Date: Sun, 20 Aug 1995 20:00:49 EDT Reply-To: Russ McMillan Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Russ McMillan Subject: Hold Fast, Part 7a/8 repost Hold Fast, Part 7a by Russet McMillan mcmillan@astro.psu.edu Joe Dawson contemplated the dust on the floor of the church. Tiny motes, disturbed by the presence of people after years of neglect, glittered in the light of three battery-powered lamps. Joe was sitting in the foremost of the remaining pews. About ten rows had been removed for one purpose or another, leaving an open space where Martin Carver and his friends huddled, talking in low voices. They had taken his leg and cane away. He had tried to persuade them to tie his hands instead, although frankly he didn't know whether mobility or dexterity would prove more useful. He was simply tired of having his disability used against him. He supposed he should be glad they hadn't tied his hands as well as removing his leg. He would have to make some mileage out of that mistake. Nicky was standing a little apart from the older men, watching their conversation anxiously. He turned away with a frown and sat down beside Dawson. "You doing OK, Uncle Joe?" he asked. Joe raised his brows. "Does it make a difference?" The boy flushed. "To me it does." "So all that family talk in the bar wasn't just to lure me out?" Nicky's jaw tightened and he looked away. "They're not going to hurt you." "That's not what Martin said." "He was just trying to get those . . . _Immortals_ here." He invested the word with a wealth of disgust. "Well, he picked the wrong people to make angry," Dawson said quietly. "The Macleods aren't evil men, you know, but they will defend themselves." "They're all evil!" Nicky hissed. "They want to rule us like cattle! They're not even human!" Dawson winced at the last comment but let it pass. "Actually, both Duncan and Connor have been trying for years -- for centuries -- to keep others from 'ruling us like cattle'. And Martin isn't doing a very good job of showing his gratitude." "Gratitude! How can you say that, after what one of them did to you?" Nicky waved at his uncle's lonely leg. Joe stiffened. "An Immortal cut off my leg, but it was another Immortal who saved my life that day. In fact, it was Connor Macleod." "Nicky!" Carver's urgent stage whisper cut across the boy's amazement. "Shut up, kid, they're coming!" Carver muttered into his radio and listened to the muted reply. "All right, places, everyone. This is it! Nicky, stay with him. Don't let him try any tricks." Nicky gripped Joe's elbow tightly and then, incredibly, drew a gun from his pocket and clicked the safety off. Carver and his friend Francis also had handguns, while Davis, who had manhandled Joe on the pier, was fading into the shadows with a sawn-off shotgun. Dawson bit his lip, foreseeing a bloody confrontation. Steps sounded on the ancient wooden porch. The front doors swung apart slowly, creaking. The figure that entered was not at first recognizable, but it was clear that there was only one. Carver, waiting in the center of the triangle of lamps, seemed unsurprised. Connor Macleod strode down the central aisle, his eyes flicking to Dawson, Nicky, and the shadows in the corners. When he reached the first lamp, he stopped. His left hand was open, empty. He wore a T-shirt that could not have concealed a weapon. With an asymmetrical shrug, Connor said, "I'm unarmed." Carver laughed, slowly, as if he were just beginning to believe his scheme would work. "Not quite," he said humorously. "You still have one left. But we can remedy that." Connor's grin faded. His eye bored into Carver with unmistakable malice. The scar that marred the right side of his face only made his glare more unnerving. "Let Dawson go," he said, "and you can do what you want with me." "Oh, we'll do what we want with you, all right. And your cousin, too. I've got a man covering him outside. There's no need for us to let Dawson go. Traitors get their reward too. Davis!" he snapped suddenly. The shotgun blazed from the corner, deafening in the confined space. The pellets ripped into Connor's chest. He fell backwards and lay still. There was silence for a moment. Carver stepped back a pace and waved his two henchmen out of the shadows. "Make sure he'll stay down for a while," he said. "We'll have to get the other one before we take their heads." "I wouldn't," said a voice from behind Carver. Carver's head jerked. The other two men froze halfway to Connor's still form. Nicky's hand tightened convulsively on Dawson's elbow, and Joe let a hopeful breath trickle between his lips. "If you value your friend's life," said Duncan Macleod, "put your weapons down." "Don't do it," said Carver. Duncan moved slightly so that everyone could clearly see the katana he held just behind Carver's kidneys. "Shoot him," Carver gritted. "Never mind about me, damn you, shoot him!" Only Nicky had a clear shot. The boy was trembling violently. Dawson clenched his fist against his thigh, ready to move, glad now that his hands were untied. "Damn you all to hell!" yelled Carver, and spun around, raising his gun. Then he froze, staring at Duncan's sword protruding from his stomach. He fell to his knees. Havoc broke out. Nicky fired, his shot going wild as Joe lurched against him. They began to grapple for the gun, Nicky dragging his uncle off the pew and Dawson refusing to let him go. Davis leveled his shotgun with one charge left. Francis skipped aside for a clear shot, then grunted and fell as Connor butted him in the back. Connor wrenched the gun free, rolled over, and shot Davis in the head. "Not bad for a one-eyed man," he commented to himself. Francis bellowed and leaped on Connor, grabbing the gun and punching repeatedly with his free hand. Gagging and coughing, Connor held on for a few seconds, then doubled over. Francis turned the gun around, then cried out and fell back with his hand dripping blood. Duncan's katana caressed his chin. The gun dangled from his left hand. "Put it down," Duncan said. "NOW." Francis lowered the gun slowly, then tried to snap it up and fire from within an inch of the floor. His last breath ended in a gurgle. Duncan turned to the last struggle between Joe and his nephew. Sobbing, Nicky at last managed to break away, but Joe held the gun. He put the safety back on and slid the weapon across the floor, out of the boy's reach. Nicky started after it and froze as he saw Duncan standing in his way. "It's over, son," Duncan told him. Blood dripped from his sword into the dust. Nicky stared at him for a moment like a deer caught in headlights, then snatched up Davis' sawn-off shotgun and pointed it at Duncan's chest. "Nicky!" Dawson protested. "Put it down, Nicky," said Duncan steadily. "Who are you going to shoot? You can't kill me with that. You going to shoot yourself? Or your uncle?" He moved forward, holding out his hand. "Give me the gun." Wavering, Nicky lowered the shotgun. Duncan pulled it out of his hands and tossed it aside. "Come here, Nicky," said Dawson. The boy turned and gave his uncle a hand up from the floor. Connor, who had been getting his wind back, suddenly croaked, "Duncan, behind you!" Duncan turned. Martin Carver had rolled painfully onto his side and was aiming his gun, not at Duncan or Connor, but at Joe Dawson, who was making his way back to the pew on Nicky's arm. With a wordless yell of warning, Duncan leaped to push the mortals out of the way. Two shots rang out at once. Duncan, Joe, Nicky, and a pew all tumbled to the floor. ==================== =========================================================================