Date:         Fri, 18 Aug 1995 00:29:11 EDT
Reply-To:     Russ McMillan <mcmillan@ASTRO.PSU.EDU>
Sender:       Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
From:         Russ McMillan <mcmillan@ASTRO.PSU.EDU>
Subject:      Hold Fast, Part 6 of 8

        Sorry yesterday's episodes (or rather, two half-episodes) got out of
order.  I should be sending out the conclusion for this tomorrow; I'll try to
make sure everything come through in the right order.

        Hold Fast, Part 6
        by Russet McMillan
        mcmillan@astro.psu.edu

        The lights went out in Ryan's apartment.  Miranda's hands
twitched, but she forced herself to remain where she was.  She would
wait an hour or two to make sure he was fully asleep before she went
in.  She glanced at the clock on the dashboard of the car -- the car
she had rented with Drew's money -- and was shocked to see that it was
barely eleven o'clock.  It seemed as if she had been waiting here for
many more hours than that.  But her watch, held up to the glow of the
streetlights, confirmed the time.
        This changed things.  Richie Ryan, energetic youth that he
seemed to be, could not possibly be going to sleep at this hour on a
Friday night.  He must be planning to go out.  Just as the thought
occurred to her, Miranda saw the door swing open, and Ryan bounded
down the steps of the apartment building.
        Should Miranda follow him and try to surprise him in a quiet
place, or should she wait until he really did go to bed?  It would
probably be better to wait; he might have a few drinks, wherever he
was going, and make her job easier.  But her nerves were already
jangling from the hours of waiting.  More of this and she would be
exhausted just from thinking about it.  Perhaps it would be better to
make her move now.
        Ryan was getting on his bike.  She had to decide now.  As she
wavered between waiting for his return, following him, and attacking
now, he stiffened suddenly.  He patted at his jacket, stuck his hands
in one pocket, then the other, and dismounted from the bike.  He was
going back into the apartment to get whatever he had forgotten.  This
was the perfect moment.  Miranda opened the car door and hurried
toward the building.
        She caught up to Ryan just as he was opening the door to his
apartment.  He turned in surprise when he felt her presence, saw her
sword out and ready, and tried to slam the door in her face.  She put
her shoulder to the door, lowered her center of mass as Drew had
taught her, and bulled her way in.
        He had his sword ready to hand by the door; if she had been a
little quicker, she might have kept him away from it.  Now she would
have to fight.  He held his rapier at the ready and faced her warily.
        "Miranda Kelly," she said curtly, saluting her opponent.
        "Richie Ryan.  Look, I really don't want to fight you," he
said.
        "Too bad.  You don't have a choice," Miranda told him, and
lunged.
        He parried her blade, which swung aside and swept across a
shelf.  Half-seen objects clattered to the floor, and some broke.
        Ryan winced.  "Couldn't we do this somewhere else?  I really
don't want a fight in here.  Or a Quickening.  My security deposit --"
He broke off as Miranda attacked again.  He backpedaled, leading her
into a living room where there was more space.
        He was better than she had expected.  She couldn't seem to get
past his defenses.  She wasn't sure whether he was holding back or
not.  At one point she let her sword get out of line -- Drew would
have screamed at her for it -- and his point darted in toward her
chest.  But he pulled the strike.
        "This is totally unnecessary," he gasped.  "I don't know you
from Eve.  I got nothing against you."
        Miranda recovered from her lapse, swept his blade aside, and
attacked again.
        "What do you want from me?" Ryan cried.
        "Your head," Miranda replied.  She was appalled to hear a
quaver in her voice -- Fear?  Regret?  She pushed the emotion aside
and concentrated on the fight.
        The next time her defense failed, Ryan didn't hesitate.  His
blade cut deep into her thigh, and she cried out.  She managed to get
her sword back up and ready almost at once, but when she tried to put
weight on the leg it buckled.  She fell to one knee.  Ryan stood
before her, panting, looking furious.  She waited for his next blow,
not taking the time to get up.
        The phone rang.  Ryan's head turned.
        Miranda reacted at once, thrusting home beneath his relaxed
guard.  She was a little too low, and he pulled back before she had a
chance to widen the wound, but he was hurt -- badly hurt.
        Ryan staggered back against the windowsill, face contorted,
clutching at his intestines.  The phone rang again.
        Miranda forced herself to her feet and went after him again,
ignoring the pain in her leg.  The sight of the blood pouring from his
stomach made her want to gag, and her cheeks were wet with tears, but
her arm lifted and swung just as Drew had taught her.
        Ryan blocked the first blow, then the second, grunting with
pain.  He tried to straighten up, then cried out and curled around his
gut again.  His head was wobbling, his knees bending.
        Miranda stepped back.  She would wait for him to pass out,
then finish it.  The phone rang again.
        Ryan's eyes widened as he realized what she was doing.  Then,
before she could guess his intent, he smashed his swordhilt back into
the window and dived through amid the shattering glass.
        Miranda went to the window and craned her head through the
broken pane.  Her enemy was lying prone in the parking lot behind the
building.  No one seemed to be reacting to the noise; she still had
time to finish him off.
        ". . . meet me and Connor at . . . " said the voice on the
phone.
        Miranda was halfway to the door before she realized what she
had heard.  Surely the message couldn't mean Connor _Macleod_?  She
turned to stare at the phone as the caller finished and hung up.  The
answering machine beeped and whirred to itself for a while, then began
to blink peacefully.
        She crossed to the machine and pressed the _play messages_
button.  Her hand left a smear of blood on the black plastic -- hers
or Ryan's?  She wiped it away impatiently.
        _Meet me and Connor at 922 S. Burroughs_.  It had to mean
Connor Macleod.  What was he doing in Seattle?  No, that didn't
matter.  What was Miranda going to do about it?
        She stood in blank amazement for a while, digesting this
revelation.  Then she remembered that she was already in the middle of
a fight.  She left Ryan's answering machine with its light glowing
steadily and hurried out the door.
        She had delayed too long.  Ryan was already getting to his
feet when she reached the parking lot.  She attacked him at once, but
he seemed to have recovered much of his strength.  With more space to
fight in and none of his own possessions about to make him hesitate,
Ryan outmatched her.  Soon Miranda was the one fighting defensively.
Ryan pressed her back again and again.  She took cuts on her arm and
another in her thigh.  Then her elbow, drawing back, struck a wall she
hadn't known was there, and with the next clash of blades her sword
fell from her numbed fingers.  Ryan's point was instantly at her
throat.  Miranda stared disbelieving at her death.
        "Look," said Ryan, heaving for breath, "I don't know what your
problem is, but I don't take someone's head unless I know a good
reason.  Why did you come after me?"
        Miranda blinked uncomprehendingly, bewildered by her defeat,
by the prospect of such a meaningless death, by the knowledge that
Connor Macleod was here, in this city.
        "You got something against me?  Me, personally?"
        Miranda shook her head.  She realized that her tears were
still flowing, and wondered if Ryan thought she was terrified.  _Was_
she terrified?
        "If I let you go, will you come after me again?"
        Miranda gasped at the suggestion.  What kind of a lunatic was
this man?  "No," she answered, truthfully.  She wasn't sure what she
planned to do, but she had other concerns now aside from Ryan.
        "All right then," he said.  "I suggest that you get out of
town.  Don't make trouble around here again."  He backed up, his sword
still pointed at her, his eyes wary.  When he saw that she was rooted
to the spot by confusion, he turned away and went back into the
building.
        Miranda stood motionless for several minutes.  She didn't
understand Ryan's behavior.  It went against everything Drew had told
her.  Eventually she picked up her sword and returned, limping, to the
rental car.
        By the time she returned to the driver's seat she was shaking
all over.  She hadn't expected to lose a fight -- and almost lose her
head -- so soon.  It all could have been over right here.  It wasn't
that she really had anything to live for, but the shock of facing
death had struck right to her soul.
        She had also, she realized slowly, been afraid of winning.
That moment in Ryan's apartment, when she was sure she had him, she
had been more frightened than when his blade was at her throat.  She
was still haunted by the memory of the first head she had taken, the
sight and feel of it rolling off her victim's shoulders, the agony of
the Quickening that had followed.  She hadn't really wanted to do that
to Ryan.  And apparently Ryan had not wanted to do it to her.  But
whether he wanted to or not, how had he been able to refrain?
        Miranda puzzled over this for some time, her thoughts going
around in useless circles of recollection and bewilderment.  Then her
eyes fell again on the dashboard clock, and she remembered the
telephone message.  It was nearly midnight.  Connor Macleod would be
at 922 S. Burroughs.  Here was a fight that would not be meaningless
if she lost, and if by some miracle she should win, it wouldn't
trouble her conscience for a moment.  Miranda's hands stopped shaking.
Sure of what she had to do, she twisted the key in the ignition.

 ================

        Duncan stopped the car in the shade of some trees a little
distance from the building that could only be 922 S. Burroughs.  It
was a slightly shabby wooden structure with peeling paint and warped
porch steps.  A weatherbeaten sign in the front read _J_SUS_SA_ES_.
The area exuded a sense of peace at odds with Duncan's fears.
        "Holy ground," he breathed.  "Damn them."
        "It doesn't matter," Connor said.  "These are mortals."
        "It's still going to slow me down.  I don't like to fight
anyone on holy ground.  That must be why they chose this spot."
        "Maybe they really do want to negotiate."
        Duncan looked at his kinsman.  "Maybe they want to put us at a
disadvantage.  Darius was killed on holy ground."  He opened the door
of the Thunderbird.  "Come on, let's go."
        Connor stepped out of the car, exchanged glances with Duncan,
and started across the open, untended lawn toward the front of the
church.  Duncan circled around to the back, staying in the shadows
while he looked for a second entrance.  He noted two cars pulled up to
the back of the dilapidated church; there must be a door near there.
        A crackling sound made him pause.  His shoulder blades told
him there was someone following.  He resumed his careful walking.  The
noise had sounded like a two-way radio. Of course, he realized, if
Martin Carver had a team of five Hunters to work with, he would have
posted at least one outside, to warn him when his quarry had arrived.
        Now that the man's presence had been revealed, though, it made
things easier.  One man alone could be dealt with simply enough, and
it also meant there must be fewer men inside the church.  Duncan and
Connor might just be able to pull off their plan.
        Duncan had edged along the side of a neighboring building
until he had a straight line of sight to the back door.  No one else
appeared to be waiting there.  Connor was probably in at the front
already; he would have to hurry.
        He ran quickly, crouching low, to the little patch of gravel
where the two cars were parked, then ducked between them.  Every foot
of the way, he expected to feel a bullet between his shoulders, but
there was no attack.  Perhaps they wanted him inside first.
        Deciding to oblige, he crept out from between the two cars,
went up to the first landing of the fire escape, and tried the back
door.  It was open.  If he were unobserved, he would have had his
sword out at this point, but Carver had told him to come unarmed, and
he didn't want the spy to know what was under his trenchcoat.  Duncan
passed through the door warily and waited in the dark entryway.
        The steps that ascended the fire escape were feather-light;
Duncan didn't so much hear them as feel them.  These people were
certainly experienced in surveillance.  Duncan held his breath and
remained perfectly still as the doorknob slowly turned.  He could hear
voices from another part of the church.
        The spy opened the door just a few inches and slipped through.
He lifted his radio to his mouth, then crumpled to the floor as
Duncan's swordhilt caught him just below the ear.
        Duncan checked to be sure that the man was out cold, and he
had just begun to search him for weapons when the roar of a shotgun
boomed through the church.

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