Chapter IV: The Hunt
Upon the revelation of who had been responsible for the Water Disease, and upon their self-disclosure, the Watchers had had scores and scores of volunteers. It had made the American campaign for Vietnam look like nothing in comparison. One among the throngs of mortals eager to enlist to wipe out those soulless demons, Brad Miller felt he would get higher in the hierarchy.
He belonged to a family of haters: the highly ranked Nazi officer his grandfather had been had fled to Argentina with his wife and son following Hitler's suicide. Some years later he moved to the United States and became a Klansman. His father had been in NAM and still despised Asians. In his early thirties, single and with no strings attached, the son now was in the latest trend: hate immortals.
With the immortal activity completely focused on New York City, each Watcher had orders to spot, follow, and in the right moment, call for backup and bring him or her down. The individual assignments were part of the past. And now, he had his eyes set on the prey most wanted by the Watchers: Connor MacLeod.
He had spotted the Highlander when passing by what had been Victor Paulus' shelter, hoping to find an uninformed immortal that did not know of the purification the shelter had undergone. He had followed him for four days now. MacLeod stayed in a derelict house on Hudson Street. The place looked devastated. According to the records he could find, the last owner was a certain Rachel Ellinstein.
Tonight MacLeod was heading to Central Park. Brad followed him from a distance. He was impatient, and wanted to accost the Highlander and plunge a knife into his heart. Then he would draw out his machete, the one he kept next to his Watcher badge, and goodbye to the Scot for good. But he had to wait. Punishments among the Watchers were hard. And after hearing what had happened to the old Dawson, man, he'd better behave.
MacLeod turned into another street. Brad did the same and realised he had lost him. He also lost his cool and began to search him. He ran to a corner, then to another. He entered into a dark alley, hoping to see something. Before he realised, he had stepped into complete darkness. Then he saw it. The pale glint of moonlight, and a stiff glower, reflected in a blade. It disappeared from his sight as pain followed, in his stomach and going up, fthe skin there peeling sorely. He opened his mouth to shriek, but a firm hand cuffed him. Then he was released.
He fell down, holding the open gash in his stomach. It hurt like a thousand devils, for God's sake. He painfully looked up, and noticed Connor MacLeod glaring at him. Brad's sight blurred and his eyes failed.
"I hate to do this, but times are hard."
MacLeod whispered those words and turned away. Brad wanted to curse him, tell him the utmost profanities about his mother, but his tongue would not move. Darkness embraced him, and death with it.
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But not all the Watchers were as unsuccessful as Brad. Felicia Martins had the misfortune of finding that out. Having learned of the Watchers, she had had to withdraw from her rising career as a rock star, one her old friend Byron had helped her achieve before dying to Duncan MacLeod. Now she played in small bars, placed where the flashes were not likely to get her.
Unfortunately for her, a bunch of what she thought were old fans approached her as she left. She halted to grant their pathetic existences a little of her time, and get some lip-service to skyrocket her ego when she suddenly found herself knocked down and kicked violently on the side. Last thing she saw was a blade swinging over her neck.
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Morgan Walker shared the same fate. Having retired from his life as a recruiter of young models, he had settled as the owner of a small restaurant in New York. He thought the place was too crowded for him to be noticed. But things were not what they used to, and there had been more and more immortals around recently. He had arrived at his apartment one night after a long day, and the lights did not turn on when he flipped the switch. He never saw the machete slamming against his head.
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Nick Wolfe had been a policeman. As such, he could know when he was being followed. Cop instinct. One night, he met a stunning oxygenated blonde at a disco. Her breasts swung as she danced and he knew he had won the jackpot when she rubbed her gluteus against him. He had lured her to the bathroom, where he had only the chance to take off her top and briefly lick her breasts before a gang of at least five men appeared and shoved him against the floor. The blonde would claim the machete. Nick cursed her. If only he had fud first.
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The writing was on the wall for Gregor Powers. He had ceased caring decades ago. Duncan MacLeod had injected a little of desire to live in him, enough to make him return to Medicine school. There he had met Arianna, a German beauty with whom he fell in love. She had made life worth something for him again. But when the Water Disease occurred, the Watchers came for his head... but took Arianna's life instead.
That was the end for him. Watchers or not, he did not carry a sword anymore and wandered aimlessly through the streets of New York, trying hard to forget Arianna's words. God give you style and gave you grace, Greg. He would smile at that, and she would complete her sentence: he also put a smile upon your face. And he did smile now... at the black van from where the masked men descended. He did not resist. The moment had come to meet his immortal friends in the afterlife. A new wish to live circulated through his veins in the very moment the blade touched his neck.
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Steven Keane had arrived during night in New York from Dublin. He had flirted with the attendants during the flight and engaged in conversation with one of them once they landed. They said farewell after ten minutes and he left the airport. There was not a single person left. Neither was a cab available. He had just sat down on a bench to wait when what he needed appeared. The driver was a scruffy ill-mannered Jamaican man that threw his suitcases in the trunk and sped up too abruptly once behind the wheel. He stopped at the lights and when he was supposed to move, he did not.
"Aren't you moving, lad?"
The driver turned with a white smile in his lips. Steven froze at the sight of a Walther in his hands. He cursed before he heard the whistle of the silencer and the cold pain of steel in his chest, fuelling up transient unconsciousness, which he knew would be only previous to the more permanent death the Watchers would bring to him.
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He woke up with a start. What a disgusting dream had that been. He glanced around and realised he was in the alley, surrounded by the stillness of darkness. He probably passed out given to tension. Or maybe MacLeod discovered him and knocked him down. He stood up, being gripped by the grandmother of all headaches, as he caught a glimpse of something nearby.
A queer sensation led him to touch his chest. It's not there. The wound is not there, he thought. And he was right, the wound was not there. But his torn tee shirt was, stained by dry blood. He looked up to find out Connor MacLeod sitting on a garbage can, with his arms crossed and a silly smile in his face.
"Yes... you are immortal, my friend."
"So what?" Brad swore as he drew out his machete. He lunged forward. Connor moved easily at a side and Brad collided against the garbage can. He landed heavily upon a heap of rotten food.
"Crude and slow. Your attack was no better than that of a clumsy child." He said with gaiety. "I like your hat."
Brad stood up, shaking off the banana peeling he had on his head, and attacked again. This time Connor unsheathed his blade at an amazing speed and as he parried the blow, he made a shallow cut in Brad's arm.
"I will get you, MacLeod. One way or the other." He put a hand in the inner pocket of his leather jacket, hoping to find his gun. Connor laughed as he produced the very weapon Brad was supposed to have. Brad cursed and went forward again. Connor dodged and kicked him really hard in the left knee. The watcher felt the noise of his bones cracking as he sunk in the floor amid his own cries of pain. Connor took aimed and emptied the gun on the immortal watcher's damaged leg.
"You won't change your mind, will you?" Connor asked, always gaily.
"F you!" Brad cried, feeling his blood trickling down his burning, stinging leg, as thoughts about amputation haunted him.
"Then..." Connor's face suddenly went serious. "There's no other choice."
Connor made his blade twist in his hand. Brad knew what was coming. Death. He did not mind. He preferred it to being one of those freaks of nature. Just like his grandfather would have rather than being a Jew or an African, or his own father rather than being Asian.
He thought of all them. The old Nazi endured the death of his wife in a car accident and died alone without anyone that cared for him, not even his own family. His father murdered an Asian couple in 1979, believing them to be spies. He was declared insane and locked in a madhouse.
Brad realised he had been wrong in following the family tradition, and that he wanted to remain alive. He opened his mouth to talk to MacLeod but no sound came. His vocal cords had just been severed by the katana of the Highlander, along with his neck.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The idea for this chapter is taken from one in a Stephen King book.I stole a couple of lines from Coldplay's "God put a smile upon your face" from the "Rush of Blood to the head" album
