Chapter 4

The greasy pizza aroma wafting in Steve's direction was more nauseating than appetizing, even though it had been a long while since he'd last eaten. That was probably a good thing since none of the five men sitting round the table seemed inclined to offer him any sustenance. Why feed a dead man?

Steve mentally composed a scathing discourse on the evils of junk food for breakfast, its dietary implications and negative effects on the cardiovascular system. He'd heard the lecture often enough from his father, Jesse and Amanda to have both the facts and the vocabulary down pat. He worked it into what he felt was a consummate example of rhetoric, but, discretion being the better part of valor, resisted the temptation to attract attention to himself and aggravate his captors even more by interrupting their poker game to deliver it.

It did, however, provide some distraction from his unenviable position for fifteen minutes, and a diversion of any kind was welcome. Steve had been the recipient of beatings before, but nothing so methodical, so comprehensive. It seemed that every inch of his body was sending out competing claims of agony; muscles, nerves and his very bones aching savagely. He would currently award the prize to his shoulders where tightly wound muscles kept sending pain shooting down his arms, protesting angrily over the length of time they'd been kept bound unnaturally behind him.

He tried to shift slightly to relieve the strain, but the minute contraction of his stomach muscles provoked a cramp in that abused area, sending yet another surge of pain and weakness through him, forcing him to grit his teeth as he waited it out.

The intense, tearing spasm eventually eased to a dull ache, although his muscles still twitched involuntarily, and he slumped against the wall. This didn't provide any comfort as the hard surface impressed itself cruelly into his bruised back. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and the world tilted sickeningly before his eyes, so he closed them.

It would seem that his situation was dismal. Even with his hands untied, he doubted he was physically capable of defending himself against one assailant, never mind the five who currently occupied the room, and he had no doubts that they intended to kill him once he'd served his purpose. They had made no effort to conceal their identities, and they had to know they couldn't kidnap a police officer with impunity.

However, Steve refused to believe the outlook was as bleak as it appeared. Although he had no idea what Mark could do to help, he knew his father would not be sitting passively at this time, but would be applying his immensely resourceful and inventive mind to the problem and he had every faith that Mark would devise some sort of plan. Given time, his father would find him. But that was the crux of the matter. If Mark managed to string his evidence out to span the length of the day, that still left them less than twelve hours, and even miracle workers needed time to effect their miracles.

Of course, one of the few drawbacks of that unspoken trust that lay between him and his father was that if Mark were unable to accomplish an opportune rescue, he would never forgive himself. Steve could imagine the illimitable scalding guilt that would corrode his life if their position were reversed.

He couldn't just sit back and expect his father to extricate him. There had to be some ways he could increase the odds at his end. He could start by getting a better idea of his surroundings. He knew that he was in a motel room; the generic and sparse furniture had told him that much. If he could find a name, that would narrow down the possibilities.

He cracked an eye experimentally. The room had stopped spinning, but his vision was still too blurred to distinguish more than the most salient features of the room. He was tucked between the wall and the second twin bed, and the bathroom was almost certainly on the other side of the wall. The five poker players were engrossed in their game in front of the large, currently curtained, window next to the door. Steve eyed the dappled material concealing the panes of glass with fuzzy appraisal. It offered the best chance for fast egress, yet his last effort at diving through a window to save his life from a gun-wielding psycho hadn't turned out that well. These professionals would perforate him with an effectiveness that would leave him looking like a target at the shooting range. Moreover, with his luck, he'd probably find mid-exit that they were three floors up and he'd end up doing an impromptu swan-dive to the ground below.

The effort to focus his uncooperative vision caused his already stabbing headache to slice more viciously across his eyeballs, and his stomach rolled lazily up to his throat. He shut his eyes again, hastily swallowing back the persistent nausea. If he could concentrate past the painful pounding of his heartbeat, he should be able to garner more information from outside. The muted roar of his pulse merged with the muffled rumble of traffic, but eventually he could distinguish the hum of countless vehicles rushing past and the frequent cough of trucks changing gear, and he guessed they were near the ramp of a freeway.

As he relaxed slightly into the aural concentration, he found that he could pick up more than he'd thought possible. A door banging and indistinguishable voices calling gave him the impression that they were a floor up, and the reverberating footsteps passing by the room sketched the picture of a wooden walkway connecting the different rooms on this level. But there was still nothing to narrow down his exact location.

He wasn't sure why his captors had chosen a motel in which to wait; he'd expected to find himself in some dingy warehouse when he'd recovered consciousness. It seemed too mundane and innocuous for the inherent, looming violence, but he supposed that it was a location which couldn't be connected back to the Mob.

Motels usually had identifying products and motifs scattered around, perhaps on the table between the beds or in the bathroom, neither of which was in his immediate line of sight. Maybe next to the television... it was a struggle to open his eyes against the relentless throbbing behind them, but he succeeded. There was a promising white rectangle on the chest of drawers next to the grey blur of the television. Steve blinked his eyes and squinted and, for a second, it was like watching an old Polaroid picture develop, it came into focus just long enough to recognise the familiar half-yellow sun in a black background before it deteriorated into impressionistic art. He was in a Days Inn.

It was a small accomplishment, but a triumph nonetheless, proof that his battered body and addled brain were still capable of functioning under the most adverse of circumstances. Of course, now he just needed to be able to burst out of his handcuffs, subdue five armed men, and jump tall buildings in a single bound.

His dubious sense of achievement was short-lived as the next words from Hicks near the window brought his head around in a jarring twist.

OK, it's time.

The mobster stretched, then turned in his captive's direction, pulling his gun from its holster as he moved. Fear cut through Steve, chilling his body, and behind it anger and desperation churned. He'd always accepted the possibility that he would die in the course of his duty, but had assumed that at least he would go out fighting. To die, tied up, helpless, and alone was a horrifying prospect. However, he wasn't going to let his murderer see the dread that prickled every inch of his skin. His expression grew slowly blank as he painstakingly washed all the emotion out of it except for the defiance which blazed from his eyes, and he braced himself automatically, the horror of the moment subsuming the pain that the tension exacted on his battered frame.

Hicks sat on the bed near him, just out of range of a possible kick, his gun lazily aimed at his captive's stomach, and simply because his mouth was so dry he wasn't sure he could speak, Steve forced the words out of his mouth.

Let me guess, you need a sixth at poker?

A wry, unbidden smile twisted at Hicks' lips, an acknowledgement of the stubborn courage of the man near his feet. You wouldn't want to play with them, they cheat. Actually, I have something else in mind.

Steve shrugged nonchalantly. I'm rather busy at the moment, but I'll try to fit you into my schedule.

Hicks reached backwards and scooped the telephone off the bedside table. You are going to talk to your father. You will tell him that you are fine and that, if he performs his side of the bargain adequately, you will be released. Do you understand?

Steve gave a curt nod of assent, concealing his eagerness for the communication. He'd been afraid that he would die without the chance to speak to his father, and the prospect of hearing Mark's voice was tantalizing. It was also an opportunity to transmit the little he'd learnt. As if reading his mind, Hicks leaned forward, pressing the barrel of his gun almost caressingly against his prisoner's temple.

And if you deviate from that script, your father will have the dubious pleasure of hearing his only child die over the phone.

Anger at this indirect threat towards his father merged with no small amount of fear in Steve's mind, but he pushed both emotions into the background, forcing an, at least outward, appearance of complete capitulation. I understand.

Hicks dialed the number Mark had provided the night before, and it was answered almost instantly. Sloan here.Dr. Sloan, your son would like a word with you. Hicks held the telephone to Steve's ear, his automatic lined up over the top of it.

Steve, are you alright? Even taut with worry and distress, Mark's voice was balm to his soul and provided inspiration for his next words.

Yeah, I'm just fine, best 24 hours of my life. He said it with light sarcasm, hoping the triphammer of his pulse wasn't obvious. It wasn't much of a clue, but he knew Mark would be alert to every nuance and choice of his words and if they narrowed down the area where he was being held, he trusted his father would put 24 hours and Days Inn together.

The pressure of the muzzle against his head increased reprovingly, and Steve continued hastily. it was name he never used for Mark, and he hoped his father would understand it negated everything that followed. ... just do what they say, and everything will be alright. They'll let me go when the jury reaches a not-guilty verdict, don't worry.

He wanted to add something more, desperately conscious that it might be the last time they spoke, but the circumstances made any personal addendum impossible, and he had to trust that his father knew what he couldn't say. Hicks pulled the phone away, replacing the head set with no farther intimidation, and he eyed Steve with a whimsical smile in which, however, there was more triumph than humour. Steve met his eyes levelly to conceal his abrupt sense of loss at the terminating of his last connection with the most important person in his life, yet he was also imbued with a new sense of urgency.

He kept his voice casual. Since I have you over here, I have to tell you that unless you want it messy, I need to go to the bathroom.

Hicks regarded him dispassionately. If you can get there under your own steam, be my guest. He knew the crippling effects of a severe beating, and doubted his prisoner would be capable of that much independent locomotion. He turned away dismissively.

Wait, untie my hands. It was more of a command than a request, and the mobster was frowning in automatic refusal when Steve continued tauntingly. What's the matter? You think walking to the bathroom is going to be too much for me, but you're afraid that I might be able to take out five armed men?

His words struck the right note of derision, and Hicks reached into his pocket for the keys. Only while you're in the bathroom.

He reached around Steve and none too gently unlocked and removed the handcuffs. As his arms were released from the unnatural position in which they'd been restrained for the last ten hours, Steve's muscles cramped and spasmed, nerves twitched and quivered, but he refused to acknowledge the pain in front of the man watching him maliciously, offering him a grim smile through bloodless lips even as his throat filled with bile as he fought the nausea brought on by the motion of his damaged body.

Obviously deciding that his prisoner offered little by way of entertainment, Hicks returned to his poker game, casting only infrequent glances to check on Steve's progress.

Eventually, Steve's breathing returned to normal, his body relaxing in infinitesimal increments until it was obvious the worst was over. It still took several minutes before he could bring his hands round in front, the skin on his wrists worn raw and bloody from pulling against the restraints.

Small, exploratory stretching produced no cramps, but abused muscles groaned, bruises throbbed, and his ribs ached in a way that hinted at fractures. He managed to get one leg beneath him and steadied himself for the crucial exertion. It took a Herculean effort, as if he were fighting Jovian gravity for every inch he ascended, but he got to his feet, the crushing agony of a monstrous spasm his punishment for this defiance of physics.

Unobserved, he might have surrendered to weakness and collapsed back on the floor, but sensing the vindictive eyes across the room, pride locked his knees and, with the assistance of the wall, he remained upright until the cramp eased to a grinding, stiff soreness, and he lurched towards the bathroom, a smear of blood marring the light brown paint behind him.

The bathroom was a welcome refuge from the constant surveillance, giving him a few minutes to regroup in privacy. He used the facilities, and was relieved to see no blood in his urine, the damage obviously more concentrated on his stomach and ribs than his kidneys. Without any real expectation of success, he searched the cupboards for potential weapons, but uncovered nothing of any more offensive capability than a bar of soap.

His searching took him past the vanity mirror, and he nearly recoiled in fright from the unrecognisable reprobate he encountered there. His hair was spiky from the congealed gore caked in it, and his face was a swollen, misshapen mess, streaked with dried blood.

Steve took the opportunity to rinse the metallic tang out of his mouth and quench the worst of his thirst as he contemplated trying to clean up his face, but he eventually decided that the mere application of water would do little to repair the damage. He felt appallingly weak, but now that the debilitating cramps had stopped, far more human, but he knew that to stand any chance of escape or resistance, he needed to avoid stiffening up again, to stay as flexible as possible.

Reluctantly realising that he'd stayed in the bathroom as long as permissible, he opened the door to be menaced by two aimed guns.

He raised empty hands by his sides to emphasise his harmlessness. What do you think I've been doing? MacGyvering a gun out of toilet parts and shampoo bottles? A taut smile stretched his lips a fraction.

Hicks was unamused by the implication that his men were overly jumpy and dangled the handcuffs impatiently. Steve held out both hands obligingly, trying to keep the desperate hope off his face that the mobster wouldn't insist on restraining his hands behind him. For the sake both of comfort and of any reasonable possibility of defense, he needed them in front.

The pain of the metal dragging cruelly against the broken, inflamed skin effectively veiled his relief as Hicks clicked on the shackles, and a violent shove sent Steve reeling back to his corner. He was immediately glad for his repositioned hands which allowed him to catch himself before he smashed his head against the wall. However, the impact jarred his ribs, and fresh blood dulled the metal as it bit deeper into his wrists.

While the others returned to their card game, Steve occupied himself with gentle calisthenics, tensing and relaxing each group of muscles, exercise that left him pale and sweating, but with a greater faith that his body would be able to meet the demands required of it instead of collapsing or seizing up at an inopportune moment.

Steve's watch had broken in the earlier struggle, and he wondered idly if any part of it might prove useful as a lock pick or if he could isolate a bedspring for that purpose. However, he judged that approximately an hour had passed when the pounding of footsteps speeding along the walkway outside attracted the attention of all the room's occupants. There was a moment of expectant stillness then, as the stamping of feet was replaced by hammering on the door, there was a flurry of movement as each gunman sprang into coordinated action, taking up defensive positions. There was only a minimal slackening of tension as an excited voice announced.

Hey, Boss, it's me, Tony. Let me in!

Hicks nodded to one of his men who cracked the door for confirmation before allowing the newcomer inside. Steve was watching the proceedings with no little apprehension, surmising that his fate was bound up in the man's report.

Hicks was clearly surprised by the development. What are you doing here? Have they returned a verdict already?There ain't going to be no verdict today, Tony announced brightly, clearly enjoying his prescient role.

Why not? What's going on? Uncertainty and mistrust combined in a scowl on Hicks' face.

Hey, Boss. It was the coolest thing. The guy, the doc, he was in the middle of testifying when...wham...he just keeled over with a heart attack!You sure it wasn't some sort of trick? Hicks questioned doubtfully.

No, I swear it was kosher. Same thing happened to my Uncle Bob last Christmas -- splat, right in his mashed potatoes. I mean, the guy looked like shit, you know what I mean? Sorta blue and not breathing. Sides, the way they were whaling on him, probably broke a rib or two in all the CPR stuff.

Hicks glanced over at his hostage and, for a second, suspicious brown eyes met horror-stricken blue, and were somewhat convinced by the depth of anxiety written clearly there.

Steve could feel his mouth drying out, icy tendrils of fear racing up his ribs to curl around his heart and crush the air out of his lungs. He shook his head unconsciously in denial as he closed his eyes and tried to remember how to breathe. His initial hope, that Mark had been bluffing, had faded in anguished misery as the description continued, and his imagination provided an all too vivid replay of his father's fight for life. It made a hideous, tragic sense. He was as guilty as anyone of taking Mark's youthful demeanor and eccentricities at face value, but, unlike most, he knew to a day how old his father actually was, and although he'd always believed Mark's health to be sound, the appalling stresses of the last day would test any septuagenarian's heart.

Even without Steve's hints, Mark was astute enough to realise that, whichever way his testimony went, the verdict would guarantee his son's death despite his best efforts and, as the trial proceeded, and its inevitable end approached, the pressure of that knowledge would have increased exponentially. Steve's heart burned in empathy at his father's ordeal. A feeling of shock and unreality distorted his senses, and he had to strain to hear the end of the story, simultaneously desperate and terrified to learn the outcome.

Tony was still enthusiastically relating the details. Then they tried shocking the guy, and there was no faking that, the way he was jerking an' all that.

A sharp pain in his wrists broke through Steve's concentration, and he realised he was straining against the handcuffs, yearning both to give assistance to his father that was far too late, and to attack the man who was so callously describing his pain.

Anyway, I talked to this chick afterwards who'd helped out with the CPR and she said he didn't look too good, so they ended up carting him off to the hospital, and the judge stopped everything for the day, saying they'll reconvene tomorrow.

Hicks still looked unconvinced. Vinnie, go to the hospital with Tony. I want to know exactly what's going on. Did he make it? If he did, will he be back to testify tomorrow? I need to go and update the Boss. He checked his captive before he left, but this time Steve was unaware of the other man's speculative scrutiny as he stared blindly ahead.

Steve was a seething cauldron of emotions, barely able to think straight. His mouth was bone-dry with a fear that struck him far deeper, harder and more painfully than any of the earlier physical blows he'd suffered. There was a good possibility that his father was dead or dying. He had apparently at least technically died while he, Steve had been unable to help. Mark had been in danger many times before, but Steve had always had the comfort of placing his own strength and abilities in service to protect his father and ward off disaster.

He simply couldn't imagine a life without that serene yet entertaining presence sailing through it. His father was always there, behind everything, involved in everything. The idea of life without him, the vast emptiness where he'd been was unendurable. An invisible band wrapped around Steve's chest. He tried to take a deep breath to steady himself, but the grief pressed too heavily upon him. Yet, growing vigorously behind that despair was a white-hot rage. The urge to tear apart these people responsible for his father's pain burned increasingly bright in his veins and ate at his control, but he fed that fury because it provided a shield against the profound guilt and regret that rose up to choke his lungs and clog his throat. Desperation gradually changed to a cold determination. He had to get to his father and deal with the men who'd possibly succeeded in murdering him.

His muscles were coiled in impatience, and his knuckles fisted white, eager to strike, but he fought for restraint until only his eyes betrayed his inner turmoil to the rest of the world. He waited, biding his time, devising and discarding plans until an opening presented itself.

Fortuitously, he was seated in an excellent position to see the cards of one of the players, and he followed the game, waiting for the right combination of events to occur. Patience was rewarded and, at a pivotal moment, he announced scornfully, Don't fall for that, he's got a full house. The other two men threw down their cards relieved to have escaped financial loss, and, balked of his prey, the third leapt to his feet, rounding on Steve in fury. Steve cringed away from the attack, raising his bound arms, deliberately drawing attention to his handcuffed and helpless position.

Passively, he allowed the first kick to land, grunting in pain as it sank into already bruised ribs, but as the gunman steadied himself for a second strike, Steve whipped out his legs, the right landing against his opponent's legs just above the feet, then he rolled his hips as simultaneously his left leg stuck just behind the knees, propelling the man violently and irrevocably off-balance and into the wall, his head impacting with a resounding crunch. The gun dropped from nerveless fingers as he crumpled bonelessly to the ground, and Steve seized it, turning and firing in one swift movement.

His opponents were a trifle slow on the uptake, convinced of their numerical advantage and superior firepower, but as their supposedly cowed prisoner suddenly emerged armed, they dived in opposite directions with practiced fluency. Steve's shot took one high in the chest, but the necessity of choosing one target left the other free to fire.

The rage and action-induced adrenaline coursing through Steve's system left him almost oblivious to the deep furrow scored in the side of his neck and the warmth of the blood flooding down. His nerves had tightened like elastic, causing pins and needles to prickle his skin as he ducked for cover behind the bed while contemplating the absurdity of a shootout in a room barely 25 feet across. It was about as sensible as playing hide and seek in the same space with the two beds providing the only possible concealment. A childhood memory of hiding underneath beds propelled him to shoot out a hand to lift the counterpane, envisaging a possible shot coming from underneath, but they were typical motel beds, fastened completely on a box-like frame to the ground to prevent careless guests leaving a variety of articles.

It was tempting to vault over the beds and tackle his adversary, but he'd learnt the hard way that leaping on top of armed men was not necessarily the most prudent course of action, and he contented himself with crawling to the end of the bed. Fragments exploded around his head, but he held his fire, aware of how thin the walls were and not wanting to risk a shot unless he was sure of his target.

He risked another peek, and his reflexes proved adequate to the situation, as he pulled back just before a bullet passed through the space vacated by his head. Trading potshots over the beds was an invitation to disaster, and he decided to try negotiating, impatient to get past this last obstacle to freedom and his father.

You have to know that the cops are on their way, he yelled. Give it up before you get killed! The only answer was another shot even closer which emphasised the stupidity of disclosing his precise location. A wave of dizziness passed through him, leaving a red haze over his vision which he attempted to blink away, thinking it an additional unfair handicap in an already unequal struggle. He fell back on his hearing, hoping that any advance towards his position would be betrayed by some sound, but then his ears picked up something else -- several pairs of feet converging on their room. It could be Hicks returning with reinforcements, but some instinct told him otherwise; there was a pattern to the movements that he recognised.

Told you so, he muttered sardonically. The door crashed open, accompanied by the strident cry of police!'. Steve closed his eyes at the brief exchange of gunfire, knowing the end was inevitable, but hoping no officer would get hurt.

He recognised Cheryl's anxious voice.

I'm here, he answered, surprised by the rasping, weak tone that emanated from his mouth. He struggled to his feet, retaining enough presence of mind to drop his newly acquired weapon, knowing that his appearance would alarm any excitable rookies who'd participated in the firefight.

He propped himself against the wall, hoping the nonchalant pose would disguise the fact that without its support, he would pitch straight forward on his nose, and smiled fuzzily at the blurred figure approaching.

Cheryl suffered no such visual impairment. My God, Steve, are you alright? She realised as the words left her mouth how truly inane they were. He looked like a wardrobe reject from a Friday 13th movie. Brown, stale blood dappled his tattered shirt while fresh crimson bathed his upper neck and chest. Once the livid bruises that liberally decorated his face and peeked out between the torn shreds of material matured, he would be a rainbow of colour, but somehow she was unsurprised by his reply of, I'm fine, then more urgently, Cheryl, my Dad?

She muttered something unladylike under her breath, having hoped that he was unaware of the recent tragic events. It would have been easier to deal with his physical injuries without the additional complication of the emotional fallout of Mark's heart attack.

Steve, I'm sorry, I don't know. He was taken to Community General, that's all I've heard.

Steve nodded once, seemingly too exhausted for a more effusive reaction. Cheryl reached out a gentle hand towards his neck, recognising the wound there as the source of the more recent blood. Steve, you've been shot. She was surprised when he caught her hand unerringly in his left, reaching up and touching his neck automatically with his right. He looked at his red fingers without interest, and Cheryl's meager medical training supplied the diagnosis of shock. However, his next words were clear and determined.

Cheryl, I have to get to my Dad.

She nodded supportively. There's an ambulance on the way.

He shook her arm urgently. No, I have to go now!

She looked around aghast. Steve, I can't just leave the scene of a shooting.Cheryl, please. The naked entreaty in his eyes was nothing like the puppy-dog appeal he sometimes used to get his way. It held a raw need that she was helpless to resist.

Alright, come on. She guided him towards the door. Malone, Johnson, I have to get Lieutenant Sloan to the hospital. At least, she mused, there was no arguing with that statement, and she didn't have to explain the true reason behind the urgency.

She slipped her arm around Steve to support him on the stairs, and could feel the tremors of exhaustion that shook him at intervals, but he didn't complain, and she was amazed by the sheer stubbornness that was the only thing keeping him on his feet. She found herself praying that the older Sloan's tenacity would prove as great as his son's.