Duress


Disclaimer: Diagnosis Murder and the characters in it are owned by CBS and Viacom and are merely being borrowed for recreational and non-profit purposes. I promise to return them mostly unharmed.

Rating: PG

Summary: How far will Mark go to save his son's life?

Author's Note: So once more I was in the middle of a longer story and a small, innocuous-looking plot bunny hopped over and sat in my lap, refusing to budge until I'd fed and watered it. This is the result.

Author's Acknowledgement: This one's for Nonny and she knows why!

Chapter 1

Hi, Dad, I'm home! Steve called out as he took the steps two at a time, sniffing the air appreciatively as he approached the kitchen, anticipating the tasty meal that obviously awaited. Although he might receive some good-natured flack from some of his colleagues for still living with his father, there were definite benefits to the arrangement, and to anyone who rode him hard, he would expound at length as to the joys of ocean-front living which few working in the LAPD could afford. However, the truth was, he enjoyed his father's companionship and on nights like this, after a long, tedious and ultimately fruitless stakeout, it was infinitely preferable to return home to the aromatic warmth of the Beach House, than to a cold and sterile apartment.

There was a pile of mail addressed to him on the table, and he leafed through it rapidly, but the various credit card applications and assorted junk mail that appeared to comprise the totality of the stack held little interest and he soon dropped them back again. A quick peak in the oven revealed a stew pot and allowed another wave of savoury fragrance to flood his nostrils. There was only one thing missing from this scene of domestic tranquility.

he called again, this time pausing to listen for an answering hail, but there was no response and, for no apparent reason, that deficiency caused a frisson of unease to raise goosebumps along Steve's arms. He tried to dismiss the sensation. There could be an easy explanation for Mark's absence -- he might be outside or have been called in to work. Without moving from the spot, Steve visually scoured the kitchen for a note that he might have missed, but there was nothing in his immediate line of sight.

he shouted once more, attempting to keep his tone light and unconcerned, but the words echoed into a silence that was laden with expectancy, and instincts that had kept him alive in a career fraught with danger insisted that the safety of his home had been violated by an unknown presence. He wasn't alone in the house.

There was nothing concrete to support this hunch, but his hand moved to the reassuring solidity of his gun, automatically testing it for ease of access, although he couldn't bring himself to draw it. Once before, he'd searched his house with gun upraised, anticipating trouble, and had ended up with the muzzle pointing directly at his father. Even the memory of that experience and its possible consequences had the ability to create a curl of nausea that writhed low in his belly, and he wouldn't risk a possible repetition of the incident.

A noiseless step took him to the doorway, and he focused his attention outward, hoping for a clue to help determine his next move. His first concern was for his father. If this were a robbery or some perp seeking revenge, Mark could be lying elsewhere in the house, injured. That image was enough to propel Steve down the corridor, although he didn't allow the sense of urgency to override stealth.

This had been his home since childhood, and he was familiar with every creaking board, every place of concealment, as only a boy who'd played endless games of hide and seek, and a teenager who'd tried to slink in silently after curfew, could know a house.

As he slipped soundlessly into his father's bedroom, his eyes raked his surroundings for any evidence of movement, and his ears strained to pick up the slightest whisper of activity, but the still, thunderous silence surrounding him was heavy; he could feel it pressing down on him, he could even smell it.

Smell! That was the alien element that had alerted him, worrying at his subconscious, eddying around almost imperceptibly. Now he was removed from the gastronomical distractions of the kitchen, he could isolate the metallic tang of gun oil which stung his tastebuds, a familiar scent redolent of violence. He tilted his head like a wolf scenting something on the wind, tracking the source of the effluence back towards Mark's study.

He finally drew his gun, holding it pointing out and down, and started edging down the hall, struggling to control his breathing which was trying to force its way laboriously out of his lungs. A tight knot of fear expanded in the pit of his stomach. Tension was a natural reaction to a potential shootout, but the knowledge that his father was almost certainly in that room and would be in the thick of any fighting terrified him. He could feel his mouth drying out as cold tendrils of fear invaded his chest and wrapped around his heart, squeezing painfully.

He reached the door without incident and in silence, although it felt like the resounding of his heart as it drilled against his ribs would inevitably betray him to any listener in the vicinity. His shoulder blades braced firmly against the wall besides the doorway, he allowed his head to rest backwards for a few seconds, desperately trying to determine the best strategy. He wished he'd had more faith in his own instincts earlier and had called for backup, but now it was too late. He also wished that he had some idea of what awaited him inside the room. Charging in with no knowledge of the number of assailants or the type of weaponry he would be facing was a sure way of getting his father killed. Yet the prolonged stillness from within suggested that Mark was hurt, or at the very least restrained, so caution was hard won.

For Mark's sake, he had to stifle the filial impulses that demanded immediate action. The occupants of the room must be wondering what had happened to him since he last called out and, with any luck, would venture out to discover his whereabouts. That brief element of surprise would be his only advantage. He remained motionless for several minutes, apart from twice pressing damp palms on his pants' leg, and his patience was eventually rewarded. A dry creak, probably from a leather belt, reached his ears and the repetition of the sound drawing closer warned him of an impending appearance.

Slowly, the barrel of a gun emerged through the door, closely followed by a hand. That was all Steve needed. Swiftly tucking his own weapon into his belt, he latched onto the wrist and with a deft pull and a twist, followed by a savage downward blow, which in a more rational moment he would admit was considerably harder than necessary, he felled his opponent.

Rearming himself, he was about to enter, knowing that the instant he was framed in the doorway was the most dangerous, when he was forestalled by a voice, emanating urbanely from the study.

Lieutenant Sloan, please come and join us. Your father has been eagerly awaiting your arrival.

The threat in the words was implicit, and clearly nothing could be gained by delay, so Steve moved smoothly into the room, gun upraised. His heart lurched within at the sight that greeted him, and at the realisation that he'd miscalculated badly. Besides Mark, there were four men inside, all armed -- impossible odds, although he might have contemplated a last-ditch shoot out if it hadn't been for the fact that three out of four of the aforementioned weapons were aimed not at himself but at his father, reflecting a subtle grasp of psychology that was beyond the typical thug.

With the prospect of immediate action thwarted, Steve ignored the intruders in favour of reassuring himself as to his father's condition. To his relief, Mark seemed unhurt, although his hands were bound behind him, and there was a thick, gray strip of masking tape across his mouth. Above that, his blue eyes blazed with frustration and a fear that Steve recognised was entirely on his son's account. An almost infinitesimal shake of his head, coupled with the urgency of expression, conveyed a warning with which Steve was unable to comply.

He longed to move across the room to untie Mark, needing to be closer to protect him from the weaponry still targeting him, but the few yards that separated them were the equivalent of a galaxy away and he dare not relax his posture of vigilance against the doorway. A red haze of fury scalded his vision at this invasion of his home and the threat to his father, but he attempted to keep his expression impassive and not allow the weakness of anger to show. Without appearing too interested, he scanned the faces of the intruders, recognising two of them as low-level enforcers for one of the Mob families.

The focus of his scrutiny, however, was on the fourth man who stood behind his father's chair, his gun resting lightly on Mark's shoulder. He was large, with the bulk that comes more from good eating than exercise, and with a genial appearance, yet Steve knew that the benign veneer was deceptive. Brad Hicks was a ruthless killer with an extensive education that made him even more dangerous than the average gangster.

Lieutenant Sloan, I must ask you to relinquish your weapon. It's making my men nervous, and twitchy fingers could result in an accident to your father that we'd all like to avoid.

Steve made no move to lower his gun. But if I relinquished my weapon, I wouldn't be able to prevent any of those accidents, he responded equably.

Hicks smiled benevolently. I can assure you, we mean no harm to your father. We are here merely to discuss his testimony at the trial tomorrow.

The trial? Steve wasn't sure what connection the Mob had to the Oliver murder investigation, but it almost certainly boded ill for his father.

Isn't it rather hard to have a discussion when one of the participants is gagged, Steve pointed out reasonably.

Without some kind of restraint, your father would have warned you and we did want you present.Consider me warned now, Steve countered dryly.

Hicks ignored the hint, his casual bonhomie sloughing away like the dead skin off a snake, revealing the true reptilian nature inside.

I really must insist you drop your gun. He trained his own gun meaningfully at Mark's shoulder, a shot that would debilitate but not kill, and Steve had no doubts that non-compliance on his part would result in injury to his father. Impotent anger wrangled with despair. To protect Mark now, he had to give up the means to protect him later, and he still had no idea as to the intentions of the Mob.

For an instant, he was tempted to embrace the emotions seething inside, to use the adrenaline of fury to take out as many of the enemy as possible before they killed him. But he couldn't risk it with Mark in the line of fire. He met his father's eyes again, trying to convey both apology and confidence in that one glance despite the hollow twisting ache in his gut. In a strange moment of privacy in the midst of hostile stares, he saw reflected back the depth of love his father held for him but so rarely demonstrated, and hard on its heels was another attempt at warning as Mark again shook his head minutely. Steve wasn't sure if it was in response to the command to disarm, or if his father had somehow sensed his impulse to attack and was urging restraint. Either way, he had little choice.

Hicks cleared his throat meaningfully. Last chance, Lieutenant.

His murky, oily brown eyes held the certainty of triumph and Steve acknowledged surrender, releasing his grip on the handle of his gun, allowing it to dangle from his forefinger by the trigger guard. Hicks signaled two of his men to move in, and they relieved him of the gun then, wrenching both his arms behind his back and handcuffing him, patted him down for potential weapons.

Steve bore the indignities unemotionally but held Hicks' gaze with a forceful stare, charging the atmosphere between them with corrosive perception.

Hurt my father and I'll kill you, he told the mobster softly, the words all the more convincing for the arctic quietness with which they were spoken, a personal promise that would defy their superior numbers and firepower if necessary.

Hicks emerged from behind Mark and, for the first time, there were no guns aimed at the doctor, allowing Steve to relax marginally.

We have no intention of hurting your father. His affable smile was back in place. However, we have a vested interest in the outcome of the Oliver trial, and his testimony is vital to its resolution.

Although no fear showed in Mark's expression, Steve could feel tension roiling from his father in near physical waves, crashing into him with a force that rocked him back a step and he suddenly understood his own role in the equation.

And I'm your insurance. He kept his voice level and uninflected, not betraying his disgust at being used as a pawn to guarantee his father's compliance. Wanting to relieve the intensity of concern darkening Mark's eyes, he tried to communicate an unspoken reassurance, but even as he caught his father's gaze, Mark's eyes widened in sudden shock and horror, and Steve reacted instinctively to the implicit warning by ducking his head and hunching away from the anticipated blow. With his hands tied behind him, he was unable to block it completely, but caught it solidly on his shoulder. Ignoring the flair of pain, he lashed out with a foot, catching the thug on the left side of the knee, causing him to collapse with a cry of agony.

He realised that there was little chance of overwhelming all his opponents, but fought with a desperation that refused to admit futility, knowing a dead bargaining chip was worthless to them so it was worth the attempt. He moved forward, wanting to be in a position to shield his father should their attackers decided to cut their losses. He successfully evaded the next punch, kneeing the enforcer in the groin, but it was destined to be the last blow he landed. Hicks stepped back to where Mark was struggling against the gunman holding him down in the chair and unhurriedly placed his gun back against the doctor's head, stopping Steve in his tracks. In that instant of hesitation, he was caught by a vicious jab to the kidneys and something slammed into him above the right eye. His vision dissolved in an explosion of vermilion which faded like fireworks extinguished in the cold night sky as he rocked back on crumpling legs to crash inert on the ground, unable to break his fall with bound hands. As the first steel-toed boot thudded into his ribs, he wished with all the fervency his rapidly-fading consciousness could summon that his father would not be forced to witness the results of his failure.