The Spinning
by Henry Wyckoff
A crossover between Highlander and The Sentinel
Fall 1998

Standard disclaimers apply



Chapter 2

Methos walked aimlessly down the streets, not really caring where he went. At the moment he didn't know where he was. It was the appearance of Latro, his unexpected meeting with the di'Annos, and meeting with Tutyr that had done it.

Headaches usually came in threes, he'd noticed.

He'd also noticed how his proximity to a certain Scotlander boy scout brought out the noble qualities in himself that he'd never known he could display. The thought of either confronting Latro or letting him go gave him the shudders.

"I thought I might find you out here."

Methos spun around and saw that it was none other than di'Anno. "Don't you know that sneaking up on people is bad for your health?"

Di'Anno grinned as he shrugged helplessly. "I also smoke cigars, no matter what the press says." Walking along with Methos, he whistled through his teeth for a moment. "You wanted to draw attention to yourself, and I'll say it worked. My eyes and ears are hearing about swordfights in the streets and guys in trenchcoats shrugging off bullets."

"An overstatement." Methos' smile was flat. "But it's over."

"I'd say. Hues is dead, we have a certain understanding with a police captain who shares your unique nature, and everyone else with your tattoo has cleared town. Not to mention that I have a certain spring in my step that I haven't had in years."

"You cut a deal with Banks."

He laughed. "Not like you have in mind. I just told him that my network can provide a certain protective cushion from Watchers who go rogue."

"And in the meantime, you take certain liberties of your own."

He shrugged, "It's a brutal world, and accidents happened." Di'Anno imitated a street punk; "'But officer, I swear I thought he was a Hunter! I didn't know he had a decal on his wrist with my fingerprints all over it!'"

"You're droll."

Di'Anno shrugged again. "What can I say? I've been having a good day." He winked at Methos. "But I'd say my wife isn't. I bet she got screwed a dozen times over at the party, but she's still got her eyes on you! Or I should say on your ass!"

Methos stared at di'Anno. "She's your wife!"

"We're just married. We don't own one another, and she likes it that way. Hell -- she wishes I'd get screwed with a dozen other women too, and she'd want to watch!"

"You have a bizarre relationship, to say the least."

"Hey -- it's different, you can't argue with that."

A short snicker. "So the coast is clear?"

"Not quite. There's still the matter of a German with a fake Latin name who has a habit of wearing a trenchcoat, violently reclaiming his property from the police lockup, and making scenes on the street. The cops are quite convinced he's a dangerous fruitcake . . . Mister Bean with a rather large axe and a hockey mask."

"What?"

"Sorry. Just a bad joke. It's Latro, and he's still in town. I figured you'd off him pretty quick."

"He made it pretty clear to me that there was nothing I could do that hadn't been done." The memory still gave even him the shudders. "What could I do?"

"Something much more permanent? He's a loose cannon."

"I know, but I figured he'd raise hell somewhere else."

"Sometimes we don't all get what we wish."

Methos thought for a few moments. "Did you hunt me down just to tell me about Latro?"

"Not quite. I thought we might have some coffee."

"I've had too much coffee these last few days. I need a beer."

"Perfect. Let's hop on over to Seacouver. I know just the place where everyone goes -- Joe's Place!"

* * *

Angela sipped the tea cautiously. Good. Nothing pulled her face back into the mug.

Blair was reading through a report that Jim had dropped off. Latro's file, based on what was available over the wire. "You won't believe this, Angela. You didn't see the man with your eyes even once, and you got his description down to the finest detail."

She didn't want to even think about it, but reluctantly accepted that Blair wasn't going to let this go. "What's so fascinating about a picture?"

"It's not just a picture. They're police files from . . . Bucharest, Santa Fe, some place in New Hampshire . . . hell, he's even got a file from Dublin. Seems he managed walk out of the rubble of a blast. Sole survivor among hundreds of people in a supermarket bombing. Apparently, he's a wanted fugitive."

"Why didn't Jim have him arrested?"

Blair looked at her from over his glasses. "An immortal? Arrested for doing the things they do? He'd have to be killing other immortals, since his victims didn't have official identities -- something immortals can't manage to fake at all."

"That's how I found the Captain."

Blair frowned. "Wait a moment. Only one man died from a beheading. The rest were killed through other means. They were mortal, because they died for good and their bodies didn't vanish from the morgue! Son of a bitch."

Angela stared at him. "So we have a real killer on our hands?"

"It looks like it." He noticed the look she suddenly got on her face.

"He's here."

"Huh? What are you talking about? Pierson ran him out of --"

"HE'S COMING UP THE STAIRS!" she screamed, frozen and staring at the door.

"Shh!" He pulled her to her feet. "Calm down. If he's really coming upstairs, we don't want to let him know we're here, right?" After working with Jim for a few years, he wasn't about to discount anything out of reflex yet. "Let's head over to the loft, where I have my handy gun, and we can wait and see what happens. All right?"

They made their way to the loft and waited in silence.

The door was kicked open, right on cue. Blair was startled by it, but had enough reflex to clamp a hand over Angela's mouth to muffle the scream.

Latro looked around the place. "I smell your perfume. Really fresh. I know you're here, so you might as well come out. You didn't really hide from me the first time, and you won't hide this time." He held out his hands. "Come on, Angel. All I want to do is talk! What's the harm in that?"

Total silence.

Latro plopped on the couch, taking a sip out of the tea that Angela had been drinking. "Hmm . . . Oolong. I'd say you had good taste, if it wasn't so trendy nowadays." He looked around. "I like the decor. Really artistic. Looks like being inside a museum. It even has its fakes. Lose the bust of the Feathered Serpent. I was there, you know, and I can tell you first off that the colors are all wrong."

Blair had to clamp down on his own mouth this time. He knew it was a fake, but kept it because he thought it looked cool. But for a lunatic to point this out was a but unexpected.

"Now an ivory carving from Africa . . . that totally clashes with the South American . . . " Latro's jaw dropped. "Stuff my throat with rancid Spam." The last was a whisper as he stared at the carving. "You're an unusual one, I'll say that much." He started looking for them now, opening doors and looking under furniture. "I really have to hand it to you. Nobody seems to have dug as deep as you have. Who warned you? Could it be that God actually talks to you?"

Blair and Angela were staring at each other by this point.

"FREEZE!" yelled a newcomer. It was Jim, standing in the doorway where the solid German wood hung by a single hinge. "I'm glad you came back -- you'll get to be introduced to the legal system through the back door, this time."

Latro shook his head. "Better luck booking a block of marble." He didn't seem at all concerned about Jim's gun and started to make his way up the loft. "Now, you're hiding an Angel, and I intend to find out the hiding place before I leave."

[thud]

Jim's shot bounced off the wall, an inch from Latro's head, and shattered the closest window.

Latro faced him, his expression bored and exhausted. "You can't stop me."

"Wanna bet?"

A bullet blasted through Latro's right shoulder. "Ouch!" He tried moving it, without much luck.

"There's more where that came from."

"So?"

"I just ruined your shoulder!"

"No you didn't."

"What was that then?"

Latro looked at his shoulder again, with curiosity. "It's just a minor scrape. I've had worse."

"Yeah, I bet."

"Look, cop, I don't want any trouble. I'm just here to find the Angel."

"There aren't any in the real world."

"Trust me here."

"I don't think so, you'd better lie on the ground if you know what's good for you."

"I know what's better for me than you do." He reached in his coat with his other hand, and found another bullet slicing through the left shoulder. "Ow! Can't you get something better than a .22?"

"Sorry. I didn't get my Magnum this morning."

"I'm also sending you the repair bill. The coat is only ten years old, and you had to blow a hole in each shoulder!"

"Get off the cross -- someone else needs the wood."

Latro's eyes blazed. Apparently that wasn't the right thing to say to him.


* * * *


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