Chapter 3

The last few days had passed deceptively quietly, Steve thought, as he washed the dishes after supper, but he had a feeling that this was just the calm before the storm. Mark, sensing his son's anxiety and not wishing to add to his stress, had meticulously followed all the security precautions set up for him without complaint, and, as he put it wryly to Amanda, no bombs, bullets or even banana skins had come his way. Steve ferried his father to and from work, varying the time and route without comment and keeping a vigilant watch at all times. He had installed a new, sophisticated alarm system which Mark secretly hated but endured with his usual good humour, hoping his son's over-protectiveness would abate if no further provocation was offered.

However, contrary to these hopes, Steve's concern was increasing, spiraling up in a slowly building storm of fear and fury, fueled by the rumours from the street. From several different sources now, too many to be a coincidence, he had heard the same distressing report - someone who hated his father with a passion had hired a hitman who was even now looking to fulfill his contract. Despite the pervasiveness of this rumour, no one had more specific details to offer. Only Fast Eddie had identified the potential assassin, and, as yet, there was no confirmation of Tremelo's presence in LA.

Johnny Tremelo was indeed a hitman who had worked initially for the mob before branching out into independent contracting. He was known to the police on the East Coast more by reputation than by first-hand acquaintance. He had never been arrested, and there were no photographs of him available except for one grainy picture taken by a cop on a stakeout. In it, his facial features were partly obscured and impossible to make out clearly, so apart from contributing the knowledge that he was white and of average build, it did little to help. Steve was still trying to find more information on his modus operandi and known associates.

The tenuous nature of the corroborating evidence left Steve very much on edge. Captain Newman, knowing the futility of trying to prevent him, had allowed him to follow up what leads there were in the case, and he did so with a single-minded intensity that left little room for such niceties as negotiation and cooperation. Cheryl had run interference for him whenever possible, both with the other officers in their department and with potential suspects. Steve was normally capable of maintaining his cool under the most strenuous and provoking of circumstances. Although certainly capable of meting out violence, it was always an appropriate and measured response to a situation - with one exception. The one thing guaranteed to break through his self-control was danger to his father. Such a threat, whether offered by a fellow policeman or a criminal, was met with an instant and heated reaction. He had barely restrained himself today from hitting a suspect who, in his opinion, had taken an unholy delight in his father's predicament.

"I think it's clean now." Mark's amused voice from behind him brought him back to his dish washing with a start, and he realized he had been cleaning the same plate for several minutes.

"You want to play a game of chess?" Mark suggested, eager to divert his son from his morose thoughts. Steve was looking exhausted, his face shadowed and taut, and Mark knew for a fact that he spent most of the night prowling the house, unable to sleep.

"You mean, do I want to get beaten in a game of chess," Steve commented wryly. "Why not, maybe I'll surprise you and actually last ten minutes."

This time, however, wasn't to be such an auspicious occasion; which was hardly surprising since Steve was so obviously distracted, and he soon tipped his king over in defeat. "Sorry, Dad," he apologized ruefully. "I guess I'm not in the mood."

Mark looked at his son in affectionate exasperation. "You can't keep pushing yourself like this," he remonstrated. He hated to see Steve so tense, and, after a brief hesitation, he made a genuine, if slightly reluctant, suggestion. "If you really want me to go away on vacation or something I'll try to organize it. I'll disappear for a while."

Steve looked up, startled. "Thanks, Dad. I really appreciate that," he said warmly. He understood what a sacrifice it was for his father to make that offer, and he also understood the motivation behind it. He wanted to accept, but found he couldn't inflict the isolation and boredom he knew it would entail on Mark without further proof of the need for such an ordeal. "I'll think about it," he promised, wanting to keep his options open.

He stood up and started pacing restlessly around the room, his pent-up energy needing some release. "Who would want you dead and why now?" It was mostly a rhetorical question, since they had covered this ground a multitude of times. There were no obvious candidates, no one recently released from jail swearing vengeance, no old enemies resurfacing.

Mark regarded his son thoughtfully, physically still, but his mind active, assessing categories of people who might harbor a grudge. "Maybe we've..." His sentence was never completed, as his train of thought was derailed by the kitchen window suddenly shattering in front of him. Before he had time to blink, a heavy weight slammed into him and bore him over backwards and he was on the floor behind the couch. Slightly stunned by the impact, it took him a minute to realise that Steve had tackled him to the ground and was now covering him as bullets peppered the wall above them.

Suddenly terrified that Steve had been hit, he tried to wiggle out from under the weight holding him down, but stopped, reassured, when Steve hissed in his ear, - "Stay down. Unless they have infra-red sights, which I doubt, they're shooting blind, probably trying to scare us out of the house and into the sights of another shooter waiting out front. Just hold still for now."

There was still eerily little sound, just little thuds and the occasional crash as something breakable was hit and Mark realised that the gun must be silenced. When the shooting seemed to pause for a minute, Steve pulled his father up and, still shielding him with his body, slipped them through the doorway and into the center of the house. Mark felt him flinch as the shots resumed, but he didn't have time to ask questions, as Steve quickly moved him into a cupboard under the stairs where they kept cleaning supplies.

"You alright?" Steve asked urgently. At his father's nod, he passed him the cellphone. "Call for backup and, whatever happens, sit tight. I mean it, Dad. The last thing I need is to shoot you by accident." He held his father's gaze for a minute, long enough to receive his assurance, then he was gone, closing the door behind him.

"Be careful," Mark whispered after him, his fingers already fumbling for the buttons. He placed the call in a calm, authoritative tone that nonetheless conveyed the urgency of the situation, then closed the connection, straining his ears to hear and interpret the events happening outside. The only sound distinguishable was that of the occasional breaking glass, from which Mark deduced that the silenced gun outside was still taking potshots. He prayed that none of them would find their mark in his son in the five minutes or so it would take for the LAPD to arrive.

Suddenly, a loud burst of gunfire split the silence, and Mark realised with horror that it was coming from the front of the house. Steve was caught between two lines of fire. Mark shut his eyes, desperation flooding through him, every muscle and sinew in his body yearning to go to his son's assistance. He was revolted by the notion of hiding in safety while Steve put his life at risk to protect him. As the seconds ticked by, the only things that held him in place were his promise to his son and the bitter knowledge that he was more of a liability in this situation than an asset. His presence would be a distraction, and Steve had to concentrate on his own survival now.