Chapter 7

The drive up to the mountains took two hours, but seemed interminable to Steve. His fear alternatively ebbed, as he struggled to reign in his imagination, then surged out of control again, causing his perception of passing time to telescope wildly. He was driving with a furious intensity, throwing all his concentration into that task to distract himself from his grim thoughts. He had driven through the crowded L.A. streets with siren blaring and lights flashing, visual symbols of his inner turmoil. Now out in the country, he was taking corners with a fast, brutal efficiency, a legacy of his racing past, that would have left most passengers white-knuckled and gasping. As a police officer, he had learned to starve his imagination and not surrender to the wild images that could prey on a mind that had seen and experienced scenes of horrific violence; but his training was failing him now. He had read Tremelo's file, with its photographs of his previous victims, neat bullet holes drilled between their eyes. The man wasn't a sadist, and usually dispatched his prey cleanly and without fanfare, but the results were just as devastating. Despite his attempts to banish the images, Steve couldn't prevent his mind from superimposing his father's face on the crime pictures, his dead eyes open and staring, accusing his son of the ultimate failure.

Part of the horror that engulfed him was induced by guilt. The thought preying on his mind was that maybe Newman had been right. He should never have been in charge of the case, he was too emotionally involved. He had broken procedure in giving his father the cell phone, wanting a way to stay in contact. Now he believed that, in allowing himself that luxury, he had ultimately endangered Mark, as it seemed that Tremelo had traced his father's whereabouts through the cell phone. No one was supposed to have the number, yet someone had called it three times. Steve knew that in cases of 911 callers being unable to respond, cellular providers could derive location information by triangulating the location of the base station and antenna nearest the caller. He was certain that Tremelo had somehow tapped into this technology as a means to locate Mark.

The only thing keeping his fear even remotely under control was the knowledge that this was an inexact science, and in a rural area such as Mark was in, it would probably only be accurate to within 6 square miles or so. However, that was far too close for comfort. The remaining distance could easily be breached with help from residents of the area. In fact, Steve had so far refrained from calling local law enforcement, thinking that if Tremelo had narrowed down Mark's location, he might very well count on movements of the Sheriff to lead him directly to his victim. However, Steve had called Cheryl to alert her to his suspicions, and she would be standing by to offer assistance if needed.

Steve began to get the feeling that he had been one step behind Tremelo all the way, and that many of the decisions he had made had actually played into the assassin's hands. It was as if he were missing the subtitles to a film in Chinese, allowing him to follow the action, but miss the important dialogue. For Tremelo to have the number to the cell phone he gave Mark, he must have an inside source, either at the station or the hospital, possibly even the person who had hired him. Steve vowed to track this person down as soon as he got his father to safety.

After his agitated warning to Mark, he had kept his father on the line just long enough to direct him to the first meeting place he could think of that was off the beaten path, then instructed him not to use the phone again unless an emergency materialised. Now, as he neared their rendezvous point, every muscle in his body grew taut, as if physically willing his father to be there could make it happen.

He pulled off the road behind the abandoned one-room school house, and at once saw the car with his father and the two detectives inside. Relief hit him with the force of a tsunami, leaving him shaky but releasing him from the almost paralysing fear that had gripped him on the way up. He found he was now capable of analysing the situation more like a police officer, instead of reacting purely as a son.

He jumped out of the car, sweeping the area with an automatic glance to assess any threat offered, then slid into the back seat beside his father, unable to stop a big smile from crossing his face. He grasped his father's arms, unconsciously needing the information from the most fundamental sense - touch - to reassure himself that Mark was indeed alive and unhurt in front of him.

"Are you okay?" he asked, somewhat automatically. He could already tell that his father was not in any way physically harmed, but he could also see that the past few days had been very difficult for him; uncharacteristic lines of stress had replaced the more familiar laughter lines. He could imagine from personal experience the strain his father had been living under.

However, the grin he received from his father was pure Mark Sloan, eyes twinkling and alert with intelligence and humour.

"I'm fine, I had a wonderful holiday up here; clean air, good company, what could be better!"

The two detectives in the front had turned to watch this exchange, and Steve surmised from the warmth in their eyes that his father's charm had cast its usual spell, even on these hard-bitten detectives. He was relieved to know that Mark had enjoyed the companionship of his guardians, but he also knew that his father would have kept his fears to himself. Sharing his deepest feelings, even with his closest friends, was not in his nature.

"You want to fill us in, Lieutenant?" asked Detective Adams. "We've got a bet going with your Dad about the reasons for our hasty departure, and I'm eager to see the colour of his money."

"You've been teaching my Dad to gamble?" Steve asked in mock horror.

"Huh! No teaching was required, as my empty wallet will testify," Vorderman snorted.

Steve explained his theory, its ramifications obvious to all present, and both detectives handed over five dollars to Mark with resignation.

"You're sure it was this guy, Tremelo?" Adams asked with some incredulity.

Steve nodded; although he couldn't quite recapture the certainty that had seized him earlier, it was too risky to assume otherwise.

"We need to move you to another safe house, Dad, but the question is - which route do we take? There's one road into this place, the road from L.A., and there's one road out heading north, at least until we hit the main roads again. We don't know if Tremelo is ahead of us, waiting, or if he hasn't made it this far yet."

Mark thought about that, analysing the possibilities. What he really wanted was to go home, and he had every intention of discussing that with Steve as soon as they were alone. For now, to safeguard his son and the other detectives, he wanted to take every precaution to avoid Tremelo. "The first phone call was two hours before I called you, and you made good time up here. Tremelo would have to be well organised to have got ahead of us already, so I suggest we work on the theory that he's still behind us, and we take the long route home."

There was a general consensus on the wisdom of this, and they also agreed to go in convoy, with Mark and Steve in the first car. Steve ushered his father into the passenger seat of his car, and they started off. As Steve drove down the winding country lanes, the comfort of his father's familiar presence seeped into his bones, bringing the first real relaxation in almost two weeks.

"So did you really enjoy your time up here?" he asked sceptically.

"It's been wonderful," Mark replied, a little too earnestly. "I've caught up on my medical journal reading, some correspondence, I even managed to do some crosswords, and that's something I don't have time for very often."

"Really bored, huh?" Steve concluded.

"Out of my skull," his father confirmed, with emphasis. The two exchanged quick grins before Steve turned his attention back to the road, the familiar banter completing the sensation of life easing back to normal like a spring with the tension now released. However, this enjoyment wasn't to last for long. Only a few miles down the road, they spotted a man dressed in hunting clothes, sitting and kicking his heels on a fallen tree. As he saw the car, he straightened up and spoke into what seemed to be a walkie-talkie.

Mark's head whipped round to watch him, their eyes meeting as they passed. He didn't recognise him, but there was a vicious satisfaction in the man's expression that worried him.

"Steve?" Mark alerted his son.

"I saw him, Dad." Steve's face was grim. "Seems like Tremelo might have hired himself some new help. Damn it! I've got to get you to somewhere safe, but we're faced with the same problem as before. Do we go forward or back?"

"Let's keep going. For all we know, he was radioing back to the town."

Steve increased the speed of the car, renewed anxiety clawing at his guts. Every instinct told him trouble was approaching, and he handed his cellphone to Mark.

"Call Cheryl, tell her where we're headed and that we need backup as soon as possible, then call Adams and Vorderman and tell them to pick up the pace. Keep the connection open in case we need to talk in a hurry."

They had only gone a few miles down the road, when a large SUV, parked in a siding, swung onto the road between the two cars with a spray of gravel and quickly picked up speed.

"Keep your head down, Dad," Steve urged, his foot pressing down hard on the accelerator. The car surged forward, and the race was on as the SUV responded. The cars rocketed along the narrow road for several minutes, neither gaining an advantage. Steve kept a watchful gaze in the rearview mirror for additional signs of aggression, and caught the occasional glimpse of Adams and Vorderman in the third car trailing the action. Mark still held the phone to his ear, but nothing of import was exchanged, so he didn't interrupt his son's concentration.

Steve's focus shortly became a matter of life and death as the forest on their right petered out to be replaced by a rocky canyon with only a flimsy guard rail between the car and a vertical drop into oblivion. As a passenger, there was nothing Mark could do except watch and wait, and he sat bolt upright as the car swung perilously close to the edge, affording him an excellent view of the yawning chasm below. His trust in his son was absolute, but his stomach responded to the constant lurching and violent movement with unease.

A corner taken at too high a velocity round these tight curves would prove fatal, and both cars were forced to slacken their pace, but here Steve's previous driving experience allowed him to navigate the hazardous road with greater dexterity, and by the time there was forest on both sides again, they had an appreciable lead, and rarely caught sight of the pursuing car.

Listening on the cell phone, Mark informed Steve that the other two detectives had caught up with the SUV and were attempting to cut off it's pursuit.

"Tell them to be careful," Steve told his father, worry coloring his voice, but before Mark could relay the message, the sound of gunfire and indistinct shouting could be heard through the connection, then a brief but resounding crash as the phone went dead.

Mark looked at his son, his face ashen; he'd come to know the two men well over the last few days. "They might be hurt, we can't just leave them."

Steve's jaw was clenched, but he didn't reduce their speed. Although he too desperately wanted to check on the detectives' condition and render any needed assistance, he was all too aware that Mark was the target in this pursuit, and he couldn't place him in greater jeopardy by turning back.

It quickly became a moot point, as round the next bend they found a pickup truck blocking both lanes, and two armed men in front of it with weapons raised.

Steve slammed on the brakes, but the car went into an alarming skid as a series of shots blew out one of the front tyres. He fought for control and succeeded in regaining enough to wrench the wheels round sufficiently to prevent the car from smashing headlong into a tree. He aimed for a small gap in the trees on the right, ensuring that it was his side of the car that would suffer any impact rather than his father's. The car was brought to an abrupt halt as it hit a large pine with a jolting force.

The impact momentarily stunned Steve, leaving his left arm hanging limply by his side from a jarring knock on his elbow, but his first concern was for his father.

"Dad?" He reached out urgently to Mark. Blood was oozing from a nasty looking bruise on the side of his forehead, and he appeared dazed. However, there was no time for tending to injuries; the sound of approaching voices forced Steve to hustle his father out of the car, following him out of the passenger side. He noticed that Mark was no longer holding the cell phone, but there was no time to search for it. He fired a couple of shots awkwardly with his right hand to discourage a closer approach. Their car wasn't going anywhere, and he had to find a more defensible location for his father until help arrived. He couldn't hold off rifles with one handgun for long.

"Dad, how bad...?"

"I'm fine," Mark interrupted. "It's just a little bruise, nothing serious."

A quick examination revealed that both pupils were the same size and seemed to be reacting normally to the change of light. as the sun shone through the branches above casting shifting shadows. Although the head injury didn't seem incapacitating in any way, Steve hated to force his father into action right then, but it was unavoidable.

"We need to hurry, Dad. We can lose them in the forest. Can you run?"

At Mark's staunch affirmative, they started to move, Steve at his father's elbow, steadying him and guiding him deeper into the forest. A bullet snarled past their heads, chipping a piece of bark off a tree and sending them stumbled through the underbrush in a headlong rush, dodging round trees as branches and thorns tore at their clothes, fallen limbs and thick bushes impeding their progress. Sensing his father's growing distress, Steve slowed them down. Mark was in amazing shape for a man his age, but he wasn't young any more, and he couldn't maintain the punishing pace they were keeping.

Following a diagonal line away from the road, they noticed that the trees were starting to thin out, and then, to their consternation, they found themselves facing a barren stretch of ground with little cover that stretched as far as they could see along the forest in both directions. A natural fire break had been extended to clear the way for pylons. It was about 200 yards before the trees started again on the other side. If they attempted a crossing, they would be sitting ducks for their assailants if the gunmen arrived at the edge of the clearing before they reached safety. However, the narrow strip of trees between it and the road would not afford them adequate protection if the gunmen started searching for them. Mark was bent over catching his breath, and Steve's hand rested on his back protectively as he considered his waning options. He contemplated finding a more secure hiding place for Mark, then crossing the barren land and trying to draw their fire from the other side. But he couldn't bring himself to take the risk of leaving his father unprotected.

"What's wrong with your arm?" Mark asked suddenly, having recovered his breath and mental balance enough to also regain his customary powers of observation.

"I don't think it's broken, Dad, just bruised. Dad, we have to cross here and now, before they get closer. Do you think you can make it?"

Mark stared across the barren expanse ahead, then turned to face Steve, meeting his gaze steadily. Aware of the terrible danger they were facing, he allowed himself the luxury of a long look, conveying without words his love for his son. Then, distant shouting emphasised the need for haste, and he nodded.

"Let's go."

They ran together, Steve slightly behind his father, automatically shielding him and ready to offer support. Mark moved with grim determination but, already tired from his previous exertion and the knock to his head, his progress slowed as the distance took its toll. They were only 20 yards from the enticing safety of the trees when a single shot rang out. Steve felt the numbing shock of the bullet smashing into his back, knocking him to the ground, his vision greying as he heard his father calling his name in anguish.