Author's Note: Sorry it has take so long. College life has controlled my
every move, and also I needed to work out some kinks in these next two
chapters. But it is done now, and updating will run more smoothly (at least
for now). As always, Asher Jacobs is mine; she is the only character I
own. The three Immortal men (Duncan MacLeod, Methos/Adam Pierson, and
Richie Ryan) belong to the creators of Highlander.
This story is set in the year 2004. Richie Ryan still lives; however, Joe Dawson was killed the previous year in a car crash.
And just to note, the previous chapter covered the time frame of 1300 hours (1 PM) to approx. 2100 hours (9 PM). This chapter covers the next hour and half, and the chapter immediately following opens at 2300 hours (11 PM).
Happy Reading. Reviews are not necessary, but will be greatly appreciated.
**************************************************************************** ********************
September 09, 2004 2100 PM, the streets of Paris
Richie had stared after her for the few seconds it took the door to slam shut, and then with no word to Duncan, he grabbed his coat and keys, and raced out the door after her. She was already gone, and he had no clue to as where she had gone.
He knew very little of who she was. A name, and an appearance, and a sarcastic tone which came and left as she needed it. He had no concrete, *solid* information to file a police report, and even if he did have the information, he somehow knew she wanted to avoid the authorities. She was running from something, or someone.
With a sigh, he climbed into convertible. He had traded in his motorcycle after Joe had been killed. No one had asked him to, it was simply his silent way of giving tribute to his much loved friend. The convertible was his compromise: it was deemed safer, but when the weather permitted, he could still feel the wind in his hair. Today, the weather did not permit.
Silently, he drove the streets of Paris. He scanned the pavement and the still open stores and restaurants for her. He found no one, especially her. The streets of Paris were deserted.
Knowing it was a hopeless search, Richie followed the streets to his apartment. Built in a more modern complex of the city, it was on the twenty-fifth floor of a twenty-five-floor building, and with some extra francs each month, he had free access of the roof as well. It was there he liked to practice or spar either alone or with either Mac or Methos.
He pulled his car into his space, collected his mail (bills, bills, and a letter from Amanda), waved to the nosy old women of the first floor, and without a word, he unlocked his apartment door and let himself in. Duncan called it mature; Amanda called it dull. (He had painted the walls white, and had laid dark green carpeting throughout the space. He had come to appreciate fine art in the past three years, and had come to quite a collection, which he modestly displayed. The furniture was sparse, but good.)
Shrugging out of his coat, and dropping his mail on the coffee table, he heated some leftovers from his date a few nights ago, popped open a beer, and settled on the couch for a late night movie.
Barely, fifteen minutes in, the buzzer signaled. He had a visitor.
This story is set in the year 2004. Richie Ryan still lives; however, Joe Dawson was killed the previous year in a car crash.
And just to note, the previous chapter covered the time frame of 1300 hours (1 PM) to approx. 2100 hours (9 PM). This chapter covers the next hour and half, and the chapter immediately following opens at 2300 hours (11 PM).
Happy Reading. Reviews are not necessary, but will be greatly appreciated.
**************************************************************************** ********************
September 09, 2004 2100 PM, the streets of Paris
Richie had stared after her for the few seconds it took the door to slam shut, and then with no word to Duncan, he grabbed his coat and keys, and raced out the door after her. She was already gone, and he had no clue to as where she had gone.
He knew very little of who she was. A name, and an appearance, and a sarcastic tone which came and left as she needed it. He had no concrete, *solid* information to file a police report, and even if he did have the information, he somehow knew she wanted to avoid the authorities. She was running from something, or someone.
With a sigh, he climbed into convertible. He had traded in his motorcycle after Joe had been killed. No one had asked him to, it was simply his silent way of giving tribute to his much loved friend. The convertible was his compromise: it was deemed safer, but when the weather permitted, he could still feel the wind in his hair. Today, the weather did not permit.
Silently, he drove the streets of Paris. He scanned the pavement and the still open stores and restaurants for her. He found no one, especially her. The streets of Paris were deserted.
Knowing it was a hopeless search, Richie followed the streets to his apartment. Built in a more modern complex of the city, it was on the twenty-fifth floor of a twenty-five-floor building, and with some extra francs each month, he had free access of the roof as well. It was there he liked to practice or spar either alone or with either Mac or Methos.
He pulled his car into his space, collected his mail (bills, bills, and a letter from Amanda), waved to the nosy old women of the first floor, and without a word, he unlocked his apartment door and let himself in. Duncan called it mature; Amanda called it dull. (He had painted the walls white, and had laid dark green carpeting throughout the space. He had come to appreciate fine art in the past three years, and had come to quite a collection, which he modestly displayed. The furniture was sparse, but good.)
Shrugging out of his coat, and dropping his mail on the coffee table, he heated some leftovers from his date a few nights ago, popped open a beer, and settled on the couch for a late night movie.
Barely, fifteen minutes in, the buzzer signaled. He had a visitor.