Date: Tue, 26 Sep 1995 12:00:01 EDT Reply-To: Russ McMillan Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Russ McMillan Subject: Dark Side, Part 10 of 16 OK folks, here it goes. The action begins to come to a head. I'm hoping to have this all sent out by the end of this week -- then all you folks who've been saving up installments will finally have to give me your feedback! The Dark Side of the Mirror, Part 10 by Russet McMillan mcmillan@astro.psu.edu LeBrun's fingers thrummed on the steering wheel. He was obesrving Macleod's barge, but so far it had been a singularly boring experience. The woman from the Hilton had come here, along with the man she had addressed as Macleod. Was he supposed to be a relative of Duncan Macleod's? There was certainly little resemblance. Perhaps he was an impostor, deceiving this woman for some reason. Or perhaps Macleod was a standard code name in their anti-terrorist organization, or whatever it was. LeBrun had considered, of course, calling his men and having the two brought in for questioning. Just from what he had witnessed at the hotel, he had enough evidence to lay charges. But he had checked and found out that M. Lenoire was unharmed, and his hotel room had not been disturbed -- he could only accuse them of illegal entry, not robbery. He doubted that they would answer any of his questions, given the limitations placed on police interrogation procedures. And the investigation would be quashed as soon as word spread up the chain of authority. LeBrun could learn more about their outfit -- and the corruption he suspected it was riddled with -- by biding his time and watching every move that these two made. He sat up straighter as he saw movement on the barge. The woman was coming out. She paused at the top of the ramp and looked both ways before hurrying down the quai, the tails of her long leather coat flapping behind her. There was no sign of the man she had called "Macleod." LeBrun cursed as he tried to decide what to do. He should have called for backup earlier, but it was too late now. The man was the bigger fish, he decided, and settled back again. He had scarcely been waiting five minutes before the lights went out on the barge and the man posing as Macleod appeared. He, too, wore a long coat -- it was almost a signature of this organization -- and he headed along the quai in the same direction the woman had taken, paying no attention to the car they had used earlier in the day. LeBrun slipped out of his car and followed the man to the nearest Metro stop. Traffic was heavy at this time of the evening, and he found it easy to conceal himself in the crowd while he followed "Macleod" from the purple line to the green and out to the edge of the city. They ended up at a dark, abandoned warehouse on the Rue Girard. LeBrun was hanging further back now, since the area was almost completely deserted and it was harder to remain unseen. He saw the man enter the warehouse and crept to the entrance to find the place scattered with industrial-sized wooden crates, perfect for concealment. He could hear voices not far away, and he crept closer, keeping his head below the level of the crates. " . . . doing here?" the woman's voice demanded, on a rising note. "Waiting for Melander," the man replied. "Isn't that why you're here?" "You couldn't have been following me," she objected. "I would have seen you!" "No, I knew where you were going." "How?" "You showed me the phone numbers you copied from the pad in Melander's hotel room." LeBrun frowned in his sheltered nook. This "Melander" they spoke of was evidently M. Lenoire. "That's right!" the woman replied. "I told you, they're probably our best lead for finding him." "Really? You didn't think `71 Rue Girard, 20 h.' was a good lead? I suppose that's why you didn't copy it down, then." The woman didn't respond. "And what were you doing when you carried the phone into the bathroom? Confirming the appointment?" "I called Dawson to see if he'd found Duncan yet." LeBrun's brows went up. So she did know the real Duncan Macleod. Who was this other Macleod, then? "Come on, Amanda, do you expect me to believe you? You've been fooling me all along. You made this appointment with Melander when you met him in front of Notre Dame. The whole business of tracking down Alain Marchand and searching Melander's room at the Hilton was just to waste my time, wasn't it?" "Look, Connor, it would be better if you just stayed out of this." "No! Melander is mine! He killed two women under _my_ protection." LeBrun's jaw dropped. This Connor was accusing one of the most esteemed men in France of murder! And he was planning vengeance. LeBrun squeezed further between the two crates, trying to see the two speakers. His eyes widened as he saw that both of them were holding swords. "They weren't under your protection, Connor! You told us Cassandra could take care of herself." "Just like you, eh? That's right, I would have said she could stop anyone who came after her. This bastard has tricks up his sleeve, Amanda. Something even Cassandra didn't foresee. What makes you think you can face him alone?" "What makes you think I was planning to?" Suddenly Amanda's head spun toward the door -- and LeBrun's hiding place. "Did you hear that?" "Hear what?" Connor turned. Amanda attacked him from behind. At the last moment Connor sensed danger or heard the whistle of her blade, and he tried to block it. But he was anticipating a high blow, to the head or torso. Instead, she struck at his legs. The razor-sharp broadsword cut through the tendons at the back of both legs, and Connor fell to the ground crippled. LeBrun was shocked by the casual betrayal. So, clearly, was Connor, but he didn't let surprise paralyze him. He still held his sword. "So," he said bitterly. "Were you planning to take Duncan's head as well, when the right time came? I'm just more convenient?" "No!" the woman cried, panting. Her brow furrowed with distress. "Finish it, then. What are you waiting for? There can be only one, you know." Connor's lip curled. "It's not what you think," Amanda said. Her hand went behind her back, inside her coat. She produced a long dagger. "I'm sorry about this, Connor," she said, and threw the dagger. It thudded squarely into Connor's chest. He dropped his sword and supported himself briefly with both hands, while the blood bubbled from his mouth. Then he collapsed. The woman nudged him with her toe, then set her own sword aside and began to drag his body away by the feet. "I would have just tied you up," she told the still corpse as she pulled it behind a crate, "but you'll be safer dead. I'll come back for you later." She tossed his sword after him. LeBrun felt sick. The woman treated death as if it were only a temporary inconvenience! Was everyone in their organization this crazy? The body was only a few yards from him now, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling, the dagger protruding from between two ribs. If he had read their conversation correctly, they had been plotting vengeance against M. Lenoire for some murders he was supposed to have committed. It almost made sense, since it would be nearly impossible to prosecute a man like Lenoire through normal channels. LeBrun knew that Duncan Macleod had stopped a number of killers, after the law proved itself powerless. That man who had escaped from prison and been found beheaded on the Eiffel Tower was just the latest case in point. But in this case, surely, they must be wrong! Someone in the organization was spreading false information about M. Lenoire -- or Melander, as they called him -- and sending out operatives to assassinate him. Perhaps they had come to the same conclusion LeBrun had reached, that Lenoire was the perfect man to counter the order of police silence. Suddenly the woman's head snapped up. LeBrun held his breath, wondering if she could have heard him. She looked almost fearfully toward the door, then skipped over to her sword and lifted it from the ground. She wiped Connor's blood away with a silken handkerchief, which she then dropped casually back into her pocket. A step sounded behind LeBrun, and he reached into his coat for his gun. "So, the lovely Amanda Darieux," said a cultured voice with a slight southern accent to the French. "That's right." Amanda lifted her sword and stepped back into the wide clear space at the center of the warehouse. "You wanted my head, Melander -- come get it!" The new arrival stepped forward and LeBrun could see that it was, indeed, the man he knew as M. Lenoire. But all his clever theories crashed down around his ears when he saw that Lenoire, too, wielded a sword. He was one of _them_! "I've been wondering," said Lenoire/Melander, circling Amanda with his saber held low and ready, "just why you arranged this meeting. I'm especially puzzled now that you've actually shown up. Why didn't you run?" Amanda followed his movements from a fighting crouch. "Is that what you wanted me to do? Is that why you kept interrupting my meetings and chasing me around the city? Really, Melander. It wasn't necessary. I can hardly wait to fight you." "Oh? Despite my reputation, my . . . history?" "No, because of it!" She leaped forward and swung at him fiercely, but he twisted out of reach. She struck again, and the swords clashed together. They returned to their wary circling. "I thought it was about time you met a woman who could make you pay for all you've done." Melander laughed. "My dear child," he began, and thrust at her without warning. She parried neatly. "You're not bad at all, sweetie, but don't think you're a match for me. I've cut the heads off deadlier bitches than you." LeBrun winced at this admission of guilt. He was all at sea here; he didn't know what was going on or what he should do about it. The gun he had pulled from its holster lay useless in his hand without a target. The two were fighting in earnest now, circling and retreating and striking. The ringing of the swords began to develop its own deadly rhythm. Melander's reach was longer, but Amanda fought with astonishing energy and ferocity, leaping in and out as she wove a net of steel around him. As they circled, LeBrun could see that the man was concealing something behind his back. At first he suspected a dagger such as Amanda had thrown at Connor, but this was smaller, and black. A gun? The next time Amanda moved in, Melander locked their blades together with a move LeBrun could not follow. His left hand came out of hiding and darted toward her. She jerked her body away and shifted her weight to kick the object from his hand, but he jabbed it against her thigh instead of stabbing for a vital area. LeBrun heard the sizzle and realized what the weapon was: an electric shock gun. Amanda cried out, and her sword clattered to the floor as her hand spasmed. Melander's blade, unhindered, swept toward her chest. Somehow, she managed to throw herself back and rolled awkwardly across the floor, her legs still jerking helplessly. Melander chopped downward at her as she rolled, slicing into her hip. LeBrun winced, certain that it was almost over for the woman, still unsure whether he should interfere. Then Amanda pressed herself up from the floor into a handstand, and her foot struck out unerringly at Melander's chin. He staggered back. Her coat tumbled down around her head, but she bent backward neatly and came to her feet, swinging the coat by its sleeves. She snapped it at Melander's eyes and he flinched involuntarily. Scowling, Melander thrust back, driving her away from the sword that lay on the floor. She tangled his weapon in her coat and kicked him hard in the knee. When he stumbled she threw the coat over his head and pulled him down to the ground. She leaped onto his back hard enough to break ribs and drive all the breath from his body. LeBrun was on his feet, ready to stop her from killing Melander, but Amanda made no move toward either of the two swords. Instead, she pulled out a pair of handcuffs and attached one end to Melander's wrist. "Come on, _sweetie_," she snarled, dragging him across the floor. When he tried to struggle, she kicked him in the head. LeBrun winced. "I've got other plans for you." She attached the free cuff to a steam pipe running up the wall. Then she adjusted her hair in its tie and brushed herself off, grimacing at the blood on her thigh. LeBrun could only shake his head in bafflement. She casually killed her accomplice, but merely handcuffed her avowed enemy? Amanda collected the two swords and picked up the shock gun, making a face as she tucked it into one of the pockets of her abused coat. She froze suddenly in the middle of a movement and turned toward the door. LeBrun quickly ducked down again, realizing that he had just heard a car pulling up outside. As confusing as this night had been, it wasn't over yet. =========================================================================