Chapter 4
Steve crouched near the doorway to the kitchen, gun in hand, listening intently for further signs of attack. He was a veteran of many fire fights and, although the accompanying sensations were not feelings that he had become accustomed to, he had learnt how to make the adrenaline work for him, sharpening his senses and accelerating his reflexes. For now he waited, knowing time was on his side. The police would be here soon, and he was fairly certain he could hold the gunmen off for that short time or at least prevent them from finding his father. He literally had the home advantage. He could find his way around this house blindfolded; every nook, cranny and creaking board were known to him. He had flipped the breaker to turn off all the lights, but even if an intruder was equipped with night goggles, he believed he could still maneuver with more confidence and ability.
A bullet whizzed by his head, implanting itself in the wall with an unpleasant thwack, and Steve flattened himself nearer the ground. This proved to be a fortunate move since the shot was a prelude to a staccato burst of gunfire from an unsilenced gun positioned near the front of the house. "That'll wake the neighbors," Steve thought grimly, hoping none of them would be stupid enough to investigate the commotion. The noise almost camouflaged the tinkle of breaking glass from downstairs and he realised that someone had broken into his apartment. He waited for the tell-tale creak of the fifth stair to inform him they were ascending the stairs, then retreated to a safer position.
As he watched two figures move into the kitchen, a wave of cold fury surged through him at the thought of these men trying to kill his father in his own house. Anger swept away the last remnants of his hesitation. His eyes had become accustomed to the dark and he could just make out the goggles over the eyes of the intruders as they were silhouetted against the windows. Night vision was a considerable advantage for them, and he mentally revised his next move in this lethal cat and mouse game. His main objective was to lead them away from his father so he moved silently but swiftly upstairs, then deliberately trod heavily on a squeaky board to alert the men to his location. He moved to lie, gun outstretched ready in front of him, behind the doorway of the master bedroom. Only the most careful examination with the infra-red would reveal any part of him. He waited, not moving an inch, but feeling his heartbeat thud against the floorboards, seeming to reverberate through the very framework of the house. For a instant all was still, and for a sickening moment he feared that he had failed to entice the intruders to follow him and had left his father defenceless against them downstairs. He was getting ready to move when finally he sensed rather than saw shadows moving up the stairwell.
They cautiously advanced, the angle of the stairs bringing them up perpendicular to the door where Steve waited, thereby offering him maximum concealment.
"Police! Hold it...!" he shouted, ingrained training not allowing him to fire without first identifying himself as a police officer, but, as the semi-automatic weapon swung towards him, he squeezed off a shot. He knew instinctively that he had hit his mark and this was confirmed as one man fell backwards, but his companion's gun spat out a violent stream of bullets that would have cut Steve in half if he'd had stayed in the same place to receive them. As it was the bullets narrowly missed as he first rolled then, keeping low, ran into the joining bathroom and through it into a second bedroom on the other side, trusting the cacophony of the shots to mask what little sound he was making.
Within seconds he was back in another doorway opening onto the hallway. The remaining gunman was following his path, moving into the first bedroom and now there was only one direction Steve could safely move and that was further down the hall into the third and smallest bedroom that had been his as a child. It was a dead end, the only possible exit out being the window, an option he had considered but rejected as it would leave him clearly exposed to the gunman outside. He flattened himself against the wall in a small niche contained in the same wall as the door, not visible from the doorway. There he waited, following the barely audible progress of his assailant through the two bedrooms and bathroom. However, having lost his cohort to Steve's bullet, the assassin's movements was extremely cautious and before he arrived in the hallway the sound of several sirens approaching intruded into the silence.
A vicious curse was followed by footsteps running downstairs. After some indistinct shouting, two shadowy figures raced away from the house towards the beach. Steve threw open a window shouting "Police, stay where you are." As the two men turned in response, each suddenly jerked in quick succession and dropped bonelessly to the ground as Steve watched in shocked incomprehension. It took him a minute to remember the shooter with the silenced gun. "Tremelo!" he breathed, suddenly sure of the identity of the surviving gunman. As if in response, a dark figure stepped out of the shadows for just a moment, sketched a mocking salute in his direction then vanished.
"You bastard!" Steve checked an impulse to climb out of the window in pursuit, recognizing the futility of such an action as an engine roared into life and a vehicle sped away across the sands. He could hear the police at the front of the house, and suddenly wanted nothing more than to check that his father was unhurt. He padded downstairs, pausing at the bottom to kick the gun away from the fallen body lying crumpled there and check its pulse. He confirmed the man was dead and was unable to summon much regret under the circumstances. Passing the fuse box, he put the lights on again, blinking as the illumination suddenly transformed his surroundings and he made a corresponding mental transition from hunter back into police officer. He reholstered his weapon hastily as his reinforcements burst through the front door, holding his hands high to reinforce his harmlessness. He knew all the officers who entered and quickly directed them to the fallen bodies. Before he opened the cupboard door he called out, "It's me, Dad," and was happy he had as Mark lowered the broomstick he'd been wielding. Each eyed the other with undisguised relief.
Steve extended a hand to help him out of the cupboard then turned to lead him into the kitchen.
"Steve, your back!" Mark exclaimed sharply, seeing his son's shirt bloody and torn.
"What?" In the heat of the excitement Steve had genuinely forgotten the brief, searing pain slicing across his skin below his shoulder blade as he had hurried his father to cover. "Oh, it's just a scratch, it doesn't hur...OW! Well," he amended, "it didn't hurt until you did that."
Mark touched the wound lightly. The bullet had left a shallow furrow that was messy and bleeding, but certainly in no way life-threatening. Yet it was a visible symbol of just how close Steve had come to being killed and as such it shook him although he tried to hide his reaction. "It needs to be seen to," he said brusquely.
Steve was about to object, citing more important priorities, but seeing his father's face he stopped. With sudden empathy he realised just how difficult the last 10 minutes or so had been for his father. He knew from experience that it was often harder to be forced to wait while a loved one was in danger than it was to be the one facing the threat. Mark needed to be useful now.
"Let's do it in the kitchen. I'll explain what happened." He led the way through the house, inwardly wincing at the damage to some of his father's most prized possessions. Mark, however, seemed oblivious to the bullet holes and smashed decorations; he merely collected his medicine bag and started treating his son's back in silence. Captain Newman and two other officers joined them as Steve made his report in military style - unemotional, and containing only those details essential to convey the necessary facts. Of those present, only Mark had the imagination and maybe the inclination to mentally recreate the suffocating dark and menacing silence sufficiently to understand something of the impact the experience must have had. As he finished dressing Steve's back, Mark allowed his hand to linger on his son's shoulder for a moment in silent support.
The denouement of Steve's story brought identical reactions of shock and surprise from his listeners. "You think he shot those men to avoid them identifying him if caught?" Mark asked doubtfully.
"Or because they failed in their objective?" Newman suggested.
Steve nodded, not necessarily disagreeing with their evaluation but unable to put into words his feelings that the killings had also been a gesture in the nature of a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down for him to accept.
"Don't you have any idea who could be behind all this?" Newman asked Mark in frustration.
Mark shook his head, slightly unnerved by the idea that someone could hate him this much. He had dedicated his life to helping people and would be happy to be on friendly terms with everyone, but he had never shied away from confrontations if it would ensure another's well-being. He remembered something his father had told him, 'You can know a man by the quality of his enemies' and wondered what this incident said about him. "Most of the people I've...annoyed would rather have the pleasure of shooting me themselves. It takes a different brand of hate to actually hire someone to do your killing for you. No, I really don't know," he concluded.
"So where do you want to go from here?" the Captain asked, deferring to Steve's opinion both as lead investigator in the case and as a son with a huge personal stake in resolving the issue.
"First and foremost, I want my Dad in protective custody, preferably out of town." Steve stated firmly.
Newman looked across at Mark, fully expecting a protest from that strong-willed individual, but none was forthcoming. Mark had learnt a lesson from the Rosser affair, and recent events had borne it in on him strongly that if he stayed in the open Tremelo would come after him again, and when he did, Steve would inevitably be standing between them and would be the first to be hurt. He couldn't endanger the life of his son.
"Can I get some things together?" he asked quietly. As he left Newman turned to Steve.
"You do realise that if your Dad disappears it'll only drive Tremelo underground. We might have a better chance of catching him if he stays here, under guard of course."
Steve looked at his Captain in disbelief. "We are not staking my Dad out as some kind of bait," he stated coldly. "This isn't some whacko with a grudge, this is a professional. You know it's impossible to protect someone from a hit if the killer if good enough, determined enough. It doesn't matter if he's the President of the United States. I'm not taking that chance."
He could hardly admit to himself, never mind express to Newman, his deepest fear, the nightmare that kept him awake and prowling the house in the dark, that somehow Tremolo would get past him if Mark stayed here. He knew he could never forgive himself if he failed his father.
The Captain ignored the blatant insubordination from his Lieutenant, not really expecting any other response to his suggestion but he had one more difficult question to pose as Mark rejoined them at the table. "Steve, are you thinking of joining the detail protecting your father, or do you intend to stay on the case here?"
Involuntarily Steve caught his father's eyes, startled. In the tumult of recent events, he had failed to think through all the ramifications of the choice to hide his father. Indecision showed clearly on his face. Every instinct told him to go with his father. Steve had always been protective of those around him; that was one of the main reasons he was such a good police officer. At an early age he had appointed himself as guardian of his sister, and when she left, the bond between father and son, always strong, intensified. After a few heart-stopping close calls in recent years, Steve had become more protective of his father than ever, believing with total conviction that Mark's safety was his responsibility. To relinquish this charge into the hands of others at this critical juncture was almost unthinkable. However, the purpose of a safe house was that bodyguards were, in theory, redundant and he knew he could be of far more use in charge of the case. In fact, because of his intimate knowledge of his father's life, he was the only person who could effectively investigate both Mark's medical and detective careers for potential threats.
Unable to resolve his own internal conflict, Steve searched his father's face for a clue to his feelings on the matter. It was important that he felt safe. He had been uncharacteristically quiet since the attack and it worried Steve. If Mark so much as hinted that he would feel more secure with Steve there, Steve would have no hesitation handing the investigation over to another officer. However, all he saw in his father's face was understanding of his dilemma.
"I'm not staying in some motel room eating fast food forever," he said with an expression of mock horror. "No insult intended to your other fine officers," he added hastily to Newman, "but there's no one else I would trust to figure this out."
The fact that his father's reasoning so clearly mirrored his own swung Steve's decision in favour of remaining behind. Things moved swiftly after that. With Steve's approval, Newman called two of his men to take Mark to a safe house. After Steve personally checked the perimeter, Mark got into the car ready to leave. Steve was going to escort the car out of town to make sure that no one was following it, but now he had to say goodbye, not an easy thing to do, and he postponed it as long as possible, more comfortable with action than emotion.
Mark took advantage of his position in the car to watch his son, unabashedly proud of his courage and competence and agonizingly aware of the danger he was leaving him exposed to. Intellectually he understood and even agreed with the decision, but emotionally he was torn. He wanted to protect his son but he also felt that separating was a mistake, that they should stand together, working as a team, as they had so often and so successfully in the past. 'Divide and Conquer' he thought, considering the possibility that they were unintentionally following their antagonist's plan. He hated to be sidelined at a time like this. A chill ran through him as he realised that Steve could be injured or worse and he would remain oblivious. He needed a way to stay in touch, to participate, from afar if necessary, in the investigation. Here it seemed that Steve had anticipated his wishes. When he finally made his way to the car, he half-knelt by the open door and held out a cellphone.
"Here, Dad, take this. It's the phone I was using on that undercover assignment last month. The only people with the number are the Captain and Cheryl. It's really for emergencies, but if you need me for any reason, call."
He hesitated, wanting to express how much he regretted not being able to be on hand to protect his father, but he could see by Mark's expression that he already knew. Words between them had always been unnecessary. Mark leaned forward.
"Don't take any chances, son. Tremelo doesn't care who he hurts."
"We'll get him, Dad, don't you worry." Steve asserted with more confidence than he really felt.
For a moment no one moved, they both needed the connection, and neither wanting to actually say a goodbye that seemed entirely too final. In the end, Steve just nodded, squeezed his father's shoulder in farewell and closed the car door.
Mark's car left and, as prearranged, Steve followed it at a discreet distance, employing all his hard-earned skills to ensure that neither car was being followed. This became easier as they left the crowded freeways and as the lead car turned up a little used road towards the mountains, Steve pulled off, satisfied that there was no tail. He watched the tail lights dwindling into the distance, they rounded a corner and were gone.
