Chapter 15

"Don't move!"

The command was delivered in chillingly forbidding tones, but Steve straightened slowly and defiantly. His own gun was already aligned with his captor's stomach and he jammed it forwards, emphasising the reciprocal threat.

"I don't think so."

In shifting position, the light from the corridor had illuminated Steve's features, and he heard the intake of breath from Masters as recognition registered.

"Sloan. I never thought it would be you." An edge of bitterness coloured the gravelly voice.

Steve realised that he had underestimated the chief of police, that he'd been expecting a nocturnal and unwelcome visitor. In the dim light, the two men glared at each other, neither giving way. Masters was one of the few people that Steve looked up to, both physically and psychologically, but he didn't let either the man's stature or position intimate him now. Intentionally or not, Masters was responsible for their fugitive status and his father's traumatic ordeal.

Neither man was prepared to yield an inch, and the deadlock might have continued indefinitely without Mark's intervention. He could see little through the crack in the door, but the few words spoken were sufficient for him to envision the whole picture so, exhibiting his usual finely-honed sense of self-preservation, Mark entered the room, switching the lights on as he did so.

If his reasoning was wrong, his son could be in terrible danger, but he swallowed back his instinctive panic at the sight of the gun pushed menacingly against Steve's carotid artery. "Are you two going to stand there all night?" he asked with just the right touch of impatience in his voice.

Steve tensed, ready to throw himself bodily at Masters if the gun ventured as much as an inch in his father's direction but, to his surprise, the Chief broke the deadlock, slowly lowering his gun and then reholstering it.

"Maybe I was wrong. Somehow, I don't see you bringing your father along for the ride if you were here to kill me."

With characteristic coolness, he turned his back on the gun Steve was still holding on him and walked to the bar. "Drink anyone?" he asked casually.

Mark shook his head. "You were expecting an assassin," he stated confidently. "You know Canin's behind this."

For a moment, a touch of uncertainty showed behind the Chief's impassive expression. "It seemed the most likely explanation, yes."

"Then why the hell haven't you done anything about it?" Steve burst out angrily, but he finally tucked his own gun into the back of his pants.

"What exactly would you suggest I do, Sloan?" Masters asked acidly, a cold stare fixed on Steve. "I have no proof that he's switched sides, and I can't exactly call him and invite him over for a chat. With the Task Force...gone, I didn't know who I could trust on this issue."

"You're just worried about your political career," Steve accused bitingly. "It wouldn't look good for the Chief of Police, and possible future Mayor, to have set up a former policeman as the next Boss of organised crime in the whole of Los Angeles. Not good at all."

Masters turned to face his insubordinate officer with matching fire in his eyes. For a moment they stood, a battle of wills apparent in their combative scowls.

Mark suppressed a sigh at the deliberate antagonisation of this potential ally, although he understood that it was the expression of his son's pent-up frustrations. He also realised that, intentionally or not, he and his son were tag-teaming the interrogation of the chief with a good cop/bad cop routine which had a good chance of prising loose information from the closed-mouthed Masters. Once again he jumped into the conversational breach. "So you set yourself up here. You knew that if it was Canin, he'd have to get you out of the way."

Masters gave a curt nod, turning to look at the elder Sloan. "I didn't expect the two of you to turn up."

"I'm sure you didn't," Steve interjected caustically. "Between Canin's goons and your men, you must have been sure we'd be out of the way -- probably in a body bag somewhere."

Masters' matching anger was ice to Steve's seething heat. "I didn't know what the hell was going on with you. You left the scene of a crime not once but twice, and killed another cop."

Steve wasn't impressed by the counter-attack. "You've got no credibility here. You sent us to die in an ambush and, when you thought I was dead, you hung my father out to dry. You handed him over to IA to browbeat and abuse and then left him defenseless against a murderous attack by your officers. If I truly had been killed in the blast, Dad would be dead too, a very convenient scapegoat for all concerned."

Steve hammered out the accusation in a fury as he advanced on the Chief, his fists clenched tightly by his side. The brutality of the attack on Mark and the narrowness of his escape still had the power to impale him with a sharp jab of panic, and he felt a very personal sense of betrayal by the Chief. As a police officer, he faced the real possibility of death every day, and it was an important consolation that the department took care of their own and he could expect his colleagues and superiors to watch out for his father. That fond belief had been rudely shattered, and the Chief was a convenient target for his resulting anger.

Before his son could lose control and belt the Chief, Mark hurried across the room to avert disaster, in the belief that Steve would like a job to return to after clearing his name. He laid a hand on his son's broad shoulder and squeezed gently, not as a form of restraint but as an affirmation of his presence, physical proof that he'd survived the nightmare Steve was reliving. He felt the tension in the muscles under his fingers start to relax but, surprisingly, it was Masters who completed the process.

"I'm sorry." The simple apology from a proud man defused the brunt of Steve's anger. His threatening posture relaxed, fingers uncurling gradually, and he turned abruptly away from the Chief, holding his father's worried gaze for a minute before, with a nod that acknowledged that concern and yielded control of the situation to Mark, he walked across to the couch and sat down.

Mark resumed his polite interrogation. "You had no suspicions about Canin before the ambush at the warehouse?"

"None at all. He seemed to be performing a difficult job in an exemplary manner."

"I told you that the line was too blurry," Steve growled, not yet entirely ready to relinquish his animosity. "If he could even see it, you pushed him over it. To maintain his position, he was forced to break the law."

Only a tightening of the jaw acknowledged Steve's accusation. "It was a mistake, but at the time it wasn't clear. Originally, Canin was only supposed to be a small cog in the Ganza crime machine, supplying us with information, but, when he found himself in charge, more or less by default, it seemed like too good an opportunity to pass up. It worked too. We've had excellent information on all the organised crime groups, brought down a large number of top figures and confiscated an unprecedented amount of weapons and drugs."

"All of which consolidated Canin's position," Mark pointed out mildly. "But he only fed you enough to keep you happy and rid himself of opposition. You weren't getting the full information." Mark pulled out the notebook and, gesturing to the Chief to join them on the sofa, he showed it to Masters, explaining the numbers as they had deciphered them so far.

The Chief perused the pages in silence for a few minutes before adding the nature of the cargo to their pool of knowledge. Mark then turned to the back page and explained Steve's deductions on the digits there. With a stone face, his mouth a thin gash, Masters read it. His eyes showed his chagrin and mounting fury, but his voice remained uninflected as he commented occasionally on the long list. "This group is in IA, these Vice." A finger stabbed another number further down. "He's a Captain."

Steve was grudgingly impressed by the Chief's thorough knowledge of his department and personnel, but worry for Mark outweighed all other considerations. "Now that you know who you can trust, what are you going to do to ensure my father's safety and bring Canin in?"

"It's not that easy, Lieutenant." Masters accorded Steve his rank for the first time. He tapped the notebook. "As I told you once before, knowing something and proving it are two different things. This won't stand up in court, especially since Latiere isn't around to verify its contents. I may believe you, but my opinion doesn't count for much. The facts are that you shot another cop in the performance of his duty, or so his friends claim, and left the scene. It's your word against theirs as to what went down. All the evidence is weighted against you, and it'll take time to clear up."

"I'll take my chances," Steve insisted. "But I need my father well guarded by people we trust in the meantime."

"No!" Fear propelled the word out in a sharper tone than Mark had intended, and he tried to moderate his voice to a more reasonable level as he continued. "We need to drive Canin into the open first. If we don't, it would be tantamount to a death sentence for you. We need to force him to show his hand; get concrete proof."

"Or lure him out," the Chief added pensively, dropping the notebook back on the coffee table and moving off the sofa, needing to face the Sloans to see their reaction.

"How are you thinking of doing that?" Steve asked suspiciously.

Masters arched an eyebrow. "Canin wants this book and the three of us dead. With that accomplished, his position is unassailable. If you are 'killed' resisting arrest and Mark is placed in custody..."

Steve was on his feet instantly. "You are not using my father as bait! If you want to fish for a murderer, get someone else to play the worm on the end of the hook." His eyes blazed with the heat of blue fire, scorching and unquenchable. Every protective instinct within him was screaming out in protest. Mark was about to object, but Steve must have sensed his intent, since he turned his glare on him and Mark subsided, impervious to the fury in the gaze, but unable to ignore the fear he saw behind the anger.

"And what do you suggest, Lieutenant?" The Atacama desert could not be drier than the Police Chief's tone.

"Old fashioned police work," Steve stated immediately. "We know what we're looking for; let's find it. We have a whole list of suspects here to interrogate. We question them and probe for a weak spot, confirmation of our suspicions, then we move in."

"May I propose a compromise?" Mark suggested diffidently. "We don't want to tip our hand too early, so a possible..." His voice trailed off as, unconsciously, he obeyed the muting signals broadcast by his son's body language.

Steve's frame was rigid, his head tilted slightly and, although his eyes were on the door, their unfocused, frowning gaze reinforced the impression that he was listening intently, concentrating on something imperceptible to the others beyond the room.

It was scant warning, but sufficient to save their lives. In front of their eyes, the lock dissolved into splinters with explosive force, although there was eerily little sound for the magnitude of destruction. Mark automatically grabbed the notebook from the table in front of him. Luckily, the two cops instinctively reacted to what they recognised as silenced weapon fire -- the Chief's long legs needing only a few strides to find shelter behind the bathroom wall perpendicular to the entrance. Mark and Steve were not in such a fortuitous position, exposed in the middle of the room with no time to find impregnable cover.

Mark found himself abruptly disoriented, his feet flying above his head as his son tackled both him and the couch, knocking them both over and depositing him flat on the floor behind the flimsy protection of the furniture. Steve's weight held him down as the first gunman entered, spraying a wide arc of bullets in an enthusiastic and slightly panicked attempt to take down his quarry. One well-placed bullet from Masters left him sprawled lifelessly on the floor, a useful obstacle to deter his fellow assailants, who had apparently decided that discretion was the better part of valour and limited their assault to speculative shots from the doorway.

Steve had yet to fire a shot and, suddenly afraid the body on top of him was literally dead weight, Mark started to struggle to rise, but an insistent hand in the middle of his shoulder blades, pushing him back down, reassured him, and he obeyed its unspoken command, realising that the couch was scarcely a defensible position and Steve was merely attempting to avoid calling attention to their location.

Steve was also grimly aware that he possessed a limited number of bullets. He was still carrying the weapon purloined from the IA car at the Beach House, which had already been fired, and he had no spare ammunition. However, he knew he had to support the Chief in deterring an all-out attack so, to draw returning fire away from his father, he wormed his way to the opposite end of the couch -- a postion from which he could also communicate with Masters. With a combination of signals established for just such situations requiring silent communication, supplemented by a series of furious gestures, they formulated a plan, although Steve ascertained that the Chief was only slightly better supplied with ammunition than he was.

Canin must be desperate to undertake such a large-scale assassination attempt in the middle of a public hotel, and the two policemen were concerned by the potential for innocent casualties in such a situation. Although they imagined that, by now, reinforcements were on the way, it was impossible to tell how many men Canin had sent and how long it would take for help to arrive. Meanwhile, Mark and Steve were too vulnerable behind the couch, which would do little to stop a well-placed bullet. While Masters provided covering fire, the Sloans were to retreat the few yards to the balcony, the glass of which had already been shattered, removing the need to waste time opening it. The balcony extended beyond the distance of the glass, so the wall would shelter them and they could work their way along the balconies of adjacent rooms to a safer location, and, after finding Mark a secure shelter, Steve could return to the corridor and hopefully catch the gunmen in enfilading fire.

It was a good plan in theory, but it contained significant risks. The gunmen were pressing their attack more insistently as time for them ran out. Fear lodged like a hard cube in the pit of his stomach as Steve inched back to his father. In a few whispered words, he explained the plan to Mark and together they crawled to the extent of the cover provided by the couch.

Mark was white-faced but steady, and Steve gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze as he watched Masters' fingers counting down - 3...2...1! With a shout of, "Go", Steve surged to his feet, covering Mark's escape with his own body as both he and Master beat out a formidable tattoo with their guns. A quick glimpse behind assured him that Mark had reached safety, and relief feathered down his spine as he ran to join him, a bullet slicing a shallow furrow in his side, speeding him on his way, a hot-poker sensation searing along his ribs.

The balconies along the floor were a couple of feet apart, which could be covered by one good stride, an easy enough proposition at ground level, but six floors up it presented a very different challenge. But there was no time to pander to Steve's acrophobia. Masters had sacrificed a large measure of his own security in facilitating their escape, and Steve owed him for that. He negotiated the first gap with no difficulty but, seeing his father haul himself onto the railings, bracing himself against the wall as he wavered slightly preparatory to stepping out, brought a surge of dizzying nausea and clammy hands as he reached out to steady his arrival.

The procedure had to be repeated twice more, but Steve stubbornly refused to look down, determined not to allow his eyes to sample the sight his imagination was force-feeding him. As he pulled his father down off the railings for the last time, his mouth was dry and his knees weak with relief that this part of the ordeal was over. He made a mental note to never book a room above the ground floor again.

Masters had indicated that the third room was empty and it had the added advantage that its entrance was opposite the doors to the stairs in the hall. The balcony door was locked, so Steve reversed his gun, shattering the glass and reaching gingerly through the resulting aperture to open it. He advanced cautiously into the dark room, gun extended, not taking its vacancy for granted. He could feel Mark at his back, and felt a brief flash of gratitude for his father's steadfast courage and unquestioning support.

The sound of sporadic gunfire from the hall reached them clearly. Steve checked his gun, just four bullets left, not enough to go on the offensive very effectively, but he had no choice. He eased open the door soundlessly, risking a quick glance into the corridor. There were three men outside the door to the Chief's room, one kneeling on each side and one standing facing away from Steve. They had obviously not plucked up the courage to charge through -- Masters' reputation, as much as his gun, keeping them at bay.

With such limited ammunition at his disposal, Steve wanted his father out of the way before he started firing, since if they chose to come after him, he wouldn't be able to hold them off for long. Taking up a firing stance, he nodded at Mark who darted across the gap to the stairs. The swift movement in the corner of his vision caught the eye of the man on the far side of Masters' door. As he swung his gun around, Steve took him down and the other two mobsters scattered, quickly appreciating the danger of their newly exposed position. Steve was preparing to follow up on his advantage when the sound of a shot from the stairs and a cry of pain from his father chilled him, sending fear ripping through his gut.

He slammed through the door in a panic, almost straight into the path of a bullet, his own almost reflex shot tumbling the gunman down the stairs to lie at the feet of his accomplice who promptly reversed direction, taking cover behind the lower floor of the stone staircase while firing several rounds. Steve ignored him in favor of checking on his father, whose face was bleeding profusely although he was on his feet.

"Dad?" Trying to check on the injury, Steve hustled Mark around the corner out of the immediate line of fire.

"I'm alright. I think it was a chip of stone ricocheting from the wall. I'm not shot," Mark reassured him as he tried to stem the flow of blood.

As a bullet impacted the wall behind them, dangerously close to their heads, Steve grabbed his father's arm, forcing him up the next flight of stairs, urgency clear in his voice. "We've got to keep moving. Come on!"

They fled upwards, Steve's strong hand guiding Mark's stumbling steps as the flight and the fear drew the air from the older man's straining lungs, the sting of the sweat trickling into the cut on his face. He ducked involuntarily as a bullet twanged off the railing, the curve of the stairs the only thing protecting them, but their pursuer was steadily overhauling them despite their best efforts.

I'm too slow, Mark thought desperately, knowing Steve would be the first target. He wanted to urge his son to go ahead but didn't waste what little breath he had on a hopeless appeal, grimly forcing the necessary acceleration from his aching, leaden legs.

It was a terrifying race, with death snapping savagely at their heels, spurring them to greater exertion. Blood loss and insufficient oxygen added to a growing sense of disorientation, blinding him to everything except his burning lungs and muscles.

The end came so abruptly that, for a precious second, they stumbled to a halt, staring, aware only of the fact that there were no more stairs. A door led out onto the top floor, but Steve realised that, even if they could get through in time, the hallway would offer no areas of concealment. They were essentially cornered. Grasping the implications of the situation almost immediately, Steve pushed his father towards the safest corner, out of the line of fire, and positioned himself against the railing at the top of the stairs, grimly preparing to use the last of his ammunition to the best effect.

His best hope was that the gunman would, in his blind enthusiasm for the chase, make himself an easy target, but he couldn't rely on that so, in the split second available, he cataloged other possible methods of defense. Once emptied, the gun itself could be employed as a projectile and, as a last desperate resort, he fully intended to use the advantage of elevation to turn his own body into a missile. It would be a kamikaze move, and he would almost certainly stop a bullet on the way down, but the impact of his bulk from such a height could easily break a man's neck, buying his father time to escape.

The metal railing was cool against his heated cheek, and the gun felt slippery in his sweaty hands as he struggled to keep it steady while his lungs tried to compensate for the deprivation of oxygen suffered in half-carrying his father up four flights of stairs at break-neck speed.

Unfortunately, it seemed that their pursuer had clued in to the lack of pounding feet ahead and was exercising a caution that precluded him from blundering obligingly round the corner and presenting himself as easy prey. Maybe they could maintain a stand-off until reinforcements arrived.

"Steve!" His father's sibilant whisper momentarily redirected his attention from the stairs to the ladder which led to the roof. He had dismissed it as impractical earlier in their need for haste, but, now that their assailant had apparently abandoned speed for caution, it offered some intriguing possibilities. The lower five-to-six feet had been enclosed in a smooth padlocked, metal panel to discourage curious guests from inappropriate exploration, but the upper few rungs were clear and offered access to the latch which opened the hatch to the roof.

A bullet hummed unpleasantly past his ear, the explosion of the shot echoing eerily in the small space, causing Steve to focus back on the stairs just too late for a decent shot at his opponent.

Making a quick decision, Steve moved back out of range, tucked his gun into the back of his pants and used his hands as a stirrup to boost his father to the top of the ladder. Quickly moving back into position, he surprised the gunman with his abrupt reappearance, but the would-be assassin dove back into shelter, and Steve's hastily taken shot impacted the wall behind him. Although he was now in the precarious position of having only one bullet left in his gun, Steve didn't count the shot as entirely wasted, hoping that the reminder that his quarry was armed would act as a deterrent.

He leapt for the ladder and, although both his stitches and his recently acquired laceration complained at the strain, he pulled himself easily up and out onto the roof where Mark was hovering anxiously. He closed the hatch behind him, looking around hopefully for some way to fasten it down permanently, but the area was devoid of movable objects of any type. There were the usual types of hiding places for a lethal game of hide and seek -- heating units and a water tank, but, to Steve's jaundiced eye, it was bereft of seriously defensible positions. For now, he decided the safest way to deal with an attack was at the point of entry.

"Dad, see if you can find a way off the roof -- other stairs or a fire escape."

Mark nodded, but delayed his departure as he glimpsed the fresh blood on his son's shirt. "How bad?" he asked tersely.

"Just grazed me." Steve took in his father's blood-streaked face, still oozing from the cut above his cheek. "You're in worst shape than me, but there's no time for first-aid. I've only got one bullet left, so we need to get off this roof."

Mark surveyed the bleak prospects with a grimace and started to work his way around the edge, checking over the slight parapet.

The hatch opened a fraction, but Steve had positioned himself behind it so he couldn't be seen, and Mark was temporarily concealed behind the water tank, so he waited until the hatch opened further, then with a bound, he leaped onto it with both feet, hearing the gratifying smack of wood on unprotected skull and subsequent muffled cries of pain and rage. He was delighted at the success of his maneuver, but his smug smile of satisfaction was quickly erased as bullets and splinters burst through the wood, causing him to quickly vacate the area.

"Over here!" Mark called excitedly. Steve loped over the roof to his father, who gestured triumphantly over the side. "There's a fire escape ladder!"

A quick glance confirmed this discovery, but also sent his stomach roiling at the ten-story height. Mark had one leg over the side gingerly testing the ladder's strength, and Steve hastily moved closer, ready to grab him if the structure gave way. But at that instant, some survival instinct, the residual of both jungle and street warfare, dragged his attention around, and he saw the gunman already half on the roof, gun extended in their direction.

Steve brought his weapon around and fired in one smooth move. But as the bullet left his gun to strike its target with lethal accuracy, a stunning blow smashed into his thigh, toppling his balance and causing him to stumble hard against his father. Mark was knocked away from the ladder and, with a hoarse cry of alarm, disappeared over the edge.