Upon arriving at busy intersection before the Yard, Xena tossed a few bills to the driver and stood there for several moments as she attempted to get her bearings. She knew where she was, at least geographically, but hadn't the foggiest idea why she'd decided on this location. Some sense of duty to the deceased Sargent Mallory, she supposed.

The idea of speaking to Hopper again promptly brought her back to certain key realities that needed to be addressed. Like what in hell was she going to say to him? Her mind quickly played out the course of such a conversation: "I'm sorry about your subordinate, Inspector. How do I know about it? I was there, you see, and suspect the men shooting at us at the time were in fact trying to kill me instead. I actually got hit a few times and was tossed into the river if that makes you feel any better. Want to see the exit wounds?"

The warrior snorted aloud and stalked towards the Headquarters' entrance anyway. At the very least she could file a missing person's report on her bacchae and hand it in personally. She was sure she'd have a better idea what to do next by then.

As is the way of a universe which thrives on irony, the warrior had only just entered the building when a Jaguar rounded the corner and paused the building directly across the street. A tall figure dressed in gray suit and black shirt entered it. Only a moment later, a darting figure with strawberry blond hair moved into view and flagged down a taxi, which followed the departing sports car.

Dour and intense as he often appeared, it was easy to think Enzo Del Turo as humorless as the average stone. The way he was frowning, deeply and his jaws clenched tight, as he watched O'Donhugh make his was across the main concourse of Victoria Station, having just returned from "brunch", would have reinforced such notions, at least at first glance. Closer examination would have noted how the cords in his neck and jaw were flexing tightly, and how his 'frown' actually twisted this way and that, as though the corners of his mouth were trying to move upwards of their own accord.

It was the frown of one trying very, very hard not to laugh themselves hoarse.

The source of his not-so-secret hilarity was the way his elder brother was walking, with spine perfectly erect and now sporting a very slight limp on his right side. His entire stride was stiff and overly-controlled, in fact; it was the walk of one who was in desperate need of decent chiropractor and osteopath. Enzo let himself think for a moment what kind of damage this "brunch" had done to him, more specifically how it had been done, and immediately banished all such thoughts from his mind. This was a public place, after all. No point in embarrassing them both.

O'Donhugh didn't so much as nod at his cousin as he walked past, save to growl "Not a bloody word, Del Turo!" Enzo continued frowning and not-laughing as they made their way to the exit, trailing close behind the older man as he marched on with great dignity and stature.

They quickly made their way to the Jaguar, Enzo’s control soon reaching its threshold as O’Donhugh visibly winced as he climbed into the passenger’s side, his eyes going wide and lips depressing into a firm line as he sat down. It was all the younger man could do not to burst out laughing at how his sibling fairly trembled with unvoiced screams and what were doubtlessly very unpleasant declarations.

"Where to?" the younger man asked.

"Back to the flat," O'Donhugh replied tightly. "I need to speak with the Sargent Major."

They were on the road when Enzo finally broke down and asked "So, how was brunch?" He'd timed this well, knowing O'Donhugh wouldn't dare do anything once he was behind the wheel, no matter how furious he might be. Not surprisingly, it took several deep breaths before O'Donhugh was calm enough to try answering.

"Fine," he said. Taking an additional breath he elaborated "We had a very nice, very civil, very tense meal and then went back to her place and worked out our…er, frustrations…in the sitting room."

It took a supreme act of will for Enzo not to spin in shock at this declaration. "What, not in the bedroom?" he asked in a reasonably calm voice, joking demeanor gone.

O'Donhugh's voice remained as flat as ever. "Neither of us are that suicidal, Enzo." Not knowing what to say to this, Enzo kept quiet and continued watching the road, rightly sensing there was more waiting to be said. After a few additional miles, O'Donhugh added "She's coming to Janie's birthday party next month."

This time Enzo nearly swerved into the neighboring lane, causing a series of car horns to honk at them in outrage. "What about the…?"

"Her too."

"Christ on a cross!"

Now O'Donhugh did smile. "That's what she said." Enzo only shook his head. It was well known to the rest of their family how the former Mrs. O'Donhugh harbored a hatred for all things relating to her ex-husband that bordered on the pathological. Oddly, this didn't stop her from frequently having lunch or confiding with most of the rest of them, the former usually at her own expense while the latter avoided any mention of their eldest relation, save for repeated questions concerning young Janie. It made of tense discussions at times, and speculation aplenty among the siblings concerning the real feelings involved. All of which made her coming to next month's celebration all the more unusual, if not actually rather unnerving.

The car's mobile phone chose that moment to ring. O'Donhugh gave it a scowl, but made no move towards it. Enzo sighed and picked it up himself. "Yes?" asked into the receiver, remaining poker faced as he listened. He let the phone fall back to its cradle and glanced over at his passenger as he switched lanes and took a new direction, aiming them towards Grovesnor.

His sole explanation: "You will never guess who is using Aunt Cora's spare room and shower right now."

The spray was surprisingly strong, and the water temperature just a shade below boiling. Several shades actually, but Rickie needed to feel warm and safe right then, and in the absence of a certain warrior's powerful arms she'd often found a steaming shower was the next best thing. Under such conditions her mind would often wander to other times, and other showers spent in the company of that same certain warrior, the memories leaving her feeling far warmer than the water might manage alone.

That morning, however, her hands moved mechanically through the process of washing and rinsing, repeating the actions before she even realized it. Ducking her head under the stream once more before shutting off the water, Rickie then stepped out from behind the curtain ringing the long bathtub and began wiping herself down with the thick towel she had brought with her into the WC. These, too, were mechanical movements, the task long finished before she stopped and reached for her clothes. Where usually both the shower and drying off would lead to wandering thoughts of other times, when the same activities would lead to other, more memorable activities in another's company.

Such concerns were about as distant from her thoughts as the city of London is from the star Alpha Centauri. Her mind was not of past liaisons or pleasures. Rather her thoughts focused wholly and solely upon what she might do to find her warrior. Her options on that score, unfortunately, came up short time and again.

It wasn't as though she didn't have experience to fall back upon. That nightmare in Munich notwithstanding, there had been a time or three when Xena had simply dropped from sight, whether on an undercover snoop job or simply because she'd been 'killed', leaving it to Rickie to trace her steps and find her. Xena was understandably was less than pleased with this, particularly as she never failed to happen along right when things got intense and bloody. For Rickie, such things were practically par for the course, careful not to examine too closely the implications of her non-plussed attitude towards these violent episodes.

Unlike Portland, unfortunately, she didn't have nearly the web of contacts here in London. Her avenues of inquiry were therefore extremely limited. This left more unconventional avenues. And right then, she would quite happily dismantle this entire city, brick by brick, if such was required to find her warrior.

Dressing back in her jeans and tanktop, Rickie returned to the bedroom where she found her jacket and boots waiting for her. Alongside them was the kitten who gave her such a rude awakening earlier that day. The small animal rolled over onto its stomach and looked up at her with bright and trusting eyes. "Meow?" it purred at the sight of her.

"Do I know you?" she asked as she plucked her jacket off the chair. The kitten waved a paw towards her in reply.

Rickie simply rolled her eyes and picked up the small form, which began twisting this way and that, its small face the picture of feline delight. She continued holding the kitten close as she stepped into her boots and began lacing them up, then temporarily deposited the kitten in her lap as she tied the knots. This done, the kitten found itself perched on her shoulder (with a hand on its back ensuring it didn't loose its place) as Rickie picked up her jacket and headed downstairs.

She found Cora in the kitchen, who was muttering into a cordless phone as she entered. "Hmm. Right. Cheers." She put the phone on the counter and turned to face her guest. "Good news. I've an acquaintance coming over who can be of some help."

"Oh?" For some reason, Rickie was not encouraged by this. The kitten leapt off her shoulder and sauntered across the counter to where Cora had set out a saucer of milk for it. It lapped at the creamy liquid while slewing eyes between the two women.

Sensing her worry, Cora smiled reassuringly and said "Oh, don't worry. He's the sort who wouldn't believe a genuine miracle if it came up and bit him on the nose. Diehard pragmatist to his shoelaces."

"Nuh-huh. And how exactly does a," she mimicked quotation marks, "'diehard pragmatist' help us?"

"Apart from the fact certain high-ranking members of both parties owe him favors…and several of the local underworld owe him their first born?"

"Knows everybody and everything, huh? What is he? A gangster? A government spook?"

"Good lord, no. Just a bloke who knows people."

Rickie looked even more uncomfortable now. "I dunno, Cora. Xena likes to keep a low-profile, y'know? And she really hates having to…well, owe anybody."

"So does he." The phone in the office-stroke-sitting room a few doors down rang. "Ugh. I need to get that. Official business, you know," Cora excused herself, missing how Rickie glanced at the still-silent mobile nearby.

"Sure," Rickie muttered, distracted as she felt her hackles rising for seeming no reason. The kitten, apparently having quickly had its fill of the milk, took to shadowing her back-and-forth wanderings near the counter. She absently scratched its neck as she paced, mind turning words and events over and over.

"I'm missing something, aren't I?" she asked the kitten, who was trying to stand on its hind legs, reaching up towards her with its front paws outstretched. Rickie picked up its small frame and cradled it to her. It purred loudly in pleasure, the miniature vibrations giving her some measure of comfort. Rickie looked once more at the mobile, turning her eyes at the door Cora had exited through, then back to the phone. Some part of her rebelled against just the thought of listening in upon her friend's phone calls. Cora hadn't demanded or pressed her in the least despite the god-awful hour she'd stumbled in at. So what she was contemplating was bad manners at best, and downright ingratitude at worst.

Still, there was nothing wrong with just a quick check was there? Just to make sure it wasn't anything important?

"I'm not crazy, right?" she asked the cat, who yawned widely and snuggled deeper against her. "Right." Rickie nodded and picked up the mobile with the greatest care. Holding it to her ear, she hit the power button with her thumb, ready to press it again at the first sound of the peer's voice.

There was only silence met her ear. Not even a dial-tone could be heard.

Confused, Rickie set the mobile back on the counter and tried once more to make sense of a universe gone insane about her. "Okay, breathe, Dreamer. Breathe," she heard her voice counsel, not knowing for the life of her where the advice was coming from. The kitten let loose an indignant yelp as her arms tightened reflexively around herself, unintentionally squeezing its small body. It squirmed out from her grip and sat on the countertop, watching her curiously as she unconsciously addressed her thoughts aloud.

"Okay," Rickie muttered, more to herself than the animal watching her so closely. "Okay. Cora didn't lie to us. Why would she lie to us, huh?" The kitten entered a silent plea of 'no comment' to her deliberations. "She doesn't have any reason to lie…so why is she? She's lying. She's got to have a reason to lie to us." Snatching up the tiny animal once more, Rickie moved out of the kitchen, determined to seek out her hostess and let her have whatfor. What this might accomplish was quite beyond her, so Rickie didn't think about it.

Unfortunately, Rickie soon found her haste had caused her to take a wrong turn somewhere between the office and kitchen, and she found herself in the elegant dining room. She looked about quickly for the way she had come in, only to become more confused as she nearly begun spinning in place. This caused the kitten to yowl again, its distress forcing Rickie to collect herself and think of something other than her silent mantra of she lied she lied. The nearest window faced out into the street, with a few short trees and shrubbery just beyond the glass. Rickie wandered over to it, hoping a change of scenery would help her think.

She saw a sports car coming to a halt opposite the front door. Rickie vaguely recognized it as a Jaguar, remembering some of her 'sources' driving such cars a lifetime ago as a sign of their prosperity, even though the upkeep on them was easily twice as expensive as the cars themselves. Rickie was about to look away when its passengers exited and stood in full view. Her eyes went painfully wide, glued to the sight.

It was the Goatee and the Gray Man (Jonothan O'Donhugh her mind supplied) from the club. Both looked every bit as dangerous and murderous as the previous night.

And both were crossing the street…coming directly to the house!

Rickie was sprinting out of the room before they had made it even half-way across the empty street, thoughts once more clearly focused, this time on hiding and (gods willing) escape. The kitten purred once more, quite content and actually enjoying this high-speed conveyance. It purred still louder when it was once more dumped with little ceremony into an inner pocket of the blonde's jacket.

Rickie didn't hear it, concentrating instead upon finding the darkest corner in the deepest bowls of the house. She heard nothing save the triple hammer beat of her heart…and the sounds of phantom glass breaking under a dark man's attack.

All thoughts of a quiet escape fled when her sharp ears caught the gentle rapping of knuckles against the wood of the front door. She all but leapt through the first door that didn't lead to another room or hallway just as the front door creaked open.

Ironically enough, she found herself in a small WC, with barely enough room to turn around and lock the door behind her, the toilet and small sink taking up nearly all available room. There was, however, one saving virtue to the place: a window directly above the toilet, its shutter already partially open but not quite widely enough to allow to out. Remembering they were on the ground floor, and praying rather desperately Cora wasn't the sort to go into gardening, Rickie immediately set about trying to wrestle the frame up and get herself out of there.

There were voices, both familiar and unfamiliar in the hall outside the door. She couldn't make out exact words, and didn't even try. One of them, Cora's, called out "Rickie?"

She had bite her tongue to keep quiet.

"Rickie?" Cora tried again, a little more forcefully now. "Where've you gotten to, love?"

The shutter gave way, rising just an inch, the frames grinding against each other loudly enough to be heard beyond the closed door. A couple gentle knocks sounded off behind her, followed by Cora's asking "Rickie? Are you in there?"

"Yah…Yeah!" she quickly replied, straining with the effort of moving the wood and glass pane blocking her escape.

"Ah. That friend of mine is here."

"Grrr…!" was all Rickie could grunt. If I'm lucky, they'll just think I'm fucking constipated and go away! some corner of her brain mulled silently. Then maybe I can get outta here and find some real help!

"We'll be in the office when you're ready, alright?"

"Argh…yeah. Sure." She redoubled her efforts after a minute, hoping against hope Cora and her 'friends' had gone, and was quickly rewarded when the shutter moved up another inch and a half. Unfortunately, the wood ground even louder than before, letting loose a screeching sound that must have been heard clear across London, never mind just down the hall.

Rickie paused briefly to catch her breath, and clearly heard the sounds of feet pounding down the carpeted hall outside. "Ah, shit!" she muttered as she began easing herself through the narrow opening, doing so feet-first and careful not to unintentionally crush her furry passenger. Despite these precautions, she was fully out the window only a few seconds later, dangling by her fingers from the sill. The sound of frantic knocking on the door startled her into nearly loosing her grip. Shutting her eyes, Rickie let go, falling the whole of half a foot before landing hard on the concrete ground beneath her, ending up firmly on her rear and feeling quite the fool for it.

She had no time to chide herself, however, the sound of a the door above her being kicked open sending her flying down the long alleyway. She didn't dare look back but once, and even then, catching only the quickest glance of gray material over black was enough to send both her heart and feet into overdrive. Someone, somewhere behind her cried out "Shite!", its venom reverberating off the stone and wooden walls she now ran through, weaving between them until she completely lost her way. And still she ran, mind focused alone on putting as much distance between herself and that house of lies.

She slowed after several minutes of this, the byways soon looking all alike. Never mind that she was out of breath. Even so, caution did not wholly desert her as she neared the street again, careful to first look behind her, then peer around the corner before stepping once more into sight. Just as well she did, as she found herself only a few doors down from the Blaylock house.

Her flight had evidently taken less time than she'd first thought, as she saw O'Donhugh sprinting down the front steps. The Goatee, his trenchcoat billowing behind him like a cape, was jogging from the opposite end of the street and shaking his head as he called out something. Rickie could not make out what words passed between them. They met at the Jaguar, the Goatee bending over slightly, chest visibly heaving. O'Donhugh simply looked tense and irritated, slowly turning to look down the street in either direction. She ducked back down the alley, ready to flee again.

Rickie counted to thirty, then risked another looked around the corner. The pair were back in their car and pulling away from the curb, heading in the opposite direction from her. She blew a sigh of relief and leaned back against the alley wall, only to nearly scream aloud when she felt something wiggling against her side.

Tearing open her jacket, Rickie found herself peering down at the bright-hued eyes of the kitten, who had managed to worm its head up out of the pocket and gaze around. Its tiny ears flattened against its skull as it gave her a cute kitty-grin.

Rickie took a shuddering breath, not certain if she wanted to return the smile or wring its small neck. She settled for brushing a her thumb across the bridge of its nose and asking it "Please don't go scaring me like that, okay? I'm too young to have a heart attack just yet."

"Meow," the kitten agreed, relishing the momentary affection.

Rickie soon straightened and carefully began down the street, thinking hard about her next move as she went. Back to the hotel? Nah, Cora would've told the dynamic duo back there where it was. Try calling Gwenn? It'd help if I knew where she was living these days. Wales, wasn't it? How do you work the phones in this crazy country, anyway? Gotta do something now!

Decision reached she immediately looked around for a taxi, ready to jump in front of it if that was what it took. She could only hope she remembered which precinct house the Sargent was located in. Taxis are thick in London, and so she quickly found her ride, grateful that she did not need to resort to extreme measures to get it.

She had to think for a moment when the driver asked her for a destination. She had no address to offer, but vaguely remembered the trademark rotating sign of New Scotland Yard had been across the street from the precinct where she'd picked up Xena the previous week. "Scotland Yard," she ordered, sitting back and letting herself be whisked away.

As the taxi pulled away from the sidewalk, a luxury town car further down the street trailed its path through London, careful not to loose sight of the vehicle as it made its way downtown. Like the taxi ahead, there were only two occupants to the car, a driver and single passenger, though in their case both sat in the front seat.

The taxi eventually came to a halt before the headquarters building of the Yard. The passenger, a dark-haired man with thin, darting features, squinted behind his mirrorshades as they passed the taxi. He watched the blonde-haired girl get out and look about the bustling plaza, looking slightly out of place amid the various uniforms and business suits surrounding her.

Realizing the driver had noticeably slowed, Alexander Devon growled "Drive on." Their car accelerated away, Devon satisfied with knowing the girl's (or, to his mind, the bait's) location. He had plenty of contacts in the MPF, and so child's play to find out who she spoke to and why.

Neither paid the least mind to the dark colored Jaguar which passed them shortly thereafter. Nor did either even notice how it turned into the plaza itself, quickly coming to pause across the street from the Yard.

Rickie had reached that state of semi-giddy nervousness signaling the downward end of an adrenal high as she stood there amid police both coming and going about the open air of Broadway SW1, the modern headquarters of the celebrated Yard only steps away. A few of these officers cast odd, almost familiar looks her way, reminding her of similar looks she'd received at the club earlier that evening.

Resolved not to let either the memories or her own nervousness freeze her again, Rickie set off to cross the street, remembering her written promise to Xena and checking both ways before crossing the street. And even then, doing so at so rapid a sprint one might think she was a distance-runner trained for the 2002 Olympics.

Once across the street, Rickie quickly recognized the non-descript front of the station house. She hurried inside, anxious to be away from the open plaza for some reason. The interior had not changed in the few days since her last visit. It reminded her of the hospital she'd awakened in Friday morning following her hit-and-run, and that was putting it charitably.

At least the desk officer was the same polite constable (overweight and balding, of course) who had been so patient with her Thursday morning when she had been escorted in by a pair of nervous-looking patrolmen. Rickie had not been easy on them, demanded to know what had happened and why she was being roused at such godsbedamned hour. The desk sargent, gentile and calm soul that he was, fielded her questions and offered her endless cups of tea, managing to use his considerable bulk to intimidate her in relative silence without so much as lifting a finger at her.

She had learned a few interesting facts concerning both the MPF and the Yard from the Sargent. Like how they were actually one in the same, and how it had jurisdiction over the entire city of London with the small exception of the Square Mile area on the northeast side which was patrolled by the almost inappropriately named "City of London Police". She also learned how there were three distinct different jurisdictional areas, each area having anywhere from half a dozen to over twenty of their own subdivisions called Districts.

Xena's midnight encounter with the late Marty Hawkins and his piano wire actually happened in the London South area, but they had taken her across town and near the MPF's headquarters at the request of Inspector Julian Hopper, head of a Special Task Force charged with 'handling' matters involving former members of Her Majesty's armed forces. They had used this particular station house partly out of convenience and partly out of policy, their brief being to keep such incidents as quiet as possible. The fact the offender was already dead gave them understandable pause, hence the extended interview they'd put Xena through.

At least, this was the story Rickie had managed to piece all this together that morning. The fact both had come to see her Friday morning meant there might well be more going on here than either she or Xena realized. Which made it all the more important she speak to Mallory. She wasn't sure why she trusted Mallory more than Hopper, any more than she knew what to tell him when she saw him again. Right then, it was struggle enough just to keep her face neutral and voice calm. "I need to speak to…"

The Sargent smiled benignly and interrupted. "Aye, lass. The Inspector's been waiting for ya." He waved her towards a hallway just beyond the busy squadroom. Rickie nodded and decided not to question this turn of luck. She made her way around the periphery of desks and uniforms, trying hard to be as unobtrusive as possible. It more or less worked, though a few of the plainclothes caught sight of her and gave a familiar if surprised grin. Rickie found this nearly as disconcerting as the looks thrown her way at the club. She thanked her lucky stars no one approached her, and hurried her steps to the back.

Once past the squad area, Rickie found herself in a narrow and ill-lit hallway with several doors on either side. Not certain how to proceed, she slowly made her way down the passage, attentive to the odd nameplates on the doors. "Interview One", "Interview Two", "Three", "Four", "Chief Inspector Dahltree", "Det. Inspector Collinswood", "Men's WC", "Women's WC", et cetera, et cetera. But no mention of either a "Hopper" or "Mallory".

She had reached the opposite end of the hallway, where a final door marked "Exit" stood, and turned to retrace her steps when one of the doors further down opened. Rickie instinctively flattened into the doorway stood beside, going still and trying to melt as far into the minimal shadows as possible. She cursed herself and relaxed at seeing Inspector Hopper step out into the hall, only to tense once more when Jonothan O'Donhugh followed him a moment later.

When she saw and heard what came next, Rickie was quite certain her eyes simply popped out of their sockets like shot from a cannon.

The policeman spoke first. "Thank you for your assistance in this matter, sir."

"Not at all," the gray suited man replied, taking the offered hand in a firm grip. He continued, saying with appropriately grave sympathy "I am sorry to hear about Sargent Mallory, though."

The Inspector asked insistently "Are you sure Amphipoulis was there?"

"Quite sure."

"Well, thank you again You've been quite a help, as usual." They shook hands once more and went their separate ways, leaving Rickie watching O'Donhugh's retreat like a hawk as he made his way back into the squad area. She crept forward with the greatest care, not loosing sight of him even as he made his way back through the clutter of desks and moving bodies the way a shark might cut a path through a school of minnows. None of the officers spoke or even looked his way as he passed.

Rickie received an additional shock as she saw the Goatee step in through the front door and make his way directly to his compatriot's side. Words were once again exchanged between the two men, both exiting with a visibly hurried step this time. They were not even through the door before Rickie had made her own exit, all but sprinting through the door marked for that very purpose behind her.

Once outside, she continued running, slowing only once she was around the building and looking once more at the busy lanes of Broadway Street. She saw the pair once again enter their car, fending off a traffic officer by waving a couple small leather folders his way, the sort badges and i.d. cards were held in. The officer backed away, hands up in placating gesture. The two paid him no further heed as the Jaguar's engine was started.

Keeping her moves as casual and unobtrusive as possible, Rickie strolled out onto the sidewalk and waved out to one of the many black taxis chugging along the street. Where every nerve in her body screamed she find one now, Rickie kept her stance nonchalant and her back to the departing car. When a taxi eventually did stop, a mere few seconds and several eons later, Rickie still kept her movements calm and unhurried, saving her tension and fire for the driver.

Rather than sit in back, Rickie leaned as close as the plexiglass partition would allow her and practically screamed into the Pakistani's ear "Follow that Jag!"

"Where's the Sargent Major stashed him?" O'Donhugh asked when they were away from the Yard.

Enzo kept a close eye on the traffic surrounding them as he drove. "In the old storage site on the south side. At the docks."

"Good." Seeing the younger man's distraction, he asked "We being followed?"

"Not that I can see." Enzo shook his head, easily merging them with the rest of the late afternoon traffic.

It had taken her the better part of two hours before one of the constables would even deign to speak to her. Xena had used that time to concoct a reasonable story to go with reporting Rickie missing. It had actually proven fairly easy: she'd decided to tell an abridged version of the truth. Just enough about how there had been attempts upon their lives and that her Dreamer had gone missing. By rights this should have brought the Inspector running, especially as she had planned to emphasize his name in particular.

Xena never did speak to Hopper or even see the Inspector, whom she was continually told was unavailable for interview. She wisely didn't mention Mallory despite the hubbub circling around concerning the shooting on the bridge. There is nothing like the murder of a fellow officer to put a police force on the warpath. They must have been turning over rocks all day searching for leads, going by the number of young turks and toughs were being parading in and out.

The constable was a matronly woman of few words and little patience. Fortunately she was too harried to do more than hand Xena the necessary stack of forms and direct her on filling them out. The warrior counted her blessings that she was allowed to fill out the necessary paperwork in the waiting area. Matters would have been far more complicated if she had been required to step through one of the metal detectors and into another interview room.

It was one thing after all to want to fill out a missing person's report bound for the circular file. It was quite another to be carrying exotic weaponry concealed in one's jacket in the building filled with edgy cops and still edgier criminals, especially when one looked and stank as though they had been soaking in the Thames for most of the day.

Xena filled out the forms as required and handed them in without comment. She waited another two hours before conceding defeat and left the building. The sky had darkened by then, matching her mood and thoughts perfectly.

Reaching for her wallet, she was mildly surprised to find it much lighter than expected. Looking inside, she found it empty of cash save for a small ten pound note. The warrior had the urge to laugh aloud at this, quickly calculating how much money she had been throwing about the past two days. The last time she'd spent her funds so freely was on the docks of Brazil back in 1940, and back then she'd been trying to buy passage across the U-boat infested Atlantic.

She quickly sobered as more mundane concerns asserted themselves, the desperate need for a shower, clean clothes and food among them. Ten pounds would certainly not be enough for yet another taxi back to the hotel. It appeared that she was back to walking.

With a half-hearted sigh Xena started walking west. She wasn't more than a few blocks from the Yard when a young woman, barely more than girl, lurched out at her from the shadows. Xena tensed and prepared to send her reeling back when she spied the small body of an infant on her shoulder. "Please, give us a quid ta feed my baby?" the girl slurred tiredly, holding out her hand more out of habit than actual hope. Both were gaunt from hunger and fatigue.

Xena looked at them for just a moment before handing over the last of her money. The girl looked shocked, then snatched the money and disappeared down the street. "Hey…" Xena tried to call after her, but soon closed her mouth. The girl and her child were gone, and she had nothing more to offer either of them. That could have been Rickie…or Terris…or even Gabrielle…

"Two thousand years," the warrior caught herself muttering, "and nothing changes." She could only shake her head and offer a silent prayer to whatever god might listen to watch over the pair for at least one night.

She continued walking, steps a little heavier now.

Night.(Rickie)

To her personal surprise, Rickie managed to keep her tongue as the driver followed her directive, wanting to urge him all the while to keep practically atop the darting car. She had, however, been with Xena long enough to have at least a basic grasp of automotive surveillance techniques, including the need to keep distance between the subject being followed and the those doing the following. There were several cars and cabs between them by the time they came to the Tower Bridge, heading south.

This actually gave Rickie a few anxious moments, certain that the slow-down in traffic meant there was barge or a battleship or some damn thing coming down the Thames right then, which meant the damn bridge was going to be raised and they would loose sight of the damn car and all her damn work was going to be for nothing and this would leave her without a single damn idea about what to do about this whole damn situation and…

These spiraling thoughts drained away as the wheel's of the taxi mounted the grating of the bridge's surface, the chassis vibrating with a soothing rhythm until they were on the opposite side. Rickie had not allowed her eyes to wander in the slightest from her target, to the point where she had no idea any longer where they were exactly, save heading southeast. She was not even entirely sure about this, going by the relative position of the sun in the sky and the fact it was fast approaching five o'clock.

Traffic had all but dissipated this time, giving Rickie another few anxious moments. Surely the dynamic duo must have seen the taxi by now. Where the hell were they, anyhow? She could see all sorts of storage containers and a few motorized cranes in the distance. Several large structure loomed nearby. Warehouses, she realized after a moment. A blaring horn sounded off across the rooftops, one she recognized as belonging to a ship. This gave Rickie some small measure of comfort, clarifying her current surroundings. Okay, we must be near some docks somewhere. Now what?

The driver glanced back at her. "Dey seems to be stopping, miss," he informed her politely.

Rickie nodded, seeing the Jaguar had in fact come to a halt near one of the more weather-beaten structures. "Turn here and let me out," she ordered, pulling her wallet out from her jacket pocket and handing him a number of colored bills as the taxi rounded the corner of the neighboring warehouse. "This cover it?"

"Yes, miss."

Rickie said nothing further as she got out of the car, not waiting until it fully stopped, and raced to the nearest wall and carefully peering around it, reflecting for a moment how practiced she had become at this. Maybe I should be the one with the p.i. license.she mentally giggled, sobering the instant she caught sight of the car and its two passengers. Neither looked the least bit hurried or even concerned that they might be seen as they entered the warehouse.

Her taxi had disappeared by the time. She was alone in a dirty, dangerous-looking place, with only a couple shady and demonstrably violent characters as company, and facing gods alone knew what next. Kinda like being back on the street, she reflected as she crept towards the same door the pair had entered. Only now I'm the one with as much cash as attitude.

She reached the door, but pulled her hand back at the last moment, thinking better of it. She had absolutely no idea what might be lying in wait for her behind that door. Better take them from the flanks, right? Wasn't that how all the great generals won against impossible odds? Xena's infrequent tutorials on military history might come to her at the oddest times, but damned if they weren't useful.

Decision made, Rickie began a making her way along the side of the building, looking for a window that was either broken enough or open enough for her to fit herself through, or another door that wasn't already boarded up or locked from the inside. She quickly found one of the latter, far down the side wall facing west. The passage between this building and its neighbor was strewn with garbage and darkening quickly with the evening light.

Rickie allowed herself no time to think about whether to enter or not. She had no idea how long it had taken her to find the blasted thing, and with her luck all the action (whatever it might have been) inside was long over, even though she'd been careful to watch behind her for the Jaguar's departure. Ah, hell, Dreamer, she chided herself. If they're gone, they're gone. And if they aren't…well…

She twisted the rusty knob and cracked the door open, sliding herself inside with quick grace and still quicker ease, none of which gave the slightest indication how badly her metaphorical knees were knocking.

The door led her into what might have once been an office, replete with rusted filing cabinets and a couple desks so pitted and battered they were unfit habitation for rats. Rickie braved the cobwebs and grotesque shadows around her and moved quickly to the nearby door leading further into the structure. This too opened, though more with a creaking groan than the other. Rickie momentarily closed her eyes, expecting the heavens to fall and crush her at any moment. When no such catastrophe materialized, she let herself breath once more and continued on her way.

There were a few echoes to guide her through the dark and seemingly cluttered interior. She had no idea exactly how large this place was or what was being housed here. There was the vague feeling of it being big, like jumbo jetliner hanger big, but too little light to make anything out clearly. A variety of objects, all larger than herself and many covered with tarps, made a labyrinth of sorts that Rickie very carefully weaved herself through, keeping her steps as light as possible and trying desperately not to disturb anything that might fall and give her away. That was the way it worked in situations like this, wasn't it? She'd manage to sneak all the way in, see something positively godawful, and get found when she knocked over a lamp or kicked a wall or something equally as stupid.

These racing thoughts caused her to pause for just a moment, struggling for new equilibrium. This was not some cheap slasher flick or a weekly action series or anything of the sort. She was living in a very dangerous world and needed to keep her wits about her if she was ever to see her warrior again. Drifting into daydreams at a time like this was sure-fire way to get oneself caught and fitted for a cement overshoes.

Rickie, having sufficiently chided herself, resumed her passage into the shadows. In time she found herself creeping up on a railway passenger car of all things. In the dimness she could make out gilded frame and faded paintings upon its sides. Something about this object drew her attention, and she moved closer, coincidentally coming closer to the phantom voices which had guided her to that point. Rickie momentarily considered climbing into the car, but as quickly dismissed the idea. She after all had more immediate concerns than another vague flash of déjà vu.

An oval plate of brass was situated near one of the car's doors. It was dented and faded, some of the lettering obscured, but legible nonetheless:

Rickie strained to read it, almost snorting at the pretentiousness as her mind supplied the missing letters. Rob Reinner should sue. was Rickie's only thought as she moved on. The sounds of slapping and muffled gagging broke out once more, surprisingly close. Just the other side of the car, in fact.

Rickie slowly eased herself around it and was immediately treated to a sight at once unexpected, yet familiar from the previous night.

The Gray Man and the Goatee were standing off to one side of a wide, cleared out area of the floor on just the other side of the car. They watched silently as a heavyset figure half-wrestled, half-carried a much smaller individual into a chair in the center of the clear area. The smaller man had his hands tied behind his back and a hood over his head, covering it completely. He continued is clearly ineffectual struggles against the larger man's grip, twisting this way and that, nearly shaking loose of his captor a couple times before being all but thrown into the chair and held there by two massive hands pressing down hard unto his shoulders.

This didn't stop him from fighting, muffled noises issuing from beneath the hood which reminded her of the unfortunate Kenny McCormack from "South Park". She almost giggled from the imagery, which was wildly at odds with the dark atmosphere swirling about them all right then.

The big man gave a sharp backhand to his captive, causing the latter's head to rock forward, followed by the big man's growl of "'Behave!" What might have been a loud whimper was the only audible reply from the hooded man, though his struggling clearly subsided a bit.

O'Donhugh's response was clearer and no less direct. "Sargent!" he barked out, the bigger man instinctively straightening to attention. The gray suited man continued speaking as he calmly strode out to stand directly before their captive. "I don't want to see you doing that!"

The Sargent was given no chance to respond. "Allow me." O'Donhugh's punch caught the seated man squarely in the sternum, propelling both the chair and its occupant backwards several inches before both landed flat on their respective backs. Rickie couldn't help flinching at the racket this caused. Even the kitten in her pocket was disturbed, who immediately began its own squirming bid for freedom.

The Sargent hastily righted both the chair and its unwilling occupant, careful to keep a firm grip on the latter. At O'Donhugh's signal, he tore off the hood with a single hand, revealing him to be blindfolded and gagged, his curly blonde hair falling to his shoulders and partially obscuring his face. Rickie didn't recognize the poor sod, but that was no surprise. Not like she knew seemed anybody anymore. She listened attentively as the taller man spoke up.

"Gentlemen. We are in the presence of a living legend. Mr. Virgil Samuel Price. Shipping magnate, dock-owner, and all around evil bastard." O'Donhugh took to circling Price, tone at once lazy and electric. "If its bad and nasty and comes in anywhere between Cartiff, London, and Dover, Mr. Price here owns a piece of it. Drugs, guns, jewels, secrets, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera." He leaned close to Price's ear and whispered loudly "Equal opportunity bastard, aren't you, Sammy-boy?"

Price jerked in an effort to head-butt his tormentor, only to be thwarted by the Sargent's catching the sides of his head in a vise-like grip. Unconcerned, O'Donhugh stood and resumed his pacing, waiting about a minute before saying "Small wonder the late James Horton was so quick to recruit you for his little crusade."

The silence that followed, when all present, both seen and unseen, went utterly still was absolute. Rickie felt her ears go as wide open as her eyes had narrowed tight.

This stillness stretched for a few minutes, the only movement to be had was the dust bunnies and O'Donhugh's slow circling. When he began speaking again, soft as his voice was, it might as well have been a cannon shot. "What you do and trade in, I frankly don't give a rat's arse. You, Sammy lad, are simply a convenient conduit of information I'm tapping. Nothing more. Tell me what I need, and you're back to your cheap scams and expensive imports."

Price seemed to mull over this offer, making no move as argument nor any more other than to turn his head towards the voice addressing him. Gagged as he was, he of course could not easily or directly acknowledge or deny anything said to him. Nor could he really make any move in the first place, the Sargent's restraining hands never leaving him.

"Oh, no fear. I'm not after anything…sensitive, shall we say. Really just a single bit of hard information is all." He leaned down, coming practically nose to nose with Price and nearly hissing as he spoke "A name, Samuel. Nothing more than that."

"Hmph?" Price spat around the gag.

Elaboration came spoken clearly and succinctly. "The name of the one who gave the nod for you to send a hit on the girl."

Price's brows furrowed around the cloth wrapped about his eyes. "Hmph?"

"The hit you signed off Michael Giovanni to commit. That little joy ride you had him take on Westbourne, middle of last week." Rickie's mouth fell open, the beginnings of uncontrollable shaking once more hitting her at hearing this.

She wasn't the only one shaking, though Price controlled it well.

"Piece of advice for the future, Samuel. Do not go hiring irresponsible young turks from Naples t'do a hit and run on Yank tourists. Not only is it bloody unprofessional, its just plain, arse-faced stupid."

Price went still for a moment, then jerked his head to the side a couple times. O'Donhugh exchanged a look with the Sargent, who quickly removed the tightly wound cloth from the smaller man's mouth. Price licked his lips and stretched his jaw, working the stiffness out of it before trying to speak.

"The name, Samuel?"

The underworld baron smirked and, keeping still and staring straight ahead, said with complete clarity of mind and purpose "Fill my boots, you…"

He wasn't allowed to complete this, the back of the Sargent's right hand impacting loudly with the back of Price's head, rocking his entire form forward. The mobster didn't cry out from this. He even giggled a little from this. "You stupid bastards. Y'think I'll actually tell you shite? You're against a hard man, here. I've faced down worst than you. Y'think you can break…"

The Sargent replaced the gag and shared another look with the tall man.

For her part, Rickie was struggling to keep from throwing up her last meal. She'd fallen to her knees, shaking now so badly, and had wrapped both arms around her sides as if to keep herself from literally coming apart at the proverbial seems. She would likely have screamed like a madwoman were she able, but the torrent of thoughts and suspicions churning within her drowned all such ability. The insanities of the past several days, of this whole damn trip, all now took on a sinister shade. They must have been following them from the minute they'd set down last week. Oh gods, could they have already gotten to Xena? It took all her energy to simply keep from fainting dead away, certain that 'dead' would be the operative word should this happen.

Somehow, she managed to collect herself.  More amazingly, Rickie found herself standing and moving to a closer position to where the interrogation proceeded, doing so wholly unconsciously and with her knees shaking all the while.

She hadn't noticed how the kitten had wormed its way out of her pocket several steps back, following her while casting curious eyes towards where the strange sounds were coming from. Unaware of this, Rickie crouched behind a stack of rusted barrels less than twenty feet from the trio, this position giving her an excellent view of O'Donhugh's profile, a profile now having a dark scowl to it which reminded her a bit of Xena's.

She had only just taken up her new position when the Sargent pulled Price's gag away once more. Before the short mobster could say anything, however, O'Donhugh undertook an action Rickie would have sworn impossible.

Both of his hands shot out, first and second fingers extended on both and striking Price on either side of the base of his throat. The effect was as instantaneous as it was familiar, Price's entire form stiffening as if his every muscle were suddenly stretched taunt. Rickie could just imagine his eyes widening behind his blindfold as he found his ability to breathe as frozen as his muscles.

Rickie's own eyes went wide at hearing O'Donhugh's next words, even though she could recited them herself, word for word. "I've just cut the flow of blood to your brain, Samuel. You will be dead of brain asphyxia in under a minute…unless I release it." Price began to tremble as his joints began seizing up. "The name, Samuel. Give it up. Your mouth still works, I assure you."

"Ngh…" Price gagged.

"See?" O'Donhugh glanced at his watch. "Thirty seconds, and counting."

Price began to discolor, first his neck, then his cheeks turning a light shade of blue. His trembling became worse with this, though it seemed to center solely in his upper body now. Rickie found herself watching with an almost perverse fascination at seeing the effects of "the pinch" play out before her. She'd begun ticking off the seconds in her head the instant O'Donhugh had struck. Generally she didn't reach fifteen before the unfortunate cracked like an egg.

Mister Price, however, made it past fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.

Eighteen.

Nineteen.

"Twenty." O'Donhugh helpfully counted out. "Twenty-one. Twenty-two."

Blood was now coming from Price's nostrils. Just a couple drops at first, quickly becoming a steady trickle.

"No way to save you after twenty-five, Sammy-boy. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. You're dead! Thirty!!"

"Ngh!" Price was nodding frantically, no longer the hard man of the British underworld. Merely a man faced with the abyss, and terrified by it.

O'Donhugh's fingers struck out once more, releasing the blocked passages in the smaller man's neck, Price taking a number of deep breaths the instant this was done. He continued to shudder and tremble for several more breaths thereafter. O'Donhugh and company took this delay with calm patience. A marked contrast from only moments ago, leaving Rickie (and Price, no doubt) dizzy and a bit breathless, to say nothing of badly confused.

"I'm waiting, Price," O'Donhugh said with a gentle, patient tone. "Make me put the pinch on again, I won't take it off next time."

When Price managed to speak, it came in a rush. "It was…a solicitor…down Fleet Street…Alexander Devon. He wanted…he wanted the girl hurt…something t'do with the little bitch's lover…"

Devon? Where's that name from? I've heard it before. Where? Rickie thought, desperate for some kind of mental traction that she might make sense all this. The interrogation didn't miss a beat for her distraction.

"Devon bossed the hit himself?" Price nodded, vigorously. "What about Marty Hawkins? Was that ordered?"

Rickie's mouth fell open.

"God…you know about…"

"Or that little team your lot sent up to the house outside Colchester? Was that Devon's nod as well?"

"Christ! Who the fuck're you? Em-Eye-fucking-Six?" A thumb jammed into the hollow of his throat, not quite forceful enough to cause anything to collapse, convinced him to silence this outburst and reminded him who's questions took precedence.

"Let's try another direction, Samuel," O'Donhugh suggested. "How deeply is Devon into the planning of this little side-show of yours? He plan everything that's happened since last Tuesday, or are you spreading your wings and flying solo?"

"Everything…everything's his order."

O'Donhugh stood back and tapped his chin for a moment before declaring "I don't believe you." He took an audible step forward, at which Price cringed and was practically screaming.

"It the fucking truth…I swear to God fucking Almighty!"

"Oh, calm down will you? Mother, but you need a good mouth-washin'." The Sargent now wore an amused expression, as did the Goatee, both directed at his feet rather than his words. Rickie and O'Donhugh looked down simultaneously, the former feeling her heart stop dead at the sight there.

There was the kitten, gnawing and pulling on the laces of his shoes. It had braced itself with two paws on his ankle and was struggling with all its might. Price was momentarily forgotten by all sides as O'Donhugh leaned down and scooped up the small mammal, who made its displeasure known for having its sport interrupted by batting at the palms now cradling it with fierce little swipes. "Hullo, you." O'Donhugh cooed at it, the kitten in reply staring up at him with its pebble-size eyes narrowed and head cocked to one side.

O'Donhugh brought it close to his face, careful to keep just beyond the reach of either paws or teeth. The kitten seemed content to simply settle back on its haunches and stare. From her vantage point, Rickie caught the puzzled look crossed the dark man's face, her own brow furrowing as she saw him…sniff…at the small animal.

"We've company here," O'Donhugh declared quietly.

She felt sinking sensation hit her stomach as she watched him slowly, carefully, lower the still-staring cat and deposit it into one of his jacket's outer pockets and begin looking around with equal care and attention. Rickie backed away as carefully and silently as possible, keeping an attentive ear towards the three men only feet away.

She made it as far as rounding the railway car before the inevitable slip-up happened. It was small thing really, utterly beyond the control of anything save Fate: the cuff of her sleeve brushed the connector arm of the car. By rights this slight touch shouldn't have caused the disturbance noise, were it not for three loose ball-bearings within the main joint of the arm, which proved enough for the arm to shift just a fraction behind her. Just one less and it would never have shifted; even one more, and it would have swung smoothly enough that the sound of it would have been nearly inaudible.

It really wasn't even that loud a noise, merely a low, grinding groan of iron against iron. It lasted no more than a few seconds.

She might as well have shot off an artillery round.

"SHE'S BY THE RAIL CAR!" was O'Donhugh's scream, only a single heartbeat later. Rickie forgot caution and stealth and started running.

The air was immediately filled the pounding of footfalls and the disturbance of boxes and the like, much of that latter caused by Rickie herself. It was a blind, rather desperate effort, producing enough telltale echoes that it was easy to find her trail. This did create enough blockages of upturned and damaged items of all shapes and sizes it was nearly impossible for her trail to be followed.

Her pursuers, however, were not easily dissuaded. The fact she didn't know the layout of the warehouse quickly proved to work against her, the Goatee and the Sargent nearly getting her as they leapt in from either side, albeit separately and looking every bit as surprised herself at finding each other. Rickie was grateful Xena had drilled the rudiments of self-defense into her, the endless hours of repetition of dodges and punches proving their worth that night as she eluded both men twice, delivering her own licks in the process. The Goatee was felled by a few well-placed strikes to the abdomen and points south, but the Sargent required a bit more a blunt instrument. Such instruments came easily to hand, though Rickie found he proved far sturdier than the various wooden implements she brought against him and didn't seem to do any physical damage. This accomplished the original goal, nonetheless, putting the heavyset soldier off balance enough she could get away. Oddly, she saw no sign of O'Donhugh throu<

Rickie eased herself around the half-opened door and back through the dark office, hurried but still careful not to knock anything over lest her little ruse be found. She stopped just short of diving through the door leading to the alley, taking several deep breaths to collect herself, recognizing with the clarity of paranoia there was every chance O'Donhugh was simply waiting outside for her to do just that.

Rickie flattened herself near the threshold, ears and other senses sharpened for anything out of the ordinary. Sensing nothing, she again slipped through the narrow gap between the door and frame, promptly flattening against the opposite wall when she was out. She found herself utterly alone, save the few stars she could see could have seen in the night's sky overhead had she looked. Right then, she was far more concerned with the horizontal than the vertical.

It took her a few seconds to regain her bearings, and she soon off sprinting back towards the main road between warehouses. Behind her, going wholly unnoticed and nearly silent, the door she had just slipped past was pushed wide open, a darkened shape exiting and following her direction.

Rickie made it to the mouth the alleyway just as O'Donhugh and his cohorts burst out of the warehouse through the front entryway. She noted with some pleasure how the Goatee was limping ever so slightly, and that the Sargent was rubbing his right shoulder, his expression one of equal parts annoyance and satisfaction.

The three men stood there, only O'Donhugh managing to do so with some grimace or looking like he was on his last legs. Instead he once more took to turning this way and that, slowly and carefully, his expression now absent anything but a fierce resolve. Rickie could make out none the words spoken between the three of them, even though she could clearly make out their lips moving and seeing obvious agitation in their movements. All three stood there for a few more heartbeats before walking (or, in one case, limping) away. O'Donhugh was the last to turn away, pausing as he turned, eyes still roaming the landscape around them all.

Rickie immediately ducked her head back around the corner and shut her eyes, certain that at any minute he and his would come for her. And right then, she doubted she could stumble, never mind run more than a few feet.

But no one came for her, only the sounds of engines being started and cars driving off breaking the stillness of the night. Rickie had to practically force her eyes to open, her neck refusing initially to crane around the corner. She was eventually able to coax some cooperation out of her rebellious joints, if only for a quick peek. Only an empty causeway could be seen, relief coursing through her at the emptiness of place.

Resting her head against the wall, Rickie could think of only one course of action left to her: get back to the hotel, wait for Xena, and get them both on the next plane or boat out of this insane city. More immediately, she needed to find a cab back into the city. Remembering which way she'd originally come, Rickie took a step out of the alley and back onto the causeway…

…only to have a strong hand clap itself over her mouth and pull her back into something hard and bad-smelling. Another hand was immediately wrapped around her throat and hot breath was blown in her ear.

"Make one fucking sound," Virgil Samuel Price slurred into her right ear, "and we'll see iffen you're immortal as well, gettit?"

"I can't believe we lost them both!" Enzo's voice echoed up and down the narrow stairwell leading to the small flat in Soho.

O'Donhugh, who lead the way, merely shrugged and said "It happens."

"You don't seem too broken up over this."

"We found out what we needed. I'm not overly worried about Price now."

"What about our other 'guest'? God alone knows what he or she saw."

"It was a 'she'." This caused Enzo to pause in surprise, looking up at the older man's back in expectation of more. Nothing was forthcoming. He shook his head and resumed climbing the steps.

They were at the door to the apartment when O'Donhugh finally added "Whatever she saw or thinks she saw doesn't matter, not after tomorrow." He fished the key to the door out of his pocket and was about to insert it into the lock when the door creeked open slightly. "You didn't leave the door unlocked, did you?" he asked without turning.

"No," Enzo shook his head.

"Step inside," a low voice growled suddenly from behind. Both Enzo and O'Donhugh turned, the former more sharply than the latter, to find the powerful chest of Manfred Armistead filling the hallway immediately behind them.

O'Donhugh turned back to the door and nudged it fully open with his foot. His eyebrows climbed in surprise to see Marie de Anan and a few others standing or sitting inside. Their expressions were as cold as the silvery light flowing in from outside. The surprise quickly passed. With a glance and one-shoulder shrug towards the two behind him, O'Donhugh stepped across the threshold. Enzo and Armistead followed close behind.

The door closed with an audible click, followed by the sound of a lock being engaged.

The rest of Xena's return to the South Hyde was without incident. Hunger and dark thoughts gave her a palpable aura that warned off even the most determined of the nighttime predators. She stomped past the front desk and towards the elevators without a glance or growl towards the night manager. The blonde haired man took no offense at this rudeness as he was now rather used to the odd hours and moods of this particular guest.

The warrior herself cared only for getting to her room. This small quest was also accomplished without incident. Even her key card managed to work despite the soaking it had received in the river. The moment Xena was in the room she set about doing several things at once: casting off clothes, pulling the chakrum from its hiding place, and debating whether to shower first or to order food.

Standing only in what she was born with Xena called for room service, then began running through a series of tight sword drills while waiting. This did nothing to take the edge off the hot anger that had built in her since leaving the Yard, and only succeeding in making her sweatier than before.

She was polite enough to put a robe on when the food arrived. After signing the bill without a sound, Xena turned her full attention upon the food. Eggs sunny-side up, bacon, toasted bread, pulpy orange juice, an American-style hamburger (medium rare), pub-style chips, and three pints of milk all disappeared from their plates within a quarter hour. Her physical hunger satisfied, Xena headed to the WC to see to the rest of her immediate needs.

The phone rang just as she stepped nakedly out of the shower, toweling her body and hair dry. She had no doubts as to who it was. "Yes?" the warrior drawled without preamble.

Cora took the hint and came directly to the point. "He'll meet you tonight as requested."

"Where and when?"

"A club off Charing Cross called 'The Emporium'. He'll be there at 2 am."

Xena deliberately dropped the receiver back unto the cradle and began dressing. Her thoughts were far away, already devising and preparing stratagems atop stratagems.

She would find her Dreamer by the next dawn…or the world know the Destroyer of Nations was alive and well!

Dial tone.

"Yes?"

"That was rather sloppy work on the bridge, Mr. Devon."

"Ah, its you. I was rather wondering where you'd gotten to, my friend."

"And I am wondering if I haven't made a horrific mistake approaching you."

"Watch your tongue, friend. I have lost a good many men to this venture so far."

"What did you expect would happen? That she'd be as easy a mark as old Darius? I gave you more information on her than your old comrades ever suspected existed, for God's sake." Silence. "Gather the remainder of your men. You'll have one last chance at her."

"Where?"

"Gather them at that warehouse you use on the south side."

"And how do you proposed to get her there?"

"I will deliver her right to you myself."

Connection cut.

Continued - London Blitz - Part 8

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