Date: Wed, 31 Aug 1994 21:40:37 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha Chapter 2 (p 109-114) A glimpse of red hair, through the shoulders of the men. They were lifting the boy out, his body slumped, unconscious. Jonathan moved forward, targeting the two men closest to him, coming right up behind them and putting a hand over each one's shoulders. "Hi, guys." He smiled, and broke their necks, jerking their heads sharply sideways. As the light of reason faded from thier eyes, while they still stood, corpses who hadn't quite realized it yet, he was inside the cluster, smashing the noses of the two men opposite him, killing blows, driving the cartilage into their brain, one with each hand. Four more men remained standing, just barely comprehending what was happening, just starting to react, to reach for their guns, to draw back their hands, to clench thier fists. He slashed his hands, flat, hardened edge first, into the necks of the two on either side of him. They staggered, gasped, tried to breathe and fell, choking in eternal vacumn, their windpipes flattened, crushed. The last two held the boy, half hiding behind him. The quicker of the two put his gun to the boy's head, not even trying to shoot Jonathan, relying on his hostage for safety, instead. They stared at one another, the man's gun hand shaking at the sight of a dead man come to life, Jonathan, cool, calculating, pausing for a moment to weigh the balance, decide the risk, to Duncan's student, to himself. He knew this man, knew his face anyhow. Maybe they had trained together, once. In another world. Another reality. Jonathan smiled, raised his hands in mock surrender, saw the man with the gun relax for a bare, brief moment, and then Jonathan moved, grasping the top of the open van door, using his arms to swing himself forward, up, to kick the gun away with one foot, to kick out with the other leg, to catch the man under his chin, lift his head up and back, at an impossible angle, his toe digging deep into his neck, and toss him, a broken rag doll, to the floor. The second man dropped the boy, turned and ran. Jonathan pulled the gun from his pocket, steadied it on his wrist, and fired. The tiny pop was lost in the huge garage, the sound swallowed up by the echoes of the rumbling garbage truck, its motor still running, the hydraulic system groaning as it kicked in on the automatic test cycle Jonathan had engaged before he left the cab. The running man jerked, stumbled, and fell, leaning forwards, face first, to the floor. Jonathan knelt by the boy, glancing around to see if anyone else had entered. All was quiet, so far. The boy was a mess. His face was battered, he had a split lip, bruises across his cheek, and two potential shiners puffing incipiently around his still closed eyes. Jonathan touched him, running his hands lighlty across the boy's torso, his stomach. One of his ribs was broken, and his stomach was distended. Probably internal bleeding. He felt a flickering of consciousness, as he brushed his hands across the boy's skin. It was an alien consciousness. Not the boy. Someone else, someone older. Much older. And evil. He drew away, sickened by what he'd felt. Frightened by the way the evil one had pulled at him, beckoned him, had reached into his heart and soul and found consonance, found sympathy. He caught himself looking at the boy, at his vulnerable neck, lying exposed, open to the thrust of a blade. Calculating the angle, the power needed, for a killing strike. For a beheading. Looking at him as potential prey. The nameless, evil Immortal inside Richie had called to Jonathan, called on Jonathan to free him from the boy, to join with him in a feast of death and vengeance, had flattered him, praised him, promised him revenge and blood and endless violence, promised to feed the hate that raged in his soul.... He would cling to his honor. To his stern code, an eye for an eye. Vengeance....but no more. No killing for gain, for profit... A tiny voice mocked him, inside. He ignored it, ignored its seductive whisper. No killing for profit, no killing to feed on the panoply of Immortal souls..their knowledge and power beckoning him, alluring....promising undreamed of worlds.... The boy was stirring. Richie opened his eyes. His aura strengthened, steadied, shifted, changed. "Hi." Richie looked up at Jonathan, smiled, made a weak attempt at humor. "I guess my line is 'Where am I?" Jonathan offered the boy his hand. Richie shook his head, shook him away, and sat up, wincing. "You have nice bunch of friends, there." His voice was stronger, already. Jonathan wanted Richie out of here. Safe. Far away. He'd noticed a motorcycle in the corner. Wondered if the boy knew how to ride it. Richie stood, leaning on the van, rubbing his stomach, feeling his ribs. "Damn, they play rough." Jonathan glanced around the garage again. Someone was bound to be along soon, ask what was keeping the new arrivals. It was pure luck no one had come yet, no one had been there to meet the group already. "We don't have much time. Can you use that bike? Get out of here? I'll give you cover." "You're not coming too?" The boy looked astonished, then his eyes narrowed, and an older face peered out of his, suspicious, questioning, cynical. Eyes that had seen duplicity, betrayal, searched Jonathan's. Even the timbre of his voice changed, deepened for a moment. "What is your game, Raven?" "No game. I want you out. MacLeod is waiting for you." Jonathan bent close to the boy, whispered the name of the hotel, the room number. "Tell him we're even." He paused. "Tell him...I'm sorry. We'll never get a chance to finish what he wanted to do. I don't need a teacher, any more." Jonathan urged Richie towards the bike, the boy limping a bit as he walked, glancing questioningly at Raven. He mounted it, and kicked it to life, the motor coughing, then roaring again. "This is *my* bike." The boy looked at it, suspicion, worry, fear chasing themselves across his face. "Mac had it. Used it to escape. Damn it, what happened to him?" "You know as much as I do. Maybe more. Was he any good with it?" Jonathan felt certain that MacLeod would have used the Lazarus option, this time. Vulcan would have intercepted him, if he escaped. If he hadn't... No point in considering that... There was no sign of him here, no sense of another Immortal presence in the building. He must have gotten free, somehow. Or died, permanently. Either way, the boy was better off gone. This was not his fight, not his quest for vengeance. He had eternity before him.... "Go. Now." Jonathan hit the switch that controlled the garage doors. They swung slowly up, rising in their tracks, as the motorcycle roared up the access ramp, the boy ducking as he slipped under the door with inches to spare. Jonathan lay flat, his borrowed automatic pistol braced on the body of one of the men he'd killed, watching the guard at the gatehouse. Watching the man lean out of the plexiglass booth, waving at the speeding cycle, pulling out a gun and leveling it at the boy. Watched as the man's head jerked back, and dropped, collapsing onto his chest, his body sagging, disappearing into the depths of the booth, as Jonathan felt the almost simultaneous recoil of the pistol in his hand. That was all that mattered. Jonathan had known that guard, in another life. Exchanged idle greetings, light chatter. Knew he had a son, a daughter. It was irrelevant, unimportant. Not worth thinking on, anymore. Jonathan could tell an expert's stance when he saw one, and the boy sat on the cycle like he was born to it. Nothing would stop him now, short of the earth opening up under his wheels. Jonathan's debt was settled, with one man. Now it was time to collect on what he was owed, himself. He rolled sideways, under the van, as the anticipated reinforcements arrived, too late. he heard footsteps pounding across the blacktop, saw pantslegs kneeling at the pile of bodies he'd left. Heard shouts as a chase was organized. What he hoped to accomplish depended on secrecy, on surprise, on everyone assuming he was dead, and him remainng that way, in everyone's eyes but his own, after he was done. But he had thrown the dice, had committed to this roll, and if the stakes had just gotten higher, he had to match them. There was no folding in this game. Only winning or losing. Life, or death. He rolled over and looked out from under the van. A dozen men, swarming across the garage. He pulled out the second gun and steadied them both on the bottom of the bumper, lying on his back, peering up at the figures, some moving, some standing still, easy targets in the overhead lights..He aimed, and fired, sweeping his sights methodically across the room, each bullet striking a different man, each finding its mark. As soon as the shooting started, the agents reacted, some dropping to the floor, seeking cover, some crouching, looking for a target to shoot back at. None moved fast enough, though. Some lived through the first bullet. A few survived the second. None, the third. The clips were empty. 36 shots each. His wrists throbbed from the recoil, his ears were deafened, sound filtered through the echoes in his head of the gunshots. The room was empty of life, the monotonous whine of the garbage truck's hydraulic lift the only sound, providing an eerie mechanical dirge, as it moved repetitously through its programmed exercize, keening over the scattered bodies. Jonathan wriggled out from under the van and dropped the two empty pistols, wiping them on his shirt first. He searched rapidly through the bodies, ignoring the smell of blood, of excrement, of terror, of death. Ignoring the half glimpsed faces, some familiar, some strangers, all still and silent now in death. This was his world now, death would be his herald, the souls of those he killed would follow him forever, escort him to hell. He intended to have a lot of company, when the time came. The crackling walkie talkies lay on the floor, cast aside toys, humming and chattering to themselves. He pulled out two more guns, more ammo clips. Searched feverishly, knowing his lead time, his precious edge of surprise was almost up. There. A pair of plastic medic's gloves. Tissue thin. Supple. Impossible to trace. He slipped them on. Skin tight. He grinned mirthlessly and pulled a swatch of white silk from one man's shirt, sliced it with another's pocket knife, and had a passable mask, a passable disguise. He wrapped it around his head, covering his face, his nose. Only his eyes and mouth would show. Not enough for a positive ID. He put on the sunglasses, the garbage truck driver's billed cap, pulled it low over his face, and walked towards the back stairwell, towards the door that led back into the Agency, down to the basement. Down to hell. * * * * * Duncan paced across the room, and back. He didn't like this waiting, this feeling of helplessness. He wanted to be doing something, should be doing something.....but what? He eyed the other man, still nameless, who waited with him. They'd been prowling the room, snarling around each other like stray dogs, their hackles up and ready to fight at a moment's notice. In the background, the television screen flickered , silently. Duncan glanced at it idly, pacing, then stiffened, moved closer, looking for a volume control. A female reporter was standing in front of the house he'd just vacated, a crowd of gapers milling in front of the camera, behind them figures with D.E.A. vests moved in and out of the picture, carrying wrapped objects...objects that looked like bodies.... Sound blasted into the room, the blond man holding a small black box...a remote control...the word formed in Duncan's mind, then was driven out again by the blaring volume of the report.... "....and that was the situation just a few minutes ago at the 2200 block of Jasmine Street in Norhtwest Washington this afternoon. " Agents on the scene refused to discuss their findings or to state if anyone was captured or killed in the raid, but from this reporter's perspective..." The camera cut away from the newswoman's face and tracked a body bag, zooming in for a closeup, as two men carried it from the house. The picture jiggled, and went black. The reporter's narration continued. "...it looked to me like at least five and maybe more persons died here today in what appears to have been a bloody raid on a drug house. Our crew was stopped from filming at this point. Back to you in the studio, John." The scene cut to the studio, where an avuncular balding anchorman shuffled papers, then faced the camera. "That report was taped just a few minutes ago by Rebecca Sheehan. Our network has filed a formal protest with the D.E.A. over this incident, but spokesmen for the agency have refused all comment on the case. More on this story at 10. Next, weather...." The sound abruptly cut off. The blond man threw the remote control onto one of the beds, and moved to a window, looking out, staring in the direction of the unseen house, as if his will alone could summon Raven, could pull him to the room. "He's never failed, you know. Never failed a mission." The man turned back to Duncan, his face like a carved mask, lines of pain, of anger, of grief, etched across his cheeks, his brow. "We used to say he would come back from the dead, to finish something, once he started." He skewered Duncan with his eyes. "Who are you, to him? What are you? Why are you still alive? I saw you go into the water. No one could survive that long. No one." Duncan shrugged. He held his hands out, empty, placating. He had nothing to say. Nothing he could say. "I don't remember what happened after I hit the water. I guess I'm just lucky to be alive." =========================================================================