"I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named death, and hell was
following close behind him."--Revelations 6:8
They met with their first resistance as they tried to pass through the doors. Three shooters moved into the entranceway, and ordered them to leave. Harry responded by drawing his .44 and ordering them to get out of the way. The shooters pulled their guns, Beretta nine millimeters. The first one died before his pistol cleared, the second was delayed when Elijah got shoved into him, driving both men to the floor. Connor, armed with a Colt .45 1911A1 that Harry had insisted he bring, took down the third with two shots to the chest. Harry dispatched the survivor on the ground by firing a couple of shots straight through Elijah's prone body.
The two men charged into the room with guns at the ready, and the office workers dove for the ground and stayed there.
"Head for the stairs!" Harry shouted.
"Why not take the elevator?"
"Elevators are death traps. Hang on..." They had crossed the office space to the wall where the three main elevators and the stairwell opened out. Harry opened the doors, hit all the buttons, and closed them again.
"What was that for?" Asked Connor.
"If Chang's guys try to use the elevators, it'll slow 'em down. Come on." He kicked the stairwell door open, and headed in gun first. Connor followed.
The two men went up past the next two floors without meeting any resistance, but the group of thugs on the fourth floor landing made up for the former paucity. Six men, two with handguns, three big ones with knives, and one with a shotgun. Harry dove back, pushing Connor behind him, barely avoiding the 12-gauge blast. He poked his head around the corner and returned fire, dropping one of the gunmen. Connor went in low, putting three hollow-tipped bullets into the shotgunner's torso, but took a bullet in the leg as a result. Harry pushed his sprawled form back around the corner and pistol-whipped one of the knifers that had gotten too close. The other two lunged at him, and one was laid low by Harry's dirk, which he thrust into the man's eye and through to his brain. The other got in a good slash into Harry's left arm. Connor, leg healed, put a bullet into the man's head, and he fell, bloody knife dropping from nerveless fingers. The Highlander emptied the rest of his clip into the other gunman, drew his sword, and split the prone knife man from the nave to the chops.
The two men reloaded, cleaned their blades, and charged upward. On the next landing were a pair of men, one with a crossbow, the other with a machete and shotgun.
The crossbowman put a bolt into Harry's chest, taking him out of the battle until it was pulled out. Connor ignored the man as he cocked and reloaded his bow, a time-consuming process, focusing on the man with the double-barrelled shotgun. The buckshot tore into Connor's leg and he toppled in pain, shots going wild. The man leapt at him, slashing with the knife for Connor's throat. The Immortal threw up his arm, guarding his neck. The heavy blade rent his flesh to the bone, spraying blood across his attacker's face. Connor fired the Colt again, and this time the bullet went true. The thug's brains splattered on the wall behind him as a hollow-pointed .45 hit him at point-blank range. Connor dragged himself up with tattered limbs, doing his level best to ignore the hideous pain. Then he remembered the crossbowman.
The man was covered with his partner's blood and grey matter, one half of what appeared to be an Immortal-killing team, whose quarry appeared to be more dangerous than he'd been led to believe. He was shaking badly, and his pants had a spreading wet patch on the crotch. Even so, he had somehow managed to fit another bolt to his weapon and cock it, and now pointed it at Connor. For a second that seemed like an hour, the wounded warrior and the frightened killer stared at each other, both frozen. Then they both moved. Connor saw the trigger-finger tighten and rolled to the side. The bolt drove into Connor's left shoulder, where his neck had been a moment ago. Connor kicked out with his undamaged right leg, catching the nerve cluster on the side of the other man's thigh with the toe of his shoe. With a howl the assassin dropped to the ground, crossbow flying out of his grip. Connor pulled a short-bladed dagger from his sleeve-sheath, and put it into his enemy's throat. The man gurgled as he choked on his own blood. Connor wiped his incarnadined hand off on the corpse's ragged T-shirt and dragged himself over to his fallen comrade. Harry had taken the barbed quarrel through his solar plexus, and toppled backwards down the two steps. Connor mustered his lessened strength and gripped the short thick missile with his blood-greased fingers, and yanked it out.
Blood fountained as the quarrel came out, tearing Harry's flesh out with it's cruel hooked barbs. Connor waited.
About five minutes later, Harry gasped in a lungful of fresh air, wincing as it hit his still-tender lungs. He coughed up a little blood, dragged himself up, and cursed.
"Nice to see you too, Harry. Now come on. You have better things to do than lie there on your ass."
"Screw you, you kilt-wearing bastard. Help me up." Connor stood on his newly-healed legs and offered his still-sore left arm to his friend. Harry took the bloody hand, and hauled himself to his feet.
"While you were napping, I had to take down the death squad by myself."
"Any trouble?"
"Nothing I couldn't handle. Now let's go. The whole building's after us by now, and these stairs aren't exactly a safe place."
"What we need," said Harry, "Is a new plan. Come on." The two bloody fighting men jogged past the fifth floor, and reached the sixth. Harry stopped. "Sure hope that punk was telling the truth about this floor being used for nothing but storage. Come on." And with that, he kicked the door in, and headed through with his revolver at the fore. Connor swore in Gaelic, and followed after. "Mother of God!" He gasped, as he passed the portal and beheld what lay beyond.
The entire level was a single open space, filled with shelves, containing more illicit narcotics than the Highlander had seen in the entirety of his four-and-a-half century existence.
"This is some shit, all right," said Harry. "This Chang's got enough supply to meet the demand of the entire state for the next year."
"Even if you include Berkeley?"
"This punk's got to go." Harry had seen first-hand what drugs could do to a person, time and again. Friends of his childhood blowing their brains on dope, guys he'd known in Jonesborough Hill who'd had potential to be great men, and had thrown it all away for nothing but the dubious pleasure of sticking a needle into their arms and injecting poison into their blood. And the man he was here to kill was selling the stuff wholesale. When it was Harry's neck on the line, he'd been pissed. Now he was in a state of rage that could only end with blood.
"Come on, Macleod. We've got an asshole to decapitate." Harry set off for the window across the warehouse level, where he could see the landing of a fire escape. With a building full of criminals trying to take their heads off, the best way to go up was to think outside the box.
Connor kicked the window out of its frame, headed through it and started up the rusty metal stairway. The two men headed up the side of the building with gun in one hand, sword in the other. The seventh and eighth floors, also devoted to storing Chang's unholy merchandise, was passed without incident. When they reached the ninth, they came to a sudden stop.
"Looks like we've run out of fire escape." Said Connor.
"Our boy probably has a helicopter on top to take care of fires. We'll have to go back inside." Harry checked his cylinder as he spoke, replacing expended rounds. Connor was still refilling his clip as Harry burst through the window. Connor followed suit, and the two of them rolled across the floor oblivious to the yelling of the floor's denizens. Coming up out of his roll, Harry came up and fired a pair of shots into the sceiling, sending the men in business suits diving behind their desks. This floor, he remembered, was where Elijah had said Chang kept his chief lieutenants. These were executive-looking men in business suits who gave the impression of having been paid very well by crime. The Immortals headed for the stairs, and no man lifted a hand to stop them. Harry and Connor headed up the stairs, blew the lock off the door to Chang's sanctum, holstered their guns and drew their swords, and burst in.
"Welcome, my friends. I hope my employees did not inconvenience you too much. Now we can speak undisturbed." Before them stood Chang, larger than life in silk robes, custom-made battle sword in his hands. Beside him stood a familiar dark figure, ragged but in good health, cutlass in his hand.
"And I, Callaghan," snarled Elijah, "Have a great deal to speak to you about."
following close behind him."--Revelations 6:8
They met with their first resistance as they tried to pass through the doors. Three shooters moved into the entranceway, and ordered them to leave. Harry responded by drawing his .44 and ordering them to get out of the way. The shooters pulled their guns, Beretta nine millimeters. The first one died before his pistol cleared, the second was delayed when Elijah got shoved into him, driving both men to the floor. Connor, armed with a Colt .45 1911A1 that Harry had insisted he bring, took down the third with two shots to the chest. Harry dispatched the survivor on the ground by firing a couple of shots straight through Elijah's prone body.
The two men charged into the room with guns at the ready, and the office workers dove for the ground and stayed there.
"Head for the stairs!" Harry shouted.
"Why not take the elevator?"
"Elevators are death traps. Hang on..." They had crossed the office space to the wall where the three main elevators and the stairwell opened out. Harry opened the doors, hit all the buttons, and closed them again.
"What was that for?" Asked Connor.
"If Chang's guys try to use the elevators, it'll slow 'em down. Come on." He kicked the stairwell door open, and headed in gun first. Connor followed.
The two men went up past the next two floors without meeting any resistance, but the group of thugs on the fourth floor landing made up for the former paucity. Six men, two with handguns, three big ones with knives, and one with a shotgun. Harry dove back, pushing Connor behind him, barely avoiding the 12-gauge blast. He poked his head around the corner and returned fire, dropping one of the gunmen. Connor went in low, putting three hollow-tipped bullets into the shotgunner's torso, but took a bullet in the leg as a result. Harry pushed his sprawled form back around the corner and pistol-whipped one of the knifers that had gotten too close. The other two lunged at him, and one was laid low by Harry's dirk, which he thrust into the man's eye and through to his brain. The other got in a good slash into Harry's left arm. Connor, leg healed, put a bullet into the man's head, and he fell, bloody knife dropping from nerveless fingers. The Highlander emptied the rest of his clip into the other gunman, drew his sword, and split the prone knife man from the nave to the chops.
The two men reloaded, cleaned their blades, and charged upward. On the next landing were a pair of men, one with a crossbow, the other with a machete and shotgun.
The crossbowman put a bolt into Harry's chest, taking him out of the battle until it was pulled out. Connor ignored the man as he cocked and reloaded his bow, a time-consuming process, focusing on the man with the double-barrelled shotgun. The buckshot tore into Connor's leg and he toppled in pain, shots going wild. The man leapt at him, slashing with the knife for Connor's throat. The Immortal threw up his arm, guarding his neck. The heavy blade rent his flesh to the bone, spraying blood across his attacker's face. Connor fired the Colt again, and this time the bullet went true. The thug's brains splattered on the wall behind him as a hollow-pointed .45 hit him at point-blank range. Connor dragged himself up with tattered limbs, doing his level best to ignore the hideous pain. Then he remembered the crossbowman.
The man was covered with his partner's blood and grey matter, one half of what appeared to be an Immortal-killing team, whose quarry appeared to be more dangerous than he'd been led to believe. He was shaking badly, and his pants had a spreading wet patch on the crotch. Even so, he had somehow managed to fit another bolt to his weapon and cock it, and now pointed it at Connor. For a second that seemed like an hour, the wounded warrior and the frightened killer stared at each other, both frozen. Then they both moved. Connor saw the trigger-finger tighten and rolled to the side. The bolt drove into Connor's left shoulder, where his neck had been a moment ago. Connor kicked out with his undamaged right leg, catching the nerve cluster on the side of the other man's thigh with the toe of his shoe. With a howl the assassin dropped to the ground, crossbow flying out of his grip. Connor pulled a short-bladed dagger from his sleeve-sheath, and put it into his enemy's throat. The man gurgled as he choked on his own blood. Connor wiped his incarnadined hand off on the corpse's ragged T-shirt and dragged himself over to his fallen comrade. Harry had taken the barbed quarrel through his solar plexus, and toppled backwards down the two steps. Connor mustered his lessened strength and gripped the short thick missile with his blood-greased fingers, and yanked it out.
Blood fountained as the quarrel came out, tearing Harry's flesh out with it's cruel hooked barbs. Connor waited.
About five minutes later, Harry gasped in a lungful of fresh air, wincing as it hit his still-tender lungs. He coughed up a little blood, dragged himself up, and cursed.
"Nice to see you too, Harry. Now come on. You have better things to do than lie there on your ass."
"Screw you, you kilt-wearing bastard. Help me up." Connor stood on his newly-healed legs and offered his still-sore left arm to his friend. Harry took the bloody hand, and hauled himself to his feet.
"While you were napping, I had to take down the death squad by myself."
"Any trouble?"
"Nothing I couldn't handle. Now let's go. The whole building's after us by now, and these stairs aren't exactly a safe place."
"What we need," said Harry, "Is a new plan. Come on." The two bloody fighting men jogged past the fifth floor, and reached the sixth. Harry stopped. "Sure hope that punk was telling the truth about this floor being used for nothing but storage. Come on." And with that, he kicked the door in, and headed through with his revolver at the fore. Connor swore in Gaelic, and followed after. "Mother of God!" He gasped, as he passed the portal and beheld what lay beyond.
The entire level was a single open space, filled with shelves, containing more illicit narcotics than the Highlander had seen in the entirety of his four-and-a-half century existence.
"This is some shit, all right," said Harry. "This Chang's got enough supply to meet the demand of the entire state for the next year."
"Even if you include Berkeley?"
"This punk's got to go." Harry had seen first-hand what drugs could do to a person, time and again. Friends of his childhood blowing their brains on dope, guys he'd known in Jonesborough Hill who'd had potential to be great men, and had thrown it all away for nothing but the dubious pleasure of sticking a needle into their arms and injecting poison into their blood. And the man he was here to kill was selling the stuff wholesale. When it was Harry's neck on the line, he'd been pissed. Now he was in a state of rage that could only end with blood.
"Come on, Macleod. We've got an asshole to decapitate." Harry set off for the window across the warehouse level, where he could see the landing of a fire escape. With a building full of criminals trying to take their heads off, the best way to go up was to think outside the box.
Connor kicked the window out of its frame, headed through it and started up the rusty metal stairway. The two men headed up the side of the building with gun in one hand, sword in the other. The seventh and eighth floors, also devoted to storing Chang's unholy merchandise, was passed without incident. When they reached the ninth, they came to a sudden stop.
"Looks like we've run out of fire escape." Said Connor.
"Our boy probably has a helicopter on top to take care of fires. We'll have to go back inside." Harry checked his cylinder as he spoke, replacing expended rounds. Connor was still refilling his clip as Harry burst through the window. Connor followed suit, and the two of them rolled across the floor oblivious to the yelling of the floor's denizens. Coming up out of his roll, Harry came up and fired a pair of shots into the sceiling, sending the men in business suits diving behind their desks. This floor, he remembered, was where Elijah had said Chang kept his chief lieutenants. These were executive-looking men in business suits who gave the impression of having been paid very well by crime. The Immortals headed for the stairs, and no man lifted a hand to stop them. Harry and Connor headed up the stairs, blew the lock off the door to Chang's sanctum, holstered their guns and drew their swords, and burst in.
"Welcome, my friends. I hope my employees did not inconvenience you too much. Now we can speak undisturbed." Before them stood Chang, larger than life in silk robes, custom-made battle sword in his hands. Beside him stood a familiar dark figure, ragged but in good health, cutlass in his hand.
"And I, Callaghan," snarled Elijah, "Have a great deal to speak to you about."