Date: Mon, 14 Aug 1995 21:18:09 EDT Reply-To: Russ McMillan Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Russ McMillan Subject: Hold Fast, Part 3 of 7 Hold Fast, Part 3 by Russet McMillan mcmillan@astro.psu.edu When Joe Dawson returned to Macleod's loft in the morning, he found the door unlocked and went in, but there was no one there. The mess on the coffee table had been cleared away since the night before, which meant that Duncan had not been sitting despondently the whole time; still, the silence worried him. "Macleod?" he called, looking around. Not a movement or a sound. He rounded the corner to the kitchen, bracing his hand on the counter, more than half expecting to find a headless body on the floor. As he passed the counter, something hit him in the center of his back, and his legs and cane were swept out from beneath him. In the space of a heartbeat, he was sprawling face-down on the floor with someone kneeling on his back and something sharp pressed to his throat. Duncan must have been killed, and now he, the only one who could tell the end of Duncan's story, would be lost too. He spared only a moment for regret before closing his eyes and waiting for the blow. "Where are the others?" growled an accented voice in his ear. "What others?" Joe gasped against the weight on his ribs. "The rest of your little pack of assassins. Where are they waiting?" Recognizing the voice, Dawson twisted his head. The knife pressed deeper and he froze. "You're Connor Macleod!" "So what. Who are you?" "Joe Dawson. I'm a friend of Mac -- of Duncan's!" "You expect me to believe that?" Connor's knee ground into Dawson's upper arm. "I expect you to consider the possibility that he wouldn't want you to slit my throat on his kitchen floor." "I've seen that tattoo before. It's the mark of a pack of killers." Joe sighed. "No, it's not. The ones you met were renegades. I'm not part of that group." "What are you doing here, then?" "I came to talk to Duncan. Where is he?" "Out. Talk to me instead." "He asked for my help. I got some information on the people who k-- who attacked you." "What information?" "I'd rather wait for Duncan to get back before I tell you." Connor considered this, then moved his weight slowly off Joe's arms and back. "Get up. Slowly. Keep your back to me." The knife remained in place, the arm that held it wrapped halfway around Dawson's chest to restrain him. Slowly was the only way Dawson _could_ get up. His cane had ended up in the far corner of the room, and Connor offered him no help. "Into the living room. Don't try any tricks." Joe had no intention of trying tricks with one of the most dangerous men in the world threatening him. He limped slowly into the other room on his twisted leg. "Sit down. Take it off." Dawson sank gratefully onto the couch. "Take what off?" "The leg. It's artificial, isn't it?" Dawson hesitated. "_Do it_," said Connor with the knife pressed below his ear. It wasn't easy to take the leg off without removing his pants first, but after years of practice Joe managed the feat without too much embarrassment. He pulled the plastic leg out of his pants and set it aside on the floor. Connor searched him quickly with one hand, removing his keys, pager, cell phone, and pocket binoculars. Joe pictured his other hand holding the knife ready for a killing blow. "All right. Stay there. Don't move. Don't turn around." Connor kicked the leg out of Dawson's reach and stalked around the apartment, checking from the windows. He went down in the elevator and came back a few minutes later. "I told you there was no one else out there," Joe said quietly. "I'm beginning to believe you," said Connor warily. For the first time, he stepped into Dawson's field of view. Dawson's eyes widened at the scars Connor bore. Glancing at the Immortal's empty sleeve, he said slowly, "I see why you wanted me to take my leg off." Connor's left cheek twitched, just a hint of amusement. "It evens the odds a little." He sat down across from Dawson, still suspicious. "I can see why you distrust me, after what those fools did to you," said Joe, spreading his hands, "but I truly am a friend of Duncan's. And I'm no threat to you, Connor Macleod. You saved my life once." Connor's eye snapped to his face and sharpened, as he remembered. ================== Connor chased Fasil down the alley, cursing. He had beaten the man, could have taken his head if a nearby police siren hadn't made him hesitate. Fasil had taken advantage of the moment to grab his sword and scramble away. Connor saw Fasil run into someone at the mouth of the alley, heard the grunt of impact and a choked cry of pain, but he didn't understand what had happened until he reached the street and looked about to see which way Fasil had gone. The other Immortal was disappearing down the street, but in his wake he had left a young man, not twenty years old, staring stupidly at the blood gushing from his thigh. Connor made his sword disappear and knelt beside the kid, furious. The next time he met Fasil, he wouldn't hesitate again. He despised Immortals who used their strength against innocent people. But right now he had to take care of this kid, who was losing blood so fast he would be dead in less than a minute. The kid's eyes flicked up at him, terrified. "It -- it was some crazy guy with a sword," he gasped. "I've never seen him before in my life!" "I know," Connor muttered. "Just hold still." He pulled the belt from his trenchcoat and used it to fashion a tourniquet. Seeing some onlookers, he yelled at them to call an ambulance. The kid was weakening fast. "Take it easy, kid, you'll be all right," he lied. The femur had been cut right through. Even if the kid lived, he would probably lose his leg. "You'll be all right," Connor repeated, uncomfortable at the way the kid's eyes were fastened on him. He pressed the fainting boy back on the sidewalk. As the ambulance sirens approached, Connor faded quickly to the back of the crowd. He would have to wait for another day to take Fasil's head. ================== "That was you?" said Connor incredulously, seeing the boy's face behind the middle-aged man. _So we were both lying to each other that day,_ he thought. "What's going on?" came Duncan's voice. He was standing next to the elevator with bags of groceries in his arms, his eyes flicking over the tableau in his living room. "A stalemate," said Joe dryly. "I assume you didn't have a chance to tell your cousin that not all Watchers are murderous idiots." "You're a Watcher?" Connor frowned. "I thought that was just a crazy legend." "What the hell did you do to him, Connor?" Duncan demanded. "Nothing permanent," said Connor uncomfortably. He got up, retrieved Dawson's leg and cane, and handed them back to him. "Thanks," said Joe. "We were just getting reacquainted," he explained to Duncan. "We've met before, very briefly." "You used to be assigned to Connor?" Duncan said. Dawson shook his head. "I was watching Aman Fasil. I thought the assignment was almost over, until he got away from Connor, and cut my leg off in passing." He turned to Duncan with a humorous light in his eyes. "When I was walking again, I was reassigned to you. They figured you would be easy to keep up with, since you'd been out of the Game for so long." Duncan grinned, acknowledging that keeping up with him must have been anything but easy these last few years. "Wait a second," Connor demanded. "He's a Watcher, he's got the same mark as the guys who tried to kill me, but you two are friends?" Duncan sighed. "The Watchers have been around for centuries, Connor. I'll let Joe explain while I put this food away. You nearly cleaned out my cupboards last night." When Duncan returned Dawson was finishing, "We're not supposed to have any contact with Immortals. I should have requested reassignment as soon as Duncan found out what I was. But with the Gathering here, I figure it might be time to reconsider some of the old rules. Especially since there are factions in our organization that are getting involved in just the opposite way." "You mean the ones who tried to kill me," Connor said. Joe nodded. "I came over today, Duncan, because I think I know who was behind that attack. It had to be someone with connections, someone who was in the New York area last week and close enough to Seattle to mail that package two days ago. I found someone who fits, someone who's been known to say in the past that we should have a hand in deciding the outcome of the Gathering." "His name?" Duncan said in a dangerous tone. "Martin Carver." "Is he related to --" "He's Horton's cousin." Dawson sighed. "He heads a group that thinks we should ensure that the Prize is won by someone we can control. That means they target the most powerful Immortals, the ones whose Quickenings would be most dangerous if passed on." He glanced at Duncan. "Two of them were in Paris when Darius was killed. I don't know if they were part of it or not." "But you don't share their views?" Connor said suspiciously. "I think it's absurd," Joe spat. "We don't even know what the Prize is -- what makes them think they can control it? If we do get involved in this struggle, we should be helping the Immortals who've always been humane and reasonable toward the rest of humanity. Why else did we gather all that information for centuries, if not to learn who we could trust? Instead, these idiots go out and make a perfectly rational Immortal like yourself suspicious of everyone around him, while evil ones like Grayson or the Kurgan are left for others to deal with." "When you put it that way, it almost makes sense." Connor's tone was heavy with sarcasm. "Well, my first encounter with you certainly persuaded me that some Immortals are more trustworthy than others." "And you haven't changed your mind after meeting me today?" Dawson smiled slowly and picked up his detached leg. "Connor," said Duncan sharply. "You came to me for help. Now I'm telling you, Joe can be trusted. We wouldn't even know as much about the Hunters as we do, if not for him." "You still don't know as much as you need to," Joe said, as he slid his prosthesis back into the leg of his pants. "There's more?" Duncan caught his friend's gaze and remembered the Seattle postmark. "They're here." Dawson nodded. "Either they were planning to come after you next, or they guessed Connor would be coming this way." "And they don't respect holy ground," Duncan said grimly. "I knew I would be putting you in danger," Connor muttered. "I should have stayed away." "No, better to face them together." "Duncan's right," said Joe, squirming to reach the fastenings for his leg. "And while you're at it, get Richie to help you watch out for them. How many were in the group that took you, Connor? Four?" "Five." "Damn. Was there a teenager with them? Seventeen, skinny, curly blond hair?" "Yeah, they called him . . . Nicky." Dawson's lips tightened. "How could they draw a kid like that into their schemes?" "Is he a relative of yours?" Duncan asked with concern. "My nephew." "Horton's son?" "No, it's my other sister. He's not a bad boy. If we can just get him out of their hands --" "Joseph," Duncan warned. "Connor and I are planning to stay alive. We won't kill anyone if we don't have to, but if the kid comes after us . . . " "I know, I know. Just keep an eye out for him if you can, alright?" He tested the leg and, satisfied, headed for the elevator. "How long does it take?" Connor asked suddenly. "To get used to it, I mean." Dawson understood at once. With a glance at his plastic leg, he said softly, "I don't know. Longer than I've lived." He shrugged helplessly and thumped his cane on the floor. "Watch your head -- both of you." ================ =========================================================================