DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to Panzer/Davis, Rysher, and whoever else has a legal claim to them.  Absolutely no money made - my bank manager hates me - and this is just for fun.

TIT-FOR-TAT

BY MAGGIE

"OUCH!!!"

Jumping up suddenly from the couch in MacLeod's loft, Richie glared over his shoulder at what looked like a rather inoffensive cushion. Those things were supposed to be soft, so why had this one just stuck him with what had felt like several over-sized knitting needles?

Gingerly picking up the offending article, Richie at once understood the circumstance as he saw the bundle of thorn twigs which were bunched up just where the cushion had been placed.

"I'm gonna KILL him when I get my hands on him, so help me ...!!!"

"What's the matter Rich?"

It was Duncan, just back from a heavy training session in the dojo beneath his one roomed home, and he was towelling his still wet hair abstractedly. His bare feet padding over the floorboards, MacLeod's innocent puzzlement probably meant that he had no idea that the twigs had been left there either. Probably, although Richie couldn't be certain; where practical jokes were concerned, with Mac, you could never entirely tell.

"Where's that skinny friend of yours?" Richie asked his former mentor, still smarting from the pain in his butt although it was, by this time, rapidly fading.

"Who, Adam?" Richie nodded tightly. "I dunno, he was here when I started training, why?" Duncan's eyes widened with a spark of amusement now as he regarded the twig bundle which Richie held up for him to see.

"O-oh," he murmured, trying not to laugh at his young friend's discomfort. "That's still going on, is it?"

"Apparently!" spat Richie, his blood up now in anticipation of his next move.

Duncan shook his head and headed for the closet to pick out some fresh clothes. Ever since 'Adam Pierson' had relieved Kristin of her head, there had been something of an atmosphere between him and MacLeod's former student. Richie knew well enough that he had been totally taken in by the woman and that she had tried to kill not only him, but also his good friend, Maria, all in the name of her own twisted game which had gained her more heads down the centuries than the young man liked to think about, but like Duncan, he was imbued with a natural sense of protectiveness, especially towards women, and most especially towards women with whom he had had a relationship.

So, for some unknown reason of his own -- which MacLeod was still trying to figure out -- Adam, who was only known in his true identity as the oldest of the Immortals, Methos, to Duncan and Joe Dawson, had played what, at the time, had been a pretty harmless little practical joke on the young Immortal, although perhaps, as Duncan realised now, he had done it with the intent of 'running up the bill' as it were.

'Maybe he thought it would jiggle Richie out of his brooding mood,' mused the four-hundred-year-old Immortal, as he donned loose fitting pants and silk shirt. 'If so, it didn't work.' He hoped this wouldn't escalate too far; the loft had been trashed once when he took David Garrick's quickening, and he had no desire to see it in a similar state simply because two of his closest friends had decided to act like ... well, like school boys.

Glancing back towards Richie, he sighed as he watched him pace around the floor, wafting the twigs around viciously, and looking like a caged tiger anticipating its next meal. "You want me to have a word with him?" Duncan called over, but it was obvious from the young man's reply that he wasn't interested in making peace, at least not yet.

"No need; I can deal with it myself," Richie responded shortly and grabbing his jacket he headed off towards the back door.

"Rich!! This won't end unless you do something about it --" but MacLeod was wasting his breath, his young friend was gone, the twigs left openly on the counter.

"Damn!"

With a long-suffering expression, Duncan made to go after him, but he heard the lift being operated and the powerful buzz he was suddenly picking up made him sigh with a certain amount of relief. That had to be Methos coming back from wherever he had disappeared to, which at least meant that, since Richie had just left, there would be no heads rolling -- figuratively anyway -- for the next few hours or so. Nevertheless, MacLeod wasn't looking forward to trying to persuade his elder to give up the little game he was playing.

"Hi, Duncan, how's tricks?"

Effortlessly pulling up the lift gate, Methos breezed into the room with a large and suspiciously clinky brown paper bag clamped in one arm.

'Oh, no, not more beer!' thought MacLeod in mock horror as the five-thousand-year-old-Immortal headed for the fridge.

"Do you have to be so damn cheerful!?" he complained, tucking his shirt in and reaching for one of the many Celtic design ties which he used to hold back his dark hair.

"Bad mood, MacLeod?" Methos enquired somewhat sarcastically, already popping the top off a bottle of beer and beginning to savour the contents. On his way to the couch, now completely free of booby traps, he noticed the thorn twigs and picking them up, a broad grin appeared on his face. "He got my little present then?" he smirked, twizzling the twigs under his nose for a moment.

Hand on hip, Duncan stared across at him, trying to project an air of seriousness into the conversation; 'not that it'll do any good,' he realised, belatedly. He had already had this conversation a couple of times; once when Richie had barricaded 'Adam' in the dojo's shower, whereupon the victim had at once begun to plan his retaliation, and again when Methos had put sugar into the gas tank of Richie's brand new bike.

Not deigning to answer the obviously rhetorical question, Duncan wandered over and made to sit down on the couch opposite.

"Er ... not there, if I were you," Methos jumped in quickly, and reaching behind him, Duncan hovered for a moment whilst he retrieved a similar bunch of twigs from beneath the cushion he had been about to occupy. Holding the thorny bundle up, MacLeod made a face at his new friend whose grin, unfortunately, just got wider.

"Well, I couldn't' t be sure which couch he was going to pick, could I?" Methos stated, quite matter-of-factly, as if that were sufficient explanation.

"And you think my attitude's inappropriate!" Duncan remarked, putting the twigs on the floor between them. A small chuckle was the only reply. "Look, why are you doing this Methos? Don't you think this 'little boy's' game has gone far enough?" said Duncan in exasperation.

Another chuckle. "No, not yet," Methos told him, finishing off the bottle and getting up to retrieve another from the fridge. "You want one?"

"Are you sure you can spare it?" responded MacLeod pointedly, trying hopelessly to sting his friend into losing even the tiniest bit of that iron control. When that didn't work, MacLeod, in resignation, returned to the more important topic of their conversation. "It'll end in tears, you know that, don't you?" he muttered, taking the bottle which was casually handed to him.

"It's supposed to, MacLeod," offered Methos, actually serious for a second or two, the knowing glint in his eyes going a little way to explaining his uncharacteristic behaviour over the past week.

"Oh, so you think all this 'letting off steam' is therapeutic, is that it?"

The smirk returned in short order. "Something like that, yes."

"Yeah, well, you don't know Rich like I do," countered MacLeod, observing with a certain amount of amused fascination as Methos started on the second bottle of lager. Immortals could get drunk almost as easily as mortals if they wanted to, and although he had yet to see Methos in this state, he did wonder whether his penchant for this particular alcoholic beverage might eventually work to Richie's advantage, as he consumed anything stronger than coffee only occasionally. Duncan could have warned his older friend not to indulge his drinking habits quite so much in this event, but he decided that, considering the not inconsiderable age difference between the two combatants, it would be only fair to let Methos take his chances without any help from him.

Aware of the colour of the thoughts, if not the shade, going through MacLeod's head, Methos turned what Duncan considered to be an unnecessarily smug grin, in his direction and brushed off the vague disquiet with a small wave of his free hand. "Don't worry, MacLeod; I'm not going to let this get out of hand."

"No, you might not, but like I said; you don't know Richie as well as I do. You might think that being a hell of a lot older than him gives you the edge," Duncan added with a small smirk of his own, "but I wouldn't be so sure of that, if I were you. When push comes to shove you could find yourself in a grave of your own making if you're not careful." As Methos was opening his mouth to respond, Duncan stopped the other man with a short but expressive hand gesture. "Don't say I didn't warn you, that's all," he told Methos, and getting up to bin his own, now empty, bottle, he went to get his chess set with the intention of giving the older Immortal a sound thrashing to shore up the point he was trying to get across. He hadn't managed to best him in the game yet, but Duncan had a feeling that this time he might just manage it.

He didn't get the chance as it happened. Ten minutes into the game, Joe Dawson turned up with some bad news.

They both heard the lift descending to the ground floor and as neither of them felt the presence of any Immortal nearby, they breathed a sigh of relief; it couldn't be Richie. But then who was it?

"Could be Joe," offered MacLeod, "though it's unusual for him to drop by at this time of day." As soon as the lift gate ascended and Joe stepped out, Duncan could see by the look on the Watcher's face that, as usual, he had come by unexpectedly as the bearer of bad tidings. "What's up, Joe?" he asked, and Dawson acknowledged him with a nod of his head, but then turned immediately to Methos, whom he still felt more comfortable referring to as Adam.

"Joe! What's happened?" asked the eldest Immortal, suddenly serious in light of the tense expression on his mortal friend's face.

"I'm sorry, Adam, there's been a break-in at the bookstore. Claude just called me. Someone got in and trashed the place."

"Oh, hell!" came the muttered response, and abandoning the chess board, Methos got to his feet and headed for the coat stand. "Sorry MacLeod, it looks like our game will have to wait until later." Turning back to Joe, absorbed in the identity of his alter ego, Adam Pierson, researcher and member of the Watcher organisation, he began a flurry of questions in order to find out exactly what he might expect when he got back to Paris, which was where the bookstore, a cover business he had sort of inherited from his old and lately murdered friend, Donald Salzer, was located.

Joe answered a couple of the questions and then held up his hand, to indicate he needed to at least get a word in edgeways. "There's more." His jaw dropping another inch in a silent gasp of exasperation, the Immortal waited to hear the worst of the news. "I'm afraid they got down into the cellar."

There was a sudden dangerous stillness about Methos which snapped MacLeod's attention into a higher awareness. There was some real threat to Methos in that piece of information which Duncan was not cognisant of, and he looked to the other Immortal, wondering whether he might not have to pack a bag himself. If this was something big enough to elicit such an unprecedented response in the five thousand year old Immortal, did that indeed bode something dangerous for everyone involved in the Game?

"They cleared out everything; all the books, the papers, everything. It's all gone," Dawson continued softly but with enough deadly intensity to freeze the marrow in MacLeod's bones.

Silence ensued for a long moment until Duncan, unable to withstand the building tension in the room, was about to come out with half a dozen questions which were buzzing around his brain, when Methos stopped him with a question of his own.

"D'you think it could have been someone left from Horton's mob?" he asked quietly, the glint in his eyes promising a hard punishment for whoever had done this.

"I don't know," returned Joe wearily. "I thought we had tabs on most of them; Claude thinks it could maybe be someone who slipped through the net. Maybe someone James kept out of it as some sort of back up."

"Well, he was your brother-in-law, what do you think?" Methos snapped out, this unguarded response finally revealing the extent of his worry over what this incident could mean.

"Methos ..." began MacLeod, but he was ignored as the other plowed on, his uncharacteristic behaviour towards his mortal friend obviously dictated by the severity of the situation.

"Come on, Joe, what do you think? Was he capable of thinking that far ahead?"

"I don't know, maybe; he managed to come back at MacLeod twice when we both thought he was already dead. It's possible."

Only one moment longer was spent on indecision and then Methos was in the lift and gone, with a surprisingly pithy -- under the circumstances -- "Don't wait up!"

Trying to get his head back together, MacLeod stepped forward to ask his Watcher if he could at least clarify matters a little, when he was stopped short by the look on Joe's face. "Joe? What on Earth is going on here?"

"Oh, MacLeod ... Come on and I'll tell you about it ..."

Two hours later ...

"Richie?"

"Yeah, Mac?"

"I think you and I have to have a little talk ..."

Two days later a battered whirlwind stormed through the dojo, into the lift and up to MacLeod's loft. Duncan was in the middle of getting dinner, beef a la MacLeod, when the whirlwind swept in and left Duncan standing frozen to the spot, with one finger still in his mouth with which he'd been testing the sauce.

"Where is he!!?" Deathly quiet voice, the stillness at the eye of the storm, very, very dangerous.

"Who?" squeaked Duncan, immediately aware that someone else he knew had SERIOUSLY overstepped the mark this time.

"You know who, MacLeod, so don't waste your breath playing the innocent."

"You mean Richie?" MacLeod was beginning to get his voice back, slowly. The words still came out a little cracked.

"Yes." Not so much a human utterance, more a snake's hiss; a very peeved snake.

"I dunno; last I saw of him, he was on his way out to, er ... visit a friend."

"Socialising? That's nice." The voice a little more human this time, though dripping with venom. "So while I've been tearing around half of France looking for my stuff, only to find that somehow it's managed to find its way over here, God knows where, your little friend has been out enjoying himself."

"What!?" This last was news to Duncan and he immediately left the counter, all thoughts of preparing food forgotten, to try and bring the tornado's fury down a notch or two. "But Joe told me that --"

Realising the slip he'd just made, MacLeod fell silent and started praying that Joe had finally decided to take that little vacation he'd been promising himself, without telling him. If he hadn't, the chances were that his bar might soon be needing a new owner.

Advancing slowly towards him, lethal poison in his eyes, Methos asked the too obvious question. "WHAT did Joe tell you?"

Backing away, Duncan hurried out an explanation which he hoped would at least divert the other Immortal's anger in another direction. "Just that, er ... Richie had been to see him and asked him to think up something to put a stop to all the, er ... you know, the, er ... coup counting that had been going on. But Joe only told you what he did to get you, er ... out of the way for awhile, to give things time to, you know ... settle down."

Backed up against the front of the counter by this time, Duncan was looking pretty desperate when he heard the back door open; he turned his head in that direction hoping against hope that it was neither Joe nor Richie. He was out of luck. There was the buzz which he associated with his young friend, and he could tell by the footsteps that Joe was with him.

'Oh, God,' he thought sorrowfully, 'one trashed loft coming up ...'

Neither of them appeared at first. There was a little soft shoe shuffle and muffled voices, but then finally, there they were, pulled up short by the sight of Methos, sword in hand, obviously not at all happy with them.

"Where are they?" With a deceptively calm voice, Methos directed the question towards both of them, but it was Joe who bowed his head and sighed.

"Come on, Adam," he said finally. "It was just a joke; you don't need that," he finished, indicating the lengthy piece of shining steel in his right hand. "In five thousand years you mean to tell me you haven't learned how to take a joke?"

A broad grin appeared on the Immortal's face and the sword dropped to his side. Unfortunately Dawson and Richie were too busy sighing with relief to notice that there was still steel glinting in his eyes. It didn't escape MacLeod's notice however, and he felt himself instinctively prepare to intervene should the trouble he was expecting actually be realised.

He didn't have to wait long. Shrugging his broad shoulders, Methos, appearing to have adopted the friendlier attitude of Adam Pierson once more, strolled over to Joe and put a hand on his shoulder, whilst Richie went to get himself a glass of juice out of the fridge, his mouth being a little dry for some reason.

"That's okay, Joe," Methos replied, extending the hand resting on Joe's shoulder until it was across his shoulders. "I guessed it had to be down to you; these two didn't know about my little basement cache anyway, so who else could it be?"

"That's right," replied Dawson, smiling in that approachable way he had. "Sorry, but I just couldn't resist it. No hard feelings?"

"No, no hard feelings; not now."

No sooner were the words out than Joe was pinned up against the wall with over two foot of steel at his throat. Exclamations of dismay burst from Duncan and Richie as they rushed to Joe's aid, but a look from the angered Immortal stopped them in their tracks.

"Joe," began Duncan hastily, "I think you'd better tell him what you've done with his books."

Frozen in place and shocked at this previously unknown behaviour towards him of someone whom he had called friend, Joe cleared his throat as best as he was able. Right then, he found himself really envying Richie that juice. "Okay, okay," he offered, defeated in his little game, "they're in the warehouse on Fourth Street."

"But that's where I keep my --" began Duncan hushed into silence as the enormity of Joe's practical joke finally came home to him.

"Most of your collection, yes I know," Dawson finished for him, looking extremely shame-faced by this time, and not a little scared, as he contemplated the sharpened edge just under his chin.

"You were trying to pull me in on this too!!?" Duncan asked amazed at the Watcher's audacity.

"Hey, guys, look, there's no harm done is there?" pleaded Richie, rising out of shock enough to join the peace-keeping force. "Adam, hey look, I never meant for this whole thing to --"

Methos turned his gaze on Richie and his mentor ... and winked. Then he returned his all-business expression back on Joe who was still pinned against the wall, looking fearful, and waited, obviously for the other two to finish up for him.

Somehow both MacLeod and Richie managed to keep their faces straight in spite of the wind-up; Duncan went first.

Coming forward, he looked Joe right in the eye and plunged in with a nifty broadside.

"You know, Dawson," his use of Joe's last name showing that he was not a very happy bunny himself, "using my stash to get back at Adam for ... whatever it is you're getting back at him for," he continued carefully, knowing that Methos didn't want any hint of his true identity getting back to Richie for his own security reasons, "well, I think I could get quite cross about that."

"Hey, Mac, come on, I didn't --" but he didn't get a chance to finish, as Richie provided some heavy back up.

"You shouldn't have done that, Dawson; when I asked you to find a way to get Adam off my back for awhile, I wasn't thinking of anything like this! I don't know what all these books and stuff are, but it seems like they must be kinda important."

"How would you feel," added MacLeod, having thought through what was going on, and come up with, what he thought should be a worthy comparison, "what would you do, if someone stole all your Watcher records? You'd be pretty miffed, wouldn't you? Not to mention in deep water," he added, trying to get Joe to understand what a breach of security meant to Methos. "At least you couldn't lose your life or your freedom over it," he finished, ramming home the final, damning parting shot.

Joe was speechless by this time, his mouth open as he began to realise how much panic and fear his action had precipitated in the eldest Immortal. He could see he owed him an apology, big-time, and now, in case that unpredictable nature which he had acquired over the millenia dictated sending something nastier than a shaving cut in Joe's direction.

However, seeing the real repentance in Joe's eye's, and realising that any apology might breach his own security where Richie's limited knowledge of him was concerned, Methos decided that he and Joe would have to continue this elsewhere.

Grasping hold of Joe's jacket a little tighter, Methos moved nearer to his victim and glared at him meanly. "Alright, Dawson, let's go and check that my little collection is safe, shall we?"

Having another sudden thought, he turned and gave Duncan a knowing look, hoping that he would get the message.

He did. Grabbing Richie, he hurried the two of them towards the back door, knowing that Methos would then use the lift to 'escort' Joe from the premises. "C'mon, Rich, I promised Ann we'd go see her, and we're late already."

Richie not knowing what was going on, but realising that something was, did his best to play along. "Ann ... Lindsey! Yeah, right, I forgot, heck, yeah; we're going to have to push it if we're going to get there before she dumps that dinner she was doing for us."

It wasn't quite the right thing to say in light of the meal that MacLeod had been preparing when Methos had swept in, but luckily, Joe hadn't been given time to see that. Right now he was too busy trying to stay far enough away from the blade at his neck to avoid any unfortunate 'accidents'.

Once outside, Richie danced his way around to face MacLeod as they made their way hurriedly to his T-bird. "Mac; what's going down here?"

"I'll tell you on the way, Rich; now come on, we have to get there before they do ..."

Duncan would have dearly loved to have had time to browse through some of the books in Methos' collection but, even with the help of some of the men at the warehouse who could be spared for the task, he knew there simply wasn't time. Heck, there wouldn't be time to do this anyway unless Methos was going to take the scenic route; like a round trip of the entire city a couple of times. Five thousand years worth of diary; the books would have filled a small library.

Then to add to the problem his mobile phone started chirping at him.

"Whoever it is, not now, okay? Call back next Wednesday."

"Don't panic, MacLeod, it's me."

Looking around quickly and seeing Richie nowhere in sight for the moment, he quietly answered the caller.

"Methos! Listen, can you give me some time? There's just too much --"

"Don't panic, MacLeod; I've had a convenient breakdown, and it's going to take the mechanics at least ninety minutes to fix it."

Duncan breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay, thanks. How's Joe?"

"Oh, suitably crestfallen; he's waiting to see if I'll forgive him enough to let him buy me dinner."

"That's great! Okay, I'll see you in an hour and a half. Richie and I might as well stay here; I'll just tell him we came on here after seeing Ann, when you get here."

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment; then

"That's a good idea, MacLeod."

"Yeah; enjoy your dinner."

"Oh, I intend to," came the pithy reply.

Replacing the phone in his jacket, MacLeod was just in time to hail Richie as he came in through the doorway. "Hey, Rich! Adam's just called me. He's bought us some time; ninety minutes. His car's had a 'breakdown'."

"Oh, right. What a shame," replied Richie with a big grin. Then he remembered what he'd come to tell MacLeod. "I've given the driver the address and the keys like you asked; are you sure you can trust these guys, Mac?"

"Rich, if anything went missing from the apartment we'd know the first place to go to, now wouldn't we?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Trust me, Rich, these guys know what they're doing. Now come on; extra time or not, this stuff's not going to get packed and out of here on its own, is it?"

Clicking his heels and sending MacLeod a stiff salute, Richie started in on the other side of the room.

They had cleared the storeroom really well. There was not a hint anywhere of what had been done and the look on Dawson's face was a real picture.

"But ... but ... I supervised it myself!!" he exclaimed dumbfounded. "I watched them bring it in and stash every last thing! It HAS to be here!!"

'If he tries to take in every corner of the room much faster,' thought Duncan, 'he's going to make himself sick.'

Methos played the aggrieved victim to the hilt. Duncan was doing his best to look helpful and Richie had retired to the corridor outside, seemingly to avoid losing his head in the crossfire. In reality he was holding onto the wall and had had to stuff a handkerchief in his mouth to keep from betraying the whole scam with fits of laughter.

A girl who worked in the inventory office downstairs passed by and gave him a strange look, and Richie just about managed to put a finger to sealed lips and wave her on. Shaking her head the girl went back downstairs to get on with her work. She looked like she had wanted to know what was going on, but she was obviously late back from tea break or something as she nearly slipped in her haste to get down the stairs to the office.

In the storage room, Methos was just getting started.

"Do you know what happens if someone else gets their hands on those books, Dawson?" he almost yelled, gesticulating wildly and pacing up and down in front of a thoroughly bemused Joe Dawson. "It's not just MY head on the block, although, God knows, that's bad enough!! Do you know how many entries about how many Immortals I've got written in there!!? Plus a lot of stuff on you guys as well."

Joe had his head in his hands by this time, and looked seriously shaken. Duncan could appreciate why Methos was doing this; it wasn't just taking the joke to the extreme, but it also served the purpose of showing Joe that what he had been playing with, under other circumstances, could have been more than just fire.

"If they get to the papers or the Police, then we've got that whole Christine Salzer thing all over again!! And no nice Kalas to step in and put it all on hold!!"

"Thank God," breathed MacLeod, pushing away memories of the cat and mouse game that he had been forced to play with the evil Immortal. Getting up from the packing case he'd been sitting on, he could see that Joe was very pale by now and realised it was time to put an end to the proceedings. "So; what do we do now?" he asked and directed a silent message across to Methos with his eyes. Picking up on the signal, the Immortal barely nodded in acknowledgement, and pushed his breath out in a sigh that said, 'I-give-up.'

"Right now? I don't know;" he responded, traces of anxiety still in his voice. "Let's get back to your place; I need to think this out."

Back in the corridor, Richie heard the approaching footsteps and hastily straightened his face, putting the soggy handkerchief somewhat reluctantly back in his pocket. "So, Mac; what's happening?" he asked as Duncan appeared in the doorway.

"We're heading back to the dojo, Rich. I have to make some calls."

Richie held back until the other two had left the room and then he brought up the rear, the broad grin returning silently to his face.

With one more shock in store for Joe, something in the back of his mind, hysterically funny as he found this situation, was telling him that he should never have gotten the older man involved in this in the first place.

Richie was still hanging around in back of the group as they used the lift to get up to MacLeod's loft, barely able to keep the grin off his face. Dawson was going to go apoplectic when he saw what was waiting for him.

However, as the lift steadied to a halt and Methos pushed the gate up for them to enter the room, it was Duncan who had a fit.

And it was Joe and Methos who were holding on to each other to keep from rolling around on the floor with helpless laughter.

The loft was not only bereft of all the books that Duncan and Richie had had put there only forty minutes ago, it was bereft of the bed, the couch, the table, the bookcases, the ornaments, the furnishings, the chests ... everything.

Well, whoever it was who had denuded the place had left the fridge and it was a very nonchalant, very smug elder Immortal who strolled over to it and got himself a beer.

Stood in the middle of the floor, MacLeod, his mouth helplessly gold-fishing, couldn't get a word out for a moment. Then he exploded.

"Where ARE they!!? And where's all my STUFF!? What d'you DO with it? How on EARTH did you ...? You didn't have enough TIME to ..."

Richie was looking around, and he seemed as bemused as Duncan for the space of about ten seconds and then, slowly, the grin he'd been fighting for the past half hour returned to his face and he began to laugh too. Duncan looked across at him and finally the light dawned.

Returning his attention to Joe, he cocked an eyebrow at him in mock annoyance in acknowledgement of the neat final twist he had been made victim to.

"Alright, you two, I can see the joke's on me."

"And it isn't even April Fool's Day," Methos commented cheerfully.

"More like Friday the Thirteenth, eh, MacLeod?" added Joe, a smirk of enjoyment all over his face.

"When did you two 'boys' cook this up? That was very good acting, Dawson, by the way," MacLeod conceded.

"Why thanks, MacLeod."

"And how the hell did you manage it? Where are Adam's books?" enquired Richie, not giving the perpetrators a chance to answer Duncan's question.

"Oh, they're in the bookstore cellar in Paris," returned Methos helpfully, as if that explained everything.

"No way!" came back Richie. "There was no way you could've gotten them back there in that short space of time."

"I think we've been had, Rich;" said Duncan going over to join his young friend.

"I can see that, Mac, but --"

"No, I mean all the way down the line," Duncan continued, having thought the thing through. "When exactly ...?" he finished, directing the question at Dawson.

"Oh, before Richie came to see me. Adam reckoned it wasn't fair to leave you out of the fun so we got together and cooked up this little scheme. Richie asking for my help was just an added bonus," Joe admitted, still looking extraordinarily pleased with himself.

"The books never left Paris, did they?" guessed MacLeod.

"They never left the cellar," replied Methos, clarifying the situation. "And as for your stuff, if you'd taken a peek in the next storeroom at the warehouse, you would have found it all quite safe and sound," he added reassuringly.

"Yeah, that was the only weak part of the plan," Joe told him. "We had to bank on you not coming back here with the stuff. The guys at the warehouse simply packed up the books and then returned them to the bookstore."

"But you've just said the books didn't leave the bookstore!" exclaimed MacLeod, confused again.

"Not the bookstore in Paris, Mac;" revealed Joe, the smirk growing in strength now. "MY bookstore; the one I used to run when you first met me."

"So ... those weren't Adam's books at all," stated Richie tentatively, rapidly working out what had happened.

"Nope," came back Joe. "They were just a huge pile of old books."

"That was the other part of the plan which might have given us away," commented Methos sitting himself down against the outer wall and opening another beer, having downed the first. "We had to hope you wouldn't have time to examine any of the books; that would have revealed the scam immediately. To be truthful,' he continued, "I didn't believe this thing would play out to the end. I really expected you to at least take a peek."

"Oh, I'm sorry I disappointed you, believe me," returned MacLeod sarcastically. "I can see I'm going to have find a different storage company," he added with a determined glint in his eye.

"Anyway, don't worry, MacLeod," said Joe, finally going over to the fridge to get a beer for himself, with the attitude of someone whose business is over for the day. "Your stuff's on its way back to you right now. We'll even help you get everything straight, right Adam?"

"Mm, hmm," came the contented reply. The beer was obviously being much appreciated.

"Okay," said Duncan, nodding to himself. It was a shame for all of them that neither Richie nor Dawson caught the gesture, as both of them would have recognised it and been alert for further trickery. "Look, guys, I'm going to leave you to sort out the furniture and stuff when it gets here; Richie knows where it all goes."

"Sure thing, Mac," Richie reassured him. "Don't worry, I won't let them out of here, until everything's exactly where it should be; but where are you going?"

"Well, I did actually promise Ann that I'd see her this weekend, just to see how she's getting on, and then I still have some finishing up on the house to do, so ..."

"That's fine, Mac," Joe told him. "We'll catch you later."

"Yeah, take it easy, MacLeod," added Methos, rolling up his sleeves in readiness to shift furniture.

'Happy as clams, aren't they?' mused Duncan as he left by the back door and descended the fire escape to the car. 'Well, we'll see about that.'

Half an hour later ...

"OKAY!!! Everyone put their hands behind their heads and don't move!!"

Bursting in through the back door Sgt. Bennett and his team moved in on the three men in the loft and before anyone of them had time to protest, they were cuffed and on their way out.

Then the questions started.

"Hey, man, whaddaya think you're doing? What's going on?"

"What are we supposed to have done, Sergeant? What's the crime; drunk in charge of furniture?"

"Hey, d'you suppose you could slow down a little, man? These legs don't move as fast as I do."

"Oh, that's funny, Joe, real funny!"

"Well, what the all hell is going on?"

"You don't think ...?"

"No, he wouldn't would he?"

"Looks like he just did. Round ... what round IS it?"

"Don't ask me man, I lost count about four days ago."

"Well, whatever round it is, I think it goes to MacLeod."

He was waiting for them at the station, with a grin on his face as wide as Texas, and gave a little acknowledgement to each of them as they were marched past him on the way to the cells.

"Hi, Dawson."

"Okay, MacLeod, how'd you do it? D'you know this Bennett guy, what was it, a bribe?"

"Tut, tut, Joe, that's illegal. Oh, hi, Adam."

"I wouldn't put it past you, MacLeod."

"Nor would I, but that's not half of what I wouldn't put past you. How you doin' there, Rich?"

"Well, what does it LOOK like, BUDDY?"

"Aw, don't worry about it, guys," Duncan concluded, looking happier with life than he had in quite awhile. "I'll probably be by tomorrow to bail you out." He gave a little wave at Sgt. Bennett who tipped him a wink.

"They'll be here, don't worry," he called back, following the little cavalcade down the hall.

"Or then again, maybe not," MacLeod added as a comforting afterthought. "Have fun!" he threw over his shoulder and chuckling to himself, Duncan picked up his jacket from a nearby chair and exited whistling.

Once the three incarcerees were left alone in the cell they were sharing, the post-game analysis began in earnest.

"We don't even know what we're being charged with!" exploded Richie, disgustedly.

"Probably nothing," replied Adam who was sitting cross-legged on the only bunk in the cell, and having retrieved a set of flat stones from somewhere on his person, was playing Knuckle-Bones. "I expect we'll be out in the morning," he added absently.

"Alright, so he got us," concluded Richie. "What I want to know is, why ME? I mean, what did I do?"

Joe just looked at him pointedly.

"Okay, okay, I get the picture ... but HE started it!!" he responded looking over at Adam.

"He's got a point, Adam," commented Joe, glancing over at the initial culprit.

Looking up from what he was doing, Methos looked at Richie long enough to stare him out and then returned to tossing stones. "It worked, didn't it?" he replied calmly.

"What worked? What are you talking about?" enquired Joe, puzzled at the inference.

"How d'you feel about Kristin now?" Methos asked Richie, and the young Immortal finally got the point.

"You were right;" he affirmed, nodding. "She was a monster; she used me and Maria would've been dead by now if you and Mac hadn't been there. I reckon you did us all a favour."

"There you are," replied Methos amiably, catching each of the five stones on the back of his hand for the fourth time in succession. "All's well that ends well."

"Well excuse me if I just play piggie-in-the-middle," Dawson retorted.

"Just how much of that scheme you cooked up was your idea, Joe?"

"I think he's got you there," muttered Methos playfully, still mostly concentrating on his game.

"I suppose so," Dawson conceded. "Okay," he told Richie wearily, "most of it was my idea. God knows, I must have been drunk that night."

"You hadn't touched a drop to my knowledge," supplied Methos, helpfully, and deliberately ignored the dirty look Dawson gave him.

Joe however wasn't to be so easily put off. "You agreed to it though," he retorted with a glint in his eyes. "And since it's landed Richie with a load of grief he hadn't counted on, don't you think you at least owe him a little more background information?"

At this Methos looked back up at Joe, a warning in his own eyes that clearly stated he was stepping on rather dangerous ground.

"Background information," questioned Richie. "What's all this?"

"Oh, he means the books," Methos stepped in smoothly, silencing Joe with another look.

"You mean the books that were supposed to have gone missing?" asked Richie.

"Er ... yeah, that's right. What Joe didn't mention was the huge stack of Playboy magazines."

Joe raised his eyebrows at this, and despite the obvious diversionary tactic, he tipped a nod of approval to his Watcher friend. 'Playboy, huh? Quick thinking, Methos old pal,' he grinned and sat down on the edge of the bunk to give himself a rest.

"Playboys?" Richie was clearly intrigued, not having imagined that that kind of literature would have been to Adam Pierson's taste. "How many you got?"

"All of them."

"ALL of them? Dating right back to ..."

"First issue," Methos confirmed for him, and secretly damning Dawson for making him have to come up with this little deception. (In reality he only had 30 or so.)

Their conversation continued in similar terms for awhile, but eventually, the talk returned to their present situation and MacLeod.

"You're taking all this very calmly, Adam," observed Joe. "I don't suppose you and Mac thought up this final --"

"Absolutely NOT," was the hasty reply. "I may be devious, but not to this extent."

"Okay, so what do we do to get back at him for this?" asked Richie, enthusiastically getting into the swing of things once more.

"Oh, no," Methos stopped him. "I can see the funny side of all this, but it stops here."

Richie turned to Joe only to have his suggestion turned down from that quarter as well.

"Haven't you had enough already?" was the older man's reply.

"I guess ..." Richie trailed off, plunking himself down on the floor and twiddling his thumbs.

"You know, it's been awhile since I've been in jail," said Methos, surveying his surroundings for the first time. "At least the plumbing's improved."

Joe and Richie just stared at him.

"I don't suppose I could get a beer in here, could I?" wondered the older Immortal.

"NO!!" was the concerted reply.

"Oh, well, it was just a thought ..."

Back at the loft, MacLeod was sitting comfortably on the couch, feet up, a glass of Chivas Regal at his side, Mozart's 'Cosi Fan Tutte' on the stereo and reading Edgar Alan Poe.

At least he was staring at the pages, but it had been awhile since he'd turned one. In his mind he was debating as to whether to give Bennett the word to release the 'prisoners' in the morning, or not. It had been sheer luck that Bennett had owed him a favour; something that Mac had come across in one of his college research books had provided a clue to a case that the Sergeant had had difficulty cracking, and he had been grateful enough to offer to pay him back in equal weight sometime.

He couldn't make up his mind; in the morning? Or leave it 'til the day after? If he released them too soon, they might not have had enough time to cool their heels. On the other hand, if he released them later, they might be mad enough that he'd left them to stew for the extra day, for it to come to the same result.

He tossed it this way and that in his head, with no result.

'Shall I? Shan't I? Shall I? Shan't I? Shall I? Shan't --'

"Oh, damn it!"

Putting the book down and reaching into his pants pocket he pulled out a coin and prepared to toss it. "Heads is tomorrow; Tails, the day after," he told himself resolutely and flipped the coin high. He let it land on the table and he peered down at it.

"Heads. Okay, guys, you're lucky," he almost laughed to himself as he returned the coin to his pocket and picked up his book again. "THIS time ..."