See Part One for Disclaimers.

- 3 -

It was a good thing we weren't still on the ropes, because I would have dropped the painting.  "What do you mean, 'Duncan'?!" I exclaimed, noticing her shushing gesture just in time to lower my voice.  "Duncan MacLeod?"

"It's a long story. . ."  Amanda started to move towards the stairwell; I was too thunderstruck to object.  We were back on the roof and in our climbing harnesses by the time I got enough of my senses together to speak again.

"What do you  mean, it's a long story?" I exclaimed in a fierce whisper.  "You said MacLeod had said no to this little escapade."

"No, I didn't," she said, and swung over the ledge.  "You said it; I just didn't correct you."

I watched her rappel for a second, then scrambled over the ledge, barely noticing the height as I mentally listed the things I would do to the woman gliding down the wall below me.  'Drawn and quartered' came to mind more than once.  Once my feet touched the ground, I lunged at her.  And tripped over an alarm neatly concealed in a bush.

Amanda's eyes widened as a set of loud sirens went off.  "Damn," she muttered.  "Forgot about that one."

I glared at her back as we ran for the car.  The more I thought about it, the more drawing and quartering seemed too painless a punishment.  When we were on the road, I stopped restraining myself.  "What the hell is going on, Amanda?!" I yelled (and God, did it feel good to let that loose!).

She winced and glanced over at me, only slowing the car when we got back into the area of my hotel about fifteen minutes later.  "Jameson, the ambassador -- well, actually, the former ambassador -- has MacLeod," she explained, albeit a bit reluctantly.  "Don't ask me how!  But he does, and he left a note saying that to keep him alive, I would have to deliver this painting to him."  I must have looked as confused as I felt, because she added, with a shrug, "He couldn't take it with him when he got thrown out."

I shook my head.  "First off, why did he get thrown out?" I said, counting off the questions on my fingers.  "Second, why is this painting so important to him?  Third, why does he need you to get it?  And fourth, how the hell did he know to grab MacLeod?"

Amanda scowled and I shook my head; she managed to do even that prettily.  "I don't know; I don't know; I don't know; and finally, I don't know," she answered shortly.  "I hadn't spoken to this guy in three years, Kathryn!  Suddenly he shows up at the barge, tells me he has MacLeod and that if I want to keep him in one piece, this is what I had to do."

I frowned at that.  "Were those his actual words?"

"What?" She glanced over at me and frowned as well.  "Ah -- yes, they were.  Why?"

I shook my head; a glimmering of an idea, which I did not like at all, was starting to form.  "What's his first name?"

Amanda frowned deeper in concentration.  "Richard, I think.  Why?  What are you thinking, de Sousa?"

I sighed as we pulled up in front of the hotel.  "I'm thinking that this is about more than just a painting."  A bellboy hurried to open the car door for me, and I waved him away.  "Put the car in gear."

"Where are we going?" she asked uncertainly.

"Watcher Headquarters.  This is going to be a longer night than I had thought."

*

Thirty minutes later, I was still scanning files in the Watcher database.  "It's times like this," I growled, not quite under my breath, "that that damned CD would actually have come in handy."

Amanda came to look over my shoulder for the fifth time in as many minutes.  "De Sousa," she snapped, "we're running out of time."

"I know," I snapped back at her.  "Just -- ah!" I hit the enter key as the right file popped out at me.  "Here we go . . . Richard Jameson, 1980 -- 1996.  Assigned to Leland Holloway, 1989 -- 1993."  I frowned at the information that scrolled across the screen.  "Sonofabitch," I muttered.

"What?" Amanda asked.

"Leland Holloway was a British Ambassador in Paris until 1993," I told her around the fury bubbling up inside me.  "Jameson was his assistant.  Stayed that way for about three years, until Holloway was killed, presumably by an unknown Immortal."

"Presumably?" Amanda sounded like she knew what I was getting at; I just wished I didn't.

"Three weeks after Holloway's death, Jameson was made the new Ambassador."

"1993 . . . .  That's when I met him."

I nodded.  "I don't think he knew about you then," I told her.  "If he had, I don't think you'd have had an opportunity to cash your check."  I saw Amanda shiver, out of the corner of my eye.  I hit the enter key again and the next page of Jameson's file appeared.  "In late 1995 he was kicked out of the Watchers; apparently, someone else got to wondering about his promotion.  He kept his position in the Embassy though, then . . . hmmm."

"Hmmm?" Amanda repeated, grabbing my shoulder.  "What 'hmmm'?!  De Sousa!"

"Three months ago, he was kicked out under suspicion of using his diplomatic immunity for certain -- not quite legal -- activities."

"Like what?" Amanda asked.

"Like smuggling and appropriating stolen goods."  Amanda and I looked at each other, then both our gazes went to the bundle resting on the floor by the table.

"Sonofabitch," Amanda growled.  I nodded; I had to give the gal credit -- she caught on real fast.  "When he got kicked out, he probably didn't have time to grab everything . . . ."

"How many people knew about that room?"

Amanda shook her head.  "Me, him, the guys who built it.  He said it was another security measure."

"The new ambassadors probably didn't even know what they were sitting on," I thought out loud.  "And if that painting is stolen property, then he couldn't very well go up and knock on the door and ask for it back."

"So he finds me to do his dirty work for him," Amanda finished.  "But how did he know about me -- and about MacLeod -- if he's not in the Watchers anymore?"

I sighed and leaned back in the chair, pushing my hair off my forehead wearily.  "Because he still has friends in the Watchers," I answered.  "Just like Horton did."

Amanda frowned and then looked at me suddenly.  "That first day, didn't you say something about an Immortal . . . ?"

"In a fire," I continued for her.  "I was trying not to think about that.  I tried to find out whatever I could about that . . . ."  I typed in another command, then a name, and a picture of a smiling dark-haired woman sprang onto the screen.  "Dead ringer, don't you think?"

Amanda's face paled and she pulled up a chair, into which she sat down heavily.  "Yeah," she said softly.  "Literally."  I nodded, thinking it out.  Amanda did the same, leaning forward in her chair and staring at the picture of the now dead Immortal.  "So he gives someone a description of me, and they bring him this woman . . . ."

"Diana Pascalli," I inserted.  "Except he realizes when he sees her that it's not you, but since he's prone to killing Immortals anyway, he takes her head."

"And the man whose body they found . . .?"

"Probably the guy who grabbed her."

Amanda shivered and looked genuinely sorry.  "Wrong place, wrong time," she said softly, her eyes fixed on the screen.

I nodded, then glanced at the clock on the wall.  "Speaking of."  I closed the files and turned off the computer, then stood.  "Where are we supposed to meet him?"

Amanda looked up at me in surprise.  "We?" she echoed.

I looked at her and nodded, ignoring the querulous little voice that demanded to know what the  hell I thought I was doing.  "We," I repeated.

Amanda smiled, gratitude in every line of her face.  The voice shut up.

*

The streets were dark, deserted at this time of the night, which was probably just what Jameson had had in mind.  It suited me just fine; no one could see us, and more importantly, he couldn't see me.  We had considered hiding me behind her car and decided against it for two reasons.  Firstly, in case he had company that would easily spot me in that location, and secondly, this spot provided me with a clearer line of fire.

The .35 was heavy, almost unwieldy, in my hand.  It had been, believe it or not, a gift from my mother.  I was living in Manhattan at the time and she thought, probably quite rightly, that Mace wasn't enough to keep a girl safe in a city like that.  I had argued with her about it at the time . . . and given up when she introduced me to the very attractive shooting instructor at the local rifle club.  Regardless of the way that relationship ended, I had kept the gun.  Just in case.  Now here I was, five years later, with it in my hand, looking down a small embankment as a car pulled up across from Amanda's.  Just in case.  For an instant I wished I had called Adam for help, but only an instant.  There were enough chances someone would get hurt here; I had no intention of adding his name to the list of potential casualties.

Amanda shaded her eyes against the glare of headlights and stepped a bit away from the set on her car, leveling the playing field.  I complimented her silently.  The driver's side door opened and a tall figure got out.  Richard Jameson.  I had met him briefly at a holiday party in 1991, which is why I had recognized his name; the man came on strong in all ways.  I picked up Amanda's nightscope and scanned the area around us one more time.  Unless there was someone with a sniper rifle on a building out there, we were alone.  Either very confident or very stupid of him; I hoped it was the latter.

"Did you bring the painting?"

Amanda stayed out of the path of the light.  "First let me see MacLeod."

A smile flickered across Jameson's face.  "Of course."  He crossed quickly to the passenger side and opened the door.  He hauled MacLeod out with one hand.  He had to; he had a sword in the other.  "The painting, Miss Darieux, or your friend dies."

"What do you need a sword for?" Amanda asked, as we had planned, buying me time to move into closer range.

Jameson smirked.  "I know about you," he told her, pushing MacLeod to his knees.  The man looked half-awake and I wondered what drug Jameson had pumped him full of.  I also wondered how soon it would wear off.  "I know everything.  Now, the painting."

Amanda's face showed surprise.  "You mean -- you're a Watcher?!  Like Dawson?!"

"Not quite,"' Jameson sneered.  "Dawson is blind.  He thinks your kind is just like anyone else, except immortal.  I know better.  You're abominations!  You deserve to be wiped out!" The sword rose just above his head, while the other hand kept hold of MacLeod's collar.  "And I will gladly start off tonight with him.  Now, give me the painting or he dies!"

I stepped out from the shadows, gun in perfect position.  "If he dies, so do you, Jameson," I said, my voice carrying clearly to him as I moved closer.  "Let him go."

Jameson turned his head slightly to stare at me.  "I know you, don't I?"

I nodded shortly.  "We've met," I confirmed.  "And I wasn't any more impressed with you then than I am now.  Let him go."

"You're a Watcher," he realized.  The sword stayed where it was.  "You're as corrupt as Dawson!"

"Insulting me is not a good way to stay alive, Jameson," I informed him, making my voice as cold as possible.  I had never shot anything other than a paper target and I wasn't looking forward to the possibility of having blood on my hands, but I wasn't about to let him know that.  Apparently I was a better actress than I was a thief.  Jameson looked from me to MacLeod and the sword wavered.  A bit.  Enough.  "It isn't worth it, Jameson; it's a painting."

That was a mistake.  "It's worth millions!" he growled.  "The Organization is full of fools who don't know the truth!  We will make them see the truth!"

"Boy, you're really beginning to piss me off."  I took another step forward and sighted down the barrel.  "I've had a long night, I want to go home, and I  will shoot you, Jameson.  Now let him go!"

His lip turned in a scowl and he raised the sword higher.  His mistake this time.  I pulled the trigger, felt the shock jolt all the way up my arm, my heart thundering as hard as the gun.  Jameson staggered back against the car, the sword falling from his fingers.  I moved towards MacLeod, still sighting carefully at Jameson, and noted out of the corner of my eye as Amanda rushed forward.  I may have been out of practice, but I had been very careful not to hit anything vital.  Jameson was huddled against the side of the car, clutching his shoulder, and I stared down at him.  "I  did tell you I would shoot you," I pointed out.  "I never bluff."

He stared back, shock and rage on his face.  "Bitch!" he spat.

I shook my head.  "I've been called worse by better.  Feel free to ask my ex-husband for pointers."  By now, Amanda had untied MacLeod's hands and was leading him to the car.  He was a little more awake, but still stumbled a bit.  I felt the adrenaline fading and lowered the gun a fraction.  "Go home, Jameson.  Tell your pals they won't be getting any extra funds from your stolen goods."

I started after Amanda and MacLeod.  She looked back at me to give a grateful smile, then her expression changed.  At the same time, I heard a soft scrape behind me and turned, raising the gun quickly.  I had a split-second to see Jameson coming towards me and pull the trigger, the gun half-way up, before fire slammed into me.

I stared at Jameson for a moment that seemed to last for an eternity, hearing Amanda shout my name behind me, and followed him down to the ground, in shock at the pain that was screaming through my leg.  My mind reeled, trying to think what he could have hit me with, then it occurred to me to look down.  Light slid down the object that slowly removed itself from my thigh as Jameson fell backwards.  It was the sword.

"Oh shit," I said softly.  At least I think I said that; pain and shock had started making everything very dim.  I saw Amanda kneel by me, horror in her eyes, and then everything went dark.

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