Katrina, and Remington aremy creations only. The characters:Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson, and (Richie) belong to The Highlander Series. Rated Teen: a clean story for people over thirteen with mature interests.One cus word.
Not a Bad Bucket
"Baby the guy's a boy scout. I'll bet my head on it—now open up." She inserts a black video cassette in the young man's mouth. She gave a pant on his sandy colored hair. "He'll be home… eventually." That said; she left her bound, half naked co-worker in the closet.
--Thirty minutes later.—
Two men in conversation enter the loft by a sliding door elevator. Joe Dawson spoke to his friend as he slightly limped with a cain. "Well? Did Richie lock the door?"
"He always locks up." Duncan MacLeod answered firmly as he scanned over his home. His loft over the dojo was a fine up town/ Italian Renaissance union, with beautifully appointed-classical murals and walnut leather furniture.
Dawson shook his head. "I don't get it. First your opera records, now your car's missing."
Duncan would not yield with Joe's concern. The brown eyed Scot frowned in surface search, thumbing over his coffee table, checking is diminished music library.
Dawson came up with another possibility. "There could be a theme here—what do you think Amanda could've—"
"No," the immortal darted in mid speculation. "It's not like her- And I know what you're thinking Joe. Amanda wouldn't have gone this far. She's not above burglary, but grand theft auto?" Then Duncan straightened. It occurred to him that Amanda was never spontaneous with his possessions. Smaller- expensive items were her style. Duncan walked out of the living room.
"What is it, Mac?"
"Make yourself a drink, friend,"Duncan answered back from his bedroom.
Duncan remembered the last time Amanda stole jewelry, of some sort, and hid them at the barge in Paris. She planted his arrest, so he wouldn't fight a dangerous immortal. Was this a prank or protection, was this even Amanda at all?
"Hay Mac!"
"Yah." Duncan had opened his foot locker. Placed inside was a black model '64 Thunderbird convertible; an almost exact replica of his missing car. The Scot then heard Dawson speaking to someone else in the loft.
A rush of anxiety went up his spine. When heentered the living room, he saw Dawson helping a young blond man stand from inside the coat closet.They untied a long silk tie and a leather belt that bound the man's ankles and wrists. He wore grey Docker pants only: bare from the waist up and seeing that, Duncan went back to his bedroom to find him something to ware.
When the Scot returned he saw Dawson holding a VHS cassett. No labels or marking indicated its content.
"Who are you?" Duncan MacLeod asked the blond man, while handing him a pull over sweater from his bureau.
The blond rubbed and flexed his jaw. "I'm Remington- Smithers… I'm a C.P.A for—"He stopped and glanced back at Dawson who was evaluating Remington's Samoan tattoos over his chest, arms, and back. But one tattoo caught Dawson's immediate attention.
Dawson spoke in a knowing sternly voice. "What charter are you from Remington?"
The young man stammered under the sudden suspicion in his rescuers. "That?" He glanced at his wrist. "Uh Lansing, Michigan."
Dawson pressed him again. "Which immortal are you watching?"
Remington dropped his shoulders. "Look, sir. I've been mugged, gagged and kidnapped. Please. Let me collect a bit first."
Duncan too, suspected the young man. He remembered an immortal from Michigan. But if not Lansing, he thought, who else. He spoke to the blond man again."You're welcome to the couch. Would you like some Chardonnay?" Duncan also wanted to think this out.
Remington welcomed the drink. He gave an emotional tale about his encounter with a dark haired woman. She had over powering strength and martial art ability. He didn't know her name, but Remington expressed that it was the woman's orders for Duncan MacLeod to watch the video tape.
Duncan started the video while Dawson continued the questions. Remington gave side glanced, vague answers.
When the video began, the camera panned over what looked like the inside of a mechanic's garage. Daylight came in the windows, but there were no telling sign of where this was taking place. The camera view panned over to the center of the garage where Duncan's car was parked.
The camera turned around to face the operator. A black haired woman in her early twenties, greeted the viewers.
"What are you doing Katrina?" Duncan asked, the tv, as a suddengang of recognition, delight and alarmfaughthis surpise. His half Scottish-Russian kitten/friend-love or 'cousin', had that crooked smirk on her lips.
She withheld Duncan the privilege to call her by any proper title; Connor's step-daughter, one time wife, roguish companion. Presently, Katrina was an account executive with a major computer corporation in Detroit, Michigan. She managed to keep their passions just out of reach, while promoting their friendship in an endearing tug. All a long she'd turn up like a pretty penny with good fortune or adventure.
Nonchalantly, if not mildly perturbed, Katrina began to explain. "I came by for a Coke and conversation, and saw this poor puppy." She focused deeply into the camera; her eyes as blue as turquoise. "It's not a bad bucket for the incognito, black on black go getter…. But a hearse has more personality." And she winked sympathetically at that.
The camera was set on its tripod. Katrina wore a form fitted black 'belly t-shirt. On it was a picture of a rough ridding Betty Boop bent over a Harley with the words "Spank Me" in bold letters.
Katrina stepped back into view.
"What's that!" Duncan shoved his finger at thetv screen. More shock than question provoked him.
Dawson gasped, "Sledge hammer!"
In no particular angle: crash went the right headlight, smash went the left. And the front fender goes creaking and grinding to the ground.
Thetv screen cut out…
In the next scene, Katrina looks over the camera momentarily. She now wares a scarlet bandana. She shrugs. "That didn't take long."
"Bitch!" Duncan brayed.
The camera viewed the finale result of the attack, but worse than before. There was no fender at all. Under the hood, a matted mildly neglected engine lay exposed, frail,- and ill fated.
With folded arms across her chest, Katrina looks over her shoulder at Duncan. She chides him curtly. "Humph, are yah kidding?"
Thescreen cuts out again…
Duncan chocked.
The screen flickers briefly. Dawson exhaled, "Gaud, where's the interior?"
The Highlander hunched over his knees on the couch. His hands knarled through his hair. The mortals flanking him squirmed cautiously to their padded boundaries. Not even Amanda would go this far.
A new screen opens on a young man in a gray business suit. Katrina's voice is heard behind the camera. "Wake up!" She kicks the chair in which he is tied down. The young blond man isn't shocked to see Katrina, but his sleepy haze whips away when he realized his predicament. He cannot speak, but grunts absurdly at her under his tie gag.
Remington whines in shame. "I was just out for coffee."
Duncan was mesmerized by the reality of the video tape. "Insane. I don't deserve this."
Dawson grimiest at the screen then back at Remington in confused disgust.
The video continued.
The camera is filming at a lower angle. Katrina is pointing out various gaps of missing machinery; in the hollowed out chassy. Her fingers traced the rim thoughtfully. "Time for the forklift."
"I'll get the welder's torch."
Duncan and Dawson look at Remington. The voice behind the camera was his. Duncan's new found contempt fumed with betrayal. "What's going on?"
"Thanks for the sweater." Remington springs from the couch like a six-year-old and bolts for the alley exit door.
Duncan huffed in baffled syllables- censoring himself, but Dawson called it. "Traitor!"
Katrina saw Remington burst out of the back entrance door into the service alley. He sprinted past her and wasted no words but, "See you Wednesday, Ms. Nagarelli!"
She caught sight of Duncan at the corner of her eye. He had stopped his hot headed pursuit abruptly. "What have you done to my car!" In anger, his brown secductive eyes, took a phycho manifestation.
But Katrina didn't react.She only watched Duncan, quietly as helook over the car.
The body was modified for low ride/sporting speed, painted with a white finish. The standard grill was replaced with a sleek chrome fender withautomatic power headlights. Standing two and a halffeet out of the partial hood was a six cylinder engine in high chrome. Splendid white, green, and orange stripes ran the length of the hybrid, and sure enough the design of the Scottish flag proudly spred on the permanently installed top.
Katrinahad beenleaning against the driver's door sipping a Coke can.Duncan's expession hadn't improved. "C'mon, Lone Ranger had his Silver, Zorro had his Tornado. Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod had his hearse? Fiddle-dee-dee!"
"I liked my incognito hearse." Duncan's Highland lilt punctuated with frustration. "I can't drive anywhere in this foolish excuse for an automobile—Is that a gun wrack?"
Katrina clinched up. Thirty-six hours wasted. Yet she remembered, Duncan wasn't too keen on that savvy Conestoga wagon she bought 120 years ago. He had his wine lists, a GQ fashion taste and Espada Daga down to a finesse, but transportation, to him, needn't be more than practical.
She giggled.
Duncan opened the driver's door. He evaluated the interior. It was hard for Katrina to tell if he approved of the rustic peach faux leather.
"No. It's a sward wrack," she corrected him.
Duncan snarled.
Katrina rolled her eyes. "For most it's ornamental."
Duncan stood up in exasperation. "It's a flaming pimp wagon, not a hero steed!"
"Sweet!" Joe Dawson joined the three. His hazel eyes shined with boyish glee.
"I can't believe you said 'pimp wagon," Katrina chortled, mocking Duncan.
Shewas happy to seeDawson's approval and made a flirting appeal to Duncan. "Then let's say my boy Joe and I take 'Mac Daddy' for a rev."
"And bring back my opera records." Duncan demanded with out missing a beat.
"Not in this hot rod," Dawson tossed over his shoulder, happily skipping on his cain to the passenger door.
As Katrina pulled away, she watched Duncan in the rear-view mirror: his arms were folded in a hard posture. He had a strange warningglare on his face that trickled with amusement.