"So, you're a friend of Duncan MacLeod's. How convenient," Immerman purred.
"Who?" Joe blinked blood and sweat out of his eyes and tried to focus on the chiseled face leaning over him. He sat on a pile of rubble, wondering what new brutality the Immortal would use next. "You know, your idea of hospitality really stinks." His whole body felt bruised by the trip from the car into the black pit of a building. Immerman had pushed him along with the sword point to his back. When Joe didn't move quickly enough, he clubbed him with a convenient scrap of lumber and kicked him when he fell. Once he had even grabbed Joe's cane and cracked it against the back of his head.
"Isn't that just too bad?" the Immortal said in that same mildly pleased tone. The flashlight he used to illuminate the corner of the moldering room cast his face into a spectral mask. "According to these papers, printed out by our dear, late Andrew Blaine, you are the head of the Watchers in this section of the country, and you are assigned to Duncan MacLeod." He tugged a much-folded sheaf of papers from his jeans pocket and waved them in front of Joe's face.
"Andrew Blaine? Mister, the kid must be a mystery writer. I don't know what you're -- " Joe bent double, Immerman's elbow in his gut.
"I need you alive, Mr. Dawson, but I don't particularly need you in good shape. Duncan MacLeod seems to find some value in you, since he hasn't killed you for discovering his secret or intruding into his life. I will use that for my own benefit. Do try to prolong your life as long as possible."