Chapter 11

Unsure whether or not to expect a bullet, and unwilling to meet his end cowering in a corner, Mark used his good foot to push himself upright, sliding up the wall until he was standing. He knew shots would bring Steve and prayed that his son would not run into a bullet in his haste to investigate. For a moment, neither man spoke, and Mark held a vague hope that his disheveled appearance might lead the gunman to believe that he was merely an indigent who had crawled into the building to escape the elements. He remembered his attempts to wipe his face and imagined that the smeared makeup would contribute to a very strange disguise. However, that small hope was dashed as the man called in an urgent whisper.

"Hansen, come here." This summons produced his associate who, even in the sliding, distorted shadows, was obviously enormous. Mark mentally christened him 'King Kong' as the man let out an unpleasant laugh on seeing him.

"Dr. Sloan, I presume. Frisk him, Tony."

Mark suffered the intrusive inspection of probing hands without protest, grateful that Steve still had possession of the notebook. As Tony finished, he moved away with a parting shove that conveyed his frustration at the unproductive search and almost caused the doctor to lose his precarious balance.

"Where is your son, Dr. Sloan?" Hansen's voice was assessing and coldly menacing.

"I sprained my ankle." Mark gestured at his swollen extremity, deliberately playing up his helplessness. "So he went for help." On the spur of the moment, it was the best Mark could think of to hide his expectation of Steve's imminent return. "Since the two of you are here, maybe you could help me." Mark didn't expect anything but intimidation from them but, if his son was in earshot, he would understand he was being fed information.

Mark's one certainty was that Steve would soon be back, but he had no idea how his son would tackle such a difficult situation, outnumbered and hampered as he was by the dark and their need for silence. The element of surprise seemed their only advantage.

To his chagrin, Hansen didn't accept this answer. Reaching out a meaty hand, he yanked his prisoner forward, and Mark could barely suppress a cry of pain as his weight fell on the injured ankle. Only the brutal grip on his arm prevented him from measuring his length on the ground. Then Hansen spun him around until he was restrained in front of the gunman, a brawny arm wrapped round Mark's throat. The casual ease with which he was manhandled scared Mark more than any threat and, with a dismal sense of deja vu, he felt the cold circle of a gun barrel pressed against his temple.

Mark thoroughly resented being hauled around like a sack of moldy potatoes so, as a form of passive resistance, he sagged from the arm restraining him, forcing it to take as much weight as he dared without throttling himself, on the theory that eventually even this giant would tire and it might give him an opportunity to break free. Indignation at such treatment was soon buried under fear as the intent behind the thug's actions became clear. He started to resist, but his struggles against the restraint proved ineffectual, and he soon subsided, deciding it was more strategically advisable to keep some strength in reserve.

"Sloan...Sloan!" Hansen called out. "We've got your old man here and, if you don't want to see him hurt, you better get over here right now."

"I told you, he isn't here," Mark protested in as aggrieved a tone as was possible from such an undignified position. He hoped Steve would take the hint and stay in hiding. "He can't answer if he eep..." The last squawk was forced out as the arm tightened painfully on his larynx.

With a click, a long, glistening knife appeared in front of Mark's eyes and, for a second, he went cross-eyed focusing on the menacing blade. "You may be thinking that I won't risk firing a gun with so many cops close by," Hanson continued conversationally. "Or that I would have qualms about hurting an elderly, unarmed man, but you'd be wrong on both counts. I'll give you to the count of ten before I tell Tony to start slicing pieces off him. I'll start with his hands; surgeon's hands aren't they? Well, he won't be doing any more surgery with a thumb missing."

Mark tuned out the counting. Fear curdled his stomach, roiling the contents and forcing him to contemplate the strategic value of ralphing on his captor's shoes, but he reluctantly decided nothing could escape past the vice-like constriction around his throat. Although the threats were unnerving, he disregarded their application to himself, not because he thought it was a bluff, but because he knew without a doubt that Steve would not let it happen. His son was incapable of skulking in the shadows, despite the greater wisdom in that course of action, while Mark was threatened.

Hansen had only got as far as 'three' when Steve materialised out of the darkness, standing in the doorway with his gun drawn. He was immediately targeted by the flashlight and became the cynosure of all eyes. Mark's guts were tied in a knot so tight he didn't think they would ever unravel, but he couldn't tear his eyes from the sight of his son bathed in the blood-red light, giving him a particularly gory appearance that Mark prayed was not prophetic.

He looked so strong and unafraid standing tall in the doorway, yet the reality of his vulnerability cut Mark more deeply and painfully than any knife ever could. With Hansen holding his father as a shield, Steve couldn't fire on them, yet, if they chose, the gunmen could cut him down with impunity at any moment. Anguish thrummed through Mark's veins like an electric current, delivering a burning jolt to every nerve ending, leaving them twitching and quivering with the need to act. To stand helpless, watching, while his son was murdered just feet from him would be the worst torture he could envision, the mental equivalent of being slowly boiled in oil, unimaginably agonising. It was actually a consolation to realise that if Steve were killed, he would almost certainly be close behind.

Across the darkness, Steve's eyes met his with a shock of connection, though Mark was unsure how clearly his son could see him. He was only yards away, but between them was a yawning gulf, impossible to cross. Yet, Steve's gaze held a promise, a private message of determination and deliverance for his father to read.

"Let him go now. No one has to get hurt." Steve's voice held the perfect blend of cool command and controlled, but detached, menace - professional tones honed over the years, designed to calm the situation while still conveying the serious consequences of defiance. He kept his gun and voice steady despite the frenzied terror that clamoured to be released at the sight of the gun pressed against his father's head. Staring into the light, it was hard to distinguish features, but, from the size of his father's captor, Steve was fairly sure it was Matt Hansen, an enforcer for the Ganza crime organisation, a man who used his immense brute strength cruelly and with great effect at the least excuse. Fear lodged like an icicle in the pit of his stomach, stabbing him viciously at the thought of his father in the hands of such an animal.

His words had little effect. Hansen hefted Mark up higher with a grunt, his arm tightening bruisingly on his throat. Mark was using both hands to tug desperately at the strangling limb in an effort to loosen the hold enough to receive sufficient air.

Steve fought back the panic as he felt Mark's life slipping away from him like sand through desperately grasping fingers. He couldn't see clearly enough to risk firing at Hansen. He couldn't even bring himself to point the gun anywhere near his father, choosing instead to level it at the smaller man, Tony the Weasel.

Hansen's laugh was that of a man who held all the cards plus a few extra aces up his sleeve. "I don't think you understand the situation, Sloan. You're going to put down your gun and then you're going to give me Latiere's account book or I'm going to start filling your father full of holes." Mark felt the gun shift away from his temple to be thrust against his ribs. "I think at point blank range, his body will muffle the sound of the shots and prevent unwanted attention, don't you?"

Mark's vision was swimming, grey dots obscuring the sight of his son, and he was barely clinging to consciousness, but he retained enough awareness to realise that if Steve surrendered his weapon, his son was essentially a dead man. He struggled wildly, fighting to force a warning past the agonising pressure on his throat, but incipient strangulation mangled his 'Steve don't' into an unrecognisable "Ungnhh".

Steve neatly sidestepped the issue by concentrating on the second half of the gunman's demand. "I don't have the notebook on me," he asserted firmly. "However, I know where it's hidden. If you leave my father here unharmed, I'll take you there."

It was an effective bluff which, if accepted, would mean that, at least temporarily, Steve was indispensable, but in the long run, it was a dangerous ploy. Mark would back any play his son made, but he was terrified that Steve's plan would safeguard his father's life at the expense of his own.

For the first time Hansen hesitated, one of his aces trumped. "Where is it?" he demanded at last.

"Now, if I told you that there would be nothing to stop you from killing us, would there?" Steve replied pleasantly. "First, let my father go."

"Now, if I let your father go, there'd be nothing to stop you from shooting us, would there?" the large man responded in much the same tone.

"I don't suppose you could just take my word for that." Steve's smile was all teeth.

"No, while I hold your father, you'll do as I say," Hansen shouted, losing patience. "Or I might just have Tony here slit his throat so you can watch him bleed to death."

"You hurt him and you'll be dead a second later," Steve snarled, fear bludgeoning through his professional discipline. Suddenly, he was no longer a police officer, as the threat pushed past his self-control and peeled back a layer of civilisation, leaving exposed the raw, elemental fury of a protective son. The savagery of his expression, the baleful glow in his eyes accentuated by the red light, caused Hansen to step back and reflexively tighten his grasp on Mark.

Steve could tell his father was in danger of imminent strangulation, if Hansen didn't accidentally snap his neck first. He fought for control of his emotions, realising that he needed to calm the situation quickly. He should never have allowed Hansen to needle him - his father was paying for that mistake. He held out a conciliatory hand, palm out.

"Nobody has to get hurt," he repeated. "We each have something the other wants. We can both come away from this as winners. I just want my father back. You want the notebook. I'm willing to give it to you in exchange for my father."

For a moment, all was quiet in the tomb-like room. Shadows bobbed and weaved as the flashlight jiggled in Tony's nervous grasp. Tension stretched in an almost visible chord in the battle of wills between Hansen and Steve, the big man's almost inhuman strength matched by Steve's implacable intensity and determination to save his father.

"Okay," Hansen agreed, slowly. "We have a deal. But first, you drop the gun."

Sensing Steve's obvious refusal, he unleashed his brutality. "You have till the count of five, and then I start shooting holes in your father. One..."

Mark willed his son to reject the stipulation and find some other alternative. He remembered watching a movie with a similar stand-off, where the cop unexpectedly shot the hostage, causing the captor to release him in surprise, opening himself up to a shot. That would be preferable to Steve leaving himself defenseless. However, in his heart, Mark knew his son was incapable of voluntarily hurting him.

"...Two..."

They all knew that if Steve dropped his gun, he could be forced to reveal the whereabouts of the notebook by similar threats to Mark. But what other options did he have?

"...Three..."

In despair, Mark watched the progression of emotions playing across his son's face - resistance fading into compliance.

Just as Hansen reached 'four', Steve capitulated, "Okay, okay, don't hurt him." He held both hands up and allowed the gun to slip from his grasp until it was swinging from a finger in the trigger guard. Slowly, he crouched down, never taking his eyes of Hansen, and placed the gun on the ground, then, with a little sideways shove of his foot, he kicked it towards their assailants.

As Tony scuttled forward to take the weapon, Hansen relaxed his hold on Mark's throat enough for him to take a large, painful whoop of breath, his starving lungs straining for more oxygen. His respiratory distress, however, did not blind him to the fact that Hansen's gun was now pointing at Steve. His son was still standing, arms held out non-threateningly at his sides and regarding the gunman steadily.

The earlier tenuous balance of power had shifted completely in favor of Hansen, and his malicious smile of victory signaled his enjoyment of this newfound control. The moment hung fraught with possibilities, and Hansen was indulging himself by considering the more sadistic ones. His orders were simple: - to retrieve the notebook and dispose of the Sloans and anyone else who'd seen the book. No one had specified the order in which these events had to occur. Reluctantly, he decided that, until he actually verified the whereabouts of Latiere's 'insurance', he couldn't risk dispatching the troublesome police officer in front of him. However, that didn't mean he couldn't damage him in some way. After all, he was too dangerous to be allowed to roam freely even with his father held hostage against his good behaviour.

A well-placed bullet would assert his authority, debilitate his adversary and undermine the morale that might lead to a strike for freedom. For all his rationalising, Hansen knew that what he really wanted to do was to see fear in the face of the man who had defied him and now confronted him so coolly. He straightened his arm and aimed the gun, purposefully choosing an area to target.