Highlander(TM): Shadow of Obsession

by Rebecca Neason

Genres: Sci-fi Action & Adventure

Synopsis

One of the age-old race of Immortals, Duncan MacLeod has tried to turn his back on tradition & live his life as a mortal. But as the time of the gathering draws near, when the last Immortals will fight to the last, he finds himself being drawn to battle.

Release date: September 26, 2009

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 240

Sample

Four hundred years after his birth, Duncan MacLeod was still the chieftain’s son; four hundred years and he was still bound
by honor and duty to answer a call for help—if the cause be worthy.


And this cause certainly was.

The hot desert winds of Sudan felt like gritty fingers scratching across MacLeod’s face as he motioned his companions into
the shadows. It was not much farther to their destination, but if distance was measured in safety, they still had miles to
go.


The country of Sudan was the quintessential Africa, at least to the movie-fed Western mind. The largest country in Africa,
it had wide vegetation belts, alluvial plains and areas of high mountains bordering vast arid expanses. All the wildlife that
came quickly to mind when the “dark continent” was mentioned—lion, cheetah, rhino, elephant, gazelle—could be found within
Sudan’s borders. And it was hot. There were few places in Sudan that could not reach one hundred degrees at any time of the
year.


But what might once have been a beautiful country, ancient in its glory and its wildness, was now a land that had been torn
apart by famine and civil wars—and lately by something much, much worse.


Jihad.


Duncan MacLeod had long ago recognized the word—often translated as “holy war”—for what it was: Obsession. Under the blanket of jihad, countless atrocities were sanctioned for religious, cultural, or racial purities. And it was not a thing of centuries past,
or even decades. It was happening now. Here.


In 1956, British rule had ended in Sudan, and for the next twenty-five years various factions vied for power. Then, in 1982,
a somewhat stable government had been established, but those who now ran the country owed their allegiance farther north—to
the heart of Islam. Fundamental Muslims, they had slowly repealed all laws and statutes of religious tolerance, dividing the
country into a Muslim north whose Islamic influences had filtered down through Egypt, and the “black, south,” where Christian
missionaries and followers of the ancient African religions had been able to live in relative safety.


Until recently. Now, under unspoken governmental support, Muslim raiders were pushing their presence farther and farther south
and all semblance of safety was disappearing. Atrocities were mounting daily. Non-Muslim men were put to death, whether lay
people, missionaries, or clergy. The lucky ones were killed outright; some were shot or beheaded, others were crucified as
their captors jeered retort to their professed faith. The unlucky ones were imprisoned, starved and tortured first.


For the women and children, concubinage and slavery to Muslim masters awaited. In the past decade, over three hundred thousand
followers of the Christian faith had been killed and the slave trade, which had been quietly internal, was now more boldly
setting up external routes to other Muslim-dominated countries.


Many relief organizations, some of them religious, others of non-affiliated origins like Amnesty International and the United
Nations, were doing all they could. But it was not enough, and the jihad continued.


One such organization was led by Victor Paulus. He had come to the country bringing food and medical supplies; he had stayed
to help establish a series of “safe houses,” a network reminiscent of the Underground Railroad of America’s Civil War era,
to try and get those in danger out of the country.


Duncan MacLeod had long been an anonymous supporter of Paulus’s organization and as such he received regular reports on the
foundation’s efforts around the world. He followed the work of Darius’s protégé with admiration. When news reached MacLeod
of Paulus’s work in Sudan and the reason for it, MacLeod felt compelled to help.


Now, slowly, he ventured from the shadows in which he and his companions were hiding, inching forward until he could see around
the corner of the low, sand-brick building. The street was empty—for now. But that did not fill MacLeod with a sense of security.
Gone were the days when raids were accomplished from horseback, with swords and war cries as weapons. Today, it was Ouzies
and automobiles, and the enemy could strike from a great distance and without warning.


MacLeod, the Immortal, was safe from permanent damage, and it was not for himself he worried. His companions were five nuns
who had run an orphanage in a small village twelve miles north and the eight children who were currently in their care.


So far, thanks largely to the skills MacLeod had acquired in the last four centuries, they were unharmed. But they still had
to make it to the other end of the village, where Victor Paulus—and escape—were waiting.


MacLeod had been here for almost two months; Paulus, he knew, had been here for nearly six. MacLeod admired the mortal’s stamina
and his dedication. Now their funding and supplies were almost gone. MacLeod would be traveling with this group of refugees,
taking them to the relative safety of Zaire, where they would either continue their mission work or go on to less dangerous
fields in accordance with the decision of their order. MacLeod himself would be returning to the States. He planned to spend
the next weeks using his many contacts to raise money and get whatever help he could for the rescue efforts here.


Victor Paulus would be following a few days after MacLeod with much the same purpose—and MacLeod knew Paulus would be successful
on a much larger scale. The work here in Sudan would continue in his absence, and Victor’s presence in the States would make
certain the media attention would get the news out. There were already a series of meetings with the representatives of several
world relief organizations and a public rally, the first of many, was scheduled to take place in Seacouver a week from today.


The road in front of MacLeod remained quiet. Almost too quiet, he thought, listening to his instincts, the internal warning system that had been well-honed by centuries of use. This village,
too small to be even a name on a map, had once been a point of safety in the long trek south. But that had changed. Before
he left Sudan, MacLeod would make certain that Victor Paulus and his people moved their headquarters farther south, though
they would begrudge every inch they had to yield to raiders, oppressors, and terrorists.


Still it would do no one any good if Paulus or the members of his small rescue team were captured. For MacLeod, it was easier
to pass unnoticed. Over the last two months his skin had darkened with exposure to the sun, and his familiarity with Middle
Eastern languages and customs, including those of Islam, helped him move more freely about the countryside.


He would use that advantage now, he decided. Taking a deep breath, MacLeod stepped boldly out from the shadows. He walked
down the road, forcing his muscles to stay relaxed, while his eyes darted left and right. The village remained quiet; not
even a dog barked.


I dan’t like this, he thought. I don ‘t like this at all. If the people of the village had gone into hiding like this, they must know something that MacLeod had not heard.


He casually turned the corner of another building that was little more than a hut made out of the same sand-brick used in
constructing all the buildings in this part of the country. Once around the corner, he quickly slipped again into the shadows
and turned back toward where his charges were hiding.


The shadows were deep with the bright sun and he kept to them, trying to ignore the breathless heat of the afternoon that
wanted to sap his muscles of their strength and turn his mind to fog. On another day, he might have looked for a place where
the refugees could wait until evening dropped a veil of darkness over their movements. But MacLeod’s instincts whispered again
and he knew they must move on.


Sister Mary Patrick inched forward to whisper in his ear. “How much longer must we travel, Mr. MacLeod?” she asked. Even her
whisper was husky with her heat-dried throat. “The children are very tired.”


“I know,” MacLeod agreed. His gaze swept back across the little group, their sad, frightened eyes making small patches of
brightness in the shadows, the soft darkness hiding the worst of their weariness. “It’s not much farther.”


He wished he could tell them that their travels were over and that as soon as they reached the safe house they would be able
to rest for a few days before moving on. But he had a feeling that “safe house” had become a misnomer.


Still, they had to get moving, and they had to move now. “Keep the children together and stay close,” he whispered, once more
turning his attention to the street.


MacLeod counted to ten as he carefully watched the scene before him. Then he gave a small signal. Herding the children like
errant chicks, the nuns broke from their hiding place and dashed across the road. MacLeod followed them, hoping to keep his
body between them and any possible danger.


They made it across the road and into the shadows again, then began working their way around the low houses to the next road
they must cross. They repeated the process three more times before MacLeod heard it—the sound of an automobile. It was still
distant, but in the afternoon stillness its noise was as unmistakable as an elephant’s trumpet.


And they were still several minutes away from the house where Victor Paulus awaited them. The time for stealth was past.

“Keep as close to the buildings as possible,” MacLeod told the nuns, “but run. Now.”

They moved out. MacLeod went with them, sometimes running ahead and checking the route, sometimes letting them pass him while
he made certain they were not yet being followed. All the while, he was listening to the growing rumble of automobiles in
the distance.


Finally, the safe house was only a few yards away. Duncan darted ahead to open the door and get his charges inside, but Victor
Paulus was already waiting. Before Duncan could reach the door, it flew open and Victor stood ready to usher the women and
children inside.


“They’re coming,” MacLeod said as he stepped past the other man and into the dim room. He left Victor to the work behind him,
as he quickly crossed to the table in the center of the floor and began to pull it aside. Other hands joined his and he glanced
up with a smile of acknowledgment to the two other workers in the cause.


One was a young man named Azziz, a native Sudanese and a recent convert from Islam whose knowledge and guidance had been invaluable
in their efforts. The other was Cynthia VanDervane, Victor Paulus’s fiancee. With her long blond hair, blue eyes, and fair
skin, she would be a prime target for the raiders sweeping through the village, a prize on the market of slavery and concubinage.


She would have to hide with the others; MacLeod hoped he could convince Victor Paulus to hide himself as well.

This house had been chosen largely because of its wooden floor, which was moderately uncommon in this part of the world, a
sign of the previous owner’s affluence. In that floor, a trap door had been cut and below, a room dug into the ground. It
was not a basement by any means, but it was a hole large enough to contain several people. Its presence had already saved
lives; MacLeod hoped it would do so again today.


The table was moved and the rug beneath pulled up as the nuns and the children scurried through the door. MacLeod began waving
them down. Sister Mary Patrick went first as Cynthia and Azziz began to grab the children and lower them down. They worked
with silent, well-practiced precision. The only sounds were the scuffling of feet, the grumble of automobiles in the distance,
and the assurances the nuns were whispering to the children.


Sister Mary Patrick, Sister Raphael. Sister Elizabeth, Sister Teresa—MacLeod looked up. Victor was starting to close the door.

“Where is Sister Anne?” he asked sharply.

“I don’t see her,” Paulus replied, his voice just as tense.

MacLeod heard a sharp intake of breath from the other sisters below. “Oh, Jesus and Mary, protect her,” he heard one of them
whisper.


MacLeod took a step toward the door, but Victor Paulus was already out and running. MacLeod looked at his co-workers and saw
the concern on Azziz’s face, the determination on Cynthia’s, and he knew his next words would be unwelcome.


“You, too, Cynthia,” he said, motioning with his head toward the hole.

“No,” she answered. “Victor—”

“I’ll get Victor—you get inside. Don’t give him something else to worry about.”

“MacLeod, you know they can’t—”

“Inside,” he snapped, cutting her words off again. He knew what she was going to say; he knew what Victor and Azziz did not.

Cynthia VanDervane was Immortal.


As such, the physical threat to her was minimal compared to the dangers a mortal woman might face. But slavery and concubinage
were the same, regardless of mortality, and MacLeod was not willing to take the chance of that happening.


He looked at Azziz. The Sudanese man nodded. “Do not worry, MacLeod,” he said. “She will be hidden. You go.”

MacLeod darted one more warning look in Cynthia’s direction. Then he turned and rushed through the door, following Victor
Paulus with the hope of bringing both him and Sister Anne back—alive.




Victor Paulus dashed quickly across the road and into the shadow of the nearest building. He was not as experienced as MacLeod
nor, he knew, did he cut quite as dashing a figure. But in spite of his far less muscular build and the thick glasses that
gave him a bookish appearance, these last six months had awakened the hero that had always waited in Paulus’s soul.


It was true he had spent years traveling to war-torn areas of the globe, bringing famine relief and medical supplies. But
it was also true that he spent even more of his time at rallies and conferences, raising public awareness and support, dealing
with politicians and philanthropists, raising funding, and otherwise running the business of world relief.


Here in Sudan, his help was “hands-on” and immediate, and Victor Paulus found the experience quite extraordinary. It was not
that he was unafraid; fear was a companion he lived with every day and with whom he had become quite intimately familiar.
But each time it closed in upon him yet again, he reminded himself of the daily fears and dangers of the people he was here
to help. That gave him courage to continue his efforts.


Fear was a snake coiling now in the pit of his stomach as he wove his way around the low sun-baked buildings. He listened
to the growing rumble of automobiles in the distance, knowing that those automobiles canned men who wanted the death of himself
and all others like him. Almost frantically his eyes searched the shadows for the crouching figure of the missing nun. Intent
upon his mission, he did not hear MacLeod’s swift, balanced footfalls until the man was almost upon him.


Then he spun swiftly around. He knew his fear was obvious on his face, but he did not have time to mask it. Relief flooded
him when he recognized MacLeod. There was something about the man that inspired confidence, in him and in oneself, and Paulus
was glad that in these last two months of working together, their friendship had deepened. He could well understand why, despite
their differences, Darius had liked and trusted Duncan MacLeod.


A few seconds later, Duncan reached Paulus’s side. “I don’t see her and I’m not quite sure where to look,” Victor said, keeping
his voice low. It would make it much easier if he could just call Sister Anne’s name and wait for a reply, but he could not
take the chance of his voice carrying in the still, heated air.


“We came from that direction.” MacLeod pointed to his left.

The two men began to run, working with an instinctive precision as each of them checked down opposite sides of the path MacLeod
had traversed earlier. Still off in the distance—but oh, so much nearer—a sudden scream, a wail of anguish, rent the air.
The sound cut through Paulus as if someone had stabbed a knife into his heart. He could not think of what might be happening;
he must not let it distract him from his quest, though every muscle of his body, every corner of his soul, wanted to go with
comfort and aid to the assailed.


Finally, he caught a glimpse of white down one of the alleyways between buildings. It was so small he almost missed it, just
a little corner of fabric contrasting with the sand-colored houses around it. Not slowing his pace, Victor spun on his heel
and rushed in that new direction.


It was Sister Anne, huddled in a doorway, her body shielding two small children. Their dark eyes were round with terror at
the sound of his approaching footsteps. It took Sister Anne a few seconds to recognize him, and in those seconds Victor Paulus
saw the ferocious spirit beneath the nun’s gentle exterior. He knew that she would fight for the children, giving her life
for their safety if she must.


As recognition dawned, the ferocity died in her eyes and was replaced by intense relief. ‘Thank God you’re here,” she said.
“I heard these children crying and I had to find them.”


Paulus nodded; he would not have been able to leave them either. “Let’s get you all to safety,” he replied.

Sister Anne stood, speaking sofi reassurances to the children, who wanted to shrink away from the strange man in front of
them. Victor wished he had time to win their trust but right now, if they were to live, speed was all that mattered.


Crooning a few soft words of hit; own, Victor scooped one of the children, a little boy he guessed to be about age six, into
his arms. Then he turned in time to see Duncan MacLeod running toward him. Again, the sight filled Paulus with confidence.
With Duncan carrying one child, himself to carry the other, and Sister Anne free to run on her own, there just might be time
to get everyone well hiddcr before the raiders arrived at this end of the village.


“Here,” Victor said as he thrust the little boy into Duncan’s arms. He turned and picked up the other child, a girl. Without
further words, all three of the adults began to run.


There were more screams heard in the distance, anguished wails and angry, shouting voices. Gunshots. Victor glanced at Sister
Anne and saw her lips moving in silent prayer even as they ran. The shadows and stealth were less important than distance
now. They ran openly, hoping that no one in the neighboring buildings would point out their house in a bid for clemency—or
if they did, that the measures taken would be sufficient to keep the women and children from capture.


They could hear the automobiles’ rumble again as they reached the safe house. The nuns and their children were down in the
hiding hole, but Cynthia was not.


“She will not go,” Azziz said in answer to the unspoken question as he closed the door behind the new arrivals. Victor lowered
the little girl in his arms down into the opening and saw her quickly enfolded into loving and reassuring arms. Then he turned
to face Cynthia.


“No,” she said before he could speak. “I won’t leave you to face this danger alone.”

“You won’t have to,” MacLeod said behind him. “Victor is going down there, too.”

Paulus spun around, ready to protest, but one look at the expression on MacLeod’s face as he finished helping Sister Anne
to safety stopped the words in his mouth. It was not easy to argue with a man who looked like that.


Still, he knew he must try. Victor straightened his glasses in the automatic gesture he used so often when he was speaking
from a podium or in front of a large crowd. It was a gesture that gave him a few seconds’ respite to collect his words.


But after two months of working together, MacLeod must have recognized the gesture for what it was. Even as Victor was taking
a breath to begin his argument, MacLeod cut him off.


“There’s no other way,” MacLeod began. “If Cynthia won’t go down there without you, you go too.”

Paulus shook his head. “I won’t run out and leave the two of you.” His glance took in Azziz, who had crossed the room and
was standing impatiently ready to close the trap door in the floor and hide the evidence of the people below.


“Azziz and I will be fine,” MacLeod countered. “But you the raiders would kill instantly. You look Western. And there is Cynthia’s safety to think about. You two can help keep the children quiet. One sound could give everything
away.”


These were arguments against which Paulus had no answer. MacLeod was right; he did look Western—whether American or European,
it did not matter. MacLeod, having adopted native dress, could easily pass for someone of Middle Eastern descent, like so
many of the Muslim raiders.


Victor held out his hand to Cynthia. Wordlessly, she took it and together they went into hiding.

Moving quickly and in unison, MacLeod and Azziz lowered the trap door back into place and covered it with the rug. Over the
rug went a low table and two worn cushions on which to sit. While Azziz brought out some tea things and bits of food, MacLeod’s
eyes scanned the room for any evidence of occupation other than theirs. Satisfied that all was in order, he sat down on one
of the cushions. He and Azziz attempted to hide their nervousness beneath the mundane activity of a shared meal.


All the while, the noise of approaching automobiles grew closer.

“ ‘Thou shalt not fear the terror by night nor the arrow that flies by the. . .