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Adapted from screenplays by Gregory Widen, Larry Ferguson, Peter Bellwood, and Brad Mirman.
Prologue: Ashes
Sirens screamed into the air around Hudson Street as the fire truck converged on Nash Antiques. The truck stopped in front of the blazing inferno, and the firefighters prepared their hoses while the police moved in to hold back the crowds. At the front of the crowd stood Rachel Ellenstein, with tears in her eyes and a silver picture frame in her hands. She moved back into the crowd as cascades of sparks flew forward from the splitting beams of the old building. The crowd expanded back across the street, encompassing police cars and anything else at ground level. The gawkers did not stop there: windows from all floors across the street were open to allow for a bit of voyeurism from the curious. On one of the nearby rooftops, yet more viewers of the blaze watched with morbid interest as the antique shop across the street began to implode in flames before them. Some of them cheered on the fire, while others let out prayers or wails of lament. Only one figure stood silent and stony among them: a man who appeared to be in his early thirties, wearing a light tan trench coat. If he had been down at the scene, someone might have recognized him as the owner of the shop, Russell Nash. But this was not the first time he had seen his home in flames. The last time, nearly 470 years ago, he was known as—
--Connor MacLeod watched the straw go up in flames before him. The home that had been his…and Heather’s…was his no more. His wife’s grave rested behind him, marked only by his clan claymore. The soft crackling of the fire offered him a mild touch of relief in its finality.
“Farewell, my bonnie Heather,” Connor whispered softly in his Scottish brogue. He looked down at the sword in his hand: a priceless dragon-hilted katana that represented for its original owner a love who was even more priceless to him. Connor addressed the inherited blade as if it were his old friend Ramirez himself: “You were right, Haggis. There will never be another.” His eyes returned to the blaze—
--And the fire blazed on above the cobblestone street as the crowds continued to watch the firefighters at work. Lieutenant Moran watched the fire alongside the crowd, too distracted to see forensics expert Brenda Wyatt hiding herself in plain sight several yards away. The anonymity of the crowd allowed her to see the end of Russell Nash’s world without worrying that her co-workers in the department would spot her. As the façade of the building fell away to expose the interior of Nash’s loft, she thought she could see the bed she had stayed in only one night earlier—
--Russell and Brenda shared the bed together. She looked into his centuries-old eyes with fearful excitement.
“I’ve got a million questions,” she said. “I don’t know what to ask first.
“I have all the time in the world,” he replied with a sparkle in those eyes.
Brenda tried to think of a worthwhile first question. “You were with Napoleon at Waterloo.” As Russell nodded, she inquired, “What was he like?”
Russell chuckled and replied, “Short. French. Wore his hat sideways.” He gently changed the subject before she could continue her game of Seven Degrees of Immortal Separation by retrieving his katana from the floor and placing it on the bed before her. “This was forged in 593 B.C. Metal folded over 200 times. ‘Like finding a 747 a thousand years before the Wright Brothers ever flew,’ right?”
Brenda eyed it with awe. She knew it existed, of course. This bizarre relic had led her on this journey in the first place. But to see it in person… Russell enjoyed her amazement. She couldn’t resist any longer. She ran her fingers over the blade and felt a chill. Reality hit her like a bolt. She was alone with an immortal, holding a sword forged half a century before Christ.
“This belonged to Ramirez?” she finally uttered. As Russell confirmed her statement, she continued, “How many men have you killed with this?”
“Too many,” he responded with a slight undercurrent of grief. “They’re all gone.”
Realizing that she had brought up a painful subject, she turned her attention to a silver-framed photo of Russell with a twelve-year-old girl on a nearby nightstand.
“Is this your daughter?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied simply.
“What’s her name?” Brenda requested, hoping not to trigger any more painful memories with her curiosity.
“Rachel,” Russell responded.
Brenda frowned for a moment, then slowly realized who he meant. She gestured down toward the first floor, approximating where Russell’s secretary sat. “You mean that Rachel?”
“Yes,” Russell said, nodding. “She was an orphan. I can’t have children. I adopted her.” He drolly added, “Over the years, our relationship has gone through quite a few changes.”
“She’s old enough to be your mother,” Brenda noted.
Russell laughed again. “Sometimes she thinks she is.” He took the picture frame in hand--
--But now it was firmly in Rachel Ellenstein’s hand as she watched another home burn, just as she had as a child in the war. Moran suddenly noticed her and walked past the TV crews filming the blaze to take her arm and offer his condolences.
“I’m sorry,” the gray-haired lieutenant said. “We couldn’t get him out.”
Rachel solemnly replied, “I know.”
Moran eyed her and continued, “The head-hunter got another one tonight.”
Rachel responded anxiously, “What was his name?”
“Some guy named Kruger.”
For a brief moment, Rachel closed her eyes in relief, now knowing that MacLeod had won.
Moran’s curiosity was piqued. “Why do you ask, Miss Ellenstein?”
“You can call me Rachel if you want,” she said with an unexpected smile.
“Rachel’s a nice name,” Moran said, returning the smile. His eyes diverted to the photo frame in her hand. “What’s that?” When she showed it to him, he audibly identified the man in the photo: “Nash.” As Rachel nodded, he asked, “Who’s the pretty girl?”
Rachel smiled again and said, “Would you like to get some coffee?”
Puzzled, Moran looked at the photo, then at her. Rachel took his arm this time and walked him off down the street as the inferno slowly subsided behind them.
Prologue: Ashes
Sirens screamed into the air around Hudson Street as the fire truck converged on Nash Antiques. The truck stopped in front of the blazing inferno, and the firefighters prepared their hoses while the police moved in to hold back the crowds. At the front of the crowd stood Rachel Ellenstein, with tears in her eyes and a silver picture frame in her hands. She moved back into the crowd as cascades of sparks flew forward from the splitting beams of the old building. The crowd expanded back across the street, encompassing police cars and anything else at ground level. The gawkers did not stop there: windows from all floors across the street were open to allow for a bit of voyeurism from the curious. On one of the nearby rooftops, yet more viewers of the blaze watched with morbid interest as the antique shop across the street began to implode in flames before them. Some of them cheered on the fire, while others let out prayers or wails of lament. Only one figure stood silent and stony among them: a man who appeared to be in his early thirties, wearing a light tan trench coat. If he had been down at the scene, someone might have recognized him as the owner of the shop, Russell Nash. But this was not the first time he had seen his home in flames. The last time, nearly 470 years ago, he was known as—
--Connor MacLeod watched the straw go up in flames before him. The home that had been his…and Heather’s…was his no more. His wife’s grave rested behind him, marked only by his clan claymore. The soft crackling of the fire offered him a mild touch of relief in its finality.
“Farewell, my bonnie Heather,” Connor whispered softly in his Scottish brogue. He looked down at the sword in his hand: a priceless dragon-hilted katana that represented for its original owner a love who was even more priceless to him. Connor addressed the inherited blade as if it were his old friend Ramirez himself: “You were right, Haggis. There will never be another.” His eyes returned to the blaze—
--And the fire blazed on above the cobblestone street as the crowds continued to watch the firefighters at work. Lieutenant Moran watched the fire alongside the crowd, too distracted to see forensics expert Brenda Wyatt hiding herself in plain sight several yards away. The anonymity of the crowd allowed her to see the end of Russell Nash’s world without worrying that her co-workers in the department would spot her. As the façade of the building fell away to expose the interior of Nash’s loft, she thought she could see the bed she had stayed in only one night earlier—
--Russell and Brenda shared the bed together. She looked into his centuries-old eyes with fearful excitement.
“I’ve got a million questions,” she said. “I don’t know what to ask first.
“I have all the time in the world,” he replied with a sparkle in those eyes.
Brenda tried to think of a worthwhile first question. “You were with Napoleon at Waterloo.” As Russell nodded, she inquired, “What was he like?”
Russell chuckled and replied, “Short. French. Wore his hat sideways.” He gently changed the subject before she could continue her game of Seven Degrees of Immortal Separation by retrieving his katana from the floor and placing it on the bed before her. “This was forged in 593 B.C. Metal folded over 200 times. ‘Like finding a 747 a thousand years before the Wright Brothers ever flew,’ right?”
Brenda eyed it with awe. She knew it existed, of course. This bizarre relic had led her on this journey in the first place. But to see it in person… Russell enjoyed her amazement. She couldn’t resist any longer. She ran her fingers over the blade and felt a chill. Reality hit her like a bolt. She was alone with an immortal, holding a sword forged half a century before Christ.
“This belonged to Ramirez?” she finally uttered. As Russell confirmed her statement, she continued, “How many men have you killed with this?”
“Too many,” he responded with a slight undercurrent of grief. “They’re all gone.”
Realizing that she had brought up a painful subject, she turned her attention to a silver-framed photo of Russell with a twelve-year-old girl on a nearby nightstand.
“Is this your daughter?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied simply.
“What’s her name?” Brenda requested, hoping not to trigger any more painful memories with her curiosity.
“Rachel,” Russell responded.
Brenda frowned for a moment, then slowly realized who he meant. She gestured down toward the first floor, approximating where Russell’s secretary sat. “You mean that Rachel?”
“Yes,” Russell said, nodding. “She was an orphan. I can’t have children. I adopted her.” He drolly added, “Over the years, our relationship has gone through quite a few changes.”
“She’s old enough to be your mother,” Brenda noted.
Russell laughed again. “Sometimes she thinks she is.” He took the picture frame in hand--
--But now it was firmly in Rachel Ellenstein’s hand as she watched another home burn, just as she had as a child in the war. Moran suddenly noticed her and walked past the TV crews filming the blaze to take her arm and offer his condolences.
“I’m sorry,” the gray-haired lieutenant said. “We couldn’t get him out.”
Rachel solemnly replied, “I know.”
Moran eyed her and continued, “The head-hunter got another one tonight.”
Rachel responded anxiously, “What was his name?”
“Some guy named Kruger.”
For a brief moment, Rachel closed her eyes in relief, now knowing that MacLeod had won.
Moran’s curiosity was piqued. “Why do you ask, Miss Ellenstein?”
“You can call me Rachel if you want,” she said with an unexpected smile.
“Rachel’s a nice name,” Moran said, returning the smile. His eyes diverted to the photo frame in her hand. “What’s that?” When she showed it to him, he audibly identified the man in the photo: “Nash.” As Rachel nodded, he asked, “Who’s the pretty girl?”
Rachel smiled again and said, “Would you like to get some coffee?”
Puzzled, Moran looked at the photo, then at her. Rachel took his arm this time and walked him off down the street as the inferno slowly subsided behind them.
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