Richie Ryan cruised down the dark street in a silver Mercedes with an immense sense of satisfaction. A day that had almost ended disastrously had turned out just fine. Angie would get her repairs free of charge, and this deal selling and delivering the Mercedes would net Richie a fat commission. He yawned with a glance at the dashboard clock - it was six fifty nine. The guy who wanted the Mercedes had cut it close. Richie would have been out the door at seven, heading home with the hopes Tessa had saved some dinner for the universe's most promising young car salesman.

He rubbed his neck, working out a kink, thinking about Rebecca Lord and Walter Reinhardt. The woman blamed Duncan for the death of her lover. She knew nothing about Immortals, or that Reinhardt was one himself. Not so long ago, Richie had been ignorant of the enormous secret Duncan had trusted him with, the fascinating division of the world into those who lived and died, and those who lived, died and lived again.

Mac had asked Richie to gather as much information as he could for the public library about Walter Reinhardt. The man had in Donald Trump's league - a big time investor, wheeler-dealer, millionaire. A "bottom-line guy," or so one magazine had enthusiastically claimed. His mysterious disappearance and presumed death on New Year's Eve in 1989, just in time to avoid indictment and arrest, had thrown his corporations into turmoil. Apparently his fiancee hadn't fared so well either.

Oh, well. Not his problem. All he had to do was pick up a cashier's check, turn over the Mercedes, and take his commission to the bank. Piece of cake. He reached the appropriate address. A man in a long camel-colored coat stood at the corner, just outside the pool of light shed by the street lamp. Richie remembered showing the car to the guy that morning - he remembered the coat - and said through the open passenger window, "Hey there. I'm supposed to get the check. You can do the paperwork tomorrow, all right?"

The man slid into the car. "Great," he said.

Richie looked up and found a gun just six inches from his face. For a few seconds all he saw was the gun, impossibly huge and ready to fire. He felt the blood drain from his face as he recognized its owner, but managed to stammer, "I think you've got the wrong guy, mister." "I doubt it." Walter Reinhardt smiled coldly. "You're Richie Ryan. You work part time for Duncan MacLeod, don't you? If you lie to me, I'll smash every bone in your right hand."

Such a smooth threat, so charmingly delivered. Richie believed every word of it. He tried to calm his thoughts long enough to decide how much Reinhardt knew. Did he know Richie not only worked at the store, but lived there too? The guy with the coat earlier in the day had obviously been a set-up, and there was no telling how much Reinhardt knew.

"Yes," he said. "I work for MacLeod sometimes."

"Then you'll do fine. Let me explain some facts of life to you, Mr. Ryan. One, you alone are going to decide if you live or die in the next several hours we share each other's company. If you do anything stupid, I'll kill you. If you draw anyone's attention, I'll kill them first and then kill you. I have no worries, myself, about getting hurt or killed. Are we on the same wavelength?"

Richie nodded. He hoped he didn't look as terrified as he felt. The gun hadn't wavered a fraction of an inch from the center of his chest. His heart jackhammered against his ribs, so fast and hard he was sure that if he looked at his chest he'd see his shirt moving.

"All you have to do to stay alive tonight is behave yourself and do exactly as I say. You're going to convince MacLeod to meet with me. After I deal with him, I'll free you."

Richie knew better. This man had toppled companies with the flick of his hand. He'd driven powerful men to shame and ruin. He'd been hated and feared and admired, and there was no way he would let Richie free when this ordeal was over. Still, somehow he found the strength to force his head up high and challenge, "What if MacLeod deals with you, instead of the other way around?"

Something flickered in Reinhardt's eyes. Humor, maybe. Malice, more probably.

"We'll have to see," he replied coldly. He pulled out a cellular phone. "You're going to call him now, and tell him that Rebecca has kidnapped you. Tell him she wants to meet at her house at midnight."

Reinhardt punched the number in and then passed Richie the phone. Richie listened to the sound of the busy signal and then passed it back. Reinhardt frowned, then folded the phone shut.

"We'll have to try again later," Reinhardt said, settling back into his seat. The gun lowered but stayed on Richie. "Drive towards the waterfront. Remember what I said about drawing attention."

He didn't know if he could even remember the way to the waterfront, but Richie obediently started down the street. His leg shook on the accelerator, and he hoped Reinhardt didn't notice his cowardice. His mind spun furiously When Reinhardt made him call Mac next, he had to figure out a way to warn him who was really waiting for him.

He stuck to the speed limit exactly on the busy streets, slowed at every yellow light, and checked his mirrors religiously. He hadn't driven so carefully since his license exam. When they reached the closed waterfront markets and marina, Reinhardt told him to park an empty lot. Reinhardt dialed Duncan's number again and reached the continuing busy signal.

"What now?" Richie asked.

"We wait," Reinhardt said.

Richie sat perfectly still and waited. The gun still made him very nervous. He couldn't think of anything to say to the Immortal - dissuading him from killing Mac was probably not going to work - and Reinhardt apparently didn't want any conversation either. They sat in the car, watching patrons come in and out of the only open restaurant, and Richie's fear faded just a little in the wake of boredom and stiffness.

He had a maddening itch on the side of his right knee. He shifted a little, hoping it would go away. His back was beginning to ache from sitting so long in one position, and a different ache was beginning in the area of his kidneys.

The itch aggravated him more than anything else, and finally he mustered the courage to scratch it. Reinhardt's gun snapped up in an instant.

"Don't try anything," he warned.

Richie tried to squash the exasperation in his voice, with limited success. "What am I going to do? Whap you with the floor mat? I'm just scratching."

Reinhardt settled back down. Richie wondered if he really was good enough to take on Duncan. He'd already done it once, and lost. He wanted to ask, but Reinhardt didn't know Richie knew about Immortals and Richie didn't want to tip his hand.

The dashboard clock stayed on even with the ignition off. It was almost nine o'clock. Maybe Reinhardt would give up and go home to watch America's Most Wanted or something. They sat in silence in the car until a little past ten, trying Duncan's number every half hour. Reinhardt began to look irritated, and Richie couldn't help but squirm in his seat.

"What are you doing?" the tycoon finally demanded.

"I have to go to the john," Richie said tensely. "If we sit here all night, it's going to get ugly. Besides, I'm starved. I'm a growing boy, I eat a lot."

Reinhardt wasn't impressed. "You'll eat when I say so."

Well, to hell with you too, Richie thought. But he said nothing. Finally Reinhardt told him to drive up Fourth Street. He had Richie pull into an all-night diner and then holstered his pistol inside his jacket.

"Remember what I said about drawing attention," Reinhardt warned.

Richie wasn't about to get anyone else killed, but if he didn't get to the bathroom fast, he was going to draw a lot of attention. They went inside and along the line of stools to the men's room. Cockroaches scurried away from the two working urinals and under a sink littered with paper towels. Reinhardt watched him every second, which made Richie's skin crawl. When they went outside they took a booth, and a skinny young Jamaican waitress took their orders from greasy plastic menu's.

Reinhardt swiped a well-worn copy of the daily newspaper from the counter and proceeded to ignore Richie in favor of the stock market quotes. Richie gulped at a tall glass of Coke and watched the traffic go by on the street. He was tired, and just wanted to go home. The other patrons of the diner - a couple of cab drivers, four teenagers coming from the movies, a young couple with a baby, a mechanic in dirty overalls - didn't seem to think Richie's suit was out of place, or that it was too hot inside for Reinhardt to keep his long coat on.

The waitress brought Reinhardt the Salisbury steak with onions, and a hamburger with everything for Richie. Richie thought everything tasted like cardboard. Reinhardt ate methodically and neatly, sipping from a cup of coffee. His eyes flickered up once, when two patrol cops came in and took seats at the counter.

Reinhardt smiled coldly at Richie, daring him to make a sound. Richie looked down at his French Fries, and concentrated on squelching the butterflies that had just invaded his stomach.

They sat in the booth silently for almost an hour while Reinhardt drank coffee and read the newspaper. The cops ordered fried chicken specials and complained loudly about their jobs. Richie stared out the window at the street traffic, hoping to see the impossible sight of Mac's Thunderbird, but settled instead for watching the last of a group of martial arts students exit from a karate dojo on the second floor of an old brick building across the street.

He was tired of being held captive, and sick of being defenseless in the face of all the bad guys Duncan MacLeod seemed to attract. Maybe it was time he learned to defend himself. Not with a sword, thank you - he'd leave large sharp blades to Immortals, who knew what to do with them. Maybe karate lessons would do the trick.

The teenagers left, and Richie envied them their carefree lives. Two dark-haired guys with leather jackets came in, and ordered hot fudge sundaes. Three older guys, maybe old high school buddies, came in drunk and obnoxious. The cops paid their bill and left. Reinhardt checked his watch and then picked up the bill.

"Your share is five dollars," he told Richie.

Richie stared at him, incredulous. Reinhardt didn't even blink. Richie reached for his wallet and drew out five tattered one-dollar bills. Reinhardt figured out a mediocre tip and motioned Richie towards the cash register.

"I have to go again, " Richie said as they slid out of the booth.

Reinhardt gave him a suspicious look. "Two Coke's," Richie reminded him. Reinhardt waved him towards the bathroom with a glare that reminded him of earlier threats. Richie went on weak legs, mustering courage for his plan. He didn't know if he could live with himself if Reinhardt made good on his promise to shoot innocent bystanders, but he didn't think there were enough bullets in the gun to take down everyone in the diner and Reinhardt wouldn't risk that kind of attention.

Without a backwards glance Richie pivoted on the dirty linoleum and slipped into the steamy, hot kitchen. A side exit was propped open to the parking lot. The chef, tall and gangly and vaguely reminiscent of Christopher Lloyd, ditched a cigarette and said, "What are you doing?"

"Just passing through," Richie said, sliding out the exit.

He came up smack dab against the two cops and their patrol car. One of the dark-haired guys from the diner had come out, and was trading them something in a white package for a wad of cash.

"Oh, shit," Richie said. He'd walked right into the middle of a drug buy between crooked cops and a pusher.

"Walk away, kid," the larger cop warned Richie, his eyes dark and unreadable. "This doesn't concern you."

Richie backed away with his hands up. "No problem. I'm history."

He nearly tripped over Reinhardt, who came barreling through the kitchen with his gun in hand.

"Drop it!" the second cop yelled, going for his own gun, but before either patrolman could draw, Reinhardt dashed forward and landed a roundhouse punch and sidekick that dropped both men to the pavement, groaning or unconscious. The drug supplier tried to flee, but Reinhardt caught his ankle and jerked him to a crash on the asphalt. The whole evolution took less than ten seconds. Reinhardt snatched a pair of handcuffs from one of the cop's utility belts and with swift, deft moves he handcuffed all three together through the door handle. He scooped up the bag of heroin, ripped it with his teeth, and sprinkled it over the three men.

"Try explaining that to your boss," he grinned maliciously. "Don't thank me, I'm just doing my civic duty. You should be ashamed of yourselves, such a disgrace to your shields."

With that he snagged an astonished Richie by the arm and escorted him towards the Mercedes. Richie realized that Duncan was definitely outmatched - Reinhardt was a lunatic. Reinhardt took the wheel of the car and drove carefully out of the parking lot. Once safely away, he started laughing.

"I should have been a policeman," he said, delighted with his own actions. "Well, maybe in my next life. People have no respect for law and order these days."

Richie couldn't stop shaking. His plan had failed, Reinhardt had foiled drug dealers, and Duncan was going to get killed. Reinhardt swung the Mercedes into an alley six blocks from the diner, and motioned Richie out of the car with the gun.

Richie knew he was going to die. He saw the pistol pointed towards him, the silencer adding to the length of the barrel, and despite his vow to die like a man he found himself backing up against the brick wall. Slimy garbage crushed beneath his new leather shoes. "Hey, look, you want to be a cop, you probably don't want to kill me, right?"

"Wrong," Reinhardt said. "I told you what would happen if you tried to play hero."

Richie opened his mouth to yell for help but the gun crashed down against his head in a fast blur, choking off his voice and sending him tumbling against the wall in agony. His skull felt broken open like a cracking egg, and white hot pain sent waves of fear rippling through his entire body. Reinhardt followed up with a savage kick to his stomach that drove away all of his air and made him curl into a loose, hurting ball.

"Get up," Reinhardt said ruthlessly, dragging him upright by a fistful of hair, and he threw Richie against the hood of the Mercedes. Richie's world dimmed and rotated, almost fading away, as Reinhardt twisted his hands behind his back and roped his wrists tightly. He knew he was going to vomit or faint, but neither happened.

"You're lucky I still need you," Reinhardt hissed, and something jammed between Richie's teeth and tied tightly behind his head. Off-balance and stumbling, his stomach on fire and head spinning, he was dragged back to the passenger seat and shoved in place. Reinhardt took his place at the steering wheel. Richie gasped where he was, his body a riot of pain and color, fear still making him cold and confused. Reinhardt could have easily killed him, he knew. He would, next time.

Reinhardt pulled the cellular phone out and loosened Richie's gag so that it fell around his neck. Richie spat out the foul taste of sweat and oil. Reinhardt shoved the muzzle of the gun under his chin. "Remember, tell MacLeod Rebecca has you. Meet a nine a.m. or she'll kill you."

The clock had already turned past midnight. Richie guessed that Reinhardt wanted to make Duncan worry all night, and wondered how he was going to spend another nine hours with this lunatic. The phone in the antique store rang a few times, and then Duncan picked up. Richie could have wept with relief and worry, but managed to keep his voice somewhat steady.

"Is that you, Mr. MacLeod?" he asked. "I've been calling you for hours."

"What - Richie?" Duncan asked.

Richie licked at his dry lips. "Yes it is, Mr. MacLeod."

Duncan's voice came slowly back to him "Tessa had an accident. I had the phone off for awhile, I didn't want to disturb her. Are you okay?"

Richie kept his eyes off Reinhardt. "Rebecca's got me. She wants you to meet her at nine a.m sharp. I'm dead if you don't come."

Silence on the line. Then Duncan said, "I understand," and Reinhardt disconnected the call.

"Good work," Reinhardt said. "You might live until tomorrow after all."

Richie bit back on a scathing reply. He slumped back, trying to ignore the growing ache in his pinned arms. Reinhardt left the gag off and drove them across town and up three freeway exits to a posh neighborhood of estates and carriage houses. They pulled onto a fire road and Reinhardt killed the engine.

"What now?" Richie dared to ask.

"We wait," Reinhardt said. "Just relax, Richie. The hard part is over."

No, the hard part was just beginning. Reinhardt thumbed the windows partially down with a touch of the controls, allowing some fresh air, but Richie could feel sweat staining his underarms, lower back, and thighs. His stomach still felt tight and queasy from Reinhardt's kick, and he had a flaring headache that started from a very sore spot on the left side of his skull. Getting comfortable was out of the question, and all he could see were eight and half more hours of pain and boredom.

Reinhardt didn't look bored. He turned on the radio low to an all- news channel and settled back patiently. The night outside the windshield was pitch dark, leaves and branches rustling slightly in the breeze, stars barely visible above the trees. Richie never knew crickets could sound so loud, and hoped that strange croaking noises were frogs and not some weird flying insects or something out of the Sunday afternoon creature feature movie.

"What do you think of MacLeod?" Reinhardt asked suddenly, giving Richie a jolt.

"He's a great guy," Richie said defiantly. Not that he'd ever told Mac that. In his experience, it wasn't something guys told each other. "What's your beef with him?"

"None of your business. You did research on me at the public library, didn't you? What do you think of me?"

Richie hesitated, but decided to tell Reinhardt the truth. "You make Donald Trump look like a prince."

Reinhardt actually laughed. "Donald Trump... now there's a man who has no staying power whatsoever. In a few years, people will barely remember his name. As for myself, however - "

"People think you're dead. That's not much of a reputation."

"People have thought I was dead before," Reinhardt said, looking pleased with himself. Richie wanted to wipe that smirk away. He was sorely tempted to say he knew all about Immortals, but refrained.

Reinhardt fell silent, and Richie did too. He tried to entertain himself with visions of Duncan taking this asshole's head, but he was scared Duncan might not be good enough. He wondered what accident Tessa had sustained at the store - she'd probably cut herself in the kitchen again. For someone who worked with large, sharp pieces of metal for sculpting, she could be a klutz slicing and dicing vegetables. He tried counting how many hours he'd been awake, and came out with a depressing number. If the world had followed its proper course, he'd be in bed now, dreaming of Kathy Ireland and the money he should have earned on this sale.

His shoulders burned and he shifted, trying to ease some of the aches. Reinhardt ignored him. Richie stared out the window, listened to the crickets, thought about Rebecca, wondered about Tessa. He decided he was going to quit his job at the dealership, changed his mind, changed it back again. He listened to the news when Reinhardt played it for a few minutes at a time, but heard nothing about the cops back at the diner. They'd had their own keys, and had probably freed themselves before anyone found them. He had to go the bathroom again, but gritted his teeth against asking for as long as possible. When he finally had to ask, Reinhardt toyed with idea for a little while, obviously enjoying himself.

"I don't know," he said. "You said that last time, and just ended up causing trouble."

Richie hated Reinhardt. Swallowing what little pride he could claim to have left after the night, he said, "You want me to beg, don't you?"

"It might be entertaining," Rhinehardt smiled.

"Go screw yourself."

"Not very nice, Richie," Reinhardt said.

Richie wasn't going to beg. He'd soil himself first. Before he had to, though, Reinhardt decided to go himself, and then untied Richie long enough to let him attend to the business at hand. He retied him immediately afterward, somewhat looser than before, so that at least Richie's arms no longer tingled with impaired circulation.

Towards dawn he might have slept, or at least slipped into a half- sleep where the diner and car dealership played over and over in his head. Richie woke with a jerk to find Reinhardt tightening the gag around his head again. Morning light played through the windshield, dazzling his eyes for a minute.

"Showtime," Reinhardt said. "Your hero's car just turned up the street."

Richie was confused for a moment. His head still ached, and he couldn't figure out why his arms wouldn't move. Reinhardt drove the car a short distance up a stone drive and parked behind a large country house. He left Richie bound and gagged in the car while he went off to fight the Highlander. His head clearer now, Richie began struggling immediately to free the ropes on his wrists and was still twisting when the sky to the east broke open with zaps of lightning. The power lines running to the roof sparked and snapped free, and one landed dangerously close to the Mercedes.

Richie slumped back. He didn't need anyone to tell him a head had been cut loose. If it was Reinhardt, Richie's fate was sealed. He tried to dredge up the energy fight the ropes again, but then froze as a figure emerged from the bushes.

Duncan.

Richie sighed, but was too relieved to say anything as Duncan came to the car, opened the door, and pulled the gag free. "You okay?" the Highlander asked.

"Yeah," Richie said hoarsely. "What about Reinhardt?"

"Dead."

Richie nodded. Well, the bastard had deserved it. He leaned forward and let Duncan pull the knots free. When Richie tried to stand, the world spun out beneath his feet and Duncan had to steady him.

"No, it's okay," Richie said at Duncan's anxious look. "I'm just a little stiff."

"I have to go check on Rebecca," Duncan said. "Reinhardt hit her pretty hard. Stay here, and I'll come back for you."

Richie nodded. After Duncan left, he took a few deep breaths and stretched the tight muscles in his legs and arms. He went in search of Duncan a few minutes later, and found him on the back lawn with the gorgeous Rebecca Lord. Duncan saw him and smiled ruefully with a look Richie knew too well - the look that said he never did as told, and was going to pay for it one day.

Richie smiled back. Now that it was over, he was looking forward to kicking Reinhardt's body in the groin and getting at least twelve hours of sleep. Giddy with relief, he crossed to Duncan and said, "Thank you, *Mister* MacLeod."

Duncan laughed and rubbed at his eyes wearily. "Glad to see you remembered your manners."

Tired as he was, Richie didn't need closed-captioned labels to see some serious talking was going on between Duncan and Rebecca. He said, "I'll catch up with you later, okay?"

Duncan gave him a grateful look.

Richie went in search of Reinhardt's body. Finding it brought only rising bile, not satisfaction. He tried to reconcile the idea that this headless corpse was the same man who'd sat in the car with him all night, and thought he'd better leave before he got sick. On the way back to the antique store in the Mercedes - he'd return it later, screw his boss if he complained - he thought the whole night through again, and realized what a wonderful story it made. He'd spent a night with a murderer and lived to tell the tale. By the time he burst through the front door he was pumped with a second wind of adrenaline that was probably brought on by exhaustion, if he'd stopped to consider it for a moment.

"Tessa? Hey, Tessa, I'm home! And do I have a story for you!"

He found her on the sofa, wrapped in her favorite pink kimono and curled up beneath a white afghan. She blinked up at him in disorientation. "What? Richie?" She sat up with a grimace. "Are you okay?"

"Fine! Wonderful!" Richie said. He sat on the coffee table to talk to her, stood up and paced, returned to the table again. "You won't believe what happened to me last night - Walter Reinhardt, what an asshole - "

"Richie," Tessa interrupted, "Where's Duncan? Is he okay?"

"Okay? He's fantastic! Took care of Reinhardt, no problem."

"Good," Tessa said. She sat back on the sofa, her eyes closing wearily. For the first he noticed that her face was unnaturally pale, and white lines of pain ran around her mouth. He looked at her fingers, but saw no bandages. His enthusiasm turned to concern.

"Tessa, you okay? Mac said you had an accident."

"Reinhardt," Tessa said in a faint voice. "He sent a dress that I tried on . . but it had some chemical in it . . . burned my skin."

Richie gently grasped her right hand and smoothed the kimono upward. Her skin had crisped to a bright red, as if she'd sat in the sun two hours too long. He suddenly felt ashamed of himself for barging in like he'd just won the World Series.

"Oh, Tess, I'm sorry," he said. "I can't believe he did that to you."

Tessa gave a faint, humorless laugh. "My fault. Never accept anonymous gifts."

"You should be in bed," Richie decided. "Come on, let me help you."

He got her to bed and eased her beneath the soft covers. She looked terribly fragile, and for a moment he faced the dizzying fear that Reinhardt could have killed her, ripped her out of his and Duncan's lives. It was too terrible a thought to dwell on. She'd soothed him before when he'd been hurt, and he tried to remember how to return the favor. "Can I get you anything? Water? Are you hungry?"

"I just want to lie here," she said softly.

Richie turned off the bedroom light. "Okay, go to sleep."

"No," she said, reaching for his hand. "Richie, please stay. I don't want to be alone. Stay with me until Duncan comes home."

"Always filling in for MacLeod," he grumbled good-naturedly, bringing a real if small smile to her lips. "Okay," he said. "I'll stay." She studied his face. "You're tired, too. Lay down here. Mac won't mind."

"Yeah, right," Richie snorted, but she insisted, and he stretched out on the bed beside her, careful to stay above the sheets and away from her burnt skin. They held hands, comforting each other silently, and just when he thought Tessa was asleep she murmured, "Did Reinhardt hurt you?"

"No," Richie said.

"What happened?"

"Nothing. He just pulled a gun and we sat around all night, playing cards and waiting for Duncan." Richie turned to look at her. She was staring at him, apparently trying to gauge the truth. "Honest, Tess. That's all. He was terrible at poker. I won a Mercedes from him."

Tessa smiled and slid to sleep. He watched closely, reassured by her steady breathing, and marveled at laying in Duncan's bed with her. Hopefully Mac wouldn't kick him out the minute he came home. Richie yawned and let his eyes close, deciding that what had happened during the night would stay with him and the headless Walter Reinhardt. He didn't need their sympathy or praise - it was enough that he had survived, and Duncan had kept his head, and Tessa would be okay.

After all, he could always be a hero some other time.

THE END