Date: Mon, 26 Jun 1995 19:48:39 -0700 Reply-To: Naomi Hayashi Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Naomi Hayashi Subject: X-File #A274-D33 part 16 of 17 In-Reply-To: <9506270229.AA12600@mercury.sfsu.edu> This is being posted for the author, who currently doesn't have internet access. Please direct all comments you want to be passed on to the author or requests for missing parts to nhayashi@sfsu.edu X-File: #A274-D33 Part 16 of 17 by Albert Low "We should have called Kominski, Mulder," Scully said as she drove. "If our man is really going after MacLeod, hearing a half dozen police cars close in would scare him away. MacLeod can take care of himself until we get there." "And if you're wrong?" "Me, wrong? Why, Scully, do you doubt me?" he asked, his eyes twinkling in amusement. "Why would I ever doubt you, Mulder?" she said, smiling ever so slightly. "I think we're almost there." "Right. It's just around the corner." They parked across the street from the dojo and saw and heard nothing out of the ordinary. They were halfway up the steps when an attractive woman came out and started down the stairs. She stopped when she saw them. "Sorry, the dojo's closed." "Actually, we're looking for Duncan MacLeod," Scully said. "Is he in?" "Who are you, and why are you looking for him?" the woman said cautiously, looking at Mulder's bandaged hand. "We're with the FBI," Scully explained, showing her identification. "I'm Dana Scully, and this is Special Agent Fox Mulder." Mulder didn't show his badge, since it would have been difficult to get it out. "The FBI? Why are you looking for Duncan?" "We have reason to believe his life may be in danger," Mulder said. "Is he home?" "No, he left a few minutes ago." "Do you know where he was going?" he pressed. "No, he received a call and left. He didn't tell me where he was going." "A phone call? Do you know who it was?" Scully asked. The woman shook her head. "All I know is the call disturbed Duncan. And I think whoever called wanted to meet him." "But you've got no idea where they're supposed to meet?" "I'm sorry, Agent Scully, but Duncan didn't say anything about it. Why do you think he's in danger? Who would want to hurt him?" "We can't answer that right now, but it's probably nothing. Don't worry about it, Miss..." "It's Doctor, actually. Doctor Anne Lindsey." "Thank you for your help, Doctor Lindsey. And please don't worry. We're probably overreacting," Scully assured her. That said, the two agents returned to their car. "You were right, Scully. How much you want to bet that was Stocker on the phone arranging to meet MacLeod?" "No bet, Mulder. But we've got no idea where they're meeting. We should call Kominski." "We've got no proof MacLeod's in danger. He might not believe us, and we'd have wasted valuable time." Even as he spoke, Mulder's mind was racing, trying to figure out where they were meeting. It could be anywhere in Seattle, making it virtually impossible to find. But he couldn't accept that. He could figure it out. He had to. He stiffened as a possible answer came to him. Scully noticed and asked what was wrong. "Head for the freeway. I think I know where they're meeting." "Where?" she asked as she pulled away from the curb. "The case histories show these immortals choose isolated locations to fight each other, so it follows that Stocker would choose a similar location. Franklin's murder was well planned, and I believe their meeting place is as carefully chosen. There's one place I can think of that would fit the criteria perfectly." He paused significantly. "You remember those murder mysteries? There were two cliches: 'The butler did it' and..." Scully looked at him blankly for a moment, and then she understood. "'And the murderer returns to the scene of the crime.' You think they're meeting at Franklin's house." "It's perfect, Scully. It's isolated, at least half a mile from the closest house. The police are through with it, and Mrs. Franklin's staying with her sister. No one's there, and I bet Stocker knows that. They're meeting there, all right." "You mean MacLeod and Stocker's accomplice will meet there." He couldn't help but chuckle. "Whatever you say. As long as you step on the gas." She floored it. MacLeod ran along the dirt path, slowing only to ward off Stocker's blows. Stocker laughed. "That's right, MacLeod! Show your true colors. Run!" He ignored the taunts as he retreated. His initial attack had accomplished nothing but annoy Stocker, his defenses proving impenetrable. He was as good as ever, but MacLeod's skills had drastically improved since their last encounter. So Stocker's counterattacks had also proven ineffective. The problem was Stocker's reflexes. They were as phenomenally fast as ever. MacLeod had been stymied by the sheer speed of his opponent's attacks and had decided to buy himself time by retreating. Now, though, he'd had enough of running. As Stocker struck again, he stopped abruptly and attacked. Stocker stumbled back, momentarily surprised, but then recovered. The two immortals circled warily; then MacLeod lashed out with a series of powerful slashes, forcing Stocker to back off hastily. As his opponent retreated, MacLeod abruptly changed tactics, attacking with short, precise blows that drove Stocker off the path, into the courtyard behind Franklin's mansion. But, no matter how hard he tried, Stocker's defenses held firm. Now the other immortal counterattacked, and MacLeod found himself hard pressed to defend himself. Stocker engaged his blade in a hard, fast spin, trying to disarm him, but MacLeod held firmly to his sword. They move further into the courtyard, each looking for a weakness in the other's defenses. "Very impressive, Highlander. You've picked up a few tricks since we last met. But it takes more than tricks to win the prize!" And he closed in on MacLeod, attacking fiercely. The assault was as overwhelming as any the Scottish immortal had ever endured. As before, it wasn't the force or skill behind the blows that presented problems, but the speed. Still, he managed to ward off the other man's sword. But he failed to block the foot which connected solidly with his stomach. The blow knocked the breath out of him. He staggered towards one of the flights of stairs leading to the terrace. *Stupid move, MacLeod. After everything you told Richie you let yourself get nailed like that.* Stocker followed him up the stairs but didn't press his assault. MacLeod was grateful for the respite, as it gave him the time to pull himself together. The instant Stocker stepped onto the terrace MacLeod attacked, hoping to take him by surprise and knock him down the steps. But the other immortal deftly blocked and stepped aside, narrowly avoiding tripping and falling. As he retreated, he laughed. "Very good! But you'll have to do better than that." And he laughed. *He's actually enjoying this,* MacLeod realized. He'd been giving his best shots, and the other man treated it like it was all a game. "That's right, MacLeod. This has been rather amusing," Stocker said, as if he'd been reading MacLeod's mind. "But it's time to end this game. I'm a rather busy man." MacLeod braced himself as Stocker attacked. The two went back and forth, neither gaining any advantage. They locked blades and grappled near the railing, struggling with all their might. Then Stocker deliberately threw them off-balance, and they flipped over the railing, flying helplessly to the ground fifteen feet below. Despite his best efforts MacLeod couldn't twist around in time to land on his feet. The best he could do was roll with the impact. As he got to his knees and was picking himself up, he saw a blur approaching and, instinctively, jerked back. A booted foot caught him in the jaw, but, due to his quick action, it didn't land squarely, and he wasn't stunned by it. So he was able to leap backwards in time to avoid being disemboweled, Stocker's sword only grazing him. Rain began to fall as Stocker advanced. "You've put up a good fight, Highlander. And your technique is quite good. But, ultimately, you're just not in my league. You don't have the drive, the hunger, it takes to win the prize. But that's not fatal. No, your problem is you've got no imagination, no flair. You concentrate on the mechanics, with a few tricks tossed in. And that's just not enough." MacLeod did his best to ignore the other man's words as he backed up to the edge of the courtyard, his back to the woods. He came to a reluctant conclusion; he was afraid, afraid as he hadn't been in quite some time. *It's like fighting Grayson or Hyde. Every move I make, he's got a countermove.* He remembered the fear and desperation he'd felt in those fights, especially in his battle with Grayson. The man had cut through his defenses as if they'd been nonexistent and had come as close to beheading him as anyone ever had. It was only a desperate, last moment maneuver that had saved MacLeod's life and turned the tide of the battle, enabling him to defeat the ancient immortal. *But I _did_ beat him,* MacLeod said to himself. *It was the most difficult fight I've ever had, but I won.* He thought about how he'd managed to win. In the final seconds of the battle, he'd put aside his fear and fought as he never had. He did that now, allowing his reflexes and subconscious free rein as if this was a form of kata or practice duel rather than a life or death situation. Stocker attacked, and the Scot stood his ground, blocking each blow. Their blades came together again and again, MacLeod's defenses holding up. Then he struck back with a series of powerful two-handed slashes. He kept up his assault, deflecting the counterstrikes and never letting up. Now Stocker was the one retreating, slowly but steadily. Then the other immortal changed tactics, locking his sword with MacLeod's. The two pushed against each other with all their might, struggling to knock the other back. Stocker was faster, but MacLeod was stronger and in better shape. He shoved the other man back and immediately attacked. Their swords clashed, moving faster than the eye could follow. MacLeod saw a small opening in Stocker's guard and took advantage of it, hitting him on the jaw and knocking him back. He advanced, feinting with his blade to get the other man's attention while lashing out with a foot to sweep one of Stocker's legs out from beneath him. Stocker fell onto his back, momentarily vulnerable. Instantly, MacLeod brought his sword down towards the fallen man's neck. But Stocker reacted with amazing speed, bringing his sword up to block the blow and then slashing it across MacLeod's chest. The Scottish immortal leaped back to avoid being cut, and Stocker rose to his feet swiftly. He smiled. "Not bad. You're better than I'd expected, Highlander. And, if you're this good, your clansman must be even better. I'll have to look him up after I've finished with you." MacLeod simply looked at him for a moment; then he threw back his head and laughed. "That won't work anymore, Stocker. I'm onto your little game. You use words as weapons. You got Chris to let down his guard two centuries ago, and you've been trying to frighten or anger me since we met. But it won't work." Stocker shrugged. "Whatever. I'm more than prepared for a straightforward approach." He subtly shifted position. MacLeod prepared for the inevitable attack. He had to end this fight soon. The longer it went on, the greater the chance Stocker's greater speed would get the better of him. He positioned himself for a desperate gamble, holding his sword our in front of him with both hands, blade parallel to the ground. He cleared his mind, doing his best to dispel what fear he still felt. Everything depended on whether his foe would slash or simply lunge. Stocker attacked, his sword coming about in a vicious slash, exactly as MacLeod had hoped. He stepped back, at the same time bringing his sword under and behind Stocker's. Then he pulled it in the same direction as his enemy was swinging, adding momentum to the slash. Stocker's blade grazed his right arm, but that was all. Before Stocker could regain his balance, MacLeod brought his sword about in a slash across the other man's stomach. It cut through skin, flesh, and bone, disemboweling him. He cried out in agony and fell to his knees. MacLeod was turning to deliver the killing stroke when he felt Stocker's sword slice into his side. He bit back a cry of pain and swung, but he missed as Stocker rolled away and came up standing a half dozen feet away. The two immortals studied each other. The cut in MacLeod's side hurt like hell, but it was nothing compared to Stocker's wound. He was pressing his left hand against the gaping wound as if to staunch the river of blood flowing from it, but it was futile and they both knew it. Amazingly, he smiled. "A nice move, Highlander. But you're still not in my league." "I'm not the one who's dying." "Touche'. But you're overlooking one little detail. I may be dying...but I'm not dead yet!" As he finished the sentence he leapt forward, his sword flashing through the air in a deadly arc. But MacLeod was ready for the attack. He blocked the blow and the others that came after. Then he almost casually knocked the sword out of Stocker's hand. The other immortal said nothing, apparently struggling merely to remain on his feet. "You are now," MacLeod said with a grim satisfaction. Then he took Stocker's head with one of the cleanest strokes he'd ever delivered. =========================================================================