Chapter 10

Finally succeeding in wrestling the steering wheel into temporary submission, Steve wrenched it around, steering the vehicle into the skid, which meant, suicidally, straight towards the bridge. He knew that his control of the truck was precarious, so he didn't attempt any major evasive maneuvers, merely adjusting their direction enough to avert disaster by millimeters.

In the confusion, Steve had lost track of their assailants, but, unwilling to take a chance of facing that magnitude of fire power again, Steve used the momentum and heft of the truck to punch a hole in the guard rail. With a rending smash, he tore through, and started sliding, jostling uncomfortably, down the hill on the other side of the highway until he reached the road below. The flat tyre meant that he still had to fight every minute to control the truck, but, for the first time, he was able to check on his father.

"Are you okay?" he shouted across the cab. Mark was chalk-white and sitting bolt upright in his seat. Steve knew that the last few minutes had been, if possible, even worse for his father than they had been for himself since, as a passenger, Mark had been unable to do anything but sit and wait for the end, but at least he seemed uninjured.

Mark loosened the death grip he hadn't even realised he was holding on the door. "Who were the party crashers?" he asked with a game smile.

"Not cops," Steve replied grimly.

In his preoccupation with avoiding the police, both crooked and straight, he'd not given a thought to the third element in their complex, interrelated molecule - the criminals. The existence of Latiere's notebook had obviously become common knowledge, so the Ganza crime organisation would want it back, and possibly, even rival organisations would take steps to acquire it, depending on the nature of its contents. No member of organised crime would hesitate to blow them away in their efforts to obtain it. Steve's estimation of the danger they were facing ratcheted up several notches. The Sloan family was proving to be a monkey wrench in some large, impersonal machines that would chew them up and spit them out, given the opportunity. Suddenly, surrendering to the cops seemed like the lesser of two evils. If they remained on the run, the chances were they would be crushed between the opposing behemoths of law and organised crime with no sanctuary into which to retreat.

They needed time to regroup and work out a strategy that would enable them to dig themselves out of the morass that seemed to suck them deeper with each passing hour. A wavering halo of light still illuminated them from above, as the helicopter hovered like an abducting UFO, but it seemed that the police cars were taking the more conventional exit route from the freeway, since Steve could spot no signs of pursuit from behind. Secrecy was out of the question anyway, since the metal of the wheel rim had cut through the punctured tyre and was sending off showers of sparks like a fourth-of-July firework to mark their passage.

Mark had obviously been following Steve's general train of thought, as he met his son's eyes with unwonted seriousness. "We're in real trouble, aren't we? How's your plan working out?"

Steve tried to sound as encouraging as the dismal circumstances allowed. "We're on the right road, at least. A year ago, I was on a stake-out in this area and I ended up chasing a suspect here. It's a total labyrinth of warehouses and abandoned buildings."

"Did you catch him?" Mark asked, following the story intently.

"Nope, lost him completely," Steve stated with no noticeable regret.

"Good...I mean..."

"I know what you mean," Steve cut in, a brief smile crossing his face, quick as summer lightning. "What made me think of it was that I arrested the guy recently on an unrelated charge, and he bragged about our former encounter and explained how he'd disappeared. I think it could work for us too."

Mark hesitated, seeing himself as the inherent weakness in this plan. "Steve, if we're taking off on foot, I'm only going to slow you down. Maybe it would be best if..."

"Not a chance," Steve broke in again. "Where I go, you go, remember? You can't change the rules on me now. You're not going to ditch me."

"I'm sorry," Mark stated remorsefully. " You were right. I should have listened to you. If you'd dropped me off earlier, then you'd have a better chance now."

"No, you were right, Dad." Steve's reassurance was sincere. " We're in this together and we're going to stick together. It's going to be okay. Anyway, there's no time for arguing, we're nearly there. Where's the notebook? I'll take that. See the big building there? When I stop, run for the door. I'll be right behind you so don't wait for anything."

Mark nodded, determination clear in his face. As the truck slid drunkenly to a halt, he jumped out. The clanging of the tire on the roadway and roaring of the wind was replaced by the thunder of the chopper's rotating blades. Ignoring the tinny megaphone shout of, "Stop, police," he arrived at the door.

He was surprised to find Steve not on his heels as he'd promised, but he shortly arrived with pockets distended and a large pair of bolt cutters in his hands, and Mark realised he had taken the time to raid the tool box in the truck. He snapped the chain on the rusty padlock that barred the door and wrenched it open. His eyes had little chance to adjust to the darkness, but, in the dim, reflected light of the moon, he saw enough to surmise that the building was long and mostly empty. Steve deftly wound the remains of the chain round the bolt on the inside of the door to delay the pursuers they both knew would come, and then led them at a run to the door on the other side.

Mark's breath was already coming in short, hard pants, more induced by adrenaline than fatigue. Yet, there was some relief in moving, in finally having an active role to play in the proceedings once again. Between their building and the next, there was a narrow passageway. The helicopter had increased its height to better observe the movements of the fugitives below, but only from directly overhead could it see them transfer to the next warehouse, and they successfully evaded its watchful eye.

This weaving and sprinting set the pattern for the next twenty minutes. Steve took a circuitous route, occasionally opening locks on doors that they never entered in an attempt to set a false trail. They could hear the cries of pursuit and see the beams of flashlights searching, sometimes comfortingly distant, but at others alarmingly close. Steve tried to make the best time they could, knowing the police would be slowed down by the necessity of searching through the buildings, not all of which were empty. But, he also knew that, as soon as sufficient backup arrived, a cordon would be thrown around the whole area and they would be trapped. They had to reach their destination before that happened.

As they reached yet another door, Mark bent over, hands on his knees to ease his straining lungs.

"You okay, Dad?" Steve rested a concerned hand on his back.

"Question?" Mark managed to force out the word between breaths.

Steve crouched down, his hand still steadying his father. "Yeah, Dad?"

"When... did we last...play one-on-one?"

The unexpected nature of the query surprised a low laugh from his son. "I don't know. It's been a while."

"Well, when we get home, we're going to start again. I'm out of shape."

Steve couldn't speak for a minute, his heart tightening at his father's wistful picture of a tranquil future that seemed so hard to picture at this time.

He squeezed his father's shoulder gently. "It's a date, Dad."

Mark's words bolstered Steve's determination but, as he opened the door and peered cautiously out, desperation warred with that renewed resolve. They had reached the end of the warehouses and a large open stretch of ground yawned in front of them before they could reach the next available cover. The original chopper had been joined by a second and they patrolled the area, searchlights sweeping frequently over the exposed space they would have to traverse.

"What is this place?" Mark's question cut through Steve's thoughts which were tumbling frantically, searching for some way to cross without detection.

"It's the end of a disused railway line, a storage spur. It was abandoned a few years ago. See, over there is the end of the track. We need to get to that large building beyond it. I think it was the administrative offices."

Mark assessed the distance bleakly. "That's got to be at least 100 yards," he estimated. "And no shelter between except those old carriages."

"We need a diversion," Steve stated thoughtfully. Making up his mind, he patted his father on the knee. "Wait here. Don't move unless you're in danger of being discovered. You'll know the opportunity when it comes, and then run like hell. Try to get at least under the cover of the carriages."

"Wait!" Mark caught Steve's sleeve, apprehensive as to the nature of his son's intentions.

"I'm not going to do anything stupid," Steve reassured him. "I'll catch up with you in a few minutes. That's a promise."

Mark released him reluctantly, hating the idea of separation, but knowing that his son was right. They needed some diversion.

Steve melted into the shadows, and Mark was left alone in the darkness. His eyes strained to follow his son's progress, his nerves on edge. The waiting seemed interminable. Shadows crawled like fingers on the wall and soft creaks echoed threateningly in his ears. He pondered the advisability of staying where he was, nerves stretched to the point of ripping.

A sudden explosion rent the night, causing Mark to start violently as an orange glow lit the sky behind him and to the right. Certain that the blast signaled Steve's distraction, and trying to close his mind to its possible implications, Mark waited for the helicopter patrolling above to swing away towards the source of the disturbance and then ran.

He sprinted with a fervour he hadn't discovered for many years. The pounding of his heart matched the pounding of his feet on the gravel, but the sight of his destination looming could not blot out the images thrown up by his mind. Had Steve been injured in the blast or caught by the overwhelming numbers of police descending on the area? Reaching the carriage, he scrambled gratefully under it, needing the brief respite from exertion. He looked back, hoping he would see his son's rugged form following behind, but in vain.

He wiped his damp face with a grimy sleeve, pausing at the surprisingly sticky texture he discovered, and suddenly remembered his makeup. This morning's peaceful interlude at Lucas' seemed a life-time away from the desperation of the moment. Realising he couldn't afford to linger any longer in the past or in the shelter, Mark rolled out the other side of the carriage and with a quick check, resumed his running.

He had nearly reached his destination when he became aware of footsteps hammering in his wake. Hoping it was his son, but afraid he might have been discovered, Mark turned his head mid-stride to verify the identity of the other man. His inattention to his path in the dark proved to be a costly mistake. Unaware of a pothole ahead, his foot twisted on the edge and he sprawled headlong. Stunned by the impact, he nevertheless tried to regain his feet, his hands pushing against the sharp lumps of gravel, but, as a darting pain lanced through his left ankle, he crumpled to the ground again.

The carriage blocked his view of the approaching runner, but, although Mark would have said it was impossible to recognise footsteps, he was filled with a growing certainly that it was indeed his son and this was shortly confirmed as a dark shape emerged from the shadows.

"Dad?"

Mark responded to the sharp note of anxiety evident in his son's voice with a terse explanation, "My ankle."

"Broken?" Despite his concern at the delay, Steve remained unhurried and calm, not wanting to rush his father.

With Steve's help, Mark hauled himself to his feet, testing it gingerly. "No, I think it's just sprained."

Mark was facing the warehouse as Steve steadied him, and his eyes widened suddenly as he became aware of a growing illumination that indicated the imminent arrival of a vehicle. "A car's coming!"

In one swift movement, Steve looped Mark's arm around his shoulders, scooping him into a turn. In a remarkably synchronised dash, they began an impromptu three-legged race towards safety.

They had miscalculated in the dark, missing the door, and Steve realised there was no time to find it. He spotted some broken panels in one corner, and, in a frenzy of activity, he lowered Mark to the ground and started pulling at the boards, attempting to widen the gap sufficiently to enable them to squeeze through.

Mark waited helplessly, expecting at any moment to be transfixed in the car's headlights like a bug impaled on a pin for display. But, at the last minute, Steve disappeared into the hole with a final deft wriggle and reached back to haul Mark through, cushioning his abrupt arrival. He hastily rearranged the boards to hide signs of their passage, then they both waited, trying to control their frantic breathing, unsure if they had been spotted diving into the hole like a fox going to ground.

The muted glow of headlights sweeping over the boarded-up windows briefly illuminated the room and then the car was gone. Mark sagged in relief, knowing the darkness would hide his accompanying grimace of pain. The building was pitch black, he couldn't even see his ankle, but he could feel the swelling there. Running was now out of the question, and he knew the injury would impede their progress, endangering both their lives.

"That was really stupid," he said in disgust. "I'm sorry, Steve. Now I'm really going to slow you down."

"It's not a problem, Dad," Steve reassured him quietly. "It's not too far away now. We'll be fine. Can I wrap something round the ankle for support?"

Mark's fingers gently probed the area. "I don't want to take the shoe off under the circumstances, and rest and ice are out of the question. I don't think it's too bad, but your services as a make-shift crutch would be appreciated." He looked up, searching for his son's face in the gloom. "How did you create that explosion?"

Steve recognised the tacit admission of concern behind the question. "I wasn't anywhere near the car when it exploded. I soaked a piece of cloth in gasoline, stuffed most of it in the tank and set it on fire."

"I'm glad you're on my side," Mark exclaimed, somewhat surprised by the range of criminal talents his son was displaying. "Did you learn that on the streets too?"

There was a slight pause, then Steve admitted, "On McGyver, actually." Suddenly, they were both laughing, the absurdity a welcome relief from the relentless tension of the last few hours.

Mark blindly reached out a hand, indicating his willingness to proceed, and Steve helped him to his feet, again slinging his arm round his shoulder. The familiarity of the gesture prompted Mark's recollection of their role reversal only the previous day. As a further reminder of Steve's recent injury, Mark could feel the abnormal heat rising from his son's body and, for a moment, he tried to resist the proffered assistance.

"Steve, you're in no condition to be half-carrying me," he objected. "You're supposed to be taking it easy today."

"I'll try to remember that. Thanks, Dad." His son's voice was warm with humour, and Mark could imagine the amused affection on his face.

He tried again to protest, wishing he could see through the darkness to inspect Steve's injuries, but, in the end, settled for some medical interrogation. "How are your ribs?"

"Dad, the only ribs I want to think about are those slathered in BBQ sauce." The acerbity of the words was supposed to gently deflect his father's worry, but it was softened by an acknowledgement of the motivation behind the grilling. "I'm fine. Stop worrying."

Mark gave up, gratefully relaxing into the solid support being offered. He knew that the image of comforting strength projected by his son in times of crisis was no illusion. His courage, integrity and dependability were limitless. Yet, Mark was maybe the only person who couldn't merely accept that at face value. He was too achingly aware of the vulnerability behind the superman cloak and the fact that Steve's willingness to assume the forefront of defense always placed him first in the line of fire.

Although Mark was frustrated at being a liability because of his ankle, he knew that he'd probably need help even if he wasn't lame. The darkness was so total he couldn't tell if the next step would carry him into a gaping chasm in the floor, a piece of furniture or further to safety. He strained his eyes to try to make sense of the dark blur surrounding him, but the shadows merely danced mockingly, creating brief, tantalising shapes then dissolving without providing discernible images.

Steve's night vision, however, was excellent, and he led them unerringly, if slowly, on their way. Suddenly he froze, every muscle taut and, as Mark realised he was listening, he tried to still his own harsh breathing. Far away in the vast building was a faint sound of splintering wood, indicating they were no longer the sole occupants. No reflection of bright lights or shouts reached them to help them identify who had broken in, so Steve didn't offer any comment on the noise they'd both heard but with a quiet, "let's go," he took a firmer grip on Mark's arm and they proceeded at a faster pace. Mark let the cues from Steve's body guide him - slight tensing put him on alert, total muscle lock placed him on red alert. He wasn't sure if his son was familiar with the layout of the building or if he was trusting his instincts, but he seemed to wind his way with confidence through the confusing maze of rooms, halls and stairways.

Despite the fact that Steve was supporting most of his weight, Mark found their mode of locomotion increasingly exhausting, and it became progressively harder to ensure the silent passage that circumstances demanded. Sensing his distress, Steve allowed them a break in the next room they passed through. He guided his father to a corner and lowered him behind a solid object that Mark was unable to identify in the dark. His voice came as a quiet murmur against Mark's ear, the gentle hiss tickling, although Mark was far from laughing. "I need to scout around. Stay here and I'll be right back."

Mark slumped against the wall, concentrating on easing air into his aching lungs as quietly as possible. As his heart rate slowed to a more manageable level, he was able to take more of an interest in his surroundings. He ran a gentle hand sideways in exploration and surmised that his shelter was a desk, abandoned abruptly by its owner when the business collapsed.

The faint brushing of cloth alerted him to the presence of another, and his eyes strained to pierce the darkness, unsure if his son had returned or less welcome company had entered the room. Just as a darker shadow detached itself from the general background, a faint whisper of, "It's me, Dad," relieved his anxieties.

Again a soft murmur intended for him alone reached his ears. "They've got someone on the side door. There's no other way out that's near enough, so we have to get past him. I'm going to take him out and come back for you. Be very quiet, I don't know how many of them there are."

Mark swallowed, hoping that 'taking someone out' was not as lethal as it sounded, and suddenly remembering that Steve had been a soldier before he had been a cop, learning stealth and survival on the harsh, unforgiving fields of Vietnam.

His cheeks puffed out in a silent sigh at the prospect of more agonised minutes sitting passively while his son risked his life. I hate waiting - his thoughts unknowingly were running along the same lines as Steve's had earlier.

To pass the time more palatably, he tried to concentrate on unraveling some strands of the tangled mass of deception that entwined them. An insight into the identity of the individual masterminding the operation was teasing his subconscious when he was jolted from his mental reverie by a strange sensation. There was no sound or sight to which he could ascribe the intuition, but suddenly he knew with certainty that someone was standing at the door to the room. Fear crawled along the skin of his arms, raising the fine hairs. The silence grew intense, a physical pressure assaulting his ears, and he knew his unseen companion was listening too, waiting for the least sound from Mark to betray his whereabouts. Mark resisted the temptation to search around for a weapon; every muscle was motionless, if tense, but his heart ricocheted around the cage of ribs enclosing it like a ping pong ball on crack, and he felt that the thundering from that alone would give away his location. Time itself seemed suspended with no external reference to ground him in the sensory deprivation of blackness, except for a sixth sense of preternatural awareness sharpened by dread.

Suddenly, Mark was bathed in a soft blush of red light, the muted glow of a flashlight that was not meant to be seen from outside the building. Accustomed to the darkness, it seemed bright to Mark and he shrank back as it traveled round the room, briefly illuminating each corner and allowing him to see the dimensions and pitiful opportunities for shelter available in the space. A tiny squeak signaled a footstep deeper in the room, and an icy brand of terror seared down the muscles of both cheeks as he realised that a few more steps would expose him. His safe haven had turned into a trap from which there was no escape. The angle of the light changed slightly as its bearer edged forward, and Mark felt an almost irresistible urge to stand up and reveal his whereabouts to spare himself the agony of anticipation of discovery.

Perhaps mercifully, the end came swiftly. There was a swift shuffle of feet, and then the light was shining in his eyes. Mark could only make out a vague silhouette of the man holding the light, but there was sufficient illumination to see the metallic blood-red glare reflecting off the gun in his hand.