Chapter 17

Masters' blow had not been particularly hard, and Mark started to return to consciousness before they reached the bottom of the ladder. He immediately started to struggle, instinctively aware, even before memory returned, that something was wrong.

"Keep still," a hard voice commanded. "Or we'll both fall."

As they reached the ground, Masters could tell from the rigidity of the body he held that he would soon be facing the consequences of his forceful actions. As he set Mark down, the doctor's eyes spat fire, in a display of fury few had been privileged to witness. "I'm going back up," he declared defiantly, daring Masters to set hands on him again.

Masters shrugged indifferently. "It's your choice, but your son is right. This is his best chance."

"He's not thinking about himself," Mark refuted hotly. "He's only thinking of my safety."

Masters didn't try to deny the truth of that statement, merely continuing with irritating composure. "I suggest, Dr. Sloan, that the best way to help Steve now is with more conventional means. Please come with me."

Mark became aware of the dissonant wail of several sirens and, with a feeling of disbelief, realised that only ten or, at the most, fifteen minutes had passed since the first exchange of gunfire in the Chief's room. The yawning distortion of time that made it seem ten times as long was due to the gamut of emotions he had experienced during that time.

With a last longing glance up the ladder, he followed Masters, the Chief's long legs pulling away rapidly. Mark limped after him, ignoring the protest from his ankle at the exertion of the night.

By the time he caught up, Masters was already organising his men in clipped sentences. He sent two officers to guard the bottom of the ladder before leading the largest group into the building. However, the Chief was not too busy to notice Mark's self-inclusion in the company.

His impassive face still managed to convey impatience. "Dr. Sloan, we are going into a volatile, potentially lethal situation. You stay here."

The glare from the Chief that followed these words would have intimidated most men, but Mark merely volleyed it, returning it with greater force. "My son is wounded and needs immediate medical intention. Unless you intend to arrest me right here, I am coming with you, and if you try that, I have some countercharges of my own I'd like to press."

It was a blatant threat and a clear challenge to the Chief's authority in front of his men, but, after a few seconds, Masters' emotionless stare slid off him with a dismissive nod. "O'Brien, keep the Doctor in the back and make sure he doesn't come to any harm."

In the lobby, people were milling in panicked confusion, and Mark had to admire the Chief's masterful command of the situation as he summarily addressed concerns. They discovered that Canin's men had removed the threat from hotel security first. An elderly man in uniform sat on the ground, blood seeping through the white handkerchief he pressed to his head but, for once, Mark suppressed his medical instincts. The man wasn't badly hurt, and he left him for the medics who were following close behind.

They took the stairs in an eerie reprise of Mark's earlier steps, but their progress bore little resemblance to that headlong flight. At each floor, men were sent in to ensure that not only was that area secure, but also that they would not be taken by surprise from behind. Mark wanted to shout with impatience at the delay, but both the fact that he was only there on sufferance, and the knowledge that Masters was following the correct procedure, prevented him from voicing his displeasure.

At the sixth floor, Masters himself led the foray into the hall. Mark started to edge past the body of the gunman that still lay crumpled at the bottom of the flight of stairs but was quickly restrained by his escort. To his relief, Masters returned within a few minutes and, meeting Mark's eyes, he had the decency to indicate with a minimal head shake that they'd found nothing. The deathly quiet and lack of opposition was at odds with the nightmarish memories Mark had of the stairs and it wasn't reassuring. It suggested to him that Canin's men had completed their task and vanished.

They encountered two more bodies on their way up to the roof, testimony to Masters' marksmanship, and it didn't escape Mark's notice that the Chief was first up the ladder, a dangerous position if the gunmen were still on the roof. Mark wasn't sure if he hoped for the hostage situation that would ensue if they were, but it seemed preferable to the alternative. However, an ominous silence greeted the Chief's cautious emergence, and after checking as carefully as possible from the limited field of vision afforded by the hatch, he disappeared through the opening, closely followed by several other officers. Neither shots nor shouts reached Mark's straining ears and, unable to tolerate the wait any longer, he tore his arm free of the restraining grasp and made for the stairs.

Terror curled constrictingly round his heart, squeezing it with vicious, sharp-clawed fingers as he saw Masters standing rigidly by the water tank, staring at the ground. It wasn't a stance taken if a wounded man were nearby. Mark could feel the crunch of every piece of gravel underfoot and the flow of individual molecules of air over painfully oversensitised skin as his steps faltered. Masters turned as he approached, and in that enigmatic stare Mark sensed a trace of compassion. His leaden feet rebelled before he reached the corner and he wavered to a halt, unable to force himself further, a heartwrenching cry imploding in his soul.

He felt as if he were again dangling off a precipice facing a shattering fall, but this time his son's strong hand did not stand between him and oblivion. He was alone. Despite the frantic denial he tried to maintain, he feared that Steve's lifeless body lay just beyond his line of sight. His limbs grew heavy and his vision swirled as his mind threatened to shut down to protect him from that horror.

A supportive hand closed on his swaying shoulder. "He's not here, Doctor." Masters' deep voice was surprisingly gentle as he tugged Mark round the corner to witness the empty space. His instinctive relief was short-lived as his eyes beheld the irregular dark patches staining the ground - Steve's blood. He suddenly became aware of the blood smeared stickily on his own hands and the sleeves of his shirt that were stiff, encrusted with the same viscous fluid. It was a poignant reminder of how badly Steve was hurt, and the image of his son, injured and a prisoner, came vividly to mind. He tried to stomp it down so he could concentrate on his next move, but it refused to leave him as he stared at the blood through eyes that no longer had the ability to see clearly.

Mark's thoughts were a chaotic mess, coming and going at random, bouncing uncharacteristically from place to place and he couldn't focus on any one thing for long before the pain of his son's loss rose up and scattered it, leaving him to start again.

Masters watched the emotions that paraded over the Doctor's face, the dazed look giving way to an unspeakable pain so raw it affected even the unemotional police chief.

"Dr. Sloan..." He searched for something comforting to offer. "We'll get him back."

"Yes, we will." The agreement was faint at first, and the Chief felt a shudder pass through the suddenly vulnerable shoulder under his hand. However, with an act of indomitable will, knowing his son was relying on him, Mark forced himself to concentrate.

"Yes, we will," he repeated again with blazing determination. He shook off the Chief's hand and turned on Masters.

"For starters, I'm not turning the notebook over to you. Don't think for a moment I am. You need to follow my plan exactly, and I swear if you don't, I'll..."

"Doctor, you're assuming I don't want to get him back as much as you do," Masters interrupted mildly. Seeing the real anguish on the father's face, he mentally amended, 'almost as much as you'.

Mark nodded his appreciation. "Then listen to me."