Date: Thu, 14 Jul 1994 22:58:58 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "(Nancy Cleveland)" Subject: Aloha II (part 1) Aloha II C 1994 N. L. Cleveland Two round holes starred the side window of the Jeep. Splinters of glass rained on Jonathan as he ducked and tried to steer, hunched over the wheel. The rising wail of the police sirens drowned out any sound of the shots. He had no idea how far away the gun was, only that it was on the sea wall side. He glanced quickly at MacLeod. The man was slumped in his seat, his head lolling. A tiny thread of red inched its way down his temple. He didn't seem to be breathing. < Damn. I hope he knew what he meant when he said he was immortal.> The windshield shattered as three more shots cut through the Jeep. Jonathan was on the outer street now, and the Jeep was moving faster, but with the engine still off, there wasn't enough speed to maneuver well. He brushed his hand across his forehead and it came away sticky. A piece of flying glass must have hit. He took a corner and was out of direct line of sight from the house. Jonathan shot quick glances over his shoulder as he navigated the twisty road, still rolling the Jeep in neutral, the engine and lights still off. He wrenched the wheel by instinct at the turns, while at the top of the hill, the first police car evidently pulled up into the driveway, blue lights flashing in the sky. The blue glow was eclipsed by a sudden incandescent burst of white light. The wave of sound that followed deafened Jonathan momentarily. Even the sirens disappeared in the hollow vacuum of white noise. The white light faded to soft flickering reds and yellows as the remnants of the house burned, the light reflecting off the low hanging clouds that mixed with the smoke from the fire. Lights went on in the houses along the street, the yellow glimmering out from between the tropical foliage that screened them from the road. The first sound he could hear was the fire engines starting up the hill, from their station in Konaloa, their sirens distinctive wooh wooh drowning out even the police sirens that still approached. < This was supposed to be a quiet escape. > A dark sedan loomed out of the night shadows, almost on the Jeep's bumper, also running without lights. Another starred hole splintered the rear window of the Jeep. < They've found us, whoever they are. No reason to keep quiet any longer. > Jonathan turned the key. The engine caught. He gunned it and headed straight out the drive, towards the state park. It was only a mile away, through these exclusive and quiet suburbs. He knew these roads. This was his planned bolt hole. The car following didn't have a prayer. < I hope.> He skimmed through a red light, the last one before the park gate, praying no one was coming around the blind side corner. They were through. He flashed his lights on, more to warn any oncoming traffic to get out of the way. The car behind followed suit, their headlights on high, the light stabbing at him through the soft dark night. Mercifully, the roads were deserted so far. A soft rain had started to fall, making the surface slick and forcing him to slow as he slewed the Jeep around the steep and twisting roads. He had eyes only for the narrow path of blacktop before him and the whipping leaves and greenery on the side. He hunched over the wheel, trying to sense what was coming up before he could actually see it, using his instincts to turn the wheel. The car behind had stopped shooting. Out of bullets? Or just wanting to make it a close and personal kill. He couldn't see how many people were in the car, but there had to be at least two. Was it the Dragons, or the Agency? Not that it mattered, at this point. Later, it would be good to know. If there was a later. He narrowed his eyes against the mist, as it slicked against his face, and droplets slid down his skin. They were well into the park and the road had narrowed to almost a single lane here. He checked the gas gauge. Still half full. The engine was purring and showed no sign of strain so far. He was climbing now and could feel the vast expanse of empty space on his right as the road wound up the volcano's flank. The car behind was sticking close to his bumper, accelerating and trying to push him off the road whenever they could get close enough to hit the rear of the Jeep with their front end. He slowed even more, letting them make contact with his bumper again and again, then he pushed down the gas pedal and pulled them after him in a tantalizing race, staying just out of reach. He pushed up his speed again, and they followed, close on his bumper. He knew this part of the mountain intimately. A few hundred more yards. It was time. Now. He turned his lights off, and slammed on the brakes, hearing a crunch as his rear lights went and the headlights behind wobbled at the impact. He pulled the wheel to the left as hard as he could, the edges of his tires skimming the shoulder of the blacktop, threatening to shimmy and slide off to the right. The other car continued ahead, the driver distracted for the second it took to go right off the road on the corkscrew bend. There were no guardrails here, they'd been pulled out last week in another crash. Jonathan had seen the wreckage being salvaged the last time he'd been out here. It was a calculated guess that the state road department wouldn't have replaced them yet. A gamble that worked. He saw the headlights of the other car pinwheel down the side of the hill, and then he was around the shoulder of the mountain, out of sight. Not even a glow lightened the cloud filled sky behind him. "Nice driving." Jonathan glanced to his side. MacLeod was watching him, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light. "Glad you made it back. How are you feeling?" MacLeod grimaced, and rubbed his head. "I've got a hell of a headache. But I'll live. Those were more of your friends, I take it. What's the plan now?" "Do you feel up to driving?" MacLeod started to nod, then stopped and put his hand back on his head. "Sure. Just don't ask me to do any gymnastics for a bit." Jonathan pulled the jeep over to a wide spot in the shoulder, and stopped. He got out and walked to the rear of the Jeep, checking the back for visible damage. The left rear light was broken, but the bulb was still intact. Good enough. He walked to the passenger side and climbed in. MacLeod sat in the drivers seat and flicked on the lights. "Which way?" "Just pull a U and go back straight down the hill, take the first left when we hit a light. It'll run us directly to the airport. You'll see the signs." MacLeod expertly turned the Jeep and they headed back. Jonathan peered out the window, searching for evidence of the crash at the sharp bend. There was no sign of the sedan, not even a skid mark where the car had disappeared over the edge. It would be a while before anyone noticed the car. The jungle was very thick here. He felt a moment's regret. The cycle of killing was not over. It seemed sometimes it would never end. Jonathan reached into the back seat and pulled his Laptop out, rummaged in the case and located the modem connection, then tied it into his phone. He turned on the computer and began typing rapidly, the glow of the screen casting an eerie green tint on his hands and everything in the front of the Jeep. Jonathan tried to access his main account in Switzerland. The phone was digital and the scrambled signal couldn't be picked up by any eavesdroppers, but for some reason the code wasn't working. He frowned, then cleared the screen and tried a different access code, one for a special account he'd set up, separately, just in case. This one worked. This account was intact, these funds available. Ok, so the Bahamians were secure. What the hell was going on in Switzerland. He activated the automatic withdrawal option and notified the bank he'd want access to a line of credit in their Washington D.C. branch. It would be waiting for him when he arrived. If he arrived. He cleared the screen and tried the Swiss again. Nothing. It was as if he'd never existed. The bank refused access, refused to acknowledge. He tried a final access code. A higher level entry code. The reply message blinked across his screen. "No such account. Please check your code number and try again, or contact customer service for assistance.' Damn. The Agency must have stripped his assets. They'd known how to access his account, but he'd been guaranteed that no one could withdraw anything except him. That was the point of having a Swiss account. How did they get in. What deal had they made with the Swiss bankers to shut him down. There had been no warning, no papers filed or served, just a total wipe of the account. He glanced up and noticed they were out of the park now. It had been nearly an hour since he'd led the sedan over the edge, nearly two since he'd left his house in flames. Left his life in flames. It was all ashes now. The embers of the house should be cool and dark. < I wish my heart felt that way.> A surge of raw grief shot through him for the two boys whose bodies had burned with the house. He'd barely known them, only just met Jari, and his son Akira, he'd never really met at all. And now, he never would. Except maybe in hell. The waste. The senseless waste. He felt like his heart lay back in the embers of the house. The bitter taste of ashes choked him, soured in his mouth. < I started it all. My own obsession with revenge, with wiping out the Black Dragons for murdering my parents. I didn't know how complete the wheel would be. Blood gathers blood, hate gathers hate. > He felt moisture trickle down his face, and wiped it away with the back of his hand. Just the rain. Just the rain. He wondered if Ski had been notified yet. < I need to call him. Or would it be better if he thought me dead?> Perhaps this was best. He would at least be safe, this way. No contact. A clean break. This was the way it would have to be. He ignored the pang of conscience that tugged at him. Ski would grieve. Maybe even blame himself for not staying to help. But that part of his life was over. It had to be. He was immortal now, whatever the hell that meant. But there was still a last bit of business to finish. A visit to the Agency. It was almost 2 a.m. The airport was another hour away, but there was no point in arriving too soon. The less time they spent in public now, the better, at least until they were off the island and could blend with the general population. He sat up, ran his hands through his curly hair, feeling it damp and stiff with sweat, and perhaps blood. MacLeod had pulled up to a stoplight, sitting silently at the empty intersection as he waited for it to turn green. He'd glanced occasionally at Jonathan as he hunched over the screen, but had offered no comments, asked no questions as Jonathan had fought his electronic battle. Now, he looked at him and spoke. "Do you know when the first plane leaves?" "Not yet, but I can find out. Go for about another 20 minutes, then pull into a side street and park." MacLeod stepped lightly on the gas as the light changed and moved the Jeep forward on the empty street, the soft misting rain throwing gleaming reflections across the shiny slick blacktop. Jonathan turned back to his Laptop, and accessed his Easy Sabre connection. The first flight out of Hilo today was at 5:30, direct to California. There were several empty seats. "How does San Francisco sound to you?" "Fine. Do you need some cash for the tickets?" No. I've got a card I'm using. My name's Ethan, now. Ethan Sommers. What name do you want me to book you under?" MacLeod thought for a moment, his eyes seeking out Jonathan's in the rear view mirror. "Look in the front pocket of my trench coat. Take the first passport and use it." Jonathan rummaged in MacLeod's coat and out pulled several passports. "You mean the American one, or the British one?" "The British will do for now. Joshua Cartwright. Esquire." MacLeod flashed Jonathan a brief grin. "Just returned from a charming vacation in the colonies. Use the AmEx card in my wallet, the Cartwright one." "Right. Charming." Jonathan turned back to his Laptop and made the two reservations, booking them separately, from different access names. He had a half dozen on-line accounts set up under different identities. < I wonder how many the Agency knows about?> He put them in adjacent seats, in the rear of tourist class. No one else was on that row and it was unlikely anyone would want to be. No one would hear them when they talked, the rumbling engines would cover their conversation. MacLeod frowned. "I think we've got company." A police car was on their tail, and it followed them off the main boulevard as MacLeod signaled and turned at an intersection. Jonathan closed the laptop and unplugged the modem, then slipped them both into their case and under the seat. "Some of them have computers on board to run stolen cars through the hot sheet." Jonathan wondered aloud, " Has there been enough time for this car to be on the sheet? Of maybe they just noticed the broken tail light?" "I'm going to pull into this driveway and pretend we're home. Maybe they'll drop us now." MacLeod signaled again and pulled off the street. The patrol car hesitated, sitting at the base of the drive in the silent street. MacLeod turned off the lights and got out, stretching, then walked casually up the drive towards the house. Jonathan stepped out and followed him, willing himself to not look back. He could hear the police car's engine idling as the officers sat and watched them. MacLeod stood at the front door, his hand on the knob. He turned back to Jonathan, as if waiting for him to join him before going in, fumbling in his pocket for a key. Jonathan walked towards him. In another three seconds the charade would be over. If the police didn't leave, he'd have to make a decision. To go quietly, or to fight. To disable them, possibly kill them, to escape. Not that there was ever really any choice. He wondered idly if MacLeod had a record. The man had turned away from him towards the door again, and suddenly it swung open. MacLeod turned to him once more, the door open behind him, a slight grin on his face. Jonathan heard the police car pulling slowly away, the sound of its engine fading as it went down the street. He put his foot on the porch, and stopped. MacLeod pulled the door gently closed, and stepped off the porch to meet Jonathan. "Good thing they're sound sleepers." He grinned more broadly, and gave Jonathan a wink. Jonathan let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and smiled back. "Right. You'll have to show me that trick some time." MacLeod led the way back to the Jeep. "Sure. Maybe we should just stay here for a while, until it's light out, at least." "Sunrise is at 5:20. We'll have to get to the airport in the dark." Jonathan wasn't looking forward to meeting any more police, but the broken taillight would draw them in like moths to a flame. "I'll show you another old trick then. Do you have any duct tape?" Jonathan pointed to a small gray steel tool kit in the rear. "Let's find an all night mini-grocer. Where's the nearest one?" Back along Aluhe and then right at Wanwanee. There's a Seven-Eleven, I think." MacLeod drove silently, glancing regularly back to see if they'd picked up any more tails. No one showed any interest in the Jeep, and the rain had deepened, the warm wet downpour chasing casual traffic off the streets. At the store, MacLeod dashed in and came back with an umbrella, and a red bandana. He knelt and taped the bandana across the broken frame while Jonathan held the umbrella over him, as he worked. They both stepped back to examine the makeshift light. It would do. Jonathan glanced at his watch. 3:30. Time to head to the airport. In this weather, it might take longer. And they didn't want to miss this flight. No telling who would be waiting there. If anyone. He wondered if he'd ever be able to relax again. He'd thought once that by leaving the Agency, he'd have a chance to live something like a normal life. That myth had been shattered a long time ago. < Once you kill, you spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder, waiting for someone to came after you.> He'd made that choice. Only now was he discovering how permanent it had been. Judging by what MacLeod had told him, things were no better for Immortals. Perpetual life, in exchange for perpetual flight and battles to the death. Jonathan drove automatically, moving the Jeep in and out among the scattered traffic, watching the pale glow of false dawn edge up along the eastern sky. MacLeod sat next to him, outwardly relaxed, his eyes closed, leaning back against the seat. Do Immortals ever relax? Jonathan wondered what it was like, having the memories of every Immortal you'd ever killed. How would it feel, to confront the life and passions and mind of someone who had tried to kill you, forever. He shivered, a chill running down his back. Better than being dead, I suppose. Gray light was creeping across the landscape, washing out the the red and blue lights of the airport runways ahead of them. Jonathan parked the Jeep in the short term lot and left the keys in the ignition. It would be gone by 6, he figured, and untraceable by noon, chopped up into parts and resold, the registration numbers filed off. It would be more completely hidden this way than if he'd driven it off a cliff at Kilawee. Too many skindivers looking for buried treasure to dump anything in the ocean, these days. He lifted his Laptop and pulled the strap across his shoulder. MacLoed picked up his nylon bag. "I think we should separate, then meet again on the plane." MacLeod stood waiting for Jonathan's response to his suggestion. Jonathan agreed. " Two persons together are more memorable than one. It's a TWA flight. #622. I'll give you 15 minutes to check in, then I'll follow." MacLeod nodded, satisfied they both understood. "Raven, there's one problem. Usually I carry my weapon with me onto the plane. I travel as an antique dealer and I carry a special permit. I'm not using that now as Cartwright, and you have nothing either. I'll have to check the swords through as luggage." He paused, looking at Jonathan intently." They'll never make it past the metal detectors. And without a sword, you and I are both at risk. An Immortal has no reason to wait for you to find your luggage." Jonathan smiled. "I've been taking care of myself for years, with and without weapons. I'm not too worried." MacLeod put a hand on his shoulder. Jonathan flinched as the blue light sparked between them, then stepped away. He wasn't ready for the rush of memories again. "Remember, some of these Immortals have been around for centuries. They have far more experience than you. I'm still not sure how you managed to kill Kassmir, but don't count on it being as easy again. Be careful. You still have much to learn." Jonathan moved towards the terminal, an impatient frown on his face. "I can take care of myself, MacLeod. Thanks for your concern. I'll see you at the gate." * * * * * * Duncan watched Raven walk across the half empty parking lot, the brightly lit terminal outlining his form, a tall slender shadow against the gleaming chrome and glass. He was concerned for the man, clearly he hadn't fully adjusted to the idea of being immortal. < I'm not sure anyone does, really.> He also wasn't entirely sure he trusted Raven not to go on some wild vengeance trip. There was more than a streak of violence in him. It simmered and boiled just beneath the surface, the tightly contained rage that Duncan had managed to tame in himself, at long last. He understood far better than he wanted to some of the feelings that drove Raven. But he had to know. He had to see how he handled himself. Duncan could not condone or stand by while an Immortal killed mortals. He hoped it would not come to a battle between them. He would prefer to teach Raven what he needed to know, then move on. He stepped away from the Jeep, and chose a bench in one of the nearby bus kiosks to wait on. A wino glared blearily at him from the next bench. Duncan stared back, assessed him as no threat, then turned his back and looked east, where the skyline was brightening with a pale blush of pink along the palm scattered horizon. < It has been too long since I've seen the dawn come up with a lover at my side.> It was time to find a woman. Time to find love again. He remembered Tessa, laughing over champagne, watching the play of light at the Pont Neuf after they'd spent the night exploring the city on foot, drinking a toast to each other at every little cafe they'd found open. The memory was bittersweet, the pain was fading, but still lingered, the more he remembered, the more it returned. With a sigh, he turned his thoughts back to the present. Hawaii was out, but there were still dozens of tropical nations where he could play for a while. Perhaps Samoa, or the Easter Islands. < I'll ask Raven to check on the flight schedules for me when we get on the plane. After San Francisco, we can part ways. I just need a few more days with him.> Then back to the tropics. Odd, how he kept remembering Ko. He closed his eyes, listening to the rasping snore of the drunk, and thought back. * * * * * Manuiala lay snoring in the center of the path, a bottle of rum clutched in his hand. Duncan stood looking at him, wondering what Manu would do when the last bottle was gone. He'd used his position as son of the chief to collect every bottle that the ship had traded with his people, and if there hadn't been so few, he probably would have been on the way to drinking himself to death. Duncan had seen it before, on the other islands, and it had sickened him, watching the captain get the chiefs of each town drunk, then trading the rum for women and children from each town. Duncan had no idea when he'd signed on that the ship was a slave trader, he'd been too eager to leave the continent to ask many questions, fleeing the nations where the price on his head as a rebel had meant something. He had jumped at a chance to get away. Travelling to the South Seas had sounded romantic, but the reality of dry biscuits, stale water and salted pork was anything but. His shipmates were a louse covered illiterate lot, except for the captain and first mate. Duncan's role as supercargo was superfluous, but he knew someone who knew the owner and everyone was stuck with the unsatisfactory arrangement. He had been to sea before, and had prided himself on his strong stomach, but that was before he spent a week in a Pacific gale. Even immortals can get seasick, he'd discovered, and more than once had felt bad enough to consider the attractions of death as an alternative to vomiting a stomach that had nothing left in it. But that eventually had passed, and then the real horror of the trip had begun. =========================================================================