Chapter 16

Mark heard the shot, but, even as it registered, the unexpected and violent impact of Steve's shoulder against his caused him to lose his hold on the ladder and irrevocably shifted his balance, pitching him out into space, his arms flailing in an instinctive but futile attempt to regain his equilibrium or find some purchase to prevent the fatal plunge.

In that agonising, but seemingly infinite, instant between the possibility and inevitability of death, he lived a lifetime of terror and regret. He would never know if his son still lived and would suffer the agonies of remorse for his inadvertent part in his father's demise. He desperately wished he could have assured himself of Steve's survival and reassured Steve that it was not his fault, but he could do nothing except brace himself for the smashing shock of oblivion.

Pain came sooner than anticipated; a savage jerk to his shoulder and a blow to his knee. For a moment he hung, disoriented, unable to comprehend the passage of events, expectations at odds with reality. The pain resolved itself primarily in his wrist, and he became aware that he was suspended from the roof, his body describing a gentle, pendulum swing.

For a few seconds, he watched the bricks undulate before his eyes, paying undue attention to the minute pieces of crumbling mortar between them, the trivial detail confirming he was alive, then, involuntarily, his gaze was drawn down, and he could dimly see the alley below in the reflected street lights, looking like a giant maw gaping open to receive him.

Unsure whether his reversal of fortune was temporary or not, he finally looked up. With a savage bound, his heart started to race, compensating for the beats it had skipped when facing his imminent demise. The cause of his salvation was clear, Steve's long, strong hand was wrapped tightly around his wrist. He could see his son's arm up to his shoulder, but the rest of his body was hidden as he lay flat on the roof. He was unmoving, but common sense informed the panicked father that with a grip that tight, his son couldn't be dead. Suddenly terrified that an inadvertent move on his part would drag his son with him into the void, Mark looked around frantically for some way to relieve Steve of his burden. The ladder was a tantalising few feet away, but it might as well have been a mile. Steve's arm was pulled tight against a strange, wooden decorative overhang and there was no opportunity to increase his swing to reach it even if he hadn't feared that any shift of weight might cause both their deaths.

His right arm was free, but he could see nothing close enough to grasp to take his weight. Fear for himself took a back seat to fear for his son as Steve continued to lie inert, except for the crushing grasp he maintained.

"Steve?" he queried urgently, but there was no response.

Again, he tried louder. "Steve, are you alright?" It was an asinine question, but Mark had never been so frightened in his life as he dangled over oblivion, only five fingers between him and a horrifying death. He knew exactly the effect impact with the ground from that height had on the human body. To compound his misery, Steve was clearly injured, and he was merely a burden, unable to help him.

With every second of silence, Mark's worry increased exponentially. A strange tickle on his arm distracted him, alerting him to a new factor in the situation. He craned his aching neck upwards to focus on a rivulet of blood, trickling slowly down his outstretched limb. It looked oddly crimson against the white of his arm, and for a few seconds he watched in fascination. It was joined by a tributary from above, and together they increased speed, disappearing beneath the sleeve of Mark's shirt. More drops spiraled downwards, staining gory streaks like war-paint on his arm. Morbidly, he imagined them falling through the air and landing on the ground far below, inscribing a bull's eye for Mark's own eventual plummet.

Suddenly, he realised that the blood was not his but his son's, and his scalp crawled and his chest tightened, making breathing difficult. Steve, who quite literally held his life in his hands, in more ways than one, was losing blood rapidly.

He sensed that an appeal for assistance was the best way to break through his son's inexplicable paralysis. He almost considered complaining that his wrist hurt, but the last thing he wanted was for Steve to reflexively loosen his grasp.

"Steve, please help me," he pleaded.

With Steve unresponsive, and suspended on the cusp of death, he felt a strange feeling of isolation and, coupled with his increasing desperation for Steve, he nearly panicked.

"Dad?"

The profound relief that washed over Mark at the muffled sound of his son's voice was almost unbearable, yet the pained, confused tones caused Mark to exclaim almost involuntarily, "Don't let go!" Steve's fingers closed impossibly tighter, and Mark suppressed a groan as the small bones in his wrist were ground together.

A slight shift in Steve's position brought Mark's earlier fears for his son's survival rushing back, and ignoring the inconsistency of his instructions he commanded, "Steve, listen to me. If you're in any danger of going over, you must let me go. Do you understand? There's a good chance I can grab the ladder." The latter statement was an unblushing lie, but he would not save his own life at the expense of his son's.

This time, he could sense a gathering strength coloured by dark amusement in his son's strained words. "No way. Where you go, I go - remember? You can't change the rules on me at this point. Now, be quiet for a moment and let me think."

With Steve's return to full consciousness, Mark's fears for himself dissolved. His son's voice carried implacable conviction. He would never let his father fall, but would save him or die trying. It was the probability of the latter that terrified Mark.

Steve lay spread eagled on the roof. As Mark had toppled off the edge, Steve's superb reflexes and coordination, coupled with a modicum of luck, had enabled him to seize his father's thrashing wrist, but his injured leg had been unable to maintain his balance, and Mark's plunging weight had brought him down to the tarmac with a considerable impact. Only the fortuitous presence of a pipe under his frantically groping hand and the slope of the parapet prevented him from being dragged off in his father's wake.

The force with which the side of his face slammed into the roof had stunned him, and he fought the swirling mists of unconsciousness that threatened to engulf him. Some instinct greater than that of thought had screamed to him to hold on, and both hands had tensed obediently in response.

The fear in his father's voice now dragged him back from the brink, and he took inventory of his physical limitations. His left leg ached unmercifully from the bullet wound, sending spirals of agony up and down the limb, and he could feel that the leg of his pants was soaked with blood. Muscles and tendons in his shoulders screamed at the unusual stress. He'd also landed with considerable force on his injury from the explosion and he suspected that not only had it reopened, but also that he'd broken at least one rib. The worst of his pain seemed to be centered on his forearm, a slashing nauseating agony that leached the strength from his fingers. His hand felt slick from blood or sweat where it grasped his father's wrist, and he tightened it convulsively, suddenly terrified that Mark would slip from his fingers.

He muttered a few choice imprecations and swallowed back the acid in his throat as the terror of the situation suffused his being, crushing down on him with suffocating pressure. He held his father's life in one tired, cramping hand, and any weakening on his part would result in a hideous death for the person he loved and respected more than any other. Failure was unthinkable, yet even now, painful spasms shook his legs and shoulders, and his arms felt like dead weights, aching and numb, tendons and ligaments stretched and torn in this torture of body and spirit.

He wondered if he could hold on until help arrived, but fatigue pervaded every muscle and he could feel his strength ebbing, spilling out like milk from a broken bottle, first trickling, then bubbling faster, and he knew he needed to take action before his reserves were completely depleted. The sound of shots growing nearer cemented the decision.

His right arm was numb and he could no longer feel his father's wrist encircled by his inert fingers. For one truly hideous instant that seared him to the soul, he feared he'd lost his grip.

"Dad!" he called, clutching desperately, welcoming the resulting agony that sliced into his arm as a sign he still held his precious cargo, and by sheer force of will he ordered deadened fingers to maintain their grasp.

"Not going anywhere," came the reassuring, but terse, answer.

Steve gingerly shifted his right leg to brace it more firmly against the small parapet, but even that change in position produced an inchoative cramp in his shoulder, and he hastily adjusted his weight, hoping to divert a full-blown spasm.

"Steve, you still there?" The tentatively humourous query from below was a valiant attempt to conceal the strain Mark was experiencing.

Steve could taste the metallic tang of blood as he struggled for an equally nonchalant tone. "I just went for a nice cold beer..." The downward force exerted on his outstretched position was preventing his diaphragm from properly expanding, and he had to break off, gasping for more breath. "...and some chips, but I'm back now."

"It's a nice view," Mark continued lightly to conceal his growing concern for his son, "but slightly monotonous. Any ideas?"

Steve gave an experimental tug on the pipe and the resulting creak flattened him into the roof, trying to bury himself in the unyielding, bruising surface. "If you've finished sight-seeing...I think it's time you came back up." Despite the jaunty words, a trace of the desperation he was feeling leaked through. "We're only going to get one chance at this, Dad. We've got to get it right."

He banished the possibility and consequences of failure from his mind, drowning out the niggling terror that clamoured for recognition, summoning up every iota of his waning resources and visualising the process to success.

"I'm going to count to three," he shouted down. A gunshot sounded nearby, but he dismissed it as a distraction. The only thing that mattered now was lifting his father to safety.

Mark swallowed hard to moisten his dry throat, knowing that the next minute would see them safe or broken on the ground. For now, he was along for the ride; until they neared the top there was nothing he could do to help. He took heart from the steadiness and determination in his son's voice.

Counting down steadily, Steve tensed every muscle and sinew in preparation, flooding his mind with anger and fear, needing the desperate strength they offered. On the count of three, he heaved, left arm pulling on the pipe and praying it would hold, right foot pushing, but most of the effort concentrated in his right shoulder. The powerful deltoids bunched and writhed as, at first in tiny increments, Mark was drawn upwards.

The initial inertia was the hardest to overcome, not only was he lifting Mark's entire, not inconsiderable, weight, but his arm also met resistance in its slide back up. The slashing agony as he forced the movement caused a vertiginous roil in his stomach, but the adrenaline coursing through his system refused to allow the full sensation to register. He stubbornly continued hoisting, pain a negligible price for his father's survival.

The muscles and ligaments in Mark's arm were shrieking in protest at the rough treatment, and he entertained a mental picture of the limb tearing out of its socket, but he was awed by his son's feat of formidable strength. Mark felt like a sack of potatoes, hanging inert and useless, only able at first to mentally will his son on as he edged minutely up the building. As he neared the wooded decorative overhang, he tried to fend himself off as best he could to prevent undue friction. He winced as a piece of the cracked wood jabbed into his arm, but he was too near success to allow it to distract him.

Judging the distance carefully, he threw up his free hand, catching the edge of the parapet, relieving Steve of some of his weight. From then on, it was relatively easy. With a last groan of exertion, Steve yanked him onto the roof, and never had any surface felt so welcoming.

For a moment the two of them lay still, too exhausted to express the relief they both felt. Steve's chest expanded like bellows as deep breath shuddered into his starving lungs.

"I need to lose weight," Mark gasped, expecting caustic agreement from his son, but there was no response.

As the euphoria of survival ebbed, the crushing pain in Mark's wrist brought his focus back to Steve who had not yet released him but lay on his side, right arm cradled against his shirt, perforce drawing his father close.

"You can let go now," Mark informed him gently.

There was still no reply, and the continued pressure caused him to yelp. "You're hurting me, please let go!"

Steve uncoiled slightly, but Mark's wrist remained imprisoned. "I can't," he croaked in bewildered alarm. "It's not working."

It took a moment for Mark to understand, then appalled comprehension dawned. The death grip his son had held against all odds had been locked tight by every ounce of will in his body, and could not now be relaxed on command.

"Let me help," Mark offered, trying to conceal his own discomfort. He took their combined wrists in his free hand, but, as he turned them to a better angle, his own plight vanished in a blast of empathy as he saw the condition of Steve's forearm.

"Dear God!"

The vulnerable flesh of the inner arm was horribly torn, viciously shredded in the traverse up and down the wooden overhang. Through the thick, seeping blood, it was possible to see the culprits embedded cruelly in the flesh. Large, jagged splinters, some over two inches long, lanced obliquely downwards, the shards looking like straight black worms burrowing obscenely under the skin, and Mark had to swallow the sour bile burning in his throat.

The sheer guts, tenacity and endurance displayed by his son in not only holding on to him with such an injury but actually pulling him up against the thrust of the splinters was truly astounding.

"I'm fine, Dad," Steve reassured him wearily, but Mark understood that to mean only that he wasn't actually dead yet.

While he massaged his son's wrist and fingers in an attempt to loosen Steve's grip enough to pry himself free, he took stock of his son's other conspicuous injuries. His cheekbone and temple were adorned by livid bruises and abrasions, and by the unfocused look in the eyes, slight concussion was likely. Both Steve's shirt and pants leg were torn and soaked with blood, mute testimony to bullet wounds.

Mark didn't know where to start. Frustration and concern fought for ascendancy as he contemplated his complete lack of medical supplies to treat his son who was still losing too much blood and was clearly going into shock. His heart was trying to hammer its way out of his ribcage, but he instinctively quelled his panic to concentrate on his son.

Mark's left wrist finally slipped free, and he rubbed his son's cramping fingers, ignoring the pain as he worked sensation back into his own bloodless hand as well, before turning his attention to his son's bleeding leg.

A volley of gunshots brought his attention round in consternation. During the recent life-and-death struggle, he had totally forgotten the external threat. It seemed they had lived through an eternity since reaching the roof, but it could have been no more than five minutes. He looked around frantically for the gun Steve must have dropped, but his son, sensing his intention, grabbed his arm.

"It's empty. Please, Dad, get out of here."

Mark didn't bother dignifying that with a response. Ignoring the clamour of complaints in his own joints, he attempted to drag Steve to shelter, doing his best to ignore the ominous stains that gleamed wetly in his wake.

The hatch fell back with a clang, and Mark abandoned his efforts, stepping reflexively in front of his injured son. To his intense surprise, as well as relief, the long form of Masters erupted through the opening, pausing to fire a shot down the ladder before sprinting across the roof. Without a word, he assisted Mark in hauling Steve behind the flimsy shelter of the water tank.

"Welcome to the party," Mark grunted.

Steve shifted uncomfortably, working hard at concealing the resulting grimace of pain. "Can you hold them off?" His eyes refused to focus properly and his whole body felt wrung out, squeezed dry of every drop of energy and strength. He couldn't defend them from an attack of killer marshmallows, never mind organised crime hitmen.

Masters shrugged. "Highly unlikely, at least not from a concerted attack. I have three bullets left." He peered around the water tank and fired another shot. "Two," he corrected laconically.

Steve watched his father fashioning a tourniquet from a piece of shirt. "You two need to take the notebook and get out of here now."

There was no response, and he grabbed his father's arm urgently. "If we're caught together, they'll kill us all. It will make things really easy for Canin. He gets the notebook and we're all dead."

"Then the Chief can take the notebook," Mark replied evenly, not looking up from staunching the blood flow from Steve's leg.

"Dad. You have to listen." Steve tried to sound reasonable, not desperate. "If you stay, you'll get us both killed. If you go, they'll keep me alive for leverage to get the notebook."

"I'm not leaving you," Mark insisted stubbornly. "There's a good chance you'd bleed to death before being rescued. I'm not going." He had no intention of abandoning his son because of a theoretical danger when a real hazard existed.

"Then you're condemning us both to death," Steve spat out, but Mark could glimpse the naked fear swimming under the fury in his eyes.

It was an impossible choice. Whichever way he decided, his son was at risk, and the decision tore at Mark's heart, leaving bleeding furrows. In the end, his instinct to stay with his son was stronger than a desire, extending beyond need into a visceral compulsion that resonated to the very core of his being.

"I'm not leaving," he stated flatly and started to inspect the wound in Steve's side, although the slight tremble in his hands betrayed his inner agitation.

"Chief!" Steve appealed to Masters who had been ignoring the Sloans' argument in favour of guarding their position. But now he turned to meet the demanding gaze of his subordinate. Silent communication passed between them, old debts recalled, new markers called in, a trust conferred. Masters at last nodded, shuffling backwards closer to Mark.

"Dr. Sloan," he called gently. As Mark looked up, a fist impacted with his chin with scientific precision, knocking him unconscious into the arms of his son.

"I never thought you'd sit there while I did that," Masters observed dryly.

"Try it at any other time and you'll see a different reaction." Steve's expression was grimly forbidding, but his words contained a promise of sorts, and Masters accepted them as such.

"Make sure you're around to do that. To be honest, I don't want to face your father's wrath if you're not."

Reversing his gun, he presented it butt first to Steve. "Two bullets, remember," he cautioned.

"It's enough," Steve affirmed, maneuvering painfully into position as Masters hoisted Mark into a fireman's lift.

Steve fired once as Masters moved towards the ladder and again as the Chief paused on top, vulnerable as his awkward load forced him to steady his balance. At last he disappeared below the level of the roof and Steve slumped against the side of the tank, the last remnants of adrenaline draining from his system once his father was safe. Only semi-conscious, he wasn't sure how long it was before he heard the crunch of feet across the roof towards him. He forced his head up gamely to confront his fate, but could see only a fuzzy, faceless form silhouetted against the skyline as it loomed over him.