Chapter 4

Mark couldn't remember in which of his old black-and-white movies he'd heard the line, you don't hear the one that gets you, but then he would be hard pressed to remember his own name at the moment. It seemed to make perfect sense, anyway, so he was rather surprised at the cacophony of shots, crashes, curses, and groans that followed the initial discharge of a weapon. The gun had fired so close to his ear that only the volume of sound was appreciable, not the particulars. He was aware that the cruel hands that had brutally restrained him had relinquished their grasp, and, in his concussed and exhausted state, it occurred to him to wonder if he was now experiencing some bizarre, cosmic joke of an afterlife.

His irrepressible curiosity stirred at the thought, and he looked around inquiringly. What he saw confirmed his impression that he must be dead, but he didn't find the idea the slightest bit distressing since paradise seemed to encompass the sort of justice he'd always hoped for from a higher power. Al and Moe' were both lying motionless on the floor, and Mark turned in time to see Steve, his own personal avenging angel, launch himself on Larry' and start pounding on him with both fists yelling something that sounded like, If you touch my father again, I'll kill you. Mark's vision was somewhat blurred, his hearing muffled and his mind as bleary as his eyes from the emotional and physical blows it had received during that drawn-out, traumatic day, and this all served to distance him from reality.

It didn't occur to him to move, so he remained sitting, peering owlishly through a rapidly swelling eye, content merely to watch his son. His view was suddenly blocked by Moe' rising unsteadily to his feet, his gun pointing waveringly towards Steve's back and, annoyed that the enjoyment of his hallucination had been interrupted, Mark kicked him experimentally in the back of the knee, pleased when the gunman fell back down. To ensure that he stayed that way, Mark picked up the cane from where it had fallen near the couch and rapped him smartly on the head, noting his limp collapse with a sense of accomplishment. Then he resumed his observations. However, his movements had attracted Steve's attention and the younger Sloan looked up from Larry's' prone body and their eyes met.

Mark saw Steve's lips move, but the ringing in his ears precluded him hearing the word, so he smiled reassuringly at the vision of his son, trying to convey all his love and appreciation in that wordless communication. In an instant, Steve was kneeling beside him, grasping his arms tightly. Dad, are you okay?

Proximity helped the words fall like balm on his aching ears, the concern in the words soaking deeper to soothe his soul. But that was nothing compared to the electric jolt that seared through every nerve in his body at his son's touch, reanimating inert cells even if Mark still felt more like Frankenstein's monster than his normal self. The solid warmth of Steve's hands started to thaw the frozen wasteland inside and dispel the nightmare of loneliness that had wrapped him in a cloak of despair for the last twelve hours. He was vaguely aware that he hadn't responded to Steve's questions, but his vocal chords seemed paralysed by a comfortable inertia and a superstitious, almost subconscious, fear that the utterance of words would puncture the fabric of this reality and cast him back into the hell of despair from which he'd just emerged.

Mark's uncharacteristic silence was worrying in the extreme for Steve; he'd seen his father weather so much, bending slightly before a storm, but always springing back with the resilience of a sapling. His tenacity didn't flow from lack of emotion, Steve knew how deeply he felt things, but he seemed to possess a core of strength that Steve had thought limitless. Yet, now he could see the profound shock deep within his blue eyes.

Mark's face was drawn and pale and his extremities icy, so Steve shifted his grip to gently rub some warmth back into his hands. He wasn't sure if it was physical injuries or the trauma of recent events that was causing this strange dissociative state. God knows, his father had earned the reaction, with such a narrow escape from a violent death. Steve struggled to suppress the tempest of emotions that lurched sickeningly inside at the thought, anger, fear and guilt tumbled ferociously around each other, each fighting for supremacy.

It had been too close, another minute and.....Steve's mind shied away abruptly from completion of the thought and anger flared again because he had not only failed his father by not protecting him from assault, but he was failing him again now by indulging in his own emotions when his father so clearly needed him.

Steve was acutely aware of the danger they were both still in, every muscle remained tensed for immediate fight or flight, whichever would protect his father best. All his instincts insisted that he get Mark out of the house immediately, but he knew his father was not fit enough to travel just now, and he didn't know how to break through this odd fugue state that gripped Mark. Maybe his father would respond sufficiently to his commands to follow him to safely or react, at least on the surface, to their customary teasing, making light of the ordeal he had suffered, but both these options felt wrong. Through such methods, he might safeguard his father physically, but he could harm him and possibly the trust that hallmarked their relationship, on a more subtle level. He had to help Mark work through this himself. He stopped trying to analyse the situation and let his instincts take over.

Relax, Dad. It's okay, they're not going to hurt you anymore. It was trite, but Steve was not used to the vulnerability his father was displaying.

Mark tried to shake his head, but it moved only fractionally, and Steve wasn't sure whether he was disputing his statement or trying to indicate that something else was wrong.

Give me a hint here, Dad, he pleaded ruefully. I'm not very good at this.

Mark made two attempts to speak before his voice finally emerged in a hoarse whisper, as if he hadn't used it for weeks. I thought you were dead. Suddenly finding himself able to move, he grasped Steve's arms in an almost painfully tight grip, reassuring himself as to his son's solidity and the reality of his existence.

With those few pained words, Steve saw with shocking clarity the ordeal his father had suffered since he'd seen him last. Although Mark had never been a demonstrative man, neither had he ever left Steve in any doubt that he was the centre of his father's world. Even when he was a child, during the long hours of absence demanded by Mark's career, Steve had felt that love. Their relationship had always been close and it had evolved gently as Steve grew, strengthened by shared experiences and interests until it had matured into the secure, unfailing friendship they both enjoyed now.

Mark was the eye of his hurricane, a quiet refuge of unconditional support and acceptance in a world of violence and brutality, and Steve felt a wrenching empathy as he imagined his own reaction if their positions had been reversed. Mark had not only had to cope with the devastation of grief but also with a murderous attack with no hope of rescue, and yet he had never given up. It was no wonder reaction had set in. With his eyes, Steve acknowledged the distress Mark had suffered but also communicated his pride in his father's tenacity and survival, but with words he only addressed his father's concern for him.

I'm fine, Dad, a little broiled at the edges maybe, but, as they say, reports of my demise were greatly exaggerated. He automatically reassured Mark but, as the adrenaline from the fight wore off, he was acutely conscious that fine' was close to being an outright lie; all his recent injuries were sending up a clamour for attention that was increasingly hard to ignore.

As if he could read Steve's mind, or maybe just his body language, Mark focused on Steve with an effort, taking in the singed eyebrows and hair and the burn on the left side of his face traveling down his neck and disappearing under his collar. His gaze dropped lower and, with growing concern, noticed the large patch of blood soaking Steve's shirt. You're hurt, he said abruptly.

Steve was instinctively starting to downplay the severity of his injuries in an effort to relieve his father of any worry when he noticed that Mark was suddenly looking more like his old self, alert and with renewed strength in his voice. He realised that Mark needed to feel useful to banish the feelings of helplessness and vulnerability that the events of the last day had generated, and maybe even to fuss over him a little. Delighted that his father was back, he gently extracted his hands and gave Mark a last pat on the knee. I'll tell you what, Dad. I'll let you examine me to your heart's content...... but only after we've got somewhere safe. Now, stay put while I grab a few things.

He stood up and walked to the closet, trying to conceal how every movement sent jolts of pain radiating up his torso. He snatched up an old duffel bag and started stuffing it with a few necessary items and a change of clothes. Thankful that he was out of Mark's line of sight, he leaned wearily against a wall, needing a moment to marshal his waning resources and restore his splintered composure. However, at an alarmed shout of he straightened up abruptly and was unable to suppress a hiss of pain at the motion.

What's wrong? He took a few quick steps to the doorway.

Mark was no longer on the couch; his medical instincts aroused, he had been examining his three former assailants. He looked up, worry written clearly on his face. This one's dead. He gestured to Al.

Steve's jaw tightened. I know, Dad. He had shot to kill, though it hadn't been exactly a conscious choice. Through the window, he had witnessed the blow that had decked his father, though the men inside the room had been too occupied to notice his impromptu jack-in-the-box performance. Fury catapulted him to the door. However, as he burst through, he had been unprepared for the horror awaiting him. Rage transmuted to terror as he saw the gun so close to his father's head and, instantly assessing the situation as he'd been trained to do, he fired to remove the threat to Mark as quickly and cleanly as he could. However, his objectivity in this situation was nonexistent and, for the first time ever, he couldn't honestly say he regretted the necessity of shooting, At some visceral level, he had wanted to kill the men who had brutalised and so casually attempted to murder his father. He battened down the storm of rage that attempted to surge free at the mere thought of what the men had intended for Mark.

Mark had never shown by word or action that he was bothered by the violence his son had to occasionally employ in the course of his work. He trusted Steve not to exceed the level of force appropriate for any given situation. Yet, seeing his father's fierce dedication to the preservation of life, Steve couldn't help but wonder if it ever disturbed him. It certainly made for odd teamwork; Steve shooting the bad guys and Mark patching them up again.

Mark moved over to Larry', and Steve winced internally. He knew he had lost control in the fight and it wasn't the first time he'd allowed anger at a threat to his father to overrule his professional discipline. However, unlike previous occasions, there had been no friends or fellow officers to pull him off. If Mark hadn't caught his eye at a crucial moment, he didn't know if he'd have stopped before killing the man. He actually felt a strange guilt that he hadn't exacted such a retribution, yet at the same time he knew that was wrong. He stared at the floor, afraid to see the condemnation he was sure would be on Mark's face.

His father's voice was gentle, and he reluctantly met his gaze, feeling like an errant schoolboy again. But there was nothing except understanding and empathy on Mark's face. When I thought they had been involved in your death, I would have done the same thing if I was physically capable of it.

At his father's absolution, a burden he hadn't fully fathomed dropped off Steve's shoulders and he relaxed, not quite comfortable with his actions, but dismissing the issue, for now, as irrelevant.

Mark's concern now, however, was for the wider implications of the fight. This is a crime scene, an officer-involved shooting, we can't leave here. It would mean your badge.

I'll plead diminished capacity, Steve retorted dryly. However, seeing his father was genuinely upset, he relented. We don't have any choice, Dad. Do you know who these people are?

It was supposed to be a rhetorical question but, for once, Steve had underestimated his father and Mark's reply was prompt. IA unless I've missed my guess.

Steve aimed a rueful smile in his father's direction, proud of his unerring intelligence, then he turned to point in turn to the bodies on the floor. That's Wilson, Cornwell and Nesbitt, all LA's finest. He paused, inviting Mark to follow his train of thought but, for once he didn't, blind to the violent twist in the road that was leading their lives in an alien direction. Steve continued, his voice betraying something of his agitation.

Dad, three cops just tried to kill you in broad daylight in our own home! This wasn't an attempt at revenge or an isolated incident. I don't have time to explain the little I know, but there's something very dangerous going on and I have no idea how widespread this corruption is. It's their word against ours as to what actually went down here, and there are already doubts about the two of us. I don't know whom I can trust, and I can't take the chance that you'll be arrested and found later hanging from your shoelaces in a cell. All it would take was for one dirty cop to put you in a holding cell with some..... He broke off, aghast, knowing he didn't need to paint a graphic picture, Mark could fill in the blanks. I'm sorry, Dad, he continued more gently. I just can't and won't take that risk. Once we're somewhere safe, we can figure out what's going on here.

Mark regarded him dubiously; his head still ached but his brain was no longer addled and, although he could appreciate the force of Steve's argument, he could also identify its flaws. If we leave now, we'll not only be effectively on the run, but we'll also leave the field clear for these guys to invent any story they please with no contradiction.

Steve sighed. I didn't say it was a perfect plan, Dad, but at least we'll be alive and in a position to do some investigating on our own.

Mark still wasn't convinced, but he was wavering. Someone had undoubtedly tried to kill not only him but Steve as well in the last 24 hours, and the evidence pointed to someone inside the police force. If they surrendered themselves to the authorities, they would be separated for questioning, and that might give the killer a free hand to try again. He knew IA was already investigating Steve, and his very survival when so many others had died would serve to increase existing suspicion. Moreover, it was the IA department itself that could be trusted the least. They didn't even have to try anything overt. Mark knew that any conviction for Steve would be tantamount to a death warrant - cops did not fare well in jail. Mark would do anything in his power to prevent that from happening, yet running away went against everything he believed, so he tried one last-ditch attempt to find a compromise.

Why don't we go straight to the Chief and tell him what happened?

Steve met his gaze levelly. What if he's involved?

Mark automatically started to protest at the concept, but as the idea sank in and he considered Masters' role in recent events, he realised that it was a possibility that couldn't be discounted.

Dad, we have to move now.

Strangely enough, it wasn't the urgency behind Steve's words that secured his father's reluctant acquiescence, it was the indefinable air of pain and exhaustion that surrounded him, despite his obvious determination to put up a front of strength. If they called in the police now, even the best-case scenario would involve hours of interrogation and uproar, and Steve was in no condition to deal with that. Hopefully, he would eventually be taken to a hospital, but Mark knew his son well enough to realise that if Steve believed his father was in danger, there was no way he would rest no matter where he was.

Let me get a few things together, he acceded. After checking on the two unconscious detectives to ensure their injuries placed them in no imminent danger, Mark moved to the stairs where Steve gestured to him to go first. His legs felt wobbly as he ascended, but he felt Steve's supportive presence behind him, and gratitude for the survival of what he believed lost forever bolstered his energy.

His first goal was the well-stocked first-aid kit that he kept for just such a contingency, then he hurried to his room for some clothes and a small amount of cash hidden in a drawer for emergencies. When Mark returned to the kitchen, Steve was leaning against the counter, and Mark knew intuitively that his son had decided not to sit because if he relaxed, he'd never get to his feet again. The blinds were still drawn and, in the fading light, he couldn't read his son's expression, but there was something about his posture, a vulnerability bordering on defeat, that hit Mark with the same intensity as the earlier blows he'd suffered, and he drew an involuntary breath of distress before moving towards him.

Just before he reached his side, Steve straightened with an uncharacteristic expletive on his lips.

Mark exclaimed, alarmed by his son's sudden rigidity.

Steve held up his hand for silence and, after a moment, Mark could hear what the younger man's sharp ears had already picked up - a siren.

Time hung suspended as they both froze, only the increasing volume of the approaching siren marking the passing seconds. Mark's eyes met his son's, and he could read the indecision there, a lifetime of believing in the system warring with the betrayal and violence of the past day. It had to be Steve's decision, but Mark could feel both their lives hanging in the balance. If they left now, they would be safer, but their lives would change irrevocably. They would essentially become fugitives, on the run from the law with every man's hand against them. He waited and saw resolve hardening in his son's eyes.

Let's go.