Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

September 2024

The September sun hung languidly over the Pacific Northwest, a burnished orb in the azure expanse, its rays brazenly unfurling the last golden threads of summer’s caress, stubbornly lingering where it had loosened its warm grip elsewhere in the nation. Jack Reacher readjusted the straps of his backpack, a futile attempt to mitigate the dampened discomfort where perspiration clung to his skin like an unwanted second layer. A veteran of both travel and preparation, he had learned to pack a reserve of functional garments and sturdy footwear—pragmatic essentials that his modest Army pension strained to accommodate. Weary to his core, Reacher felt the sinister prelude to sickness flirting at the edges of his constitution. He held onto the hopeful prospect of seeking refuge in a local diner to buy a soothing bowl of chicken soup, and in a nondescript motel to recover in the solace of a bed that wasn’t his own.

He had helped a friend in a town north of Seacouver, Washington, and he had thought—mistakenly now perhaps—that he could simply walk the distance between that small town and the city. Reacher had not counted on the rapid onset of what felt like a nasty respiratory illness. Each breath was becoming more labored than the last as he trudged forward. Through watering eyes, Reacher spotted a motorcyclist approaching in the distance.

As the rider drew near, Reacher saw thick protective gear masking any identifiable features, but got the general impression of a man. Two large duffel bags sat perched on the passenger seat behind him.

Just then, a deafening screech of tires tore through the peaceful countryside. A massive pickup came barreling down the road, veering directly toward the motorcyclist. With mere seconds to react, the rider swerved but it was too late. The pickup clipped his rear tire, sending the bike into a vicious spin.

Man and machine tumbled end over end in a terrifying blur of metal and limbs, coming to rest in a mangled heap yards from the highway. The pickup skidded to a halt further up the road, its driver’s door flinging open as a large man jumped out to survey the damage.

Reacher’s military instincts kicked in despite his fading strength. He raced towards the mangled heap of metal and limbs, fearing the worst.

As Reacher drew closer, he saw the rider’s arm move ever so slightly beneath the wreckage. Still alive, then. But for how long?

Reacher glanced around, hoping someone would stop to help. But the pickup had already sped off down the road, leaving behind only dust and debris.

“Son of a bitch,” Reacher muttered. He turned his focus back to the rider trapped beneath metal and plastic. Gritting his teeth against his own aches, Reacher began pulling shattered pieces of the motorcycle away, uncovering more of the rider with each piece removed.

To his surprise, as the last of the wreckage fell away, the rider groaned and started to stir. Small arcs of blue-white electricity danced across exposed skin, weaving together tears in flesh. Reacher blinked in disbelief, certain his illness had caused him to hallucinate. Within moments, the rider pushed himself up and steadied on still-unsteady feet.

The full-face helmet hid any identifying features, but Reacher saw no obvious limp or injury despite the forces that had toss him around like a rag doll. Reacher stared in disbelief as the last remnants of electricity skipped across the motorcyclist’s skin and faded away.

“You alright?” Reacher’s voice emerged hoarse, the toll of his illness resonating in his timbre as it broke the unsettling silence.

With a slow, almost mechanical nod, the figure reached up and unclasped his helmet, allowing it to come off, unveiling a youthful visage. A shock of close-cropped, fiery red hair framed a face which couldn’t have borne more than twenty years of life’s etchings. “I think so,” the young man responded, his voice carrying a note of baffled wonder, as though his own well-being was a mystery to him. He assessed his unscathed arms, bent and turned his limbs in experimental stretches. “Thanks to you.”

Reacher’s eyes narrowed, skepticism and something darker flitting within their depths. “No normal person walks away from that. What are you?”

A shadow flickered across the young man’s eyes, as though clouds had momentarily veiled the sun. “It’s…. complex,” he said, his voice dropping a register. “Let’s settle on the fact that I heal quickly and leave the mysteries for later.”

Reacher opened his mouth to press further, but then the motorcyclist’s attention shifted to him, observing his labored breaths. “You look like you’re the one who needs help,” he stated, his brow creasing with genuine concern that tempered the life in his fair features.

Reacher hesitated, the pain in his chest a continuous reminder of his predicament. “I could use some shelter, perhaps a phone to call for help,” he admitted through strained breaths, each word punctuated by discomfort.

“I’ll call for a tow and then reach out to a friend,” the rider offered with an air of determination, already visualizing the next steps. He looked at Reacher with a mix of appraisal and reassurance. “You hang tight, alright? You didn’t drive, did you?”

Shaking his head, Reacher felt the weight of his own name as he pronounced it. “No. I’m Reacher, Jack Reacher. No one calls me Jack.”

Stretching out a gloved hand, Richie’s grasp was firm yet unimposing. “Richie Ryan. And before you worry, I’m fine. I’ll get those calls made.” With purpose, Richie strode a few paces away, retrieving a cell phone from the depths of his leather jacket.

From his vantage point, Reacher observed Richie, who was now engaged in hushed, urgent communication. The evening symphony of insects sung through the air, whispering leaves added their rustle to the melody, yet these sounds receded into the background as Richie’s voice wove into the fabric of the twilight, underscored by a thread of urgency.

“I need your help, Mac.” Richie’s form became a silhouette, framed against the fading horizon as he spoke into the receiver. “An accident, out on Highway 9, up by the old alpaca farm. I’m alright, but there’s a man here—he needs medical attention. Not a 911 situation, but we need to get him out of here fast. Looks like he’s been out on the road a while, maybe homeless.”

A brief silence ensued, punctuated by Richie’s softly spoken, “Thanks, Mac,” followed by another urgent call—the tow truck. Then, with the same efficiency and resolve, he returned to Reacher’s side.

“Help is on the way. How are you holding up?” Richie asked, his eyes searching Reacher’s for a response.

Reacher’s body chose that moment to betray the steel of his resolve; black spots danced across his vision, forming a mesmerizing and terrifying tableau.

Richie cursed softly, perhaps to himself or to any deity listening. “Hang in there, help’s just minutes away.”

Time became a foggy, unmeasured experience for Reacher as semi-consciousness lapped at him in waves. He was dimly aware of the tow truck, the gravelly-voiced exchanges—one machine being taken away even as another arrived.

“Come on, Reacher. We need to move,” Richie’s words cut through the haze wrapping itself around Reacher’s senses.

With grumbling groans and half-formed murmurs, Reacher complied as best he could, his large frame a cumbersome weight against Richie’s smaller, yet sturdy, support. The world around Reacher twisted and spun wildly, the colors of his surroundings bleeding into a kaleidoscope mélange of light. Richie was nowhere near as broad or tall as Reacher, yet he bore the man’s weight with a strength that betrayed his lithe frame and, with only a half-voiced complaint, lamenting the challenge of moving ‘giants.’

Reacher’s consciousness ebbed like a weak tide as Richie’s steady hands guided him into the sanctum of the ancient Thunderbird convertible. Even through the haze of a fever, Reacher discerned the character within the car’s aging leather seats, which still held the faint scent of luxury long past. Walnut trim added an air of elegance, the craftsmanship a silent testament to a bygone era of American automotive artistry. It stood in stark defiance of Reacher’s battered demeanor. Richie, with a gentleness that belied his rugged exterior, eased Reacher onto the cool, supple upholstery, its touch a soothing contrast to the feverish heat radiating from his skin.

Encased within the Thunderbird’s cabin, the outside world felt like a distant memory, reduced to the gritty chaos they were leaving behind. The engine sparked to life, a low resonant purr, more felt than heard, and they accelerated away from the scene of turmoil, the car’s tires gripping the pavement with authority. Despite his feverish state, Reacher’s military training had honed his senses—he noticed the olive undertones of the driver’s skin, his dark brown hair, the Rolex on his wrist, and the casual yet upscale clothing he wore. He heard Richie call him variously, “Mac” and “Duncan.”

Reacher drifted in and out of consciousness, only half aware of Richie and Duncan’s conversation. Their voices sounded distant and echoing in his fevered mind.

As Duncan drove, he asked, “How’s our passenger holding up?”

Richie glanced in the rearview mirror. “Not well, by the looks of it. We need to get him help fast, but I don’t think he’s up to walking into a clinic. That backpack of his looks like an Army surplus and I’d be surprised if he’s not a vet.”

“Agreed, which means he probably might not appreciate it if we took him to a doctor. How much did he see?” Duncan asked Richie grimly.

 Richie shook his head. “Hard to say, but I’m sure he saw most of my healing. I was thrown off the bike, and it landed on me. He helped pull my bike off me.”

“Then we can’t risk taking him to the hospital,” Duncan decided grimly. “No telling what he might say or do. I’ll call Anne Lindsey and see if she’s willing to check him out.”

“If she isn’t, Mario down at the free clinic owes me a favor from earlier this year,” Richie noted.

The landscape outside transformed into a whirl of impressionistic colors, vibrant greens and blues pirouetting beyond the window. Each undulating curve of the road lulled Reacher’s precarious consciousness, his mind teetering on the verge of surrender to the depths of sleep’s dark waters, only to be yanked abruptly back by the journey’s relentless tempo. Dreams wove into the tenuous threads of reality—each as broken and fleeting as the dappled leaves that flitted past in a silent ballet of movement.

Abruptly, the engine’s growl stopped, and tender hands guided him from the vehicle. His nostrils filled with the scent of moist concrete, while echoes of footsteps bounced around him. Richie’s arm offered a pillar of strength, while Duncan’s shadow sliced against the dull glow of the underground garage’s entrance, now gaping wide in an inviting yawn. “Almost there,” Richie’s voice soothed, a balm of reassurance in each syllable.

Side by side, they ushered Reacher past the liminal space and into the embrace of an ornate cage elevator, its antiquity palpable in the delicate brass lattice, yet the interior was modern and quiet. The ascent through the building’s core had Reacher drifting in a haze, only half-aware as Richie eased him down onto the unyielding softness of a bed. Hushed voices murmured nearby, their substance indistinct in Reacher’s muddled state.

The cool press of hands on his brow brought momentary clarity, a woman’s voice threading through the semi-conscious mist. “Fever’s high. Pupils are dilated. How long has he been out of sorts?” Anne’s professional inquiry cut through as she tended to the ailing man.

“It’s been hours,” Richie replied, concerned. “He was already looking peaky after muscling my bike off me from the wreck.”

Anne, after a meticulous examination, announced her verdict. “He’s taken a nasty turn with pneumonia—good thing it’s not that virus going around. He needs peace, quiet, and a steady dosage of antibiotics.” With a mission in her step, she retreated for her medical arsenal.

Duncan’s solid brick home, ensconced within its three-story stature, provided the seclusion needed for discreet care. As Anne stepped away, Duncan turned to Richie with a question that hung heavily in the air. “How did Reacher get tangled in your misfortune?”

Richie merely shrugged. “Not sure. I was on Highway 9 taking the scenic route home when some maniac decided to use me for target practice. If Reacher was out hitchhiking, he might’ve opted that way instead of the interstate—less likely some state trooper is going to interfere.”

“You’re right,” mused Duncan, eyeing their unexpected patient. “There’s a story etched in the lines of his face—a lifetime of solitary pathways. I suspect destiny has its reasons for our paths crossing.”

As Richie wondered aloud if Reacher would even recall any of this once he awoke, Anne returned, armed with her medical weaponry. Under her meticulous care, Reacher was soon attached to an IV, important medication coursing through his veins to wage war against the fever that held him captive.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Anne,” Duncan said warmly. “I know you’re busy at the hospital.”

She smiled. “For old friends, I’ll always make time. Call me if his condition changes at all.” With a farewell nod, Anne packed up her supplies and took her leave.

Duncan and Richie exchanged appreciative nods, intent on ensuring Reacher’s comfort in this stranger-filled interlude of vulnerability.

Left in a quiet vigil, Duncan absorbed the enigma of Reacher—his sickly frame belied an inherent potency, his scars immortalizing myriad unwritten tales. He wondered aloud about the forces that had conspired to deliver Reacher to them, but his thoughts were interrupted by Richie’s return, carrying blankets.

They worked in tandem to swaddle their guest against the chill, creating a cocoon of warmth amidst the uncertainty. With their duty done, Duncan gestured towards the door. “Let’s respectfully leave our friend to heal.”

“Sure, but before we leave this room, let me check a few things.”

With the ease of a former thief, Richie rummaged through the backpack Reacher had carried, finding the other man’s wallet and passport.

“He has fifty bucks, a US passport that says he’ll turn forty-five this year, a folding toothbrush, a half-used tube of toothpaste, and an ATM card for the Bank of Virginia,” Richie announced. “Also, exactly two changes of clothes, with that thrift-store smell to them, and an unopened pack of underwear and another of socks. If I had to guess, he doesn’t do laundry, just buys new-to-him clothes.”

Duncan eyed him before belatedly remembering that the smell would stick out in the mind of a former foster child. “Is this where I tease you about picking up strays again, Richie?” Duncan said with an amused smile.

Richie grinned. “What can I say? I’ve always had a soft spot for the wounded and weary.” He put everything back into the backpack exactly as he had found it. He then gestured to Duncan to precede him out of the room before exiting, pulling the door shut.

Together, the two men walked the stairs down to the great room that formed the main living area.

“Something tells me our friend Reacher isn’t one to accept help easily,” Richie noted as they made their way downstairs. “I get the feeling he’s used to shouldering his burdens alone.”

Duncan nodded slowly. “He carried himself like a soldier. If he’s a military veteran, he might be struggling with issues that make it difficult for him to be with others, but still is inclined to be a good Samaritan.”

Richie made a face at that. “Hopefully, he’ll be okay with us. Either way, this isn’t the way I wanted to come home.”

Duncan chuckled ruefully. “You did jinx yourself by saying you’d be home by dinner. How was Victoria?” Duncan asked. “And if you’re hungry, I made a roast chicken; figured even if you were late, it would keep. It’s the red-lidded container in the fridge.”

“Victoria was great, and thanks,” Richie replied as he washed his hands and made himself a chicken sandwich from the leftover roast chicken.

Used to Richie’s ability to eat copiously, Duncan made no comment as Richie piled his sandwich high, only pulling out a container of pre-washed spinach leaves in an unsubtle reminder that Richie needed more than just meat and bread, especially after healing as much as he did. Richie grinned, added the spinach to his sandwich, added condiments, and put the mess onto a plate. He then took a seat at the breakfast bar in the U-shaped gourmet kitchen and began to eat.

As Richie took a big bite of his sandwich, a troubled expression crossed his face. “You wouldn’t believe the disorganization I found onboard that yacht. Receipts and contracts were crammed into every available nook and cranny. It took me weeks just to sort through the mess and reconstruct the company’s financial records,” he said, his voice laden with frustration and concern.

Duncan listened intently as he poured them both a generous amount of whiskey. “I take it the attorney wasn’t pleased to discover the poor state of his books,” he observed, his tone reflecting the seriousness of the situation.

Richie shook his head ruefully, taking a sip of his whiskey before continuing, “Not at all. He threw a fit when I showed him the mess. Claimed he had no idea things were so disorganized.” He rolled his eyes and then ate another bite of his sandwich.

“I find that hard to believe,” Duncan replied with a skeptical lift of his brow, his voice tinged with suspicion.

Duncan took a sip of his whiskey, the smooth, smoky flavor momentarily distracting him as Richie continued his story. “Yeah, it was a real headache, but I managed to straighten everything out before I wrapped up the job a few days ago. The attorney was fuming, but at least he paid well,” Richie said, taking another hearty bite of his sandwich.

Duncan nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I’m glad you got everything sorted out. Do you have another job lined up?” he asked.

Richie grinned. “Hoping I’ll help you with the dojo again this fall?”

“The thought did cross my mind. You know you always have a home here with me, either way.”

Richie smiled fondly at his longtime friend and mentor. “Sorry, Mac, but I’d rather not repeat the insanity of last year, trying to manage helping you with the dojo while working full-time for Clearview Accounting Solutions. I’m supposed to start with a new client on Monday—a small architecture firm that needs an accounting clerk to cover for a few weeks.”

Duncan nodded in understanding, though he couldn’t mask a hint of disappointment. “I understand, last fall was certainly hectic between the dojo and your other work. You looked run ragged by the end.” He gave Richie a fond smile. “I’m glad to see you taking on a more reasonable workload this time. That architecture firm is lucky to have you, even temporarily.”

Richie returned the smile, relieved that Duncan wasn’t pushing him to overcommit again. As their conversation wound down, Richie finished his sandwich and drink. He let out a contented sigh.

“Thanks for dinner, Mac. It hit the spot.” Richie stood and gathered his plate. He cleaned up his mess as a small silence fell.

“So, what happened with your lady friend while I was away?” Richie asked, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. “You two were getting pretty close last I remembered.”

Duncan slumped back, shadows playing over his face. He twiddled the glass, watching the whiskey swirl a dance of lament. “Nicole?” His voice cracked, a discord in the usual melody of confidence. “She’s history.”

The light dimmed in Richie’s gaze, keen to scoop the details. Duncan hesitated, his fingers frozen mid-twirl on the glass. “Turns out, she was a different beast when you weren’t around. Cold. Hungry for status, for shiny things. I didn’t see it, not at first.”

Richie leaned in, surprise on his face.

Duncan’s mouth twisted into a grimace as he unspooled the truth. “The night the curtain fell, she practically cheered at your absence. It was if she’d peeled off her skin, revealing the hunger underneath. Her words about wanting to mooch off my supposed fortune, how fortunate I was not to be saddled with a leech like you...” He trailed off, the disgust thick on his tongue.

A storm brewed behind Richie’s eyes, the tightness in his jaw betraying the ache in his chest. That someone could scorn Duncan’s generosity offended him. “I’m sorry, Mac,” he whispered, his hand a warm anchor on Duncan’s arm. “At least you saw her for who she really is, before it went too far.”

Duncan’s eyes flickered, revealing a glint of vulnerability. “I kept our world a secret from her. Always felt too soon, you know?” He expelled a sigh, weaving the disappointment into a shrug. “Just when you think you’ve cracked humanity’s code...”

A chuckle broke from Richie, tipping the scale back toward lighter tides. “Isn’t this the part where you tell me not to become jaded? That there’s goodness out there?”

A slow, wistful smile crept onto Duncan’s lips. “You caught me. I’m no oracle, it seems.” He tasted the whiskey, savoring the peaty notes as if they could anchor him back to the present moment. With a shake of his head, he dismissed the shadows. “Better fortunes in love’s gambit next time, perhaps.” He veered toward the present. “Do you need anything from me tomorrow?”

“Just the keys to the Range Rover if I may,” Richie replied. The desire to survey the wreckage of his beloved motorcycle before entertaining thoughts of a replacement nudged at him. Duncan’s garage housed his taste for both the contemporary—a slick, newer model Range Rover reserved for winter’s whims—and the classic lines of his prized Thunderbird convertible.

“Of course, they’re nestled in the drawer beneath the telephone, as they have always been. Do you think your motorcycle is too broken to be repaired?”

Richie met the older immortal’s gaze. “If I admit my reservations about the repair shop’s ability to weld her back to a state that could withstand future encounters, even if the insurance covers it, would that make a difference?” he asked Duncan.

Duncan offered a chuckle, his mood lightening. “I’ve just come to the realization I missed your birthday again this year.” He walked over to Richie and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “If you need some money to replace the bike, just say the word. I know that motorcycle meant a lot to you.”

Richie smiled gratefully at Duncan. “Thanks Mac, I appreciate the offer. Let me assess the extent of her injuries before declaring her beyond salvation. I may be able to salvage her yet.”

Duncan smiled, glad to see Richie’s optimism hadn’t dimmed.

They chatted for a while longer, catching up on the small happenings in each other’s lives since Richie had been unable to call often while in Victoria, moored offshore. Duncan told stories of the dojo students that made Richie laugh, and Richie shared lighter moments from his work on the yacht that didn’t involve financial disarray. As their conversation began to wind down, Duncan stifled a yawn.

“It’s getting late, my friend. We both had long days,” Duncan said as he stood up from the breakfast bar. “We should check on our guest and turn in for the night.”

Richie nodded in agreement. They made their way upstairs and softly opened the door to the guest room. By the glow of the bedside lamp, they saw their guest Reacher still asleep, though his breathing seemed more peaceful than before. Anne’s treatment appeared to help reduce his fever.

Duncan placed a comforting hand on Richie’s shoulder. “He’s getting the rest he needs now. Let’s leave him be and head to bed ourselves.”

Richie nodded in agreement, stifling a yawn. The two immortals quietly left the guest room and parted ways to retire for the night. Though centuries separated their births, Duncan felt a fatherly care for Richie as if the younger man was his own son.

As Richie closed the door to his bedroom, he paused in reflection of the day’s events. Caring for an ailing stranger had not been part of the plan after returning home, yet helping those in need came as naturally to Richie as breathing. While the unknown man’s arrival brought questions, Richie took comfort knowing he and Duncan had done all they could to aid their unexpected guest’s recovery. As he drifted off to sleep, Richie hoped Reacher’s fever would break by morning.

Chapter Text

Reacher’s senses crawled back to him in a reluctant haze, each unveiling a slice of the unexpected opulence overhead—an intricate dance of tin and copper crafted into a ceiling he was sure had never sheltered him before. His mind was adrift in a fog, limbs weighted down as if anchored to the depths of his confusion. An attempt to rise summoned a sudden, violent coughing fit that convulsed through him, shaking the unfamiliarity of his surroundings into sharp relief.

When the storm within his chest ebbed, Reacher’s eyes drank in the luxury that cradled him—a stark contradiction to anything his rugged life had acquainted him with. He took stock of his sumptuous surroundings, running his hands along the polished wood of the fine antique furniture that filled the spacious room. His eyes traced the intricate details of a nearby painting, recognizing it as a priceless work of art. Many leafy plants dotted every surface, their vibrant shades of green adding oxygen and life to the space. Subtle hints of wealth abounded in the meticulous craftsmanship and expensive materials, yet the atmosphere felt welcoming and warm. Plush furnishings decorated the expansive bedroom, but no spark of recognition came to explain his presence there. His memory clung stubbornly to the scattering images of a motorcycle wreck, spattered across the canvas of a nondescript highway.

Golden beams pierced through the lofty windows, casting a celestial spotlight on the ballet of dust motes in the air. A pitcher of water sat on the nightstand beside the bed, a single glass beside it. Reacher availed himself of the water, drinking thirstily as the liquid eased his parched throat.

Rising slowly, Reacher braced himself against the reverberating vestiges of his malady. A grand four-poster bed lent him support as he fought to steady himself amidst the remnants of his fever. In his scantily clad state, Reacher noted his belongings had been treated with care: clothes folded neatly, backpack resting close, his shoes aligned like soldiers by the door, along with an unfamiliar pair of gray sweatpants.

With a grimace for the echoes of vertigo that seemed to haunt him, Reacher made his way over to one of the two comfortable-looking chairs that sat on either side of the table underneath a central window. Beyond the windows, life buzzed steadily—a contrast from his known rugged worlds—as people and vehicles animated the streets beneath. The table held his clothes, his backpack, and the sweatpants. He sank into the chair, finding it firm and supportive.

Reacher drew in a deep, fortifying breath, his gaze sweeping out the expansive windows that crowned the third floor with an almost regal presence. The vibrant tableau of the street below unfurled before him—a ceaseless stream of gleaming vehicles threading through the arteries of the bustling avenue, each reflecting the sunlight in flashes of hurried life. Sidewalks teemed with the rhythmic march of pedestrians, a tapestry of souls woven into the fabric of the historical quarter.

An avenue lined with venerable brick buildings stood guard, their timeworn exteriors reflecting the narrative of an era ruled by the rhythmic clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages. Interspersed among them, modern buildings offered a respectful nod to their predecessors, their facades deliberately echoing the cherished architecture of the 1800s that endowed the neighborhood with its distinctive spirit. It was only the diverse signs adorning the storefronts that betrayed the jarring reality of the present day.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Come in,” Reacher invited, automatically coming to his feet as old military courtesy, too ingrained to be a simple habit, demanded.

A man eased through the threshold, standing four inches shorter than Reacher’s towering six-foot-four height. His dark brown hair framed a face of olive hues, while his movements bore the grace of a lifelong student of martial arts—confidence etched into his every step. Casual in a soft long-sleeved Henley and jeans, there was a curious barefooted simplicity about him.

“I’m Duncan MacLeod,” he said, his voice warm with a tinge of an accent that spoke of far-off places. “You might not remember, but it was Richie and I who found you. Fever had you in its grip. You’ve been teetering on the edge, fighting pneumonia, but you’re on the mend.”

Reacher scrutinized Duncan, dredging up the murky waters of his recent memories—there were fragments, a comforting voice that seemed to pierce the fever’s fog. “I do recall... somewhat,” he murmured, the effort evident in his voice. “After a crash—a motorcycle mishap. I was walking down the wrong highway. You... and someone else were there when the world came back into focus.”

With a gentle nod, Duncan affirmed, “That’s right. Richie stumbled upon you first—he’d had a spill on his bike. So, here you’ve been under our roof, with Anne caring for you. She once ran the show at Seacouver General, now she’s a private physician. Your fever finally gave in last night.”

“Why? Why not just drop me at a hospital?” Reacher’s confusion simmered beneath the surface.

“You didn’t seem the type to fare well with the cold company of hospital walls,” Duncan observed, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “Heaven knows how ERs can treat you like just another number, unless you are on death’s doorstep. How do you find yourself feeling now?”

“Better,” Reacher acknowledged, sensing the solidity returning to his body. “I’m stronger and owe you heartfelt thanks for your unexpected generosity.” He glanced out the window, observing the golden leaves fluttering in contrast to the city’s stony edges. “There’s a fragmented memory...of a pickup truck hitting a bike. And a redhead...I was trying to save.”

“That redhead would be Richie; he mentioned your help.” Duncan took a step closer, a solemn tact to his movements. “Please, take a seat. You’re hardly out of the woods just yet, according to Anne. Your legs are still holding a conversation with gravity they’re bound to lose. I can fetch you something to eat, and then we can see about exploring beyond these four walls.”

Reacher nodded gratefully.

“For now, sitting works,” he replied. His head still swam with questions. “The crash...did the driver survive?”

Duncan’s expression turned somber. “Richie did. Barely. The bike was totaled, but thankfully he walked away with only bruises and scrapes. You must have moved him quickly – the road can be dangerous out there.”

Reacher pondered this. “I’m glad he’s alright. But the next thing I recall is waking here...how long have I been under your care?”

“Nearly three days. The fever took hold of you fiercely,” Duncan replied. “But your body is fierce too – it fought hard. Anne, our doctor friend, stayed with you around the clock. You’re a very lucky man.”

A heaviness lingered in Duncan’s tone. Reacher sensed there was more to the story he had yet to learn.

“There’s something you’re not saying,” Reacher observed. Though weak, his instincts remained as sharp as ever. Reacher sensed Duncan was holding something back about the crash.

“You’re right, there is more I haven’t shared,” Duncan replied solemnly. “The driver who hit Richie didn’t stop to help. It was a hit and run.”

Reacher’s eyes narrowed. Even in his weakened state, the idea of leaving someone injured sparked his temper. “Do you know who they were?”

Duncan shook his head. “No witnesses, and Richie was in no state then to recall details. The police have no leads.”

Reacher was silent a moment. His thoughts turned to Richie’s strange recovery – far quicker than should’ve been possible. A suspicion crept into his mind, but he dismissed it, blaming his recovering wits.

Duncan seemed to guess Reacher’s thoughts. He held up a calming hand. “Those questions will have to wait, my friend. For now, focus on resting. There is time enough later for questions once you’ve regained your strength.”

Seeing the weariness in Duncan’s eyes, Reacher decided not to press further in his weakened state. Clearly there were undercurrents at play he did not yet understand. But he sensed Duncan spoke truth.

“Do you need a hand getting to the bathroom?” Duncan asked.

Reacher shook his head. He could navigate the distance by himself.

“The shower is just through there if you’d like to freshen up,” said Duncan, gesturing to an adjacent door. “I put a pair of sweatpants on the table for you; figured they’d be more comfortable than the jeans you were wearing. I put your pocketknife in your backpack as well. Everything has been washed, so you don’t have to worry about things being clean. Either I or Richie will be back in about twenty minutes with something light to eat so you don’t have to navigate the stairs.”

As Duncan left, Reacher shuffled slowly to the bathroom, which turned out to be as luxurious as the bedroom had been. He appreciated the fact that shower head was both high and wide enough to cascade more than enough water over his broad, tall frame. The hot shower soothed his aching muscles and cleared the last fog from his mind. Though still weakened, Reacher felt renewed – ready to uncover the mysteries surrounding this hospitable yet peculiar place, and its inhabitants’ involvement in the hit and run.

As the hot water sloughed off the last vestiges of fever and fatigue, Reacher’s mind sharpened with clarity and purpose. Answers awaited him beyond this sanctuary’s walls, but first he owed thanks to its benefactors.

Reacher dried himself swiftly and dressed in the proffered sweats, finding their loose fabric comfortably borne his recovering frame. He took the seat by the window, gazing down on the bustling street as droplets fell from his hair. Though veiled questions lingered, Duncan’s care could not be gainsaid – nor the worry that still etched the friend’s features. Wariness lived in Reacher still, yet violence would gain him naught here.

Soon light footsteps sounded without, and Duncan entered bearing a tray laden with soup, bread, fruit, and tea. The scents roused hunger long suppressed by illness. As Duncan entered, Reacher’s attention shifted from the bustling street below to the bounty now presented.

“Please, eat,” Duncan urged, setting the tray upon a nearby table. “Regain your strength. For now, rest and recuperate; answers can wait until you’re fully healed.”

Though curiosity still gnawed, Reacher’s growling stomach agreed with Duncan’s counsel. He helped himself to the soup, savoring each nourishing spoonful. Though his recovery had only just begun, Reacher felt renewed strength with each bite.

Duncan regarded Reacher attentively as he ate. “Does the soup sit well with you?” he asked. “There’s no need to rush – take your time until you feel full.”

Reacher nodded in acknowledgment before speaking. “The food is much appreciated. You’ve shown great care in my recovery.”

Duncan smiled gently. “It was the decent thing to do. No one should face illness alone.”

Reaching took another slow sip of tea, regarding Duncan thoughtfully. “You said there’s time for questions once I’ve regained my strength. I believe I’m well enough now if you’re willing to provide some answers.”

Duncan nodded in understanding. “Very well. What would you like to know?”

“First, where exactly am I? And what is it that you do?”

“You’re in Seacouver, Washington, in the Pine Hill neighborhood, which is the city’s historic district. I teach art history at Seacouver University twice a week, and I own and operate Pine Hill Martial Arts, which is located on the first floor of this building. Richie is my former ward; he’s currently in between assignments as an accounting specialist for an international specialty consulting firm. He’s in a meeting with his employer now; otherwise, he’d be here. He usually stays with me whenever we’re in the same city.”

Reacher nodded thoughtfully as he absorbed Duncan’s words. A university teacher and martial arts instructor – respectable professions, though their care for a stranger raised questions. Still, violence would find no foothold here, as Duncan had said.

“Thank you for clarifying,” Reacher replied. “This place seems far removed from my usual wanderings. I appreciate the hospitality you and Richie have shown, nursing me back to health from that crash.” He took another slow sip of tea. “You mentioned the police have no leads on the hit and run. As an investigator of sorts myself, once fully recovered I’d be willing to lend my skills, if you’re open to the help.”

Duncan considered the offer. “That’s gracious of you, but Richie is certain whoever hit him had more road rage than sense or decency,” Duncan replied pensively. “I’m inclined, as he is, to let it go and let karma handle it.”

Reacher nodded slowly as he considered Duncan’s perspective. In his experience, relying on fate to enact justice often led nowhere. Still, he sensed there were deeper currents at play here that he did not fully understand.

“In my line of work, I’m not one to leave loose ends untied,” Reacher replied cautiously. “But I respect that you’ve opened your home to me in my hour of need. Perhaps once I’m fully recovered, I could look into the matter discreetly, just to ease my own mind. No need to involve the authorities unless something turns up.”

Though polite, Duncan’s face remained skeptical at Reacher’s proposal. “My friend, I understand your wish to help, but some mysteries are best left unsolved. Whoever hit Richie was likely an angry fool who sped off in haste. No good can come from seeking them out.”

Reacher sensed Duncan’s reticence stemmed from more than a desire to let sleeping dogs lie. His instincts told him the crash held deeper significance Duncan hoped to avoid unveiling.

“You’re sure nothing was amiss about Richie’s recovery?” Reacher asked gently. “No lingering injuries or...other anomalies?”

Duncan held Reacher’s stare for a long moment before replying. “Richie was remarkably fortunate, I’ll grant you. But he has endured much in his young life. His resilience never ceases to amaze me.”

His words carried an unspoken meaning Reacher could not yet decipher. For now, he decided to drop the subject, instead turning his focus to his recovery.

“You’ve given me much to consider, Duncan. For now, I’ll rest as advised, regain my strength, and clear my head. There are still gaps in my memory of recent events I’m sure will return in time.”

Duncan nodded. “Wisdom speaks through you, Reacher. Recovery takes patience. Please, take all the time you need.”

Reacher grudgingly took Duncan’s gruff advice to heart.

That evening, as twilight’s fingers crept across the sky, a gentle rapping stirred Reacher from the twilight of consciousness. It was Richie who materialized in the doorway.

“Reacher, right? Richie Ryan,” he announced, his words as lively as his cascade of red hair. Balancing a tray with the ease of a seasoned server, an inviting aroma wafted into the room. “Mac seemed pretty sure you’d need refueling.”

As the savory smell filled his nostrils, Reacher’s stomach echoed with a growl of agreement. He slid into the seat at the table, while Richie, with a fluid grace, placed a steaming bowl of soup before him. This wasn’t the familiar yellow broth of chicken noodle soup he expected, but something rich and aromatic with an air of the exotic.

Richie caught the quizzical tilt of Reacher’s brow and chuckled. “That’s phở – Vietnamese noodle soup. I mastered it from a buddy. Figured you might crave a break from the ordinary, you know? Those meatballs? A little twist of my own.”

“Smells divine,” Reacher acknowledged, ladling a careful spoonful, “thanks.” The flavors burst on his tongue – a symphony of savory broth, tender noodles, and a chorus of spices singing in harmony. “Definitely beats chicken noodle. You’ve got quite the knack for guessing people’s hungers.”

Richie smiled as he set a pot of tea down along with two cups, then set the tray aside, propping it up against the wall. “I try to pay attention to what people seem to want. It comes in handy,” he said, pouring the fragrant liquid, his voice carrying an undercurrent of something more.

Reacher’s eyes narrowed slightly as he contemplated Richie, the man’s youthful vigor wrapped around a seasoned confidence. “Duncan spoke of your resilience. Is that why you accepted my aid after the crash so calmly?”

Richie’s shoulder gave a light shrug. “That’s just a scratch in the grand scheme, isn’t it? But you, pulling me out – that’s why I can still enjoy tea.” His tone was light, but his eyes, a shade too guarded.

Reacher’s next sip of tea brought a burst of smoke and strength, jolting his senses awake. Richie watched, eager for a verdict.

“It packs a punch,” Reacher admitted, a wry twist to his lips. “What is it?”

Richie beamed. “Japanese oolong, stuff you can’t get here in the US but it’s available in Canada. Mac got me hooked on it, and I bought some when I was in Victoria this past summer. I’m glad you like it.”

The tea’s warmth wasn’t merely physical; it spoke of Richie’s inherent warmth – a generosity as telling as his words. “Your care is rare, especially to a stranger,” Reacher observed. “Why such kindness?”

A wistful smile touched Richie’s mouth. “We’ve all felt the sting of cold shadows, haven’t we? I’m just paying forward a bit of light and warmth.”

Questions swirled in Reacher’s mind, but for the moment, he was content to bask in the glow of hospitable warmth and the rich, inviting aroma of soup.

“My thanks to you, Duncan, and whoever shared with you the secrets of this soup. It warms me far better than any medicine could.”

Reacher ate leisurely, savoring the flavor of each spoonful. Beside him, Richie settled into a comfortable silence, seemingly content just to watch over his convalescence. A peaceful calm filled the room, while Reacher noted that Richie’s observant eyes likely missed little.

After several quiet minutes, Richie’s voice broke the silence, his tone teasing. “Tell me, Reacher, how does a wandering Samaritan end up feverish and collapsed by the side of the road?”

Reacher chuckled. “Not the most illustrious of stories. I took a wrong turn — misinterpreted the advice from the bus station clerk. I had been helping a friend to the north and thought I’d found a shortcut to the city that would spare me from hitchhiking on the interstate and risking arrest again.” He paused before revealing, “I used to be an Army investigator; since leaving, I’ve been wandering the country, lending a hand wherever it’s needed.”

“Ah, I see. That’s the scenic route,” Richie replied with a knowing nod. “The western Highway 9 would’ve taken you directly south, despite its name, instead of southwestward, like the one we met on.”

“You seem familiar with this region,” Reacher observed. “Have you traveled much around here?”

Richie’s smile came easily. “I grew up here. Bounced around the foster system within the county until I decided to stay put with some friends.” He gave a casual shrug. “They led me into some trouble, but Mac helped get me out of it and became my legal guardian. However, I’ve always had the itch to see as much as I could.” He flashed a hint of a smile. “Once, I rode my motorcycle from Morocco to France, chasing the thrill of adventure.”

Reacher nodded in acknowledgment. “There’s nothing like the freedom of the open road. You know both its allure and its dangers well.” He took a contemplative sip of tea and continued, “In my experience, chance encounters are seldom just that. Hidden layers, unseen connections that draw people together. And there’s a sense that there’s more to your story than you’ve shared.” Richie met Reacher’s gaze with an ease that didn’t quite extend to his eyes.

“You might say my life’s been adventurous, more than most people, but those days are behind me.” Richie leaned forward, hands clasped. “What’s important is the here and now. And currently, you’re healing nicely thanks to Mac’s care. Do you feel stronger?”

Reacher assessed Richie but nodded. “Your friend’s cooking and nursing skills are exceptional. I’m feeling much better.” He appreciated the tea’s soothing warmth. “I’m grateful for your concern. But part of healing is understanding the events leading to one’s decline. That night is a vague memory still….”

Richie regarded Reacher thoughtfully. “You’ve been through a lot. It’s understandable you’d want to unravel your foggy recollections.” His expression was open, yet there was a cautious restraint. “Often, the past poses more questions than it answers,” Richie remarked. “Dwelling on it might not aid your recovery, which should be our focus.”

Reacher contemplated Richie’s sagacious words. There was wisdom in letting some mysteries lie, yet a sense of unrest remained. “A troubled mind heals slowly. Perhaps sharing my fragmented memories could bring relief, especially with your perspective to provide context.”

Richie nodded in agreement. “Go ahead. Though I only have pieces of our larger story.”

Reacher then described scattered memories — wandering feverishly down the highway, the shriek of tires, and finding Richie motionless by the roadside.

Richie’s response was pensive. “It’s blurry to me too. One moment I was riding into the night, the next...” He trailed off. “I’m just thankful you happened upon me when you did. No telling what might have ensued otherwise.”

Reacher observed Richie carefully. Friendly and affable, Richie still seemed to be holding something back. “You’ve bounced back remarkably well from such an incident,” Reacher pointed out.

Richie’s grin was subtle but palpable. “Let’s just say I recover quickly.” Noticing that Reacher had finished his meal, Richie picked up the dishes. “You should rest now. I’ll watch things while Mac teaches at the dojo. Shout if you need anything. If you’re not up for the stairs, holler from the top; too bad the elevator isn’t in service, or I’d recommend that.”

As Reacher brushed his teeth before crawling back into bed, his mind was active despite his exhaustion. He reflected on Duncan and Richie’s incomplete and cautious accounts. Duncan had avoided probing into the crash, just as Richie had dodged deeper discussions of his past. The discrepancies suggested hidden truths.

Reacher’s investigative instincts intimated that they were concealing significant details, perhaps with reason. Their veiled hints, however, also stirred his curiosity. He longed to unravel the evening’s events to grasp the true narrative beneath Richie and Duncan’s protective fronts.

Yet fatigue overcame him, and sleep claimed Reacher before he could decipher more.

Chapter Text

Despite Reacher’s burning curiosity to unravel the enigmatic Richie and Duncan, his priority was to recover his full strength in the forthcoming days. Although he longed to dig into the mysteries of his peculiar hosts and their impressive abode, his recovery from a recent bout of pneumonia was incomplete. Every breath was a struggle, with the slightest physical effort leaving him depleted. Still, under the attentive care of Duncan and Richie, Reacher’s strength was gradually restored. Day by day, he noted incremental gains in both his vitality and his breathing capacity. While he was not yet strong, Reacher could now remain conscious for extended periods without succumbing to a deep sleep the instant his caregivers left.

For the better part of a week, Reacher confined himself restlessly to his guest quarters, pacing the perimeter when feeling bold but more often occupying the sitting area by the windows. There he watched the ebb and flow of neighborhood life below, finding quiet solace in the simple routines of strangers going about their days. Gradually the tightness in his chest eased, replaced by a deep ache in his muscles from inactivity.

Then one morning, Reacher woke, stirred from his slumber by a strange quiet that had settled over the house. Having grown accustomed to the sounds of life drifting up from downstairs – muffled voices in conversation, the clink of dishes being washed, footsteps pacing the hardwood – the heavy stillness gave him pause.

 Sliding from beneath the plush blankets, Reacher padded softly to the bedroom door and pressed his ear against the cool wood, straining to detect any signs of activity from beyond. Still the quiet prevailed, an unusual stillness for a home normally bustling at this hour.

Reacher pressed onward, padding quietly down the lavishly decorated hallway in search of clues. Alongside the grand staircase he spied a vintage cage-style elevator, its gilded doors shut. Considering his stubborn muscles still protested undue strain, Reacher opted to brave the stairs instead. Grasping the polished banister for support, he made his cautious descent.

Making his way downstairs with careful steps, Reacher found the lower floor of the grand home likewise deserted. A disquiet hummed beneath Reacher’s skin as his alert eyes scanned every visible corner for signs of his hosts or clues as to their whereabouts.

The cavernous open-plan living area gave up no answers, its stylish furnishings bathed in the soft morning light streaming through towering windows. Not a soul stirred upon the plush sofas or within the modern U-shaped kitchen that anchored one corner.

It was there, affixed to the gleaming stainless steel refrigerator door by a small magnet shaped like a katana, that Reacher found the brief note penned in Duncan’s neat cursive.

Reacher,

Help yourself to whatever you need from the fridge. I’ve left eggs, yogurt, overnight oatmeal, and fruit for your breakfast. Make use of anything else in the house during your recovery. I have classes to teach at the university this morning and will work at the dojo later this afternoon. Richie has an early meeting at the office. Please let us know if you need anything.

With care,

Duncan & Richie

The home whispered of absence, an odd silence draping over what was typically a vibrant space. Reacher’s keen senses sifted through the words for hidden worry or urgency, but found the note saturated only with warm hospitality and attentive foresight. The numbers of both Duncan and Richie inked below as an afterthought lured Reacher’s gaze to the kitchen’s modern wireless phone set against the wall.

Drawing a calming breath, Reacher realigned the note with its magnetic anchor. His belly grumbled its approval—the call for sustenance outweighing the pull of his natural curiosity. He canvassed the well-stocked larder, a forgotten pastime of having others anticipate his needs now a relished luxury. He unearthed a carton of farm-fresh eggs, a parcel of thick-cut bacon, and a sack of earthy potatoes, his mind already choreographing the simple culinary dance of breakfast. Rustic homestyle scrambled eggs and golden hashbrowns were comfortably in his culinary repertoire.

Soon, the kitchen hummed with the melody of crackling bacon and hissing potatoes, the scents coalescing into a heady, comforting cloud. Reacher plated and dispatched generous servings with a workman’s efficiency, his famished gut signaling a voracious encore. After answering its call with more servings, he brewed a robust pot of coffee and unearthed a hulking coffee mug that looked like it could be home to a goldfish.

With coffee scent hugging the air, he meticulously cleaned his wares, setting them to dry like a regimented line of soldiers next to the sink. Task complete, he cradled the massive mug, letting the coffee’s warm perfume tickle his senses. Reacher leaned into the moment, steaming cup in hand, poised to ponder his forthcoming stratagem.

He soon turned his focus to exploring the space more fully now that he had freedom of its grandeur. He drifted through the sunny living area, attracting beams catching his eye with glimpses of treasures – an ancient Japanese scroll depicted bamboo swaying in the wind, an impressionist seascape that seemed to breathe the salty air.

Yet for all its opulence, the space somehow exuded comfort. Plush couches invited lounging with soft pillows and blankets, strategically placed reading nooks beckoned quiet contemplation. Plants of every variety filled each corner with life, their leaves fluttering gently in the filtered sunlight. Beyond the living area lay an open dining space with a long oak table surrounded by high-backed chairs.

Reacher’s search for clues led him to the dining area. Along one wall stood a solid oak sideboard, its polished surface gleaming in the morning light. Reacher approached and found within an impressive collection of whiskeys nestled snugly on shelves lined with velvet. Most were Scottish with labels declaring regions renowned the world over. Below rested a frosted wine fridge, its door slightly ajar to reveal a colorful bounty within.

As Reacher studied the choice, he noticed a framed photograph nestled among the bottles. It showed Duncan and Richie, both smiling brightly as they stood with arms around one another’s shoulders at the base of what looked like the Eiffel Tower. Though he tried not to pry into his hosts’ personal lives, Reacher couldn’t help but smile at the photo of Duncan and Richie smiling together in happier times. It seemed a private reminder of why they opened their home to help others in need, just as they had helped him. Yet something about the photo nagged at him. It looked too faded to be recent.

Reacher’s curiosity deepened as he wondered at how Richie and Duncan could look so youthful and ageless in the photograph, yet the faded tones suggested it depicted them from long ago. Reacher rubbed his eyes and reconsidered the photo, wondering if exhaustion still clouded his mind. Yet the details remained the same – Duncan and Richie seemed unchanged from decades past. Reacher rubbed his eyes again, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Before he could think on it further, a noise from elsewhere in the house caught his attention.

Reacher turned away from the photograph, stowing the enigma of its faded hues for future contemplation. He moved through the dining area with purpose, his ears sharp. Once more, a subterranean grinding noise whispered from the depths of the building. In his first observation, Reacher had overlooked the polished brass facade of an elevator, discreetly embedded in the wall. As he neared, the elevator came to life, its brass door parting gracefully and unveiling a modern conveyance within. Compelled by intrigue, Reacher entered and eyed the keypad next to the buttons marked “PG,” “1”, “2”, “3”, and “R”.

The keypad remained inscrutable, offering no hints. Reacher’s attempts at random combinations yielded nothing. With each red flash, the keypad dismissed his latest guess at the elusive code. Reacher weighed his options – forcing the portal could endanger the security of Duncan and Richie, yet ignoring the itch of his curiosity was against his nature. As he deliberated his next course of action, the elevator sealed him in, obscuring the modern decor of its interior from anyone outside.

Maintaining composure, Reacher relaxed against the back panel of the elevator cab, his senses attuned to his surroundings. The gentle hum of machinery signified the start of the elevator’s descent, halting his opportunity to ruminate. The impetus for solutions had shifted.

The brief journey concluded as a soft ding announced the arrival. Reacher hovered a hand noncommittally over the keypad in wait. The doors parted once more, and he was left to wonder whether to expect the mundane sight of Duncan and Richie at work or a more sinister scene requiring the skills of an ex-Army MP.

Moments later, the reveal was at hand. The doors withdrew, and there stood Richie in a vast subterranean garage, his red motorcycle askew as if hastily reparked near the lift. A black Range Rover sat further away, nestled in what seemed to be an assigned spot. Three more stalls lay vacant, the calm of the place belying the tension of their encounter.

“Imagine bumping into you here,” Richie remarked, a mysterious smile playing across his lips. Dressed in form-fitting leather, the hallmark of a biker, he casually carried his helmet under one arm. A messenger bag slung across his chest, its strap cutting a diagonal across his body. “You found Mac’s note, I presume?” His fingers danced over the keypad, expertly entering the code while using the messenger bag to shield his movements. Remarkably, he did all this without once glancing at the keypad, his gaze locked on Reacher. “Did you get something to eat, I hope?”

“The food was plentiful, thanks,” came the terse reply.

As if by magic, the elevator doors whispered closed, severing the lifeline to the garage’s hidden world. With a punch of a button, Richie sent them ascending to the lofty realms of the grand home.

“Mac’s note mentioned you had an early start today,” observed Reacher, his tone laced with curiosity.

“Right, I did. Trudging back to fetch some bits and bobs for a client locked in the Stone Age—they might as well be tallying figures in a dusty ledger with a stub of pencil.” Richie pulled a face like he’d bitten into a lemon. “Let’s hope they aren’t using an abacus as well.”

Reacher chuckled, a sound surprised out of him by Richie’s theatrical lament, but it didn’t distract him from a niggling thought—he was a man without a key, without a passcode, effectively trapped. And he inevitably wondered: why?

As the elevator ascended, Reacher observed Richie with a discerning eye. His affable demeanor concealed a vigilant awareness — a vigilance not lost on Reacher, whose military-honed senses were still acute despite his recuperation. “Your hospitality is much appreciated,” Reacher said, breaking the silence. “But confinement without clarity or purpose can be unnerving. Could you shed light on some of my questions?”

Richie’s gaze remained fixed on the ascending numbers above the elevator door, though he seemed to ease a fraction. “We’re always willing to assist those in need,” he replied. “If I can enlighten you, I will.”

Reacher chose direct questions. “The photograph in the dining room — both you and Duncan look unchanged, as if time hasn’t touched you. And this place... it’s safeguarded in ways I’m still trying to fathom. What’s the nature of your connection with Duncan? Understanding that might alleviate some of my concerns while I’m here.”

Richie finally faced Reacher with a subtle smile. “The short answer? I’m his son, more or less. Like I said before, Duncan was my legal guardian. The details of our history would take longer to explain, and I need to find those cables before heading to work.”

Exiting the elevator with purpose, Richie made a beeline for the study, signaling an end to their conversation. Reacher followed Richie, his thoughts drifting as he tried to reconcile Richie’s cryptic words.

Like the rest of the first floor, the study was a tidy collection of furnishings rather than a separate room. It occupied the corner opposite the kitchen. The study was lined with bookshelves and a large mahogany desk faced the window. Richie rummaged through drawers as Reacher examined leather-bound volumes. Their spines hinted at histories spanning centuries.

Left to consider his next step, he realized he was enveloped in questions with few answers. Unable to leave without a key or the elevator code, he crafted his next inquiry with care. “The hospitality you and Duncan have extended is generous. Why, then, the stringent security measures when you both come across as so open?”

Richie paused and glanced back. “Mac—that’s what I call Duncan—values security, maybe excessively. We’ve had serious incidents, like a stalker who once invaded this very place.”

“Stalkers?” Reacher echoed, a touch of concern in his voice.

Richie nodded solemnly. “A crazed fan of Mac’s martial arts training became dangerously obsessed. The episode left us all rattled. Ever since, we’ve been quite meticulous about our safety protocols.”

Reacher pondered Richie’s explanation, which provided context but did not reduce his intrigue. “Caution is wise,” Reacher acknowledged. “Still, in the face of potential threats, having an additional pair of eyes could be an asset rather than a risk.”

Weighing Reacher’s proposition, Richie finally conceded, “Let me gather these cables, and I’ll present your thoughts to Mac. Just hold on here.”

Reacher watched Richie hastily pack his laptop bag with an assortment of cords and then fire off a text message, to which Duncan timely responded. Richie read the text, letting out a resigned yet bemused sigh.

Richie glanced at his watch. “I should be off. Make yourself at home until dinner. You’ll find the TV remote in the drawer beneath the coffee table.” Gathering his belongings with a hint of briskness, Richie added, “I’ll meet you back here around six, depending on the traffic, and dinner is at seven. Feel free to make yourself comfortable in the meantime.”

With those parting words, Richie left through the elevator. The weighty brass gates closed with a clang, and Reacher listened to the machinery hum into life, the murmur growing fainter until silence reclaimed the room.

Reacher’s attention drifted over the lush furnishings. The room, once a haven, had taken on the feel of a lavish prison.

Taking a deep breath, Reacher reminisced about his years in the military—he had endured greater confinements than his current situation. Panic was futile; he needed a calm, thorough analysis. He walked over to the windows and looked out, noting the lush greenery that offered no escape routes. Back at the elevator, he studied the keypad again, but it remained intractable.

Reacher set out to reexamine the opulent apartment with a critical eye. His instincts told him something didn’t add up. Duncan, an art history professor and martial arts dojo owner, seemed unlikely to afford this luxury. Richie, though only a temporary worker, was around more often than Duncan during Reacher’s recovery. These details intrigued Reacher, the probing investigator.

Reacher began searching meticulously in the living areas, carefully scrutinizing artworks and furnishings. Several genuine and costly pieces stood out, although some were fakes to his trained eye. In the study, journals and records provoked more questions than answers. With his investigative instincts piqued, Reacher pored over the documents, looking for overlooked clues.

He discovered receipts for antique artworks and artifacts bought for exorbitant prices, dwarfing what university salary and dojo earnings might provide. Records showed dealings between Duncan and Nash & Russell, an antique store in New York, with a mysterious “MacLeod” discount. Reacher dug deeper and found a newspaper clipping about a rare antiquities auction, where a Japanese sword had been sold for half a million dollars, authenticated by Duncan himself.

A puzzle was forming: Duncan’s lifestyle wasn’t sustainable on his income alone. Piecing together the past few weeks, a striking memory surfaced—the motorbike accident that introduced Reacher to Richie. Reacher remembered the bike as black, not red like the one downstairs, suggesting Richie’s original motorbike was irreparably damaged, or even replaced.

Richie’s claims of being Duncan’s guardian-turned-son intrigued Reacher. The bond they shared seemed more familial than legal, as shown by their interactions.

Within the apartment, Reacher’s attention was caught by a hidden emergency exit. The doorway, equipped with a security alarm, presented a dilemma: leave and avoid the risk of digging deeper into Duncan and Richie’s secrets, or stay and uncover the truth? His determination to solve the mystery overtook the impulse to flee.

After eating a sandwich in the ultra-modern kitchen, Reacher continued exploring the apartment. His investigation led him to Richie’s room, where personal effects hinted at a life of thrill and affection, suggested by photos and mementos.

In Duncan’s sumptuous bedroom, Reacher was awestruck by the regality and history radiating from every object, from the converted gas fireplace to the elaborate master bathroom.

Despite the opulence, questions about Duncan and Richie’s past remained. Was Duncan’s wealth truly from dealing in antiques? And why did Richie seem unharmed from a supposedly severe accident?

With Duncan and Richie’s return hours away, Reacher searched for answers in the study’s extensive book collection. A historical travelogue caught his eye, absorbing him in tales of medieval European knights until the mantle clock reminded him it was time to meet his hosts.

As the October sun melted away, smearing the sky with shades of amber, dusk wrapped itself around the world, bringing with it a penetrating cold. It was this twilight hour when Reacher, tingling with subdued anticipation, tuned into the sound of a door creaking open below. Hushed voices floated up through the timeworn bones of the house – it was unmistakably the return of Duncan and Richie.

Reacher eased carefully down the creaking staircase, his footsteps barely whispering against the wood, reaching the grand foyer just as his companions were peeling off their jackets. Out of the corner of his eye, a metallic flicker caught his attention as Duncan’s hand moved a little too purposefully while hanging his coat. Had that been a glint of steel?

“Reacher,” Duncan’s voice was warm with welcome. “Good to see you on your feet. How are you holding up?”

“Feeling much better, thanks to you. Actually, there’s something I wanted to bring up tonight, at dinner,” Reacher said, adding a hint of intrigue to his casual drawl.

A glance charged with silent conversation shot between Duncan and Richie, met by an almost imperceptible nod. “Of course,” Duncan replied, his gaze anchoring back to Reacher. “Let’s have our meal first, then talk.”

In the kitchen, Duncan and Richie orchestrated their culinary dance, the expansive room their stage. Though simple, the dishes they crafted could grace the gallery of a gourmet eatery, their aroma teasing Reacher’s senses. For those fleeting moments, watching the pair move with a well-worn camaraderie, sharing laughter and the easy rhythm of their banter, Reacher was almost ready to let his guard down. He couldn’t forget, though, that they owed him answers.

As they met around the dining table, adorned with a rich, rustic spread of succulent steak, buttery potatoes crisped at the edges, and an assortment of vibrant, lightly sauteed vegetables, the trio engaged in friendly banter. Richie animatedly recounted the eccentricities of his latest client – a chuckle-inducing tale of technological reluctance so pronounced that one might believe the individual had never found computerized accounting in the decade past. Duncan wove his own humorous narratives, drawing from the well of memories as a university lecturer, his expressions oscillating between bemusement and exasperation while reminiscing about the quirky zeal of certain students he’d instructed.

Reacher, his senses heightened by a mix of social conformity and his own gnawing impatience, listened with a façade of attentiveness. His meal was dispatched with an uncharacteristic haste as his thoughts circled like birds of prey, ravenous for the meat of truth hidden amongst bones of small talk. He perceived yet another exchange of understanding looks between Duncan and Richie, their silent dialogue skating the edge of perception. At last, with their plates cleared, Duncan swiveled to address Reacher directly.

“You’re a perceptive man,” Duncan began. “And an honorably curious one, though your curiosity could lead you into danger if not satisfied.”

Reacher tensed, narrowing his eyes. “Danger from whom?”

Duncan glanced at Richie again before continuing. “From others like Richie and myself. You see, we are immortals who can only die by losing our heads, usually in combat against another of our kind, but any method of decapitation works.”

Reacher narrowed his eyes as he processed Duncan’s words. Immortality and eternal life were ideas he had never truly considered, preferring more pragmatic explanations for the world. And yet, Duncan and Richie’s unchanged appearances in decades-old portraits, and Richie’s unharmed recovery from a deadly accident, were facts that demanded supernatural reasoning. However, Reacher was not one to accept extraordinary claims without proof.

He leaned forward intently. “Immortality is an immense thing to accept on faith alone. What proof can you offer that what you say is true?”

Duncan considered this with a nod. “Fair enough. You’ve seen for yourself that I appear unchanged from photographs from decades ago. And Richie showed no injury from what should have been a fatal crash.”

“Coincidences happen,” Reacher replied pragmatically. “I’ve seen far-fetched tales peddled as truth. What irrefutable evidence can you show?”

Duncan and Richie exchanged a look.

Richie shrugged. “He’s not going to believe without seeing it.”

Duncan drew a deep breath and stood from the dining room table. “You have your pocketknife?” he asked.

Reacher extricated his well-worn buck knife, its edges glinting with years of meticulous sharpening, from the depths of his rear denim pocket. Rising, he eclipsed the dining room’s lamplight, casting a looming shadow over the dinner table’s remnants.

Duncan unfurled his arm towards Reacher, his wrist bared and vulnerable under the flickering ambiance. “Cut me,” he directed, his voice a sotto whisper in the tense air.

With a furrow deepening on his brow, Reacher obliged, drawing the blade across Duncan’s olive-toned skin to etch a crimson seam on the tender flesh of his inner wrist. What happened next defied all logic. The gaping line danced back together in a macabre ballet of self-repair, the torn edges kissing each other whole again. Reacher’s eyes grew wide with incredulity, a cold shiver skittering down his spine as not even the ghost of a scar remained to tell the tale of the wound.

Duncan faced Reacher with a placid expression, his eyes like tranquil ponds absorbing the torrent of shock radiating from the other man’s face.

“Now do you believe?” he asked, his voice a gentle nudge in the midst of chaos.

Reacher stood frozen as the reality buckled beneath him, his staunchly pragmatic mind fumbling like a lock pick in the face of a safe it could not crack. It was a stretched span of silence, filled with the buzz of his racing thoughts as he attempted to piece together the fragmented edges of his shattered skepticism. A halo of the room’s light etched out Duncan’s earnest silhouette as Reacher gathered the torn threads of his composure.

At last, with a voice tinged by a cocktail of awe and confusion, he managed to articulate as he sat back down, “I... have more questions than ever. How is such a thing possible?”

His words hung heavily in the air, a testament to the weight of the enigma that now lay ponderously before him.

Duncan smiled slightly. “That is a question mankind has pondered for millennia. All immortals are born, not made, with our quickened healing ability the only difference between us and mortals. We live until we lose our heads in combat with another immortal, after which our quickened healing ability ceases and we die as mortals do. Now you understand why our kind lives in secret. Can you imagine the terror and chaos if humanity knew of immortals living among them?”

Reacher reclined, his wheels of cognition turning laboriously. On one hand, doubt persisted, a persistent echo challenging the veracity of such fantastical notions. However, the undeniable spectacle of Duncan’s recuperative phenomenon buckled his skepticism.

“Why disclose this to me?” Reacher pondered aloud after a weighted pause. “I could expose your secret to the world.”

Duncan nodded calmly. “True. But you strike me as someone who doesn’t like to leave a mystery unsolved. You helped Richie despite running a high fever and almost exhausting yourself.”

Reacher considered Duncan’s words thoughtfully. Though he was naturally suspicious, he sensed truthfulness in the immortal’s steady gaze.

“I’m a man who seeks answers,” Reacher replied at last. “And I appreciate you sharing your secret with me, risky as it was. Now I understand your abilities and why you’ve amassed such wealth dealing artifacts through the centuries.” He paused. “But this changes little between us. I still have questions.”

Duncan nodded as he took a seat at the dinner table. “Ask what you will. We’ve nothing to hide from you now.”

“Your kind, the immortals—how many are there? How do you live without detection for so long?” Reacher inquired.

Duncan explained that while their precise numbers were unknown, immortals spread across the globe in secret, taking new identities as needed to avoid rising suspicion over lack of aging.

“Plus,” Richie chimed in, “a lot of people just don’t pay that close attention. As I told you, I grew up here. By all rights, I should avoid this area completely—but I stay away for a few months, and it’s like I’ve been gone for years. I could probably get away with telling people I have great genes or had a facelift done or whatever plausible excuse I want to use for years, as long as I’m careful not to do something stupid like get publicly injured or killed.”

Reacher contemplated Richie’s words thoughtfully. Living eternally without aging seemed implausible by ordinary standards. Yet these men spoke with such conviction and familiarity about their existence that he could not deny their truthfulness.

“I can understand why you keep your nature hidden,” he said finally. “So few people would accept what they see as impossible. How do you find others of your kind? And what of these ‘Immortal battles’—how do they come about, and why fight at all if you’re trying to keep a low profile?”

Richie and Duncan shared a look.

Richie replied, “Good questions, Reacher. We tend to sense when another Immortal is near through a sort of...buzz, I guess you could call it. As for the challenges, all immortals are players in what we call ‘The Game.’ When we win a duel between our kind, what they know is transferred to us in what looks like a lightning show, feels like a riptide, and hurts like getting burned. We call it the Quickening. I know Russian, for example, because I won against an immortal who was born a Cossack.

“The prize for the ultimate winner is enough power to rule the world, because if that immortal wins, they will have amassed all the skills, all the knowledge, everything of all the immortals in the world.” He met Reacher’s stunned gaze. “It’s basically a genocide.”

A heavy silence fell as Reacher took in the magnitude of what Richie had revealed. Immortals battling endlessly through the ages, taking each other’s heads in pursuit of ultimate power, painted a dark picture.

At last, he spoke. “So, your kind are not just immortal, but constantly at war.” His eyes narrowed. “Have you taken heads yourself?”

A shadow passed over Duncan’s face. “I have fought when challenged, as is our way. I strive not to kill, though, unless there is no other choice.”

“And I try to avoid fighting altogether, but I’ve fought,” Richie added. “Most of us just want to live in peace. I don’t want to win the Prize if it means all the immortal friends and family I have are dead. I’ve had taste of what it’s like to think you have to get others before they get you, and I’d rather not live like that ever again.” He very carefully did not look at Duncan as he spoke, but Reacher caught a flash of guilt and regret on the older immortal’s face. An uncomfortable silence hung in the air, heavy with shared yet unspoken history.

Sensing this, Reacher spoke to redirect the conversation. “Tell me more of the ‘rules’ of this Game. How does one officially challenge another immortal?”

Richie leaned back with a sigh, running a hand through his hair as he considered his answer. At length he replied, “It’s less a formal set of rules and more an understanding built over centuries of tradition. An immortal will typically call out a challenge by name, some version of ‘until the death.’ The other has the choice to accept or walk away. If they fight and the challenger loses their head, that’s it—the Game is over for them.”

“But it’s not so black and white,” Duncan interjected. “New immortals are not yet aware of the true stakes and may provoke a fight unknowingly. An experienced immortal like me will try to avoid killing in such situations if possible. However, there is no refraining once a challenge has been issued and accepted. It becomes a fight to the death. There are also places of sanctuary—holy ground for example—and places where immortals have traditionally agreed not to fight, like atop volcanoes or in airports.”

Reacher pondered this heavily. The weight of such an eternal conflict was nearly incomprehensible. And yet, here sat two men who had experienced it for generations.

“You said the prize is power to rule the world,” Reacher said to Richie. “But it seems a heavy price to pay, winning at the cost of ending all those you’ve known. What drives immortals to continue playing this...Game?”

Richie and Duncan exchanged a look.

“In the beginning, survival,” Duncan replied. “When the first of us realized we could die only by beheading, it bred paranoia and distrust. Challenges were issued out of fear—that if we did not fight, another would take our head without mercy.”

“But the Game evolves with each generation,” Duncan continued solemnly. “Older immortals like me have seen too much death. We fight only when challenged and try whenever possible to avoid taking lives. For new immortals just discovering their nature, the thrill of power can consume them. That is what truly drives some to amass victories—a hunger for supremacy and the Prize.”

Richie nodded sadly. “Fear and greed are a lethal mix for us. I was lucky Duncan found me when I was new; he taught me there’s more to this life than just battling endlessly.” His eyes flickered to Reacher. “Which brings us back to why we revealed our secret. You seem like a man who won’t be satisfied till all mysteries are solved. We hoped explaining our nature might gain an ally’s discretion, instead of becoming another threat.” He met Reacher’s gaze. “Mac and I do our best to live within the law, but someone like you, who’d turn over stones to find what’s underneath the moss, would bring unwanted attention to us. We wouldn’t hurt you; we’d just disappear—and trust me, that’s not something either of us want to do.”

Reacher absorbed Richie’s plea with a thoughtful mien. Though mysteries often propelled him deeper into the labyrinthine nature of truth, the sincerity in their words resonated. Here were two men whose only yearning was for peace—a universal longing.

“Is that why you don’t want to find the driver who hit you?” Reacher queried, regarding the younger immortal with a newfound understanding.

“Precisely,” Richie agreed. “Such matters would necessitate providing evidence of an injury I could not, and what remains of my motorcycle is in a scrap yard.”

“I understand your reasons for discretion,” Reacher responded, the corners of his mouth lifting in a wry smile, acknowledging the gravity of their secret. “And I have no desire to endanger you both by exposing your secret. You’ve indulged my curiosity by entertaining all my questions, and for that I am grateful. My friend, discretion is a virtue I uphold as well.”

A calm silence settled over the three men as Duncan and Richie processed Reacher’s assurance. At length, Duncan spoke. “You have our thanks. Not all who witness our abilities respond with such open-mindedness.”

“I go where the facts lead,” Reacher stated simply. “And the facts before me are undeniable. While much remains uncertain, I believe your intentions are peaceful. For now, that is enough.”

“You have given us great insight into your character, Reacher, with your curiosity and open-mindedness.” Duncan paused thoughtfully. “I understand this is all still difficult to fully accept. I also feel responsible for disrupting your travels with this surprise. I hope you will at least stay awhile longer to rest and recover your strength before continuing your journey.”

Reacher nodded slowly. “I appreciate the offer. My wanderings have left me running low on funds as well.”

“In that case, please allow me to repay your understanding in a small way,” said Duncan. “Our dojo could use extra hands for registration and cleanup. The work is easy and pays a fair wage. You are welcome to it if you wish to stay. I’ll also arrange a key for you. Currently, I don’t have a spare, so one will have to be cut. It seemed pointless to provide the elevator code when you wouldn’t be able to access the exterior door. If you walk out of the garage, the doors lock automatically behind you.”

“So, the elevator has been in service all this time?” Reacher inquired, an eyebrow arched toward Richie.

Richie spread his hands in deference to Duncan. “His house; his rules. I don’t give out the elevator passcode to people who could kill us in our sleep.”

Acknowledging the logic with a sagacious nod, Reacher recognized the duality of their esteem and prudence. While respect had been fostered, his potential to become formidable if crossed necessitated safeguards.

“Your reason for care is sound,” said Reacher. “I mean you no harm but cannot fault your instinct for self-preservation either. These are strange circumstances.”

His mind remained alight with intrigue, curiosity tickling the edges of his thoughts like an insistent whisper; yet he knew well the dance of responsibility and caprice. Reacher fixated on Duncan with a solemn gaze. “You’ve shown me great courtesy in offer of work and lodging. I accept and will prove worthy of your trust.” His gaze flickered to Richie. “Though, I can’t help surmise that the daily grind of the dojo might typically be within your purview.”

Richie’s laughter cut through the somber atmosphere, bright and unguarded. “I used to do that, actually. Mac got me to come back to Seacouver two years ago by saying he needed help with running this new dojo, but then I tried to do that and the consulting work. Ran myself ragged. Being immortal doesn’t mean we don’t get fatigued. I told him I wanted to focus on my career as a consulting accountant and not do both again.” He smiled wryly at Duncan. “Some days I still can’t believe you roped me into running the dojo for so long.”

Duncan chuckled. “Ah, but students do so love your irreverent teaching style. It was good for business.” He turned back to Reacher. “Richie speaks truth—he works hard at his own pursuits now. But you are most welcome to assist here during your stay, if you’d like reliable employment and lodging.”

Reacher considered the offer. Though normally disinclined towards commitment, his curiosity remained piqued. More pressing was the matter of his health—while he felt recovered from his pneumonia, more time and access to food he did not have to pay for would go a long way to sustaining his recovery.

“I accept,” he said finally. “My skills lie more in security than instruction, but I’ll do what’s required.”

Duncan nodded approvingly. “We can find use for your talents, never fear.”

Even as he felt reassured by Duncan’s confidence, Reacher came to a disquieting conclusion. How many times might he have crossed paths with an immortal without knowing? His tendency to insert himself into volatile situations could have made enemies of Duncan’s kind, endangering not just himself but these new friends. Perhaps his presence here endangered them even now. Reacher turned these troubling thoughts over in his mind. After a long moment, he spoke.

“I appreciate your hospitality. However, I worry that my presence may endanger you both,” said Reacher. “In my wanderings, I’ve made unintended encounters that could create unwitting enemies of your kind. My curiosity also has a way of stirring trouble. Perhaps it’s best I continue my journey, to avoid drawing unwanted attention here.”

Duncan considered Reacher thoughtfully. “You’ve proven yourself an honorable man thus far. And these walls have stood witness to far more turmoil than any one immortal could bring. Whatever enemies you’ve made, know that they become ours as well. Here you’ll find protection, as we protect our own.”

“Mac is right,” Richie added. “Trouble finds us regardless. But together, three can stand against what two cannot.” He offered Reacher a lopsided grin. “C’mon, don’t turn down the Highlander’s hospitality just yet. Take a shot—this place might just charm its way into your favor. Let’s face it; a towering presence like you requires a smorgasbord, not the meager offerings of roadside diners. You need fuel for that formidable frame. I confess, once upon a time, I was indifferent to the virtues of a balanced diet. But I’ve since learned the impact of proper nutrition—it’s the unsung hero in the tapestry of my recovery and wellbeing.”

Reacher considered Richie’s words. Though still wary, these immortals’ sincerity resonated within him. He knew well that true friendship was a rare commodity for wanderers such as himself.

“Very well, I accept your counsel and hospitality,” Reacher replied. “And I will endeavor to uphold my end, causing no trouble within these walls.”

Duncan smiled warmly. “You have ours in return. I plan at being the dojo at seven; feel to stay down here or not, as you prefer. “

Reacher nodded and moved to the sofa. Richie turned on the TV, flipping channels until he found a sci-fi fantasy show, which he settled into watch. Duncan picked a bookmarked novel and began to read. Reacher watched several minutes of the show before its lack of logic and cheesy special effects wore on him, and he headed upstairs to the room he was using. As he climbed the staircase, his thoughts turned inward. Richie’s words about finding refuge even in turbulent times echoed in his mind. This place seemed to offer that: a respite from his wanderings, and people willing to understand his nature without judgment.

Reacher stepped into the opulent bedroom and closed the door behind him. He settled on the edge of the plush bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Weary, he ran a large hand across his face while taking a deep, measured breath. The concept of immortals was overwhelming, yet he didn’t question the veracity of Duncan and Richie’s confession. Now, the pieces fell into place—the unexplainable event of the wreckage that had trapped Richie, his rapid recovery, Duncan’s vigilant presence, the peculiarities of Duncan’s home.

The gravity of their secret weighed heavily upon Reacher. Revealing it could put them in jeopardy, especially if overheard by malevolent forces. However, had Duncan and Richie managed to navigate countless years filled with loss and peril, Reacher believed he could endure some discomfort to honor their generosity.

Despite his physical exhaustion from recent events, Reacher’s mind buzzed with unyielding awareness, piecing together the day’s revelations. He began to undress, his thoughts still racing. There were many enigmas left unsolved, such a deeper understanding of the intricacies of Duncan and Richie’s eternal existence, the extent of their battles, and the entities vying to control their destinies. For the first time in his life, Reacher was captivated by a calling greater than his own personal journey. Their fight, it seemed, had become entwined with his destiny. He could only hope that his tendency to attract trouble wouldn’t invite danger upon them too swiftly.

Chapter Text

The ancient song of steel, a symphony of war and camaraderie, reverberated within the dojo’s sacred walls, where Duncan and Richie’s blades arced and thrusted with lethal grace. Leaning against the cool, rough texture of the wall, Reacher let the scene captivate him, his eyes tracing the fluid choreography of controlled violence that played out before him with renewed wonder. Though he had lent a hand around the dojo for a month’s span, this spectacle—the intimate dance of combat between Duncan and Richie—was a first for his eyes. He had sifted through countless cinematic sword fights, etching a rough understanding of the craft into his psyche, but the blistering velocity and precision of Duncan and Richie’s sparring outstripped the frames of any filmic depiction. This was not merely a clash of swords, but a conversation laced with sharp steel; not just an exchange of blows but a narrative of jests and barbs, where they engaged in a playful game of verbal jousting that matched the dexterity of their physical duel.

Outside, a cold November rain mourned against the windows, its rhythm an accompaniment to the duel. With the blinds drawn against prying eyes and both the main studio and the lobby’s lights off, only the rear studio’s privacy embraced them on this Sunday reprieve from the world.

Duncan’s stoic power and Richie’s rapid fluidity clashed in a symphony of metal, their sparring a vivid testament to their shared history. Though Richie forsook a katana for the rapier’s slender promise, his prowess was undeniable. Duncan artfully parried each of Richie’s swift, precise strikes—decades of skill parting the air itself, guiding Richie’s eager blade amiss with effortless deflection.

Reacher marveled at the stark contrast of their techniques: Duncan’s katana delivered strong, carving arcs while Richie’s rapier darted with incisive thrusts—their weaponry an extension of their distinct personas. Yet despite Richie’s fervent advances, the serene tide of Duncan’s experience held the upper hand. He realized, as he stood there, that they would keep on sparring until one of them had enough or one of them lost, likely, Reacher surmised, Richie.

With a calloused bark from Reacher’s lips, the display was truncated. “Enough,” he declared, standing tall once more. “Conserve your strength for true adversaries, not your brethren.”

Catching their breath, Duncan and Richie sheathed their weapons, respect palpable in the air. “You’ve honed your speed, Richie,” Duncan acknowledged, a seasoned eye discerning his former pupil’s growth. “Unpredictability will serve you well against our kind.”

Richie’s youthful grin gleamed as he brandished his rapier. “Always gotta be a move ahead, Mac,” he panted. “Just like you taught me.”

As they moved off the mat to grab towels and water bottles, Reacher observed the tension ebb from Duncan’s warrior-poised shoulders. Beneath his mentor’s guise of confidence lay a silent vigil—Richie, though immortal and seasoned, was Duncan’s legacy, a son summoned through timeless bonds to carry forth Duncan’s teachings.

“You both handled yourselves impressively,” Reacher offered. “I can see why you’ve survived as long as you have.”

Duncan smiled gratefully at the praise. “Staying sharp is what keeps us alive. Complacency can be lethal.”

“I can imagine,” Reacher noted. He felt more reassured that they meant what they said about handling themselves in a fight and defending him against any immortal.

They gathered their gear in companionable silence and moved to clean up the mat. Reacher studied Duncan and Richie as they moved around the room with precise, economical motions honed from decades of practice. Though they had both taken hits, the only evidence either immortal showed were the random drops of blood on the mat.

“So, when was the last time you enjoyed a proper Thanksgiving feast, Reacher?” Duncan asked casually as he wiped down his katana.

Reacher thought for a moment, his brow furrowing. “Probably the last Thanksgiving I spent on an Army base,” he grunted. That felt like a lifetime ago now. Since he started drifting, holidays usually blurred together into an unending stretch of roadside diners and lumpy motel beds.

Richie slipped his rapier into a cross-body sheath, grinning. “Well, you’re in for a real treat then. When Mac hosts Thanksgiving, he goes all out—roasted turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes...”

“Pumpkin pie,” Duncan added. He raised an eyebrow at Reacher. “It’s been a long time since you’ve celebrated with good company. Consider this an overdue homecoming.”

Reacher nodded, a swell of gratitude rising in his chest. After so many aimless years adrift, this unlikely fellowship had become an anchor.

Richie grinned, blue eyes bright with enthusiasm. “Yeah man, stick with us and you’ll get a wicked awesome meal. We’re talking turkey, mashed potatoes, the whole shebang!”

Duncan chuckled indulgently. “Indeed. I’ll be preparing quite a feast for our little found family.”

The immortal’s voice held a wistful note that gave Reacher pause. He studied Duncan, noting faint lines of old grief hiding behind his smile. Reacher wondered suddenly how many makeshift families Duncan had gathered close over four centuries, only to inevitably lose them to the ravages of time. An immortal could never grow too attached to mortals.

In the quiet of the dojo, a melancholic understanding passed between teacher and student. Richie met Duncan’s eyes, smiling gently.

“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” Richie said. Duncan returned the smile, affection warming his dark eyes.

The moment stretched, underpinned by decades of companionship. Reacher regarded his immortal friends, contemplating the unseen scars borne from the centuries behind them and those ahead. Loss was inevitable—but so was love.

A sharp rap at the door broke the silence. All three men turned, senses prickling. Visitors rarely arrived unannounced, especially with the dojo closed on Sundays. Duncan and Richie exchanged an uneasy glance as the knock sounded again, more insistent.

“Were you expecting anyone?” Reacher asked quietly. The two men shook their heads.

Reacher felt muscles tensing, years of combat-honed instincts rising swiftly to the surface. He started for the lobby, intending to answer the door, but Duncan stepped in his way.

“Let me handle this,” Duncan said, his voice low. He moved swiftly yet silently across the mats toward the lobby. Richie and Reacher exchanged a tense glance before following several paces behind, senses on high alert.

Duncan peered through the blinds first, assessing the visitor.

Beyond the glass stood a young woman, early twenties at most. Rain dripped from the hood of her dark green parka, plastering strands of blonde hair to her wan face. Shadows smudged the delicate skin under her eyes. Duncan’s shoulders stiffened at the sight of the darkening bruise over her right eye.

Duncan unlatched the door and pushed it open a few cautious inches.

“Can I help you?” he asked gently.

The woman started, eyes darting around before settling on Duncan’s face. She worked her lower lip between her teeth. Duncan could see her pulse fluttering wildly under the pale skin of her throat.

“I...” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat, thin fingers worrying the cuff of her sleeve. “I’m sorry, I know you must be closed today. I just...” Her eyes filled with tears that spilled over to mix with the rain. “I didn’t know where else to go...”

Duncan’s protective instincts surged. Gently, he said, “Please, come inside out of the rain.”

The young woman hesitated before stepping over the threshold. Duncan latched the door behind her, exchanging an uneasy glance with Reacher and Richie.

“What happened?” Duncan asked. “What’s your name?”

“Emma,” she replied shakily. “I’m sorry for barging in like this....”

“It’s alright,” Richie said kindly. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

He disappeared briefly to grab towels while Duncan guided Emma to a bench. Kneeling before her, Duncan examined the bruise with a medic’s eye. Anger simmered in his chest.

“Did someone hurt you?”

Emma dropped her gaze. “My boyfriend. We had a fight and... he hit me. I didn’t know where else to go. I thought about the urgent care clinic, but they’ve seen me too many times and....” Her hands fluttered helplessly.

Duncan gently wrapped a towel around Emma’s trembling shoulders. His jaw tightened, anger simmering beneath his calm exterior. Far too often, vulnerable mortals fell prey to the petty cruelties of their immortal counterparts.

A familiar buzz prickled the fine hairs at Duncan’s nape. He stiffened, exchanging an uneasy glance with Richie. Speak of the devil...

“We have company,” Duncan murmured. He straightened slowly, muscles coiled in anticipation.

Moments later, the front door rattled violently in its frame. Fists pounded against the reinforced glass.

“Emma!” a male voice bellowed. “I know you’re in there! Open this damn door!”

Emma whimpered, shrinking against Richie’s side. He squeezed her shoulder for reassurance.

“It’s alright,” he soothed. “You’re safe here.” Though the storm brewing in his eyes belied his calm tone.

Duncan straightened slowly, his senses confirming the buzz of another immortal’s presence. He exchanged a weighted glance with Richie before stepping towards the door.

“Stay here with Emma,” Duncan murmured to Richie. To Reacher he said, “Watch my back.”

Reacher nodded, falling in behind Duncan as he approached the entrance. Duncan unlatched the door and pulled it open to reveal a tall, broad-shouldered man with shoulder-length brown hair, chiseled features, and a rapidly fading bruise over his left eye. Fury simmered in the immortal’s piercing blue eyes.

“Sean O’Malley,” Duncan said evenly. “It’s been a long time.”

Duncan felt anger simmer in his chest. His mind drifted back over a century, to a dingy pub where he’d had the misfortune of conversation with the man. Even then, Sean had been condescending, touting immortality as proof of some superior status over mortals. Duncan had walked out rather than continue such a distasteful discussion. It seemed little had changed. Sean still bullied those weaker than himself to salve some internal lack.

Sean bristled, his temper flaring. “I’ve come for what’s mine.” He jabbed an accusing finger at Emma. “That little bitch belongs to me.”

An icy calm settled over Richie’s face as he shifted to shield Emma. Reacher crossed his arms, expression thunderous, while Duncan stared Sean down with thinly veiled menace.

“No one here belongs to you,” Duncan bit out.

Still simmering with fury, Sean opened his mouth to argue. But Duncan raised a hand, cutting him off.

“Walk away, Sean,” Duncan said, his tone quiet but steely. “And think hard about how you’ve been treating women in this modern age. Possessing someone went out centuries ago.”

“Let me pass, MacLeod,” Sean bit out. “The girl’s with me. Just a... domestic dispute.”

Duncan crossed his arms, physically blocking Sean from stepping further into the dojo. “It seems this dispute got out of hand. The lady doesn’t wish to leave with you.”

Fury rippled across Sean’s features. He took a threatening step forward. Behind Duncan, Reacher tensed.

Duncan held up a hand, motioning for Reacher to stand down. He turned his focus back to Sean, meeting the Immortal’s furious gaze.

“Walk away, Sean,” Duncan said, his voice low but firm. “The lady asked for sanctuary; I aim to provide it.”

Sean’s lip curled in a sneer. “Sanctuary? From what? Her devoted boyfriend who takes care of her every need?” His eyes flashed with malignant possessiveness. “She’s just feeling dramatic right now. I’ll take her home and remind her how good she has it.”

Duncan stepped forward, squaring his shoulders. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”

Sean’s gaze raked over Duncan scornfully. “Going to stop me, MacLeod?” His lip curled. “You always were sentimental over mortals.”

Duncan met his glare evenly. “All life is precious.”

“Spare me the self-righteous platitudes. She’s just a plaything, as disposable as the rest.” Sean tried to shove past Duncan, who grabbed his arm in an iron grip.

“I cannot allow that,” Duncan said through gritted teeth.

Sean wrenched his arm free, eyes blazing. Behind Duncan, Reacher shifted his weight, ready to intervene.

Sean’s gaze flicked to Reacher. His eyes narrowed. “You look familiar,” he bit out. Memory sparked and his expression clouded with recognition. “Utah. You’re...” He trailed off, lips twisting in a scowl.

Duncan tensed, ready to intervene as the tension ratcheted up. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Richie shifting subtly into a defensive stance, ready to protect Emma if needed.

Sean jabbed an accusing finger at Reacher. “You got me arrested last spring in Moab. I backhanded a waitress for forgetting to bring me ketchup. You played the hero and call the cops on me.”

Reacher met Sean’s furious stare evenly, arms loose at his sides. “Didn’t seem right to look the other way when a woman was being mistreated.”

Sean’s expression darkened. He took a threatening step toward Reacher. “I don’t take kindly to people meddling in my affairs.”

Duncan stepped forward, positioning himself firmly between Sean and Reacher.

“That’s enough, Sean,” Duncan said sharply. “You’re on private property. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Sean’s lip curled in a sneer. “Or what, Highlander? You’ll remove me by force?”

Duncan met his glare evenly. “If necessary. But I’d prefer not to fight you here.” He didn’t relish the thought of destroying the lobby he and Richie had worked so hard to restore.

Sean’s eyes narrowed as he assessed the situation. Duncan could see the tension in his shoulders, the barely leashed violence simmering right below the surface. He tensed, ready to react.

After a weighted moment, Sean stepped back, his expression venomous.

“You haven’t seen the last of me, MacLeod,” he bit out. “And you...” He trailed off, glancing back at Reacher with undisguised malice. Then, with a snarl of disgust, he turned on his heel and stormed away into the rain.

Silence fell in the dojo. Emma let out a shaky breath, the color slowly returning to her face.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Duncan nodded, a residual tension still lining his shoulders. Protectiveness stirred in his chest as he studied Emma’s bruised face. Far too often, vulnerable mortals fell prey to the petty cruelties of their immortal counterparts.

He crouched before her, gentling his voice. “Emma, I’m so sorry for what you’ve endured. No one deserves such treatment.”

She dropped her gaze, bitterness welling in her voice. “I was a fool to stay with him so long. I guess...I hoped he would change.”

Duncan sighed heavily. How many times had he clung to that same naive hope over the centuries? Mortals and immortals, everyone sought that elusive redemption arc. If only the story played out that way.

“The only person who can change Sean is Sean,” Duncan said. “Don’t waste your energy trying to fix anyone but yourself.”

Emma wiped her eyes, nodding slowly. “You’re right. I should have left a long time ago.”

Richie squeezed her shoulder gently. “What’s done is done. The important thing is getting you somewhere safe now.”

Duncan nodded, standing up. “Richie, why don’t you take Emma to that women’s shelter on Oak Street? They can give her a safe place to stay while she figures things out.”

“Good idea,” Richie agreed. He helped Emma to her feet, grabbing their coats. “Come on, let’s get you somewhere that can help you get Sean out of your life for good.”

Emma managed a faint smile. “Thank you, truly. I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t found my way here.”

“Try not to dwell on that,” Duncan said kindly. “Go with Richie now and take care of yourself.”

Emma nodded, letting Richie guide her out of the dojo.

The door thudded shut, sealing Richie and Emma away, as Duncan exhaled a turbulent breath.

Reacher paced the dojo floor, fists clenched at his sides. His jaw was tight with barely contained fury after the confrontation.

“We should go after him,” Reacher bit out. “Can’t let him get away with threatening her like that.”

Duncan sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I understand the impulse for vengeance. But violence often breeds more violence.”

Reacher whirled to face him, eyes blazing. “So, we just let him go? Let him keep beating women without consequences?”

“I did not say that,” Duncan replied evenly. “Nor am I afraid to face Sean in combat.”

Reacher glared and resumed pacing, tension radiating from his powerful frame.

Duncan sighed. “I understand your anger, my friend. But vengeance seldom rights a wrong.” He moved nearer, meeting Reacher’s gaze. “As immortals, we must hold ourselves to a higher standard. Killing Sean may satisfy a primitive urge yet do nothing to prevent other women from suffering similar fates.”

Reacher’s jaw tightened, but he gave a grudging nod.

Duncan clasped his shoulder. “Come. Let us prepare some tea while we await Richie’s return.”

In the kitchen, Duncan busied himself filling the kettle while Reacher leaned against the counter, arms crossed, frustration rolling off him in waves.

When the tea had steeped, Duncan pressed a mug into Reacher’s hands and motioned for him to sit at the breakfast bar.

Duncan watched his friend closely as he took a seat, noting the tension still lining Reacher’s powerful frame. As someone who had dedicated his life to serving justice, Reacher took assaults on the vulnerable personally. 

Duncan chose his next words carefully. “I know you wish to see Sean face consequences for his actions. You have good reason for that desire.”

Reacher’s anger was simmering, a seething cauldron beneath the surface of his taut skin. His muscles were clenched—tight, like coiled springs ready to unleash the energy held within. Duncan’s words, those solemn vows, echoed in Reacher’s head, gnawing at him with sharp, insidious teeth. A whisper of doubt began curling around his resolve, a serpent slowly squeezing, questioning every assurance ever given.

“Duncan,” Reacher’s voice was a low growl, restrained yet brimming with the tension that coursed through his veins. He locked his gaze onto Duncan’s, searching for the truth that seemed to waver like a candle in the wind.

“You promised me,” Reacher said, each word deliberate, heavy with the weight of trust and betrayal. “Promised to have my back against all who would hunt me down. Was that a soldier’s vow or just empty words to pacify me?”

Duncan held his gaze, steadfast. “Reacher,” he began, his voice steady but not without a warm, empathetic undertone, “you know me. My word is my bond. They may come for you, but they’ll have to get through me first.”

The reassurance hung in the air between them, and for a moment, Reacher saw the fierce loyalty that he’d come to rely on reflecting back at him from Duncan’s eyes. Still, the shadow of doubt lingered, whispering that in the chess game of deceit, even a king’s shield might falter.

The assurance in Duncan’s voice cut through the turbulent storm raging within Reacher. He sank back against the counter, the tension slowly uncoiling from his frame. “I just... I can’t stand by and watch these things happen, Duncan,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the swirling steam rising from his tea. “It eats at me.”

Duncan’s gaze softened, understanding threading through the depths of his own frustration. From the conversations they had shared over the past several weeks, Duncan had heard Reacher’s stories of helping others and knew his history. “I know, my friend. I’ve seen the horrors you’ve faced, I've fought similar battles against bureaucracy and injustice. That said, we can’t let hatred and vengeance consume us. We must be better than those who revel in cruelty.”

Reacher’s grip on the teacup loosened, tension ebbing from his shoulders. “You’re right. Always are,” he admitted, a faint hint of a rueful smile touching his lips. “I just... I needed to hear it.”

Duncan nodded, a silent reassurance passing between them. “You’ve always had a good heart, Reacher. You fight for justice with a fire that few possess. But let’s not let that fire consume us. We must be the shield, not the sword.”

The weight of Duncan’s words settled over Reacher, a soothing balm to the flames of his anger. He drew a calming breath, the erratic rhythm of his pulse steadying. “I’ll try,” he promised, his voice softer now, the storm within him quelled, if only for a moment.

The two men sat in companionable silence, the steam from their tea mingling with the gentle hum of the dojo. With each passing breath, the lingering tension ebbed, replaced by a steadfast resolve to protect those who sought sanctuary within their walls.

Outside, the rain continued to batter against the windows, a relentless rhythm that heralded the wariness of the world beyond. Within the haven of this building, the vow of loyalty and the bond of found family fortified their spirits, a beacon of hope in the face of darkness.

A couple hours later, Richie returned to the dojo, shaking rainwater from his red hair.

“Emma’s all set up at the shelter,” he reported to Duncan and Reacher. “They’re going to help her file a restraining order and get back on her feet.”

Duncan nodded, looking relieved. “I’m glad to hear she’s somewhere safe.”

The three men lapsed into thoughtful silence.

After a few moments, Reacher pushed back his chair and stood.

“I’ll be upstairs if you need me,” he rumbled.

Richie studied him with a knowing look. Reacher’s anger still simmered beneath that stoic surface.

As Reacher disappeared down the hallway towards the living quarters, Richie caught Duncan’s eye.

“I’ll talk to him,” Richie said.

Duncan nodded. “See if you can ease that frustration. Men like Reacher need an outlet.”

Reacher lay on his bed, staring up at the copper-tinned ceiling, mulling over Duncan’s words yet again. “We must be better than those who revel in cruelty.” Be the shield, not the sword, condemn violence yet seldom seek it out themselves. Jackson had said as much, calling Reacher a righter of wrongs who believed in justice not vengeance. Sometimes it seemed like a fine line to walk.

A soft rap at his door brought him back to himself. “It’s open,” Reacher called.

Richie stepped inside, his mouth quirking up in a knowing half-smile. “Figured I’d find you brooding in here,” he said lightly. Beneath the casual tone, Reacher could sense the concern in his friend.

“Not brooding,” Reacher returned evenly. “Thinking.” He shoved himself up into a seated position as Richie dragged over one of the window chairs and straddled it backward.

“I know Duncan gets preachy sometimes,” Richie began, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “But he’s usually right. We can’t solve violence with more violence.”

Reacher grunted noncommittally, arms crossed over his broad chest.

Richie studied his friend, noting the tension still lining Reacher’s frame. As a former MP and drifter, Reacher had dedicated his life to serving justice and protecting the vulnerable. Sean’s cruel actions towards Emma had clearly struck a nerve.

“I wanted to rip that bastard’s head off too,” Richie admitted. “But getting revenge wouldn’t undo what he did to Emma. Or stop him from doing it again.”

Reacher exhaled heavily through his nose. “So, we just let him walk away. Forget what he did.” His tone held a bitter edge. “Pretend he won’t live another hundred years, doing exactly the same damn thing.”

Richie leaned in, his voice low. “We won’t forget. But we’ll do it the right way, as a team, and we’ll make sure Sean won’t harm anyone else. We’ll find a way to stop him, without losing ourselves in the process.” He hesitated before adding, “Reacher, when we take another immortal’s head, there’s a moment when the sheer volume of their Quickening is so great, it’s all we can do to hold on and remember who we are. It’s like getting sucked underwater by a riptide. I’ve fought guys like Sean before. It’s awful, and it makes me scream my name every time. Every time I think about fighting, I remember I hate killing, I hate the Game, and I hate that guys like Sean got gifted with immortality same as me.”

Reacher’s voice carried a probing undercurrent. “Earlier, you mentioned the Quickening—a way you gain knowledge.”

A solemn nod was Richie’s reply.

“And this extends to knowing the precise sins they committed, even if shrouded in history’s fog?” Reacher pressed on, his gaze fixed, piercing.

Another affirmative gesture, heavier this time, as Richie’s voice bore the weight of decades of experience. “For instance, I speak Russian because I bested a Russian immortal. His memories unveiled a past painted with blood, innocents he slaughtered to clear his path. I can’t do a damn thing about that because it happened three centuries ago.

“I also took the head of a man who challenged me just because I made the mistake of wandering down the wrong road. Six months later, I met his widow. I fell instantly, stupidly, and irrationally in love with her. It took me too damn long to figure out I was in love with her because the part of me that was her husband remembered her.”

Reacher’s thoughts whirred with unyielding intensity, each cog in his mind spinning faster, piecing together the grim tale. It became clear—the reluctance Duncan and Richie harbored towards the upcoming face-off with Sean sprang from a depth of dread he had only fathomed. “There’s the peril of becoming what you’ve just destroyed, then. A transformation into the very kind of monster you’ve hunted.”

Richie’s hand crept up to his neck in an unconscious gesture. “Precisely. We call it a ‘Dark Quickening.’ One of Mac’s friends had the bright idea that he should go after the evilest of us. Unfortunately, his last one was a doozy, and Mac and I both wound up hurting because of it.”

Richie’s eyes blazed with urgency, mirroring the intensity of his plea.

Reacher wrestled with the intricate weave of an immortal life, a life fraught with destinies darker than death itself. “You’re not opposed to bringing Sean down, right?”

“Not at all. I just... I don’t want to become what he is, you know? I need to hold on to who I am,” Richie rushed to explain. “Reacher, just because I’m immortal doesn’t mean I want to be someone’s judge, jury, and executioner. Even if that someone is an abusive bastard like Sean. If there’s another path, a way to stop someone like Sean from hurting others again—without ending him—count me in.”

“So let me kill him,” Reacher declared. “You don’t have to be around.”

“And let you become known as someone who can kill an immortal? I won’t say anything, but you’ve been here long enough for someone to notice you hanging around us. That way could lead to more trouble and your death.” Richie’s voice was grim. “Besides, do you really think you could kill Sean without getting hurt yourself?”

Richie’s words seemed to hang suspended in the somber air, echoing in the charged silence. A tempest of turmoil raged within Reacher, an internal maelstrom of visceral emotions—his yearning for retributive justice at odds with an ingrained instinct for self-preservation.

“No,” Reacher conceded, his voice laced with a tangible reluctance that filled the shadowed corners of the room. “Give me a gun, arm me with a rifle, hand me a knife, or just allow my own bare fists to come into play, and I might manage to topple him, but he’d just rise again, wouldn’t he?” The words dripped with an understanding of the futility of his efforts.

“Yes. To be honest, I wouldn’t teach you how to use a sword to kill him, and right now, neither would Mac. You’d storm off and try.” Richie returned, his smile tinged with a measure of wistfulness and an undertow of regret. “I did that sort of thing once, against another immortal. I won, but barely. Mac was furious. You see where I’m coming from, Reacher? I agree with you, but we need other options before we go for permanent death.”

Reacher, a former Army police investigator, considered Richie’s words as he sat in the well-lit bedroom. The cumulative weight of earlier dialogues with Duncan and now Richie descended like an unforgiving yoke upon his broad shoulders. He registered the clamor of tension knotting his muscles, the pent-up energy of exasperation and wrath that coiled and uncoiled in the stifling air.

The yearning to enter the fray surged within him, potent, undeniable. Though devoid of immortality’s shield, the primeval impulse to safeguard was all-consuming. Emma’s eyes, hollow with unspeakable traumas, flickered in his mind’s eye—a spectral vision stoking the flames of resolve within his chest.

Nevertheless, amidst these passionate reveries, he grew to appreciate Duncan and Richie’s reticence more fully. The excruciating weight of eternity, the emotional levy it demanded from their souls, started to crystallize before him. Their counsel dripped with the essence of ages—laden with wisdom and the residue of countless agonies—a gravity he could not entirely fathom.

With a slow nod of deference, Reacher acknowledged the invaluable perspective his friend had imparted.

“Thanks, Richie,” he said, his voice tinged with gratitude. “It means a lot.”

Richie, ever the master of levity, tried to lighten the mood. “Well, we could use your help in the kitchen if we’re going to have enough food prepared for Thanksgiving later this week,” he said with a sly grin.

A small chuckle escaped Reacher’s lips, the lightness a welcome respite from the heavy thoughts weighing him down. “Yeah, I think I can handle that. Let’s make sure we have a Thanksgiving feast to remember,” he replied, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “As long as you remember I can’t cook more than eggs and potatoes.”

Richie let out a laugh. “Don’t worry big guy; that’s what Duncan and I are here for. Although maybe we can find a simple task for you that doesn’t involve burning down our kitchen.”

The lighthearted banter lifted Reacher’s spirits as they made their way downstairs. The cozy kitchen smelled of cinnamon and cloves, warmth emanating from the oven. Duncan stood at the counter kneading bread dough, his sleeves rolled up to reveal his strong arms dusted with flour.

He glanced over with a smile as Richie and Reacher entered. “Just in time. Here, make yourselves useful,” he said, handing the dough to Richie who began shaping it into rolls.

Reacher watched them work, a pang in his chest reminding him of Thanksgivings long ago, memories from another lifetime. He pushed them aside, focusing instead on the present.

“Reacher, there are some potatoes that need peeling,” Duncan said, drawing him back to the moment.

Reacher nodded and moved to the sink, grabbing a peeler and a bowl of potatoes. The rhythmic motion of peeling soothed him as he let his mind wander. He thought of the coming holiday, a time for family, however makeshift theirs might be.

Glancing over at Duncan and Richie chatting amiably as they worked on the bread, Reacher felt a swell of affection for his friends. They had taken him in when he was lost and drifting, accepting him into their unconventional family without question. He would do anything to protect that.

Which meant finding a way to stop Sean without endangering Duncan and Richie’s souls. There had to be another path. Sean was not the only immortal to ever require stopping—there must be alternatives that had been uncovered over long years of life. Before he could contemplate the question further, Richie glanced over, brow furrowing at the solemn expression clouding his friend’s face.

“Everything alright over there, big guy?”

Reacher blinked, thoughts scattering. “Hmm? Oh yeah, fine.” He waved a half-peeled potato in dismissal. “Just thinking.”

Richie leaned a hip against the counter, head cocked. “I know that look. That’s your ‘something’s gnawing at me and I need to fix it’ look.”

Reacher huffed softly. Leave it to Richie to read him so easily. Glancing at the immortal, he debated how much to reveal of his inner turmoil. His natural instinct was to shoulder burdens – and plot revenge—alone. Duncan and Richie had made it clear, though, he had backup on both fronts now.

Mind settling, Reacher met his friend’s gaze. “I was just thinking more about Sean,” he admitted. “And ways we might be able to stop him that don’t involve taking his head.”

Richie nodded slowly, expression turning grim. “Not an easy thing, finding mercy for a man like that.”

“There must be something,” Reacher insisted, brow furrowing. “Some way to remove the threat, without...”

“Becoming monsters ourselves,” Duncan finished quietly. He wiped his floured hands on a towel, moving to join them. “I wish the answer were simple, my friends. If redemption were but a choice...” He trailed off, centuries of memories swirling behind his eyes.

Silence hung for a moment, each man wrestling private battles. Then Duncan straightened, resolve steeling his voice. “But standing idle helps nothing. Let us discuss this further after the holiday. For now—” He gestured to the dough, the meal preparations. “For now, there is bread to be baked, potatoes to peel,” he said gently.

Reacher nodded, returning to his task with furrowed brow. Richie watched him a moment longer before moving to help Duncan shape the dough into loaves.

They worked in pensive silence for some time, each lost in their own thoughts. The cozy kitchen soon filled with the wholesome scent of baking bread, the knot in Reacher’s chest slowly beginning to loosen.

Reacher said nothing, but his mind was working. He scraped another potato, brow furrowed. Sean could not go free to hurt anyone else. Mortal justice would be but a revolving door for an immortal predator. He glanced at Duncan, certain the old Scot’s mind was set on not confronting Sean—or even discussing plans for such—until after Thanksgiving. That left, in Reacher’s mind, at least four days in which Sean could do anything he wanted. The old neighborhood in which Duncan had planted his roots was a typical urban neighborhood, but Reacher had seen there were enough alleyways where no one would notice anything bad happening. It made him realize that he might be a liability to Duncan and Richie.

After they cleaned up their pre-Thanksgiving prep of potatoes and other vegetables and had lunch, Reacher retreated to his room to think through his next moves; Richie had departed the old brownstone to meet up with a friend. As a mortal, he knew he posed a danger to his immortal friends if he confronted Sean alone. The predator could easily overpower and kill him. As the warmth of companionship threaded through Duncan’s home, an urgent sense of purpose pulsed beneath Reacher’s every breath.

Yet the thought of leaving Sean free to roam the streets, seeking new victims, ate away at Reacher’s conscience. He had dedicated his life to protecting the vulnerable. Simply waiting for Sean’s return felt unbearable. Reacher’s mind raced as he sought a solution, unwilling to let Sean’s malevolence linger. The weight of the upcoming Thanksgiving feast and the warmth of companionship threaded through the air of Duncan’s home, but an urgent sense of purpose pulsed beneath Reacher’s every breath, infusing the tranquil setting with the tenacity of his resolve.

Recognizing his limitations, Reacher made a pivotal decision. He had protested Duncan’s gift of a cell phone, but the Highlander had pointed out this item was a necessary tool, especially since public pay phones had almost vanished. Duncan sometimes leaned on Reacher to pick up items for the dojo, and since Reacher was still learning all that entailed, he had questions. A cell phone made such conversations timelier.

Reacher prowled through his room, his mind a turbulent sea of strategies and pitfalls. Chasing down an immortal adversary single-handedly coursed beyond the realm of temerity; it was outright suicide. His urgency for a comrade-in-arms palpable as the specter of confronting Sean loomed; but time was a luxury he didn’t have. His network of allies was sprawling, and yet there was one—a former Army confidant turned private security titan. James Silver had trudged through hellscapes aplenty; he would grasp the gravity of the danger Sean represented.

Resolved, Reacher seized his phone, the numbers hammering under his fingers with practiced urgency. Silver’s response was a growl across the wire. “Silver here.”

“James, it’s Reacher. I’m up against the wall here.”

The line crackled with a knowing chortle. “Didn’t peg you as the type to call for idle banter under the cloudless sky,” Silver retorted before a weighted silence fell. “Spill it. What brand of hell are you staring down?”

Reacher charted the contours of their dire situation, skirting around Sean’s deathless nature. Silver audited his every word, finally exhaling a sharp whistle.

“That’s a thick morass, Reacher. This Sean bastard reeks of lethal,” he conceded. “You’ve got my muscle as always, but we’re going to need a solid plan to make him bleed.”

A purposeful nod was Reacher’s response. “We canvas his haunts, carve out his routines. We’ll catch him off-balance, corner him before he orchestrates another atrocity.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Silver mused with the crackle of old cunning. “When’s our hour?”

Reacher glanced at his watch; it was now 2 pm. “Now.” Reacher was taut with readiness. “Downtown. One hour.”

After rapid-fire coordination, they parted. The surge of adrenaline, a fierce and welcome companion, buoyed Reacher. Justice’s call for this predator – this was his creed. Silver’s involvement steeled his resolve; he was primed to leap into the fray.

Attired for the chill, Reacher descended to encounter Duncan lounging amidst the soft groan of aged leather and the whisper of turning pages. The brief flicker of his smile was a welcome beacon. “Headed out?” asked Duncan, the epitome of nonchalant concern.

Hesitation seized Reacher. Lies were not his stock; yet full disclosure to Duncan meant courting objection. “A brief meet with an old friend,” he deflected, vague shadows playing across his words.

Duncan’s gaze, piercing and discerning, paused on Reacher, then he agreed with a nod. “I was pondering a jaunt to the farmer’s market—Thanksgiving beckons, and they usually have better pie for sale there than either Richie or I can make. Maybe tag along beforehand?”

Reluctant, the gnaw of haste biting at him, Reacher still succumbed to the allure of camaraderie, briefly. “Yeah, I’ve got a moment to spare.”

Amidst the cacophony of the farmer’s market, light-hearted prattle about the festive season flowed. Then, like the unsheathed blade’s chill whisper, a sensation—someone was watching. Reacher spun, his gaze locking with Sean’s from across the bustling throng.

Every fiber of Reacher’s being sprang taut, a coiled spring of pre-emptive aggression. Unbidden, he stepped towards the living affront that was Sean, his every instinct ablaze with the compulsion to strike. Duncan’s restraint, his grip firm on Reacher’s arm, brought his rush to a halt. “Not now.”

Teeth gritted in suppressed fury, Reacher forced his muscles to obey. These innocents were not to become casualties in a supernatural vendetta. He quelled the inferno within, watching Sean’s taunting farewell dissolve into the sea of marketgoers.

Duncan’s calm anchored him as they resumed their task, though the shadow of their exchange darkened every jest. As they neared the car, laden with their haul, reality hurtled towards them with screeching tires—a dark harbinger gunning in their direction.

Duncan’s reflexes were a blur, a dance of evasion and protection. The sedan screeched past, missing them by inches. A piece of paper fluttered out of the driver’s side window.

“Are you alright?” Duncan asked as he helped Reacher to his feet.

Reacher nodded, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Reacher’s heartbeat was a drum, loud in his ears as he strode over and picked up the piece of paper that had fluttered from the sedan’s window. As he scanned the contents, his eyes narrowed, and his jaw tightened.

“It’s from Sean,” Reacher said grimly. “He wants you to meet him at eight pm, tonight, at the old train yard. It says, ‘if you want to protect your pets, you’ll settle this like proper immortals.’”

Duncan’s expression was stoic as he took the paper from Reacher’s hand. After a moment he nodded slowly. “I suspected Sean would issue a formal challenge eventually. He’s just arrogant enough to believe he can best me,” Duncan said, a glint of steel in his eyes.

Reacher studied his friend, reading the determination etched in his face. This was no game—Sean meant to try taking Duncan’s head. Reacher had seen the focused power his friend wielded in combat. Sean was vicious and whatever twisted code immortals fought by, the rules mattered little to a predator like him.

Reacher’s declaration was iron-clad. “You’re not facing this abomination alone.”

A hint of amusement played across Duncan’s features. “Richie’s my usual second, but I don’t think I could convince you to stay put and wait for us, can I?”

Reacher shook his head firmly. “Not a chance. I’m going with you.”

Duncan studied him a moment, seeing the resolve etched on his friend’s face. Finally, he nodded. “You can’t interfere in a challenge once it starts. No matter what happens,” he warned.

Reacher frowned, not liking Duncan’s stipulation. Sean had proven ruthless—there was no telling what tricks he might use during the duel. Reacher opened his mouth to argue but Duncan silenced him with an upraised hand.

“I know you mean well, my friend, but this is the way it must be.”

Seeing the finality in Duncan’s eyes, Reacher reluctantly nodded. Duncan gave his shoulder a grateful squeeze, then pulled out his phone to text Richie, who had yet to return from his coffee date. If there was to be a confrontation with Sean, Duncan wanted his former student by his side.

Frost tinged the November air as the three men converged at Duncan’s home twenty minutes later. It felt surreal to put away the groceries they had picked up at the farmer’s market, to hear Duncan’s admonition to Richie not to eat it all before Thursday and Richie’s laughing protest that he was only going to try them for ‘quality control purposes.’

Reacher excused himself, heading up to his room to make a phone call. He dialed Silver’s number, steeling himself to deliver disappointing news to his trusted friend.

“Silver here,” came the gruff voice on the other end.

“James, it’s Reacher again. Listen...I’m going to have to cancel our plans for tonight.”

A pause. “Getting cold feet, huh? Not like you, Reacher.”

Reacher sighed, rubbing his temple. “It’s not that. Something’s come up. I can’t give you details, but I need to deal with this another way.”

Silver was silent for a beat. “I get it,” he finally said, a tinge of hurt in his tone. “You just remember—nothing’s ever stopped us before. But hey, you got to do what you gotta do.”

Guilt twisted in Reacher’s chest at letting his friend down. “I appreciate you having my back, James. Owe you a beer when this is done.”

They said their goodbyes and Reacher pocketed his phone. He didn’t like deceiving Silver, but there was no way his old Army buddy could understand the way of the immortals that bound him to this course.

Night began to fall as Duncan set about cooking a hearty meal of shepherd’s pie and vegetables from the farmer’s market. Reacher helped Duncan and Richie prepare the meal, chopping potatoes and carrots with practiced efficiency. Though the scent of cooking food filled the air, an underlying current of tension remained. They all knew the ordeal that awaited after their meal.

Over dinner, Duncan and Richie did their best to keep the conversation light. They reminisced about the old days, training at the dojo and jousting playfully with one another. Richie recounted a humorous incident at the bar he had worked at some years ago when he and Duncan were both living in Paris.

Reacher tried his best to engage and appreciate the bonding between friends, but his mind kept circling back to Sean. He watched Duncan and Richie closely, feeling a strong protective urge rising within him. These two men had become more than comrades in the brief time Reacher had known them–they were becoming friends. People whose lives mattered deeply to him.

Yet as the meal drew to a close, an air of seriousness replaced the lighthearted reminiscing. Duncan met Reacher’s gaze across the table, nodding almost imperceptibly. It was time.

“You might want to dress warmly; it’s cold tonight,” Duncan advised. “There’s a sweater in the top drawer of the chest in my closet that should fit you. I’d feel better if you wore it, so you’re better protected, but it’s your choice.”

Reacher nodded gratefully and went to retrieve the sweater. As he unfolded it, something slipped from between the folds and hit the floor with a quiet clatter. He looked down to see a sheathed dagger resting at his feet.

A moment of surprise was followed by quiet understanding. Duncan was granting him permission to protect himself and his friends, should the worst happen. Reacher picked up the dagger, testing the balance of the well-crafted weapon before sliding it onto his belt, tucking it so it sat on his hip.

As Reacher descended the stairs, he noticed Richie and Duncan in quiet discussion by the front door. Duncan’s coat was already on, sword concealed within, while Richie was slipping into a heavyweight, waterproof brown leather jacket that looked both warm and protective. Richie’s sword lay in a cross-body sheath that was strapped to his back; once he had the jacket on, the bulk of sword seemed to vanish before Reacher’s eyes.

Duncan handed Reacher his coat, an insulated cotton duck work jacket with a hood. The Highlander’s eyes missed nothing, and Reacher read quiet appreciation in his face as he noted that Reacher was wearing the dagger and the sweater.

“So, what’s the deal with this Sean guy?” Richie asked as Reacher put on his coat. “You never mentioned knowing him before.”

Duncan sighed, the weight of old memories shadowing his eyes. “I met him first back in the 1920s, in a seedy pub in Marseilles. Even then he was a crude, callous soul. We’ve crossed paths a few times since—occasionally even shared a drink—but I mostly tried keeping my distance.” Duncan shook his head. “He enjoys preying on the vulnerable too much for my liking. I should have put a stop to it decades ago.”

Reacher met Duncan’s gaze. “You can’t carry the blame for his choices,” he said firmly.

Duncan gave a nod, though shadows still lingered in his eyes. “Perhaps not. But that hardly matters now.” He checked his watch. “We should get going. I don’t want to keep our unpleasant friend waiting.”

Chapter Text

The three men piled into Duncan’s Range Rover. In deference to winter, Duncan had switched from using his Thunderbird convertible to the more generic-looking SUV. Reacher was grateful for the extra room the bigger vehicle afforded his tall, bulky frame, but he inevitably wondered at what his friends were thinking as they headed across town towards the industrial district and the old train yard. Richie fidgeted in the passenger seat while Reacher brooded silently in the back, eyes scanning the dark streets intently.

Outside of seeing Richie and Duncan spar, Reacher had never seen a true sword fight between immortals. As the car rattled over old railroad tracks towards the abandoned train yard, he wondered just what this strange ritual of theirs entailed. Fog swirled around dim lamps lining the perimeter fence as Duncan eased the car to a stop.

They stepped out into the frost-tinged night. Reacher zipped his coat against the chill, breath steaming, as he found himself grateful for the extra layer of the sweater. The darkness felt alive, shadows pooling between hulking train cars. Somewhere nearby, Sean lurked. Waiting.

Duncan drew his sword, the steel ringing clear in the frozen air. He glanced back at Reacher and Richie, features etched with solemn resolve.

“Remember, no matter what happens, you cannot interfere once the duel begins.”

Reacher and Richie both nodded, faces grim. Gripping his sword, Duncan strode towards a clearing between the old train cars. His breath misted in the frigid air; muscles coiled in readiness beneath his coat.

Reacher and Richie hung back near the perimeter fence, breath held tight in their chests. The shadows seemed to shift and pull apart as another figure emerged from between two battered rail cars. Sean. His blonde hair gleamed silver in the dim light as he moved towards Duncan, an ugly grin twisting his features.

“Well, isn’t this quaint,” Sean sneered, his voice ringing out across the deserted yard. “The noble Highlander–still afraid to fight without his little whelp looking on.”

Duncan said nothing, dark eyes tracking Sean’s every movement. Sean drew his own sword with a flourish, the metal singing.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this, MacLeod,” Sean said, vicious anticipation flashing across his face. “Tonight, your head will be mine.”

Duncan’s expression remained impassive, though his muscles tensed in readiness. Reacher noticed his friend’s focused stillness—the poise of a warrior prepared to defend his ground.

Sean circled slowly, sword glinting as he gestured mockingly for Duncan to make the first move. When Duncan didn’t react, Sean’s smile turned ugly.

“What’s wrong? Afraid to face me?” He lunged suddenly, blade slicing towards Duncan’s ribs. Duncan deflected it almost casually, the ring of steel echoing across the train yard.

“I won’t play your games, Sean,” Duncan said evenly. “If we must fight, then let it be an honorable contest.”

Sean barked a harsh laugh. “Honor? Don’t make me laugh.” He feinted left then swung at Duncan’s knees. Duncan leapt nimbly back, parrying the blow. The two immortals traded parries. As Sean’s blade clashed against Duncan’s, Reacher’s heart raced in the frozen night. The clang of steel echoed through the deserted train yard, the sound splitting the silence. Tension crackled in the frigid air as the two immortals circled each other, their movements fluid and precise.

Richie stood beside Reacher; his eyes fixed on the duel. “Man, I’ve seen Duncan fight before, but I never get tired of it,” Richie muttered, his voice a mix of awe and anxiety.

Reacher nodded, his eyes never leaving the conflict unfolding before them. He had seen Duncan’s skill firsthand, yet the sight of the fierce battle still sent shivers down his spine.

Suddenly, Sean lunged at Duncan, his movements wild and unpredictable. Before his blade could find its mark, Duncan sidestepped with incredible agility, his own sword flashing in a blur of movement. The clash of metal filled the air as they sparred; each strike masterfully deflected.

As the duel intensified, Sean’s eyes gleamed with malice, and Reacher sensed a dark plan forming behind those calculating eyes. The next instant, something glinted in Sean’s hand, and a vile smirk twisted his lips.

“Look out!” Reacher’s warning burst out as Sean lunged forward, a sudden glint of poison-coated blade flashing in the dim light.

With lightning reflexes, Duncan anticipated Sean’s treacherous move. In one swift motion, he forced Sean to halt and examined his blade closely.

“You’d cheat,” Duncan remarked with a glint of suspicion in his eyes. “Wipe your blade clean.”

The frosty night seemed to freeze even further as Sean hesitated, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. Reluctantly, he obeyed, begrudgingly swiping the poisoned blade against the fabric of his coat, the venomous edge leaving a sickly residue behind.

Reacher watched, his jaw clenched, the chilly air permeating his very bones. He felt the weight of the upcoming battle pressing down on him, the stakes higher than ever. With each breath, he bore witness to the sinister dance between immortals, their blades a deadly symphony in the moonlit night.

Now without his favorite method of cheating, Sean’s movements were less certain. Reacher and Richie observed the deadly dance between Duncan and Sean, their steel flashing like a deadly symphony in the moonlit night. Sean proved a decent sword fighter, but he was no match against Duncan’s seasoned skill. Duncan continued to press the fight, his movements a blur of precision and determination. Sean faltered, his attacks growing increasingly desperate and erratic. As Duncan finally landed a swift, decisive blow, Sean stumbled backward, a look of defeat crossing his features. His head came away from his torso a heartbeat later.

The ground beneath them suddenly quaked as the Quickening erupted, a wild storm of energy and light engulfing the night. Tendrils of power crackled and surged, casting erratic, pulsating shadows across the train yard.

Reacher’s heart thundered in his chest as he and Richie watched, shielded behind the cover of an abandoned boxcar. The air hummed with raw, volatile energy, each surge of light and power casting an ethereal glow against the darkness.

Richie grabbed Reacher by the arm, pulling him back in a sudden burst of urgency as the Quickening hit Duncan.

“Give Duncan a few minutes, man,” Richie warned, his eyes wide with concern. “This part…. this part gets intense.”

With a nod of understanding, Reacher complied, though his muscles coiled with the urge to rush to Duncan’s side. He could feel the electric tension in the air, the momentous clash of power erupting before him in a show of sparks and lightning. The ground seemed to vibrate beneath him, and the metallic tang of electricity and adrenaline lingered on his tongue.

As the Quickening subsided, leaving the night eerily quiet once more, Reacher could feel the lingering traces of electricity tingling in the air. His eyes sought Duncan, now sheathed in an aura of unyielding power, his form outlined by a faint, otherworldly radiance.

Together, they waited in tense silence, until Duncan’s gaze found them across the clearing. His eyes held a mix of exhaustion and quiet victory, and as he approached, the shimmering aura seemed to fade, leaving only the echo of a formidable, indomitable spirit.

“Are you alright?” Duncan asked, his voice steady despite the lingering strain of the Quickening.

“We’re fine,” Richie assured him.

Richie eyed Duncan carefully for a moment before a playful grin spread across his face. “So, tell me, are you still you in there, Mac? Or did absorbing that creep turn you into an even bigger Boy Scout?”

Duncan let out a weary chuckle, rolling his eyes. “Very funny, Richie. Yes, it’s still me.” His face softened. “But I appreciate you checking in. The memories Sean’s Quickening stirred up….” He trailed off, old shadows haunting his eyes.

Reacher stepped forward, studying his friend closely. “Bringing back that Dark Quickening you told me about?”

Duncan nodded. “A bit. Feeling that influx of energy and rage...it dredges up things I’ve tried hard to move past.”

Reacher gripped Duncan’s shoulder firmly. “The darkness of the past can’t diminish the light that’s still inside you, my friend,” he said gravely.

Duncan offered a small smile, some tension leaving his frame.

Reacher surveyed the deserted train yard, remnants of volatile energy still crackling faintly in the air. Sean’s body lay crumpled on the ground near a rusted railcar.

Duncan followed Reacher’s gaze, his expression growing serious once more. “Richie and I will take care of the remains. It’s best you don’t know the details.”

Reacher’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. As much as it grated on his sense of justice to essentially help cover up a crime, he understood Duncan’s need for secrecy surrounding immortal affairs.

Richie approached Sean’s lifeless form, his face a mask of stoic resolve. With Duncan at his side, they shared a silent nod before bending to lift Sean, their muscles straining as they shuffled him through the labyrinth of derelict train cars, their grim procession shrouded in darkness.

Reacher averted his gaze, the hollow sound of their footfalls echoing into a void that seemed to swallow them whole. Time crawled, each ticking second a heavy thud against the mantle of silence.

They reappeared; the ordeal painted on them not just in the streaks of dirt marring their clothing but in the slick sheen of sweat that seemed almost obscene in the biting cold. Duncan scrubbed at his jacket with a grimace, while Richie’s hands were steady as they wiped away the signs of their grim task.

Shivering despite his efforts, Duncan cut through the silence, a hard edge to his voice betraying the urgency he felt. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” he urged, his breath escaping in visible puffs. “It’s freezing.”

Richie, with his unshakable composure, cast a sidelong glance at his companion and cracked a half-smile. He ribbed him, the tease wrapped in warmth. “Never thought I’d see the day,” he started, his voice a playful baritone that seemed to dance with the flickering shadows. “Duncan MacLeod, the mighty Highlander, felled by a bit of frost?”

His words hung in the air, a brave attempt to slice through the weight of what they had done. Duncan reluctantly let a swift, strained chuckle cut through the tension before recovering his somber composure. It was a small respite—a fleeting moment of levity in a night that had demanded too much of their solemnity.

They made their way back to Duncan’s SUV, the night sky still shrouded in an eerie silence. As they drove back to Duncan’s home, the rhythmic hum of the tires on the road seemed to echo the weight of the night’s events. Reacher sat in silence, the memory of Sean’s treachery and Duncan’s battle weighing heavily on his mind. His fingers tapped a restless beat against his thigh, the unspoken question lingering in the air like an unwanted guest at the back of his throat. Should he thank Duncan for taking Sean’s head? Left to his own devices, Reacher would have found a way to kill Sean for hurting Emma and for trying to injure him and Duncan. Now, Sean was dead, killed by Duncan.

The SUV carried them through the midnight streets, tensions swirling in the air as the weight of the night’s events hung heavy. Reacher grappled with the conflicting emotions churning inside him, knowing that gratitude for Duncan’s actions would not come easily despite the resolution of the immediate threat.

Richie broke the silence. “You’re thinking pretty loudly back there, Reacher. What’s going through your head?”

Reacher’s eyes narrowed as he wrestled with the weight of gratitude and his uncompromising sense of justice, the stark truth of Duncan’s decisive action lingering in the chill of the night air, shaping the tangled path ahead.

“I’ve never been one for bullies; I’ve killed some men for hurting the wrong people,” Reacher confessed, his words heavy with the weight of his past actions. A glint of somber reflection flickered in his eyes as he continued. “Never really thought about how it feels to be the one someone killed for.” He shook his head. “Somehow, saying ‘thanks for killing that bastard’ doesn’t quite say what I want to say.”

Duncan looked at him via the rearview mirror. “I get it; it’s enough,” he assured Reacher.

As they drove on, Reacher grappled with the unsettling gratitude and the weight of Duncan’s decisive action, his conflicted emotions swirling in the chill of the night air, shaping the tangled path ahead as they headed towards Duncan’s home, the gravity of the night’s events hanging heavily over them.

Reacher was not surprised when, after leading them up to the residence’s first floor and hanging up his coat, Duncan excused himself. Richie and Reacher hung up their coats as well.

Richie led Reacher over to the dining room and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, raising in a silent question. Reacher accepted with a curt nod.

As Richie poured two glasses, Reacher turned to him and asked, “So tell me, what was that thing between Duncan and Sean in the train yard?” He remembered what Richie and Duncan had told him. “Was that the Quickening?”

Richie took a long sip of whiskey before replying. “Yeah, what you saw was the Quickening.” He swirled the amber liquid pensively. “When an immortal takes another’s head in combat, all their power and knowledge gets transferred in this massive energy surge. It can be a real mind trip.”

Reacher contemplated this as he knocked back his own drink, the liquor warring with the night’s chill. “Must be some experience,” he mused gruffly.

Richie nodded. “Sure puts some hair on your chest.” A shadow passed over his face. “But it also brings all their memories and emotions flooding in. Can leave you feeling pretty shaken up.”

Reacher thought of the darkness that still lingered in Duncan’s eyes. “That why Duncan seemed out of sorts?”

Richie let out a long breath. “Yeah. Also why he won’t discuss it any further. Once you work to make it a part of you, it’s like that horrible Christmas you had when you were eight years old—significant maybe, but faded. If he wanted, he could access Sean’s bank account, and knowing Mac, he might—if only to make sure Emma gets taken care of, for example. I would, if I were in his shoes. I have fewer hangups about taking money from someone who tried to kill me than Mac does, though.”

Reacher pondered Richie’s words in silence. Emma’s care was a worthy goal, yet accessing a dead man’s accounts still didn’t sit right with his code. Before he could respond, Duncan entered the room.

His friend’s face remained shadowed, though some color had returned to his cheeks. “Any whiskey left for an old Scot?” Duncan asked wryly.

Richie poured another glass and pushed it across the table. Duncan drank slowly, savoring the warmth it brought. At length he spoke. “Sean’s memories are fading, as all Quickenings do in time. But the lingering darkness reminds me—there is evil in this world that mercy cannot touch.”

Reacher considered this. “Justice and mercy are oft at odds. But total neutrality solves nothing.”

Duncan nodded slowly. “Wisdom, my friend. For now, I choose peace, though my sword arm itches for more. I was raised to fight, to lead my clan in defense of our people and our lands. I’ve had to learn, sometimes the hard way, not only when to choose a fight, but to make sure I can live with the consequences when I fight. It’s a philosophy I’ve tried to instill in Richie.”

Silence fell as the three men contemplated Duncan’s words. They had each faced darkness in their lives and walked paths of violence, but keeping mercy and wisdom at their core allowed them to find peace, however fleeting, in the quiet moments.

Reacher considered Duncan’s words. Unlike Sean, Duncan had a code of honor he lived by. Though their paths to justice sometimes differed, Reacher knew Duncan would not rest until true evil was vanquished.

He finished his drink, feeling the whiskey’s warmth chase away the last of the night’s chill. “As long as I’m staying under your roof, you can count on me having your backs,” Reacher said. “No man is an island; we all need allies we can trust.”

Duncan and Richie nodded in appreciation. Bonds of loyalty forged in battle were not easily broken.

A comfortable silence fell as each man’s thoughts turned inward. At length, Richie stifled a yawn. “Think I’ll turn in for the night. Give that Quickening headache of yours room to breathe, Mac.”

Duncan waved him off with a small smile. “Get some rest, my friend. I’ll be upstairs should either of you need me.”

Once Richie had gone, a comfortable silence fell between Reacher and Duncan. Reacher finished the last of his drink slowly, appreciating the warmth it provided against the night’s lingering chill.

“I appreciate your taking me into your home,” Reacher said finally, meeting Duncan’s steady gaze. “And everything you and Richie have shared with me about your lives. It’s given me perspective.”

Duncan nodded solemnly. “In many ways, our paths are not so different. We’ve both faced darkness and walked the edge, pursuing our own brands of justice. But there is wisdom in mercy, as you said.” He eyed Reacher thoughtfully. “You are an honorable man, my friend, for all your solitary ways. I’m glad to call you ally.”

Reacher dipped his head in acknowledgement. “I’ve never put much stock in owing any man. But as long as I’m here, consider me an ally,” Reacher replied. “But it’s late; I should get some sleep. Do you still want to open the dojo tomorrow, same time as usual?” Reacher replied.

Duncan hesitated before responding. “Yes, the dojo will be open, but I may be a bit late starting class. I usually take a little more time the day after a fight like this, let myself process everything. Feel free to open up without me; Madison should be in to teach the morning classes.”

Reacher nodded acknowledgement and then headed upstairs. As he got ready for bed, he reflected on the events of not only the evening, but everything he had encountered since meeting Richie off Highway 9. As Reacher drifted off to sleep, his thoughts turned to the strange revelation of immortals. It seemed this world had more layers of mystery than he ever imagined. Some mysteries, though, Reacher felt, were worth unraveling. As he drifted off to sleep, his thoughts turned to Duncan and Richie, and the bond of loyalty and understanding that was forming between them. For the first time in a long while, Reacher felt a sense of purpose in helping his new allies face whatever challenges the future may bring. He had much to learn about protecting and defending himself from immortals, and he was certain Duncan and Richie would teach him. Time, then, to savor this new chapter, immerse himself in learning, to build back his strength amongst friends, and figure out where he would go from here. He had a feeling that wherever he went, Duncan and Richie would be willing to ensure he had whatever he needed, for as long as he was their ally and friend. Comforted by that thought, Reacher fell asleep.