//Guess that's what Karr meant when he said Nick had 'worked' with Tanner before.//

//Obviously,// Michael thought, snippily, //the question is, can we trust this guy?//

//Can we afford not to?// Kitt returned. //Michael, don't read too much into this. Nick asked for this Tanner guy himself, and Karr is willing to give him a chance. You know you can't deal with Nash on your own. What other choice do we have?//

A sigh floated down the link, then Michael sent a smile back toward his patiently waiting partner. //I ever tell you how much it bugs me when you're being reasonable?//

Kitt's presence rippled with light teasing laughter. //We can't both fly off the handle at the same time, you know. Besides, I'm the computer of this partnership -- I'm supposed to be the logical one.//

Michael couldn't stop the short bark of laughter that escaped him, and for a moment Kitt reveled in the wave of fond affection washing over him. But all too soon they grew serious again, and his driver's expression darkened to match his wandering thoughts.

Alex watched the pair for a moment, knowing just when they broke off talking through the link, then moved to join Michael on Kitt's prow.

The FLAG operative turned to look at her as she sat beside him, and his brow drew down at the shuttered look in her eyes. Then he realized. "You knew," he stated, keeping any hint of accusation from his voice.

But Alex's answer surprised him.

"Not all of it, no," she admitted. "I'd met Vin before, remember, so I knew he and Nick were old acquaintances, that they'd taken the same training, but it wasn't until only a few months ago I learned what kind of training it was. You knew more about Nick by then than I did," she added calmly, not the least bit bothered by the fact.

He nodded. "Yeah, I guess. Still, I don't like it, Alex. Tanner might have the skills, but that kinda training…? It warps the mind. What's to say--"

"What, Michael?" Alex cut in sharply. "Nick turned out okay, how hard is it to believe Vin might have as well?"

"But that's just it! It took Nick years to get his head on straight. And he had Karr, and you, and even Kitt and I to pull him back into humanity. And--"

"Somebody," a dark voice snarled dangerously, "better tell me what the hell you're talking about right now."

Having forgotten they had an audience, both Alex and Michael snapped their heads around to look at the speaker of that sibilant hiss.

Michael looked up at the black-clad blonde towering over him, and had to quell the instinct to stand at attention and salute. This guy, he thought privately, could give drill sergeants a lesson in intimidation.

"What kind of 'training' do Vin and this MacKenzie have in common that's got you worried?" the voice continued, quieter now that it's owner had commanded their full attention. "Are you talking about the military? What Vin learned in the Army?"

"Army?" Michael shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Karr, you wanna take this one?" he glanced at the silent Stealth.

"No," the AI said flatly, his tone leaving no doubt what he thought about this conversation. "It is none of their business."

Chris shot the car a look, then dismissed the AI with disdain. He pinned his glare back on the man sitting before him. "Talk," he ordered.

Knight arched an eyebrow at his impertinence, but hitched himself further back to settle comfortably against Kitt's windshield. If he was gonna have to explain General Jackson Nash and the kids of Project Phoenix, then he was damn well gonna be comfortable doing it.

Vin was fast moving beyond frustrated and straight into pure pissed off.

He'd left Peso grazing happily at the base of a tall spruce, while he scramble up the rough trunk to the top of the thirty-foot tree. After hours of pointless wandering, he'd come across not so much as a whisper of an idea of where Nash's basecamp might be located. And the damned tracking device he'd been given had so far proved less than useless. In a last desperate bid, he'd gotten the dumb idea that maybe it just needed a clearer line of sight, so he had climbed up the tree to get to the open space up high.

"Hell, damned if I know how this fuckin' thing works," he snarled, rankled that'd he'd put all the effort into climbing this blasted tree for nothing. Fed up, he glared at the little black box with its stubbornly blank screen, and drew back his arm to launch the hated contraption into oblivion.

"Let's see how far ya can fly, ya worthless piece a junk!" he grinned viciously, then almost fell out the tree as he was startled by the sudden appearance of familiar dark shape skimming the forest on the ridge across from him.

His previous mood instantly forgotten, the Texan scrambled for his scope to focus in on the object he recognized as a helicopter. Through the high magnification of the powerful rifle scope, he watched as the black military aircraft flew low over the trees along the base of one snow-capped peak, then dipped into a narrow valley shielded by two connecting ridges. In the winter, that high-altitude valley would be covered in so much snow it'd look like a glacier from far off, but in the midst of summer it was a lush green oasis among the barren rock and thin conifers.

Vin had been there once before, to watch some big horn sheep birth their young, and he knew there wasn't anything on that side of the mountain worth the military's time. There was, however, a perfectly sheltered clearing in which a mercenary camp could be established.

Exactly the kinda place a man like Nash would look for.

The Hunter bared his teeth in dark pleasure. "Gotcha."

It had taken just under five hours to work his way up to a point above the valley hidden in the cleft of the mountain. Night had fallen an hour ago, and Vin had had to lead Peso up the remainder of the deer trail when it got too dark to see, but now the Hunter was positioned in the high ground with a beautifully unobscured view of the small mercenary encampment spread out beneath him.

For the last fifteen minutes, the Hunter had studied the scene laid out below. The two buildings, one distinctly smaller than the other, were scrutinized carefully. The guards surrounding each were assessed, while the positions of those patrolling the rest the grounds were merely noted. The helicopter that had led him here was marked, then forgotten. Neither the Hunter nor his objective could operate it, and it was unarmed and unmanned, so it was of no further consequence.

For a moment, the Hunter contemplated just lining up his rifle and taking out everything that moved, but he dismissed that idea quickly. The objective was likely well guarded; he would not be able to get to it before the target could. Any attack would have to be quick and quiet lest it alert the prey. No, the Hunter acknowledged, action would have to wait until a more opportune moment.

But first, he smirked, it was time to do a little bit of reconnaissance.

Slipping lithely from his perch, the Hunter scooted back down the winding trail he'd followed up here until it merged with an overhanging ledge that crested over a corner of the clearing. Crawling low on his belly, as soundless as a snake, he wormed his way to the edge and surveyed the drop down.

Forty-five feet at least, he thought, judging the distance expertly. The overhang curved inward almost seven feet, then arched sharply into the forest surrounding the clearing. Cover at the base of the cliff was limited, the trees sparse, but the entire area was shadowed by the mountain itself -- and on this moonless night, all but invisible.

Possible, the Hunter considered, gauging his needs to the environment. The rock face itself was jagged and rough, many hand and foot holds apparent even from his awkward perspective. Tie a rope off at the top, then rappel quickly down the side. That would be the easy part, he knew. The real trouble would come later, for as simple a climb as it appeared to him, it's true ease would depend upon the objective's physical condition. And the Hunter was under no illusions that the objective would not be wounded.

The Hunter knew the target too well to be fooled by that.

Still, he reasoned, the objective was a capable warrior in and of himself. The Hunter need not discount him yet. Even injured, the Ghost would likely prove a formidable ally.

Yes, he decided, this would be an acceptable escape route.

Now to check on the perimeter defenses, then the Hunter could retire for some sleep.

He would need to be rested when he moved in just before dawn.

Nick closed his eyes and tried to sleep while he could. Weakened by the waves of pain washing over his immobilized body, the protective walls he'd built to shelter his mind flickered under the constant pressure. Too weary to grimace, he fought to strengthen them with his dwindling energy. The fight tired him more. He couldn't hold out much longer.

Inside his mind, curled tightly into a ball of writhing cool blue light pocked by areas of grey, Nick slept fitfully. Unconscious, loosened of the iron control of the waking mind, the damaged presence pressed closer against the spot where it linked with another. A wavering furl of blue splayed against the block, wanting so badly to touch the smooth inky darkness of its mate but unable to get past.

The blue presence moaned.

In the darkness of the pre-dawn, a shadow crept between the trees. Warm breath turned white as it hit the cool, thin air. A pair of bright blue eyes seemed to glow within the painted face. As the camouflaged figure slipped in and out of cover, gradually working its way toward the occupied clearing, the creatures of the woods stilled to watch it pass. A primal knowledge burned through them as they saw the slinking shadow and they scurried out of its path as quickly as they could. They alone recognized the great predator stalking through their midst, and treated it with all the fear and respect it was due.

Unconcerned with the passage of the animals, the Hunter wove his way to the edge of the camp. He crouched low in the shrubbery, keen eyes taking in everything at a glance before focusing on the most immediate threat. Leaning against a tree only a few down from his position, the Hunter watched as the first of the prey lit a cigarette and tossed the smoldering match into the brush. A snarl crossed the Hunter's lips at this flagrant display of disrespect for the wilderness around them, and a sweet curl of anticipation licked at his mind as he contemplated the man's punishment.

The man, unknowing and uncaring of his fate, tipped his head back as he raised the cigarette to his mouth. His eyes slipped shut in reflex as he sucked in the cancerous fumes of the death stick, and the Hunter smiled at the rightness of it. Yes, he thought, as his blade slid smoothly through the tissue of the man's throat. Yes, do that -- breathe in death, with your last breath of life.

Seconds later the Hunter was moving around the camp, unseen by the few tired guards as he blended from shadow to shadow. Three more prey were dealt with as the first had been, the Hunter careful to stick to the outer edge of the clearing as he secured the perimeter. The only mark of his passage were a few clumps of dead leaves tossed over fresh dirt, as small claymore mines were planted every few meters along his route.

Of the corpses he left behind, no sign could be seen.

At last the perimeter was his, and the Hunter ducked further into the camp. The large black helicopter slept benignly on its landing pad, no guard bothering to pay it any attention. The Hunter looked at it, then smiled wickedly. Perhaps, he granted, it could indeed be of some use, and he set about his task as silently as he'd done everything else.

Calling upon every ounce of stealth he'd ever possessed, the Hunter worked his way cautiously to the door of the larger of the two buildings. An earlier cursory examination had revealed that the smaller metal building was merely a glorified storage shed for the camp's few all-terrain vehicles. The General's office, soldier's barracks, ammunitions depot, and everything else were housed in the more sturdy weather-proof structure.

The Hunter knew that was where the objective could be found, no doubt right along side the target.

He didn't mind. He was, in fact, quite looking forward to it. The target had escaped him once; the only prey ever to have done so. The Hunter was eager to wipe that blotch off his perfect record.

That to do so meant wiping the target off the face of the Earth was merely icing on the proverbial cake.

Slowly, carefully, the Hunter eased the door open, conscious of the possibility -- however remote -- of it being wired with an alarm. Thankfully it was not, and the Hunter was able to slip into the dark recesses of the empty corridor. He paused for a heartbeat, then headed determinedly down the hall to his right. It headed inward to where both the objective and the target were likely to be hidden within the deepest most protected part of the building.

It took long tense minutes for the Hunter to work his way through the dark corridors. He adjusted his course to avoid the sleeping quarters as a matter of course, and had to time his passage carefully when sneaking past the mess hall that was just opening in preparation for the morning duty shift. Even at this hour, it would be active enough to pose a threat of discovery if he were seen. Less than a half-hour later, the entire base would be active enough to guarantee discovery. Time was running out, the Hunter would have to move fast as soon as he reached the objective.

Finally he found the way to one of his goals. Standing at the intersection of two corridors, the Hunter cautiously peered round the corners to see two guards posted outside a door. They were standing stiffly, giving the appearance of alertness, but the Hunter could see the fatigue in their eyes. These men were tired, he realized in satisfaction. Good, it meant their attention might not be as focused as they were trying to project.

Looking carefully around, the Hunter double-checked the tenuous security of his position while he tried to work out a plan. Lax as the guards were, the door they stood sentry in front of was too exposed for him to approach unseen. No, he would need a less direct method of attack. But how? Disguise or distraction? Looking back down the hallway he'd just come from the Hunter smiled as inspiration struck.

In his thorough inspection of the enemy fortress, a small closet bearing some useful odds and ends had been noted. It was this the Hunter headed for, easing the door open and slipping into the tiny space with barely a whisper of sound. Stacked away in the dark confines were several spare BDUs, the dark camouflaged fatigues a match to those worn by the prey. The Hunter reached for one, determined to accomplish his task and retreat as quickly as possible.

Dressed in the enemy's apparel, the Hunter prepared to put his plan into action. Drawing in a deep breath, his hand had barely touched the doorknob when the scent registered. The Hunter paused, nostrils flaring as he sucked in more air, seeking to analyze the disturbingly familiar tang. Hs eyes widened as he identified the strange mix of odors, then he bared his teeth and suppressed the curl of rage that flamed up inside him.

Blood, he smelt. Blood, and sweat, and vomit, and other unsavory body odors. And underlying it all, the scent of pain.

The objective had been here. Had, if the Hunter's senses could be believed, spent considerable time within these tiny, filthy walls. And he had been injured while doing it, his suffering no doubt only increased by the cramped conditions.

The objective had been tortured -- in more ways than one.

A growl built in his throat, but he swallowed it before it could be loosed. Teeth clenched to not give away his position, the Hunter took the evidence of the miniscule confines of the room into account and added them to the charges mentally being laid against the target.

The target would be repaid for every ounce of suffering he had caused.

A quick check left and right assured the Hunter the way was clear, and he slipped from the tiny torture chamber. Casually, assuming the demeanor he'd observed of his prey, he approached his first mark.

"Morning, boys," he drawled, consciously keeping the accent from his voice. "Been a long night?"

The weary guards barely glanced at him, the stolen BDUs serving their purpose with distinction.

"Hell, yeah," complained one guard. "Don't know why the General has us on such tight security. It's not as if anyone's gonna find this place, let alone get close enough to effect a rescue."

The other guard snorted tiredly. "Hell, who'd wanna rescue this guy anyway?" he asked, chucking his thumb over his shoulder in indication. "Asshole's almost meaner and colder than the General is. Didn't even cry out when Bennett was beatin' him. Shit! I heard he actually tried to take a bite out of the Major when he got too close to his face."

The Hunter nodded sympathetically, miming a wince. "Man's got balls of steel, that's for sure."

"Pullin' shit like that while the General's around? He's nuts." The first guard opined.

"The General around right now?" The Hunter inquired mildly, face partially turned away so as not to appear too interested in the answer.

"Nah, gave up trying to provoke a response just after midnight. Jerk was too drugged to pay attention anyway. He left orders that he'd be back after 0700, but by then it'll be Rickets and Holmes' watch and I'll be enjoying my beauty sleep."

"Not that you'll get enough to help you, Payton!" His buddy laughed.

The Hunter grinned, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Oh," he said, reaching for the nearest guard, "I think you'll be gettin' lots of rest from now on."

The bodies fittingly disposed of in the small hall closet, the Hunter opened his kit and set to work unlocking the objective's cell door. Soon enough he heard the tell-tale click that signaled his success. Moving quickly but silently, he slipped inside.

The cell was dark, pitch black dark. The door must be sealed better than he'd first thought, the Hunter realized. Still, it was no matter. Withdrawing a small tool from one of his flakvest's pockets, the Hunter turned on the little light and panned it about the empty room. Reinforced steel walls surrounded the cell. The only imperfection in the dull cement flooring was the stream of red liquid dripping from the pool underneath the room's sole occupant into the conveniently placed drain nearby. A single metal chair sat in the center of the dank place, an island in the pool of drying blood, upon which the exposed objective was securely tied.

The objective found, the Hunter sat back to let Vin Tanner work.

"Well, fuck," Vin whispered softly, playing his penlight over Nick MacKenzie's face, "Devil sure did make a mess of you, didn't he?"

"took you long enough, tan--ner…"

He was startled when he got an answer, weakly spoken though it may be. The Ghost looked like he shouldn't have been conscious, much less aware and talking. But then, Vin shouldn't have been surprised. The Ghost, like the Hunter, had reserves so deep it was not inconceivable he'd still show some strength.

"I wouldn't be complainin' 'bout your rescue if'n I was you," Tanner joked lightly. He surveyed the tortured man under the narrow beam of the light. "Damn, MacKenzie… you stink."

"Let's see how you smell after spending -- how many days?"

"Um, four or five I think." Vin supplied.

"--four or five days with Nash and his sadistic flunkies," Nick finished, coughing shallowly in the way he'd learned caused less aggravation to his injuries.

"No thanks, had enough of that in my youth. So did you, as I recall. So let's get ya out of here before either of us has to spend anymore time with the Devil, eh?" Vin moved forward to begin the delicate process of untying the man. "God, where's all this blood comin' from?" he asked as he knelt.

"You haven't seen my back, yet," the Ghost said grimly.

Instantly, Vin swung the pen light up from the floor to focus on the man's naked chest, as if he could see right through it to his back. But it didn't matter. The sight the narrow beam revealed was enough to give him a pretty good idea of just what kind of damage had been done. Fine red lines, swollen and encrusted with drying blood, decorated the muscular frame in a criss-crossing pattern of pain. Vin took one look and swore.

"If your back's anything like your front, nevermind. What was it? A whip?"

"Hell, no. Using a whip takes skill, this guy didn't have any. Used a goddamned filament of wire -- copper wire!" The Ghost sounded personally offended.

Vin grimaced. "His incompetence probably saved your life. Though it beats me how he got past the General, if that's the case. Devil's standards ain't usually that low," he commented dryly, choosing his first target. "Anything broken?" he asked, as he slit the too-tight plasticuffs from Nick's wrists.

Nick's jaw clenched as a new wave of agony washed over him with the return to normal blood flow, and it was a moment before he could answer. "Yesss… ah! Third and fourth ribs are at least fractured, in not broken. Left hand -- three fingers; right forearm -- ulna bone; and I'm pretty sure my nose too."

Vin quirked an eyebrow at the recitation. "Nothin' below the waist?"

"Didn't get that far. Was working through me syst--systematically. Left my legs for next week."

"Lucky you." Vin bent to pick the lock on the manacles chaining those legs to the floor. "Means ya can still run."

"Don't think I could even walk, Hunter. Nash has been developing his latest batch of field sedatives. He 'elected' to use me as his guinea pig. Can barely move a muscle, but otherwise there is no interference with the nervous system."

"Didn't want ya to miss any of the fun, huh?"

"Wanted to hear me scream."

Vin chuckled darkly. "So I heard. Only you ain't been cooperatin' have ya, Nick? Still the same old stubborn bastard." He shook his head fondly. "Reckon I got something that'll make ya feel better," he said, unfurling his hand to reveal the syringe full of cloudy blue fluid.

Nash could just barely make it out in the dark, but he knew without seeing exactly what it was. "Came prepared, didn't you?" he gasped, feeling the sting of the needle and the burn of the specially formulated stimulant being injected into his sluggish bloodstream.

"You know me," Vin shrugged.

Nick blinked. "Karr make you take it?"

White teeth flashed as Tanner grinned in response. Nick grunted, reluctantly amused.

Vin went back to work. "You got a good pard there, MacKenzie. Smart and tough, just like you. 'Course, he could use a new paint job…"

"He okay?" Nick asked, ignoring the pain as the manacles were pealed from his bloody ankles.

"Didn't kill nobody, if that's what ya mean. But I wouldn't wanna rile 'im up any. There, free at last." Vin stood. "How ya doin'?"

MacKenzie closed his eyes and concentrated, hoping the stimulant had had enough time to counteract the drug the General had given him. Slowly, painfully, he felt the first stirrings of response from his messed up nervous system -- he curled his toes.

Vin had been watching intently. "Good," he approved, "now let's get ya on yer feet and outta here."

"Why the hurry?" a sinister voice purred from behind them.

The Hunter froze in surprise, whirling to face one of his greatest nightmares. His penlight didn't illuminate much, but it was enough for Tanner to see the faintly amused eyes staring down at him.

"How--?" he opened his mouth to ask how the Devil had entered without him noticing, but Nash beat him to it first.

Unseen in the darkness, the General flicked his hand against the wall and the room was instantly bathed in a harsh white light. Nick moaned at the sudden flare of brightness, Tanner merely blinked twice without breaking his gaze.

Smiling, taking in everything at a glance, the General waved behind him to the hidden door melded seamlessly into one corner of the room. "My private entrance," he said magnanimously. "It leads to my quarters. I like to come in every now and then and spend some time just visiting with my prodigal son."

"He ain't your son." The Hunter growled.

Nash ignored him. "When you entered by the main door, you triggered a silent alarm in my room. I have to admit, I am a bit surprised. I was expecting Nicholas' friend, Mr. Knight, but there's something familiar about you. Have we met?"

There was no way in Hell Tanner was gonna answer that question.

But he didn't need to, because a moment later the General's eyes widened as recognition struck. Before Tanner could react, the mean old bastard smiled with honest pleasure. That his pleasure was as sadistic as it could get was irrelevant; he was honest about it.

"Well, well, well…" Nash muttered softly. "What an unexpected surprise." His eyes roved up and down the sharpshooter's body, the sharp gaze missing nothing as he catalogued the changes since last he'd seen the young man.

Slowly circling the wary Texan and beaten prisoner, Nash looked on with mounting joy at his unpredicted good fortune. "The Hunter and the Ghost, together again. How intriguing. I admit that I did not foresee this development. You'll have to excuse my lack of hospitality, I was not prepared for your arrival."

Glaring as the arrogant Devil spoke as though he were a guest at some fancy resort instead of a new prisoner for him to get his kicks out of torturing, Vin refused to rise to the bait. He stayed silent; his only response to shift the pack of supplies on his shoulder so he'd have his gun-hand free.

Smiling calmly as he observed the motion and easily recognizing its significance, Nash grinned broader. It would seem his wayward Hunter still retained the valuable skills the General had so painstakingly drilled into him as a child. Not that Nash expected anything less; his training was nothing if not thorough. All of his chosen soldiers became experts in their fields, their deadly responses ingrained from childhood to the point of instinct -- or they died for their failure. The General tolerated nothing less than greatness in his cadre of spies and assassins.

The question, however, was if the Hunter was still the same killer he'd groomed or if, like the Ghost, he'd foolishly gone and developed a conscience.

Looking at the fierce Texan now, taking into account that he'd heard nothing of the Hunter's exploits in years -- had, in fact, believed the sniper dead -- , he had to conclude it was a distinct possibility. He read nothing from the fact that Vincent was attempting to rescue Nicholas. It was almost to be expected. His trainees, while taught to be loyal, had all hated him. That they would band together against him was regrettable but not unprecedented. After all, that was the only way they had managed to remove him from his unquestioned seat of underworld power in the first place.

He still owed them for that.

But he didn't really want to kill either Vincent or Nicholas. They'd been two of his best graduates; the Hunter's lethal accuracy with a rifle unequalled by any other, and the Ghost's abilities with computers exceeded any expectations he could have had. He would like nothing more than to turn them back into his service.

Or else…

"Are you telling me," Larabee growled menacingly, "that Vin Tanner is an assassin?"

"No."

Chris and the boys sighed in relief.

"He was an assassin," Karr continued. "He has not, to my knowledge, engaged in that activity for many years."

"How many?" Josiah asked calmly, laying a hand on his leader's shoulder.

"Assuming he ceased Hunting with General Nash's original defeat… eight years."

"Eight years! But he's only 29 years old now! He wouldn't have been much more than a kid!" Buck scoffed.

"My records show that your comrade, Agent Dunne, began his career with you at 21 years of age."

"Exactly!" Buck crowed triumphantly, glad to have spotted the flaw in the computer's argument. "JD started at 21! There's no way Vin could have been an assassin, he would have only been a teenager."

"And your point is?" Karr asked flatly.

Buck's jaw dropped. "You're telling me that Vin, our Vin -- the skinny little Texan that blushes to his roots if a girl smiles at him -- killed people when he was a child?!"

"Yes." The AI's emotionless tone leant weight to the statement, making it sound as if any other possibility would be frankly ridiculous.

By now, Josiah had planted both his massive hands onto Chris Larabee's shoulders and was literally holding enraged man at bay. The blazing glare coming from his eyes should have been enough to incinerate the AI where he parked -- might have, had the Stealth not had the MBS shielding. The others weren't fairing much better. JD and Ezra had a grip on each of Buck's arms to keep the big fellow from doing anything rash, although JD looked so stunned his wide brown eyes all but dominated his pale face. Ezra's handsome features were twisted into a grimace, his usual poker face unable to cope with such startling information. Only Nathan managed to maintain some composure, founded though it was on his complete and total inability to absorb what he was being told.

"So if he was an assassin," Nathan asked, ignoring the issue of age and trying to be the voice of reason. "How did he ever pass the government background check to get hired by the ATF?"

"Nick created a false history that was sufficient for Mr. Tanner to be accepted into the ATF as he so desired. The 'government'," Karr sneered, "is easily circumvented. An expert hacker like Nick had no trouble ensuring Tanner's true past remained undiscovered."

"What about his time in the military?"

"That was legit. Tanner's days as an Army Ranger, and Nick's in the CIA, we're both official covers for their true positions within the General's Project Phoenix. The records exist because they truly did serve their duty -- if not in the exact capacity so assumed. When the Project was abolished and its soldiers released upon the world, many were required to create new files. Tanner had no need to do so until he chose to join your ATF team. Then because as capable as Mr. Tanner is, he does not have the necessary technical skills for such an undertaking, Nick agreed to do it for him."

Chris scowled. "If this MacKenzie is as much of a ruthless bastard as you've painted him to be, why would he help Vin by doing that?"

"As a favor. Mr. Tanner is a valuable ally with useful skills of exceptional quality," Karr answered, disdain for the question's stupidity (or perhaps for the man asking it) clear in his voice. "Doing so established Mr. Tanner in Nick's debt; his services to be called upon whenever necessary."

Michael cocked his head curiously. "Was the favor ever returned?"

Karr hesitated. "Yes." In fact, it was during that incident that Tanner had learned of the alternate driver and AI team Wilton Knight had created for FLAG. Though Karr was not entirely sure he wanted Michael Knight or Kitt to know about it.

Alex was suddenly interested. She hadn't heard about this before. "Oh, when?"

Karr was quiet for a long moment, weighing the risk of answering. Finally, discomfort clear in his voice, he said: "When you were shot by Shawna Winterchild."

Alex gasped. "Vin killed Shawna?!" She'd always assumed Nick had stopped the madwoman, though he'd never confirmed it one way or another.

"No," Karr assured quickly. "He was assigned to guard Knight as he in turn guarded you in the hospital. At the time, Nick still believed someone was targeting those associated with him. He could not run the risk of failure again. But hunting Shawna himself, he was unavailable to protect anyone else. He had faith in Knight's ability to protect you, Alex, but feared for Knight himself. He enlisted Mr. Tanner's aid in that duty. Knight was not aware of the protection."

"He is now!" Michael declared, irrationally angry over something that had occurred almost two years ago.

"That is irrelevant."

"Irrelevant!" Michael raged. "Like hell it is! I'm a grown man, I've been looking after myself for years! I don't need Nick's protection! And I sure as hell don't need a goddamn bodyguard!"

Karr did not respond.

<_He's right, you know, Kitt reproached gently. Then he smiled down the link to his brother. <_But I thank both you and Nick for looking out for him. We appreciate that you care, but you can't keep treating us like glass. We won't break, he admonished.

<_I know, Karr sighed. <_But you and Knight are far more valuable than we are. We cannot just stand by and allow danger to befall you. It is our duty to protect you.

<_It is not! Kitt returned hotly, upset by his brother's self-condemning words. <_You are no less worthy than us, Karr! We are no better than you; you and Nick are no worse than us!

Karr's dark presence sat silently, refuting the argument simply by ignoring it.

Kitt snaked a bright tendril through his CPU towards his brother, and when he was close enough to touch the inky blackness, whipped out and slapped him. Karr jolted, surprised but unhurt.

<_You and Nick are not sacrifices for our survival! You are our friends! The younger AI declared righteously, his normally light white soul flashing blindingly bright in emphasis. <_You are my brother! If anything, we protect each other!

Karr seemed taken aback at the emotion in Kitt's voice, feeling the mixed power of his brother's love and anger washing over him from the link. But underneath the anger, Karr also felt the fear. Fear for him. Fear that Kitt would lose his brother and suddenly be the only sentient AI in the world. Fear of being unique once more in a world of mortal humans. Fear of being alone.

And suddenly Karr understood.

He enfolded his brother's white essence in his black one, surrounding the younger AI with his own love and fierce protectiveness. <_You will never be alone, Kitt, he proclaimed resolutely, directing Kitt's attention to his primary link -- the one that led to the warm amber presence that was Michael Knight. Karr looked back at his own primary link. His partner's cool blue presence was hidden by the block he could not yet lower. Not until he was given permission.

Reaching out to run a tendril over that barrier, wishing he was soothing the worn soul of his partner, Karr smiled without so much as a touch of his customary darkness. <_Neither of us will ever be alone again.

"All I have to do is call out, and my guards will come running," the General warned.

The Hunter smiled mildly. "What guards?"

Nash froze, then his lips peeled back to match the smile of the predator poised before him. "Oh, you are good," he breathed admiringly, and was pleased to see the flash of anger his praise generated.

"But then, I knew that already," the General continued, his dark gaze searing into the Hunter's cold blue eyes. "After all, I trained you to be the best. You and him," he waved a negligent hand at the beaten man slumped in the room's only piece of furniture. "You were my prized creations, you and the others like you. The most elite, highly trained, lethal force in existence. You were meant for great things, Vincent. Greater than your wildest imaginations…"

"'Great things?'" Tanner mocked contemptuously. "Imaginations? What imaginations?! You turned us into mindless machines! We weren't allowed to have imaginations! All we knew was what you taught us; all we knew was killin'!"

"Yes! Don't you see?" Nash enthused, unfazed by the Texan's instinctive retreat as he approached. "You had control over life and death! You--"

"Had nothing!"

Tanner loosed a howl of rage and lunged at the grey-haired Devil. Nash grinned condescendingly even as he side-stepped the sloppy attack.

"Honestly, Vincent!" he barked reproachfully. "Surely I taught you better than to telegraph your moves! Emotions, you see. That's your weakness; Nicholas', too. Emotions make you vulnerable, predictable -- they take away the edge that makes you the top predators in a sea of killers. Emotions make you sloppy!"

Breathing hard, glaring fiercely, the Hunter scowled angrily at his ex-commander. Then, so unexpectedly that Nash actually paused in confusion, Vin Tanner suddenly smiled.

"Maybe so," Tanner allowed, his smile growing, "but sometimes they give us just the strength we need to take you down."

"Wha--?" Even as the General began to speak, he recognized the danger. He started to turn, realizing he'd put his back to the downed Ghost. Drugged, beaten, and broken or not -- Nicholas had been trained to fight no matter what. And he had excelled in that training.

But it was too late that Nash remembered that for his students, down did not mean out. A bruised and bloody forearm caught him in a chokehold, the manic strength of the grip belying the weakened state of the man applying it. Nash struggled instinctively, pulling every trick he could think of and failing each time. He'd trained his opponent, after all. Nicholas knew all his moves and could counter every one -- and even though the Ghost was weakened by days of torture, the General was more than twice his age and feeling every year.

"No," Nash gasped, "you won't win again!" I won't let you, he thought, and suddenly remembered the remote in his pocket. Even as he upped his struggles, he closed his hand about his final solution -- and pressed the button.

Fighting not only to keep his hold on his enemy but to stay awake, Nick was half-tempted to scream if he could only catch his breath. Instead, he could not even manage to produce a whisper of sound. All he could do was lance his eyes into Tanner's, and hope the man caught the message in time.

Vin did, and even as Nash managed to break free of Nick's failing grip, the Texan was leaping across the space between them to land a solid blow to the General's temple. Nash dropped immediately, his dead weight pulling an exhausted Nick down with him. The action caused the innocent-looking device in Nash's hand to fall into view.

"Wha--" Nick wheezed, then swallowed to moisten his aching throat, "is it?"

Vin picked up the little black cylinder and almost immediately knew what it meant. The flashing countdown on the side just re-enforced that assessment. He tossed the detonator aside, swearing.

"Shit! C'mon, MacKenzie!" Vin grabbed an elbow and heaved. "That sonuvabitch Devil has gone and fuckin' rigged the place to blow! We got less than five minutes -- move it!"

"I thought you said you killed all the guards!" Nick hissed irritably, his numerous injuries protesting the diving roll he made to avoid the automatic weapons fire strafing the air where his head had been a moment before. He could only hope the move hadn't worsened anything.

Pulling out of his own smoother roll and into a crouch to return fire, Vin didn't even bother to look at the older operative as he hissed back. "I was bluffing!"

"Toss me a gun! And what do you mean 'bluffing'?!"

Vin threw him one of the Glocks and two cartridges. "Bluffing! As in lying; not telling the truth; fuckin' makin' shit up! Got a problem with that?!"

"Considering your 'bluffing' has us trapped behind a metal shed under heavy fire in a compound due to explode any minute," Nick pumped off a quick series of rounds, feeling a flare of satisfaction as he watch three mercenaries fall, "YES!"

"Well fine!" Vin ranted, digging through his bag of toys. "Maybe next time I'll jist leave yer sorry ungrateful ass in the Devil's clutches and," he hurled a grenade at a group of soldiers, "leave ya ta rot!"

Nick ducked as the grenade blew, the percussive force of the blast sending a spray of debris his way.

"Hey, watch it! I'm battered enough as it is, Hunter!"

"Hell, if all yer gonna do is complain…" Vin squeezed off a few more rounds, making sure the remaining mercenaries kept their heads down as he shifted his attention between them and the leather bag at his feet. "I got better things ta do than hang around here and play!"

Nick turned at that, his eyes lighting up in pleasure as saw the device in the Hunter's hands.

"What the hell are you waiting for?!" he demanded. "Punch it!"

Tanner tossed him a sardonic look. "Sir! Yes, sir!" he mocked, depressing his thumb on the first of the claymores' triggers.

Behind the line of surviving mercenaries, a series of small but powerful explosions blew one by one as Vin cued them. The soldiers were thrown forward with each blast, until they were forced out from the trees they were sheltering behind. Out of options, the mercenaries dashed towards the only other source of cover in the entire clearing -- the hulking form of the helicopter.

MacKenzie swore as he lost sight of his targets. "Now what?!"

"Did I say I was done?" Vin returned calmly.

Nick looked to see he still had one explosive left to trigger. "What? Did you plant a mine under the chopper?"

"Nope," Vin grinned, "I planted the claymore in a pile of semtex, and jammed that inside the chopper."

"Ooh," Nick exclaimed appreciatively. "Lemme?"

Tanner passed him the detonator, and Nick bared his teeth as he slammed the button. An explosion louder than all the others crashed into their eardrums, and the huge fireball that formed seemed to suck the air right out of their lungs. The boys watched it soar into the sky, the smoky plume commanding all attention. They turned and grinned at one another, two predators appreciating the fit ending to the hunt, then they were running in the opposite direction.

As satisfyingly pretty as the explosion was, it was guaranteed to be small piddles compared to the one coming up. And they had no intention of being stuck in the middle of that!

It wasn't until they were already clear that either of them remembered that they'd left Nash behind -- alive. Together they looked back at the burning camp, then at each other.

"Maybe…" Vin offered hesitantly, and Nick nodded tiredly.

"Maybe," he agreed. But he didn't think so. Looking at the Texan beside him, he knew Tanner didn't either.

The Devil hadn't died that day. They knew they'd be seeing General Jackson Nash again. It was inevitable.

It was their destiny.