm away and lifted his stubborn chin. "'S nothing. Come on, thought you was in a hurry." He was trying to slip away again and Methos caught two handfuls of the front of Mpande's bush jacket and made him stand still. Mpande winced and beads of sweat broke out across his forehead.
"You are injured...." Uninvited, Methos began to examine Mpande, running his hands quickly over all the likely sites. He'd taken quite a beating earlier and he hadn't been in the best shape to start with. "Breathe deep." Mpande began to inhale, got halfway, before the breath turned into a hiss of pain. "In your ribs?" he asked, probing more gently over the left side.
Mpande nodded reluctantly.
He'd figured as much. Like they needed more problems. But nothing felt displaced or grossly abnormal, he was breathing well enough to be walking around; so, in all likelihood whatever fractures there were, weren't too serious. "Can you go on?"
"Yebo, Doc. No problems." Mpande shrugged his clothes back into place and, though Methos found it patently false, an unconcerned grin appeared on his face. "Gonna have to--"
A flicker of movement caught Methos' attention.
"Stop. Right. There," he growled on top of whatever Mpande was about to say. He pivoted to catch hold of Kumari, who'd been slipping back into the bush as their attention had been elsewhere. He grabbed her arm and spun her to face him. "Nice try," he told her without a trace of humor. "But you wouldn't want to leave the party early, would you, dear? That would be rude." She glared at him, her lip curling contemptuously, but she said nothing. Methos reached behind her and took hold of the chain between her handcuffs, giving it a yank. "Now, Ms Asenge," he said, his words still dripping with sugared arsenic, "you were showing us Allessandro's little hideaway?"
She straightened as she began to walk, lifting her head and squaring her shoulders in a familiar motion. "As you say."
Duncan probably would have admired her dignity, he thought; Methos just found it deeply irritating. But he said nothing as he let her lead them on. Feet turned into yards, then a mile through the sparse forest, taking them closer to where the plane appeared to have landed.
"We going to the airstrip?" Mpande asked, not taking his eyes from the blurred track they were following.
Methos shrugged, tilting his head in a 'probably' gesture. He shook the chain in his hand and the handcuffs clinked faintly. "Well? Are we?"
Kumari nodded.
"Is he there?" Methos wanted to know.
The Sangoma nodded again, but offered nothing more as they walked through the quiet forest. The land gradually flattened out in front of them, the low hills easing away with every step. Methos could smell the river close by again and he remembered Allessandro's boast. Fear slithered through him once more before he could squelch it.
Many minutes later when sweat was soaking his clothes and hair, he spotted the first signs of the airstrip more than a hundred meters away through the trees. He stopped short, ignoring the woman's bitten-off cry of protest as the cuffs pulled on her wrists. Mpande had to have seen it too; he stopped and squatted behind a thornbush. Methos knelt beside him, bringing Kumari with him.
"So, where is he?" he asked her.
There was a long pause before she answered, "Here."
"Oh, very good. 'Here'. That tells us a hell of a lot," Methos snapped. "Do you or do you not know exactly where Allessandro has taken him?"
Her silence was an answer he hadn't wanted to hear.
Methos grabbed her by the upper arms and shook her hard. "What do you know then? How many men are stationed here? What arms do they have?" Even as the words came out of his mouth he knew how futile they were, but he was far from thinking clearly.
"Doc?" Mpande broke into his thoughts. "You don't need her to tell you. You can find him, you know..." he gestured vaguely, "that thing you...."
Methos let go of her and turned to face him. He knew what Mpande was dancing around; it wasn't like he hadn't been feeling Immortal presence for as long as he could remember, or that he wouldn't know Duncan in room of a hundred Immortals. If he was alive. He turned to meet Mpande's eyes. "I was rather hoping to get in and out without letting the whole troop know I'm there. We're not exactly armed for battle, remember." He gestured at the two rifles they'd stolen, they were a lot better than nothing, but they were still only two and without much ammunition.
Mpande's mouth twisted and he nodded reluctantly. "What you wanna do, then?"
"Scout around," Methos replied. "Get an idea of what we're dealing with before we go charging in." Mpande went to stand up and Methos restrained him with a hand on his forearm. "Alone." Over Mpande's protest, he added dryly, "Someone has to babysit and you drew the short straw, I'm afraid." He saw Kumari bridle at his words, but wisely she said nothing.
Mpande rolled his eyes expressively. He sighed and took hold of the handcuff chain, moving the rifle he held to his other hand. Methos stood, dropping his hand to clasp Mpande's shoulder briefly before he took off through the forest, crouching to stay low.
He moved fast, clutching his stolen rifle in one hand, ducking low hanging branches and swerving around trees and piles of forest litter that would have given him away if he'd crunched over them. He had to fight hard to keep the flood of adrenaline from overwhelming him as he ran. If Kumari was telling the truth, soon he'd know whether Allessandro had been lying or not. His senses screamed as he sought even the vaguest brush of Duncan's presence. But there was nothing. Yet.
He was closer to the airstrip now, close enough to make out the lone hangar and a couple of adjacent pre-fab buildings visible through the trees, and he stopped for a moment, his eyes scanning everything he could see. Whoever or whatever had arrived in the plane couldn't have been of much importance. Soldiers -- two, no, three of them -- patrolled casually, AK--47s slung over their shoulders. One man was leaning against the side of the hangar, smoking a cigarette in the shade. Nothing about them suggested they were on alert, or even terribly well supervised.
So either they were idiots, or they weren't guarding a certain valuable prisoner. Or both. Or neither. Fuck it. Whatever the answer, he wasn't going to find it out here; he was going to have to move in closer if he was going to sense Duncan. He slipped through the light cover as quietly as he could, wishing his feet were still hard enough so that he could go without the damn noisy boots he was sure were announcing his arrival to the whole place. But his heart wasn't the only thing that had gone soft over the years.
And shut the fuck up, Kronos.
Christ, the last thing he need right at this moment was to have bloody Kronos sniping away at him in his head. Sternly he ordered himself to shove Kronos back with all the other shades of those who had made the mistake of underestimating him. Methos paused behind the cover of a tangle of monkey vine, his eyes searching the airstrip from his new vantage point, seeing nothing new. A shiver shuddered through him. It took him a second to realize that the chill was coming from something other than the cold wake of his own ghosts.
The air was cool on his sweaty skin, he realized, and he took a moment to glance up at the sky. Clouds were rolling in from behind him to the west, bruised black and gray, blocking out the sun. The shadows washed into one another, color leeching from the forest. There was a storm coming and his time had just grown a hell of lot shorter. He moved forward again, darting from cover to cover until he was as close to the collection of buildings as he dared. He watched as one of the soldiers gazed up at the sky and called out to the others. The three men wandered casually back into the hangar.
The rumble of the approaching vehicle blended with the first clap of thunder and he almost missed it. It wasn't until the jeep pulled into view, stopping in front of the hangar that he realized what he was looking at. And felt the buzz. Methos shouldered his weapon, a surge of energy flowing back into all the cold places.
***
Face down in the back seat of the jeep, Duncan felt Methos' presence shiver through him and forced himself not to react. Methos was here -- he was alive. He'd known Allessandro was lying. And now, none of the rest mattered at all. He was alive, whole, and Methos was here. They were going to get out of this. Together there wasn't anything they couldn't do.
Duncan's hands were cuffed tightly behind him, as they had been ever since he'd been taken from his cell and despite his efforts to keep the blood moving, they'd turned numb and cold hours ago. They weren't going to be much use, for a while at least, even when he finally got free. But if Allessandro thought that bound hands would stop him, he really was insane.
But was Allessandro truly insane? No, Duncan decided, that would imply he lacked responsibility for his actions and he had seen nothing that would prove that. The fact was that Allessandro was evil and he had to be stopped. And it was looking like now was the time.
The jeep slowed and stopped and Duncan raised his head to see where they were. He had the fleeting impression of an open space, a clearing and a building that looked like a simple aeroplane hangar. Allessandro had said he was going to be ransomed -- though 'sold off' might have been a more accurate term -- perhaps this was where the exchange was going to happen.
Well, wasn't Allessandro going to be disappointed.... Duncan might have laughed if it wouldn't have given the game away.
***
Methos ran through the forest, retracing his steps back to where he'd left Mpande and the woman. Plans were running through his head, faster than his feet could move. With a little luck they could do it; free Duncan and get themselves out of here. Finally. If things went their way, they could even be out of Angola by nightfall. At last.
"He's there," Methos said as he slid to a halt beside Mpande. Kumari didn't look at him, keeping her head turned away as he added, "Come on, I need your help. We'll have to leave her here."
"Is he okay?" Mpande asked, grabbing onto a tree branch to pull himself up.
"He's alive. That means he's okay."
Mpande checked his rifle and looked up at him. "How do you want to do it?"
Methos halted him with a quick, "Wait a minute" and bent down to Kumari, grasping her shoulder so that she turned to face him. "I want you to stay here," he told her in a low, harsh voice. "You will stay here and keep quiet. If you don't fuck this up for us, I will make sure you get out of here alive. If not...." Methos narrowed his eyes at her and let her imagine the rest.
He caught a glimpse of familiar calculation in her eyes, but soon enough she nodded. "I will do as you ask."
There wasn't time to decide whether he believed her or not, but on the balance of experience, probably not. She was a danger to them, and he was uneasy about leaving her alive as he drew Mpande away from her and back towards the airstrip. But there was no time for second-guessing himself now. He had to get Duncan out of there before Allessandro put him in that plane.
"We have to stop them taking off in that plane," he told Mpande. "That must be why they're here. I spotted three men at least, plus Allessandro and the pilot."
"So we have to take out all five of them and bloody quick," Mpande finished for him.
"Without damaging the plane, if at all possible."
"Can you fly it?" Mpande asked, ducking as they reached the trees at the back of one of the outbuildings where there was a good view of the field.
"If I have to." Methos didn't add that he hadn't flown in decades. But if things went the way he planned, Duncan would be flying them out of here anyway. In this, as well as one or two other things, he was willing to concede that Duncan was better.
Movement at the edge of his vision caught his eye; something was happening in front of the hangar. He hushed Mpande's question and they crouched low, watching.
Fat, warm drops of rain started to fall as they watched, striking in a slow, steady stream. Methos ignored the dripping on his head as he watched Allessandro arguing with the pilot, gesturing angrily up at the sky. The weather was turning against them, and the captain was clearly impatient to be gone. The other soldiers were refuelling the plane, and Allessandro looked over his shoulder and shouted something to them that Methos couldn't hear.
Methos lifted his rifle and sighted it, aiming straight for Allessandro's head.
***
"We must take off now," Allessandro insisted again. Duncan didn't know about the pilot, but he was getting damned sick of hearing the same thing over and over again. Basically the pilot wasn't happy about the weather and Allessandro was insistent that they had to take off as soon as the plane was refuelled. Back and forth and over again. He tuned out the drone of voices and listened to -- or rather sensed -- the music of Methos' presence growing stronger and nearer. He wriggled a little, surreptitiously, moving on to his side and drawing up his legs. It never hurt to be prepared.
The voices he was ignoring rose sharply and he craned his neck to see what was going on. The pilot, clearly irate, was yelling into Allessandro's face, telling him what he could do with his rank, his orders, and his threats. Duncan found himself smiling slightly at the pilot's audacity when he pushed both hands into Allessandro's chest and shoved him back hard.
Then two things happened almost simultaneously and the smile fell from Duncan's face. Allessandro stumbled backwards, the pilot's own momentum taking him forwards at the same time and then the pilot's head exploded into a spray of scarlet and black that splattered across the white wall of the hangar.
Methos, Duncan realized through the shock. It had to be. He rolled himself down into the insufficient cover of the backseat footwell. More shots rang out, from close at hand this time. Allessandro and the soldiers were firing back. Men's voices called out two or three times, shouts cut short in a way he recognized all too well. Fewer shots were being returned, but the noise was still deafening. He had to get out of there; he was no use to anyone cowering there like a dog. He lifted his head to see if there was a way out and came face to face with Allessandro.
Fuck. The captain's eyes were blazing with hate as he reached in and grabbed a handful of Duncan's hair, dragging him headfirst out of the jeep. He fell awkwardly to the ground, landing on his knees and face, before Allessandro dragged him up to his knees and pulled him around the side of the jeep.
***
Christ, what was Duncan doing? Methos put aside the colossal bungle of shooting the pilot instead of Allessandro and focused on Duncan and the jeep. Allessandro had just hauled him out of the vehicle head first and now he had a gun to Duncan's head. Methos saw him signal the last soldier to cease fire. The silence as the soldier complied resounded in Methos' head with the pounding of his own heart.
"Doctor!" Allessandro shouted. "Show yourself!"
Methos pushed Mpande further under cover and said nothing.
"Show yourself, or he dies!" Allessandro pressed the gun closer to Duncan's temple.
Methos knew there was nothing to be gained from doing as Allessandro said. So, apparently, did Duncan. He shoved his body to one side and threw Allessandro off balance, sending him stumbling once more. Mpande snapped off a quick shot towards the hangar where the last soldier was sheltering, catching him square in the chest. He crumpled to the ground just as Methos let off a quick burst in Allessandro's direction. But the captain was quick, diving back behind the jeep's cover and the shots went wild.
Duncan was left out in the open, knocked to the ground by Allessandro's dive. Methos saw him struggle to his feet, his hands bound behind his back, his eyes searching in their direction. But before he could take a step, or Methos could move in to help him, Allessandro was there again standing behind Duncan with the muzzle of his rifle jammed against Duncan's head once more.
"I will kill him!" Allessandro screamed. "You have five seconds to come out where I can see you. Or he dies where he stands." Allessandro began to count aloud, slowly.
Methos lifted his rifle back into the firing position. The rain was still falling, but the light was enough to make the shot. He took a second to wipe his hands on the sides of his pants; it wouldn't do to have his hand slip now. The rifle wasn't the best one he'd ever held, but he was betting he had a better than even chance of making the shot.
He lined up the shot, his finger resting lightly on the trigger guard while he waited for the moment. Almost...almost.... Four. Five. He squeezed, gently.
A figure burst from the bush, running and screaming, "Faustino, look out!"
Allessandro whirled and fired with one hand, cutting her down with a volley of shots. Kumari twisted around with the impact, fell to the ground and didn't move. Methos could see the dark blood seeping through the fabric of the shirt she wore; the rounds had passed right through her and if she wasn't dead now, in minutes she would be. The shot that rang out beside him jolted him out of his distraction.
Methos looked up in time to see the rifle flying out of Allessandro's hand. Mpande's shot had missed the captain, but had managed to hit his rifle and send it spinning. Shock flew across Allessandro's face in the seconds it took him to step back behind Duncan and draw the machete from his belt, holding the blade to Duncan's throat.
Tightening his hands around his weapon to stop them shaking, Methos stepped out from his cover and walked slowly towards Duncan and Allessandro. Duncan's eyes met his at last and an understanding passed between them, as clear as any words they had ever spoken. He knew what had to be done. The breadth of Duncan's body blocked any possible shot.
Anything other than the last thing Allessandro would expect. Which of course was what he would do.
Methos breathed in deeply, sighted the rifle and, without taking his eyes from Duncan's, shot him square in the chest. Dark blood bloomed and Duncan fell with a single wordless cry. Allessandro twisted away from his falling body and ran for the hangar. Dammit! The shot hadn't exited and Allessandro had been able to use Duncan as a shield.
Fucking bastard, die already. Methos went after him, firing from the hip. He could hear Mpande crashing through the bush behind him, firing pointlessly at where Allessandro had been a second before. But the captain had disappeared into the dark mouth of the hangar.
"Stay with Mac!" Methos ordered Mpande. Without waiting to see if Mpande obeyed, Methos followed Allessandro into the building.
But the hangar was empty by the time he stepped inside it. A rear door swung in the rising wind. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Methos slammed his hand against the wall in frustration. Allessandro had got away -- again. He'd obviously cut his losses and made for the bush. And, as much as Methos hated to leave an enemy running around loose, they couldn't waste the time it would take to hunt him down, not when they finally had a way out of this hellhole. He spun on his heel and stalked out of the hangar, still very much on the alert.
***
The fire in his chest was still dying away when Duncan convulsed back into life. Arms cradled him from behind and he didn't have to look up to know whose they were. But he did anyway, arching his neck back to look into Methos' face. The rain was pouring down now and his hair was plastered down as the raindrops coursed down his face like tears. He looked awful -- and wonderful. Before he could say anything, Duncan had to cough, turning his face away to spit blood onto the ground. It occurred to him suddenly that his hands were freed, and he had the familiarly uncomfortable feeling of things going on around him while he was completely vulnerable. As much as he was grateful to be free, his discomfort must have shown on his face.
"Shit, Mac, you okay?" Mpande asked.
Duncan looked around and found Mpande standing on his left-hand side. He nodded, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "Allessandro?" he managed to rasp.
"Got away, unfortunately," Methos said, loosening his grasp so Duncan could sit up. He heard the frustrated violence in Methos' voice, but didn't pursue it.
Duncan shifted himself so that he was sitting facing Methos and rubbed the fading pain in his chest. "Kumari?"
"Dead," Methos answered flatly.
Regret flooded through him, tinged with anger. If she'd only trusted them, just a little, she'd have made it through this okay. Instead, her relentless need for revenge, her refusal to consider anything but her own vendetta had brought her to this. Duncan squinted through the rain and saw her body lying in the mud, her braids spread in a tangle of sodden rope. It was all such a damned waste.
He tore his eyes away from her and looked up at Mpande again. He, at least, looked like he was okay. Mpande smiled at him uncertainly, his eyes flicking away towards the plane. He was right; it was time they got moving. Duncan levered himself to his feet and straightened up. His chest twinged again as the last of his bones healed and he pressed the heel of his hand into the pain.
"Sorry about that," Methos said with a curl to his lip.
"You will be," Duncan returned lightly. "What is it with you and getting me shot to save my life?"
"Hey." Methos shrugged, his eyes gone wide and innocent. "It worked, didn't it?"
Duncan rubbed his chest again, although the pain was all but gone. "Do you think you could work on a less painful way of saving my life next time?"
All trace of teasing left Methos face as he looked into Duncan's eyes. "Do you think you could work on risking your life a little less often?" he asked, surprising Duncan with the sudden sharpness of his voice.
Christ. Did they have to do this now? Again? "I'd like nothing better," he answered tiredly. Methos was being unfair; he hadn't asked for this -- any of it. Duncan stepped past him and headed for the plane. "Come on. It's time we got out of here."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~