Date: Wed, 7 Sep 1994 07:00:06 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha Chapter 2 (p 133-138) c1994 He slid to the floor, his teeth clenching his lips together, silently. He staggered, stood, his arms flopping uselessly by his sides, and rotated his torso, slamming each shoulder into the wall, back into its socket, one at a time. He almost blanked out, white and dark geometric patterns filling his vision, the pain buzzing in his ears, between his temples, up and down his arms and neck. His side throbbed, the rib and bullet adding thier own little notes to the symphony he was writing with his body. The symphony of pain. The soldier was coming to his feet, reaching for the gun, his fingers straining across the floor, grasping...Jonathan staggered forward, put his foot on the man's wrist, reached out with his other leg and drove the ball of his foot into the side of the man's neck, hearing the bones snap, feeling the muscles tense and relax suddenly. Forever. The man's blue eyes stared into infinity, a questioning look fading slowly from his face. Jonathan half fell, half knelt, willing his fingers to close on the soldier's gun, his own pistol lost somewhere in the depths of the crawlspace he'd just left, willing his hands to obey his commands, willing his arms to stop shaking as if they were palsied. Willing his breath to come easily, instead of lancing his chest, his side with fire every time he drew air in, or out. Behind him..... "Stop right there, mister." That voice. A cold circle of metal touched the back of his neck. Jonathan froze. Hunched forward, groping for the gernades at his chest, his mutinous hands plucking feebly at the hard round shells. He kicked out with one leg, falling flat on the floor and turning, feeling his foot connect with ligament, with tendon, seeing the flash of the pistol firing by his face, hearing the flat dry pop. Rolled, slewing his legs in a rapid arc and trapping McCrory's neck, as he tumbled forward, in their lethal vise, squeezing, crushing muscle, cartilage, between his knees. McCrory bucked in his grasp, then was still. Jonathan gathered his feet under him, and rose, leaning on the wall, leaving bloody handprints, as he headed for the dark veneered wooden door that was the only other opening in the corridor hall. Pulling the gernades free from thier makeshift housing, his fingers obeying at last, his arms still weak, still numb and shaking. The door was ajar. He edged it open with the toe of his shoe, half expecting it to be shot off as he did. Nothing. The foyer beyond was silent, the reception desks empty, the three inner doors closed, no indication of life or activity here. He held one gernade tightly in his fist, pulled the pin out with his teeth and pushed down on the arming mechanism. If they shot him, it would go. He wondered how far away he would have to be, to survive. Even Immortals could die...MacLeod's words came back to him again....if they were blown to bits. One of the doors was opening. A gun barrel glinted, a fraction of its tip showing, behind the door. Jonathan moved towards it, leaped the intervening space in an instant, reached out and shoved his unsteady hand into the gap, trusting that it would not fail him now, snapping his wrist as he released the gernade, throwing himself backwards, somersaulting over the nearest desk, his arms wrapped around his head to cushion the shock...as the air lifted him up and threw him against the far wall, crushing him with a massive fist against the shiny wood panelling. The door was shredded, long wooden splinters hanging in the frame. A piece of dark fabric, speared and torn, sagged from the top of the longest splinter. Jonathan lay, dazed, his eyes barely open, staring vacantly at the dust and smoke that drifted into the room. Saw vague shapes, motion cross the side of his vision. Felt two pairs of hands reach for his, grasp his rebellious arms, the very touch causing ribbons of pain to run up and down his nerves. Felt himself being lifted, and turned. Felt his arms pulled back, felt a pair of handcuffs slide around his wrists, click shut. He slumped, loosened his body, let them lift him, unresisting. Gathering his resources, preparing for the final confrontation. Two uniformed Marines held him, their anger barely in check. He swayed, letting them carry his weight, resting, hoarding his strength, his energy. A squad, maybe a dozen others, were moving around the room, moving past the splintered door, wrapping bags around what was left of whoever had been in there. A man in a suit directed them. Nodded to the Marines, who hustled Jonathan forward, his feet stumbling loosely, into the conference room ahead. They were all there. In the Director's conference room. The top minds, the devious, duplicitous men and women who ran this Agency. All of them. Jonathan, sagging in the iron hard grip of the soldier's arms, could feel triumph, rising in his soul, almost within his grasp. If only he could keep them there, just a few moments longer. The stopwatch in his head was ticking down to doomsday. Only minutes remained. " Here he is. He was alone, as far as we can tell." Patterson handed the soldier's gun to the Director, then stepped up to Jonathan, ripped the flimsy, tattered mask off his face. The men and women leaned forward, clinical interest in their faces, professional curiosity. Jonathan mulled over that, as he watched their expressions change, to surprise, amazement, concern. "Well now, this is quite an interesting development." The Director, unflappable, as always. His voice rumbled across the room, then he rose and walked closer, as if not quite believing the evidence of his eyes. "Raven. Come back to the nest, have you?" He stood, hands behind his back, well out of range of Jonathan's feet. Turned his head, skewering his subordinates with his ice cold stare. They seemed to shrink back in their seats. Held their breath. No one moved, or spoke. "I thought he was *reported* dead." The Director's voice was quiet, the inflection unmistakeable. Someone had made that report. Someone had been wrong. Unforgiveably so. A price would be paid. Later. "He *was* dead." Gant, this time. His voice rising, a shrill inflection of...anger...fear... "We will discuss this later." The Director shut off the chorus, before they even started. Mouths snapped shut on protestations, objections. He turned back to Jonathan. Impassive. Took off his glasses, pulled a white linen cloth from his suit pocket, rubbed the glasses clean. Tucked his cloth away. Put the glassed back on. Stared at Jonathan. Frowned. "I'll have to let Vulcan know you're still alive." Regret tinged the words. Jonathan knew the shock showed on his face, saw the tiny flicker of a smile ghost across the Director's eyes. Cursed himself for not understanding, for not seeing all the possibilities, before. His debt was not paid. His slate was not clear, with the Immortals. "Yes, he was quite eager to cooperate with us, once we found out about his lovely... wife." The Director let the smile move to his lips, this time. "Willing to let bygones be bygones. Willing to do anything, to help...Too bad about the girl. Sloppy work, Raven. I expected better of you." The man shuffled a bit, his feet obviously tiring. Raven felt anger and contempt mix, tried not to let it show on his face, in his expression. It did. Saw the Director note it. File it away to use later. Like he filed everything away to use, later. "So...why did you start leaking information, Raven? Why did you go to the Congressional Subcommittee?" There was an aggreived tone in the man's voice. "I thought we had an agreement. Why did you break it?" The Director turned, paced a single step. An uncharacteristic expression of turmoil. The situation was becoming more confusing, more complex. It changed nothing. The Director would not stop the termination order now, never would have, once he had issued it. Certainly would not, after the bloody trail Jonathan had left through his staff. And Jonathan would not call back his vengeance, either. "Why are you here, boy? What did you hope to accomplish?" The man raked him with his eyes, scorn in his voice. "To beg for mercy? To kill me?" He lauged, shortly. Stung to a response, his pride welling up in him, Jonathan spoke for the first time. Grated out the words, the challenge, the threat. "I came to destroy you." The DIrector peered at him. Smiled. Showed all his teeth. "Destroy me? Why? We made you. Gave you a home, a purpose in life, a fortune....when you had nothing. Insolent pup. Ungrateful wretch. This is the thanks we get?" "You never made me. I made myself. You just took me, used me, turned me to your own ends." This was a point of pride, a point of character, with Jonathan. "We hardly *turned* you anywhere you hadn't already been." The Director's voice was dry, ironic. " Face it Raven, you're a born killer. We gave you a purpose for that killing. You didn't like it. Couldn't take the heat. Don't blame us. Look at yourself." "You lied to me." Jonathan clung to that belief. "Told me what I did was necessary, was for the good of the nation. I only figured out what you meant...that you meant good for you, good for your own self interest, afterwards. After I had already killed innocents, men, women, children. "I was a killer, yes. But not a murderer. Not until I worked for you." They had taken his code of honor and turned it upside down. Given him blood money, for the blood of children. And damned him to hell, because he'd taken it. "Don't play the naif. You knew what we were about. You never refused payment. You gloried in your work. Prided yourself on your skills. And you were one of the best. The very best. I was sorry to have to give the order. To see you go." The Director paused. Seemed to be weighing the possibilities. Shook his head. Sighed. "A damn waste." "Don't worry, you won't have to give the order again." Jonathan grew reckless, daring, feeling his strength returning, his body knitting together the worst of the damage, his concussion fading. "You'll never give *those* orders again." "Oh?" The Director raised his chin, looking down at Jonathan, quizzing him with his eyes. "You came here like Samson, to destroy the Temple? To destroy our *evil* works, and yourself along with it?" Jonathan flushed, feeling transparent. The Director snapped a finger, pointed to the phone behind him, and one of the deputies picked it up, started talking urgently, quietly, into the mouthpiece. Jonathan felt his stomach clench, his victory about to be snatched away. The bitter taste of defeat soured his mouth. It was still too soon. Another minute, at least, before the fuse was done. "Raven, you were good in the field, but you would never have made it anywhere else." The DIrector looked at him, a trace of pity, condescencion, in his tone. "You have no grasp of political realities, Jonathan. Even if you did , by some mad chance, destroy this place, tear our Agency apart...even kill me..." The DIrector smiled, gently, his mockery a hot iron twisting in Jonathan's soul. "Even that....wouldn't stop what we do. The need will go on, as long as governments exist, as long as politics and ideology and self interest collide. And people will continue to fill that need." The man on the phone had stopped talking, was listening intently. The Director glanced at him, turned back to Jonathan. "You are unusual...highly skilled...but not unique. You can be replaced, have been replaced. So can I. So can every person in this building, every brick, every bit of information locked in our coded databases. And we will be replaced..." The Director paused, listened, again, to the murmured conversation going on behind him. "...whenever it is necessary...for the national self interest. However, and whoever is defining it." The Director strode over to the phone, seized it from the man holding it, and barked a short, sharp inquiry into the mouthpiece. Listened. Turned back to Jonathan, respect and a touch of relief on his face. "So you really meant to do it. You had the whole floor ready to blow. Would have been quite a spectacle....tell me, son, what did you really hope to accomplish? Did you truly intend to die here, too?"