Chapter 12

Steve's struggles had succeeded only in wrapping himself in a Gordian knot of barbed wire. Any movement aimed at release in one location only tightened the spikes in another, increasing the pain to a searing degree. He had to force himself to relax as icy prickles of fear tingled up and down his spine, merging with the the stabs from the steely barbs. Panting breaths shuddered through his chest and he ignored the warily approaching gunman on the grounds that there was nothing he could do to counter any threat offered since he'd lost his weapon somewhere in his exertions. However, he used the illumination of the light trained on him to try to unravel the clutching wire.

His best guess was that there had originally been three strands loosely fastened across the gap, but that they had been torn free from their moorings by his impetuous entry. The first entwined his legs, the second encircled his torso and the last gripped his shoulder, winding up round one side of his neck. He concentrated on the latter as the most threatening to his long term wellbeing and the most easily unwound, but even the slightest movement of his arm tightened interconnected strands elsewhere. Patiently he persisted and eventually he accomplished the first disentanglement but at some cost as warm blood seeped down his neck to be lost in the cooler counterpoint of trickling rain. He was attempting to anchor that piece of wire securely to avoid it springing back when a grating laugh scraped across his nerves.

He glanced up, but the light shining in his eyes blinded him to everything behind it and he dropped his gaze, sure that Jack Devlin wouldn't shoot without taking the opportunity to gloat. Sound became paramount, the key to information when his eyes couldn't make out any portion of his enemy. He could faintly distinguish Devlin's slightly hitched breath and his grunt of satisfaction before he began to speak.

"Detective Sloan, how the righteous have fallen. Breaking and entering is a serious crime, you know."

"Yet it pales in comparison to murder and kidnapping," Steve retorted, detaching another coil of wire with a vicious jerk. Blood welled up crimson on the shredded skin, glistening oddly in the beam of the flashlight before being diluted in the incessant rain and soaking pinkly in the tattered remains of Steve's shirt.

Devlin squatted down a prudent distance away. "So tell me, Lieutenant," he began conversationally. "I need a professional opinion. If a man, on whom you had a restraining order, broke into your home, shot a member of your family and was killed himself in the performance of this crime, don't you think a jury would call this self-defense, a justifiable homicide?"

Steve shook his head dubiously, playing for time as he continued to extricate himself, all the time surreptitiously searching for his gun. "Juries are unpredictable." He plucked doggedly at the strand across his stomach, some of the barbs visible as dark lines under his skin like a bizarre tribal tattoo. It seemed that Devlin was content to allow him to continue his efforts to extricate himself, no doubt confident in his ability to shoot him if he succeeded.

"However, once the prosecutor presents all the evidence connected with Serena Trenton's murder, I think I can guarantee you a rendezvous with the electric chair."

"There's no evidence." The assurance in Devlin's voice slipped slightly on the assertion.

"Sure there is." Steve's needling sought out his adversary's weaknesses. "How do you think we were on your doorstep so quickly? The suicide scenario was a creative idea, but you made several amateur mistakes and, with modern forensics as they are, we had no trouble tying you in. For example, the DNA on her clothes from when you lifted her up on the chair." It was a bluff, but he stuck to the facts of which he was sure. "Then when the star witness appears, you haven't a hope."

"What the hell are you talking about?" The light shot three feet into the air as Devlin clearly jumped to his feet, but to Steve the outline of the beam was fuzzy, blurring like an out of focus street lamp. He blinked frantically, thinking at first that it was atmospheric moisture causing the visual illusion, but the haze split into a myriad of dancing stars, although they may have been black holes as everything seemed sucked towards them. He felt suddenly dislocated from his surroundings, disoriented and nauseated and he fought down the bile that rose in his throat and the void that clawed at his consciousness. Losing the struggle meant leaving his father unprotected and that was unacceptable so by sheer dint of will he summoned a laugh.

"My father will testify not only as a medical expert to you committing Serena's murder, but also to your kidnapping, drugging and general mistreatment of him." The catalog of the abuse suffered by his father at this man's hands roused his anger, providing an effective antidote to the physical chill and exhaustion consuming him. "It's amazing how eloquent he can be. There isn't a jury in the world that won't condemn you to death after he takes the stand if you kill me."

"Where is he?" There was a tautness in the demand that spoke of barely suppressed sanity and the light flashed in dizzying circles as if Devlin expected to find Mark standing nearby.

"Gone...Safe." Steve forced a feigned satisfaction into his tone and resumed his efforts at self-extrication.

"You're lying." It was a shout of rage. "The last dose wouldn't have worn off yet and besides your car is still here. We disabled it."

"You don't think I was stupid enough to come here by myself, do you?" Steve could only wish that were true. "A friend came with me in his car and helped me get Dad out. It was slow going, so once you gave chase, I broke off in this direction to buy them time. Didn't you ever think how easy it was to follow me? I could have lost you any time but I was careful not to." There was a fine line between convincing Devlin that murder was contrary to his best interests and actually goading him into committing such violence and for an unnerving moment, Steve thought he'd pushed the man over it. He could see nothing of Jack behind the dazzling light, no expression of eye contact to judge the niceties of psychological profiling, but he'd faced many homicidal gunmen in his career and was all too familiar with the nearly tangible undercurrents that swirled revealingly between them.

The silence intensified into a palpable sensation, forcing Steve's breath to stillness and muting his heartbeat to a dull roar. The thick tension, charged with irrevocable decision, sparked along his nerve endings like a live wire, spurring him to defuse the imminent explosion. He eased from the twisted sitting position into which he'd stumbled into an approximation of a reclining pose, knowing that not only would that make him harder to shoot, but that it was also a less provocative stance.

The dampness of the ground under him immediately started to seep through his clothes and he shifted, trying to ward off the chill while furtively groping for some means of defense garnered from the broken wall around him.

The matter might have ended disastrously for Steve if there hadn't been an interruption, but any gratitude he might have felt for the newcomer was short-lived as he realised it was the shotgun-toting brother. Fear flashed like a lightning bolt up his limbs and into his spine. He'd seen the horrendous damage inflected by a short-range blast from such a gun and although intellectually he knew Jack's automatic could easily shoot him equally dead, psychologically, there was an additional horror to facing such a devastating weapon.

"Is he still there?" Bob asked excitedly as if Steve were an exotic animal spotted on safari. He peered forward, one side of his head grotesquely lit up by his brother's flashlight, exaggerating the hollows and protuberances of his face.

The odds against Steve had increased exponentially and his chances of escaping from the two murderous brothers had vanished like the last wisp of fog in the heat of the sun. The Devlins were unpredictable especially in their increasing desperate attempts to prevent their plans from unraveling. So far they were keeping their distance, partly out of respect for his defensive capabilities but also out of uncertainty as to their captive's eventual disposal.

A soft glint over to his left caught his eye and in the guise of shielding his gaze from the blazing beam that spotlighted him, he tried to identify it. Was it his weapon or was the power of his imagination adding shape to the shadows to suggest the outline of a gun? Either way it was out of his reach, so for now Steve decided his best hope lay in keeping the brothers talking. He was mostly disentangled, held prisoner now only by two simple strands embedded deeply but straightforwardly across his belly and right thigh. He could pull free of them with comparative ease, but chose to leave them as a visual symbol of his captivity and consequent harmlessness.

"I must admit," he called out conversationally, "my father's reappearance will cause quite a shock as you had nearly everyone convinced that he was dead. How did you pull that off, anyway?"

It was an open invitation to brag and although the criminal tendency to 'monologue' was greatly exaggerated in film and on TV, it was human nature to crow about accomplishments and Billy fell for the bait.

"It was all Jack's idea," he boasted proudly. "Jeff's a master scuba diver so it was him who drove the car off..."

"That's enough, Billy," Jack cut in sharply and the younger brother's voice trailed off sullenly, but he'd said enough for Steve to grasp the scheme, in fact, to understand far more than what had been relayed. Of course it had been Jack Devlin's plan. It carried the same chillingly efficient, calculating hallmarks that underscored Serena Trenton's faked suicide.

Once Mark's death had been established and accepted in the minds of all concerned with no visible blame attached to the Devlins, they would have disposed of his body. Mark's earlier story of South Africa's use of Tubarine assumed a new, more horrifying significance. They would have dumped him in the ocean and if his remains had ever reached the shore, it would be presumed a natural end of the journey began at the Hilton Head Bridge with no forensic evidence to the contrary.

Contemplation of this possibility, separated from reality by only the flimsiest of margins, rolled through his mind, hot and molten, igniting an incandescent rage that threatened to erupt in a violent explosion of retribution heedless of the odds and arms confronting him. His fingers closed over the jagged edges of a broken segment of stone from the wall, clenching hard enough for the new sting to temporarily supplant other aches and pains. Only the consideration that getting himself shot would almost certainly result in Mark ending back in Devlin's hands helped him restrain himself and ride the wave of fury.

"Why?" He spat out bitterly as he levered himself back onto an elbow. "What did he do to deserve this treatment?"

"Everything was going fine until that interfering old fool stuck his nose in." The response was vicious, rabid with hatred, but still familiar enough to rouse a genuine, if weak, laugh from Steve.

"I'll grant you the interfering. His curiosity would kill a litter of cats. However, I've never met anyone smarter. He bested you, didn't he? He was on your trail instantly, saw straight through your little charade."

His nonchalant yet scathing rejoinder drew Billy back into the fray. "Well, he was pretty stupid to just walk into our house alone," he stated defensively.

"He may have been alone, but it was in the sure and certain knowledge that I'd be following him if he got into trouble." Speaking the words brought its own reassurance to Steve as he recognised their truth. Mark would have known that his son would find him.

"Oh yes, he told us that," the youngest Devlin sneered. "That's why Jack shot you."

"Shut up, Billy!"

Another mystery solved. Steve could picture the scenario in his mind -- Mark cornered, outnumbered and desperate, trying to ward off imminent disaster with the talisman that his son was a police officer and would exact immediate retribution if they attempted to detain him. Steve could only hope that his father was not aware of how his words had backfired. He would be devastated to find out that his son had nearly died as a result. It would have taken only a minimum of detective work on Devlin's part to pinpoint his target's whereabouts and identify the car he was driving. He must have been thrilled to find Steve at his competitor's workplace, so the shooting would cast suspicion on one of Trenton's employees. There was certainly nothing to link the Devlins with the incident.

It was also worth noting, especially given current circumstances, that Jack Devlin was a marksman. Whether that shot had been intended to kill or merely to act as a distraction, it had been remarkably accurate in the conditions, a point that didn't bode well for his own long-term prospects. Steve didn't believe he had convinced Devlin of the merits of his case for continued survival, after all, the man had little to lose, but at the moment Jack still seemed undecided, weighing up the likelihood of successfully murdering again with impunity.

The multitude of small puncture wounds and more severe tears were all throbbing with a painful intensity, setting up a syncopated, incremental feedback that built up in the pain receptors of his shoulder. His hair was plastered against his forehead but he didn't know if it was the rain or sweat acting as the adhesive, nor was he sure if he was hot or cold; there were too many sensations swarming through his overloaded nervous system.

He risked another surreptitious glance to the left and this time the shape of the gun was clearly delineated against the more random configurations of the leaves. It was appreciably lighter as dawn approached although it was impossible to make out anything but the most amorphous of shadows behind the flashlights that still focused on him. A quick calculation showed him that the weapon was hidden from the Devlin's line of sight by the wall, but it was also well out of his own reach. Any quick movement, hindered as he was by trappings of wire, would not be fast enough to outrun an admonishing bullet and a slow crawl was unlikely to find favour either.

He needed a distraction and he couldn't quite see Jack falling for the 'look who's behind you' ploy, and under the full force of their observation he couldn't exactly pull the 'throw a stone to make everyone look in the wrong direction," ruse and at the moment his ingenuity didn't seem capable of conjuring up a more creative strategy. The Devlins were whispering together now, -- urgent, sibilant words clearly full of malice, but just beyond the threshold of his hearing. He could indistinctly make out violent gesticulations but despite the intentness of their conversation, he didn't doubt that any move on his part would meet with immediate retaliation.

The need to return to Mark was gnawing away at his composure and he didn't feel like waiting patiently for the two psycho brothers to come to the decision to shoot him so he launched his first volley in an inchoate plan that was probably more suicidal than scintillating.

"How's your father doing?" Actually the more he thought about it, the more he realised that 'plan' was a misnomer. It was more a fuzzy, highly dubious hunch of the best way to proceed.

Not surprisingly, it was Billy who couldn't resist the invitation to expound. "He's dead." Grief and fury blended in a volatile mix, but Steve was more interested in provoking a reaction from Jack as the indisputable leader of the brothers.

"I'm sorry." He was, and not only out of disinterested compassion. Whatever stabilising influence the patriarch had provided was now defunct. Not allowing himself to dwell on the emotions that death exposed, he continued ruthlessly. "I know what it's like to lose a father...except of course, I didn't." His eyes tried to pierce past the dazzling brightness of the flashlight into the gloom, into the darkness of Jack Devlin's soul.

As if in answer to that unspoken probing, the older brother spoke, venom coating every bitter word. "I should have shot that old bastard while I had the chance. If I ever see him again, I won't hesitate and it shouldn't be too hard to obtain another opportunity. If I tell your father, I have you here, I think he'll think twice about stepping into the witness box."

Steve swallowed. He didn't want to be shot out of hand, but neither could he afford to replace Mark as a drugged, useless body discarded on a bed. He dredged up a credible facsimile of a laugh. "You're still under the illusion that you can beat my father, but you don't have a chance. Better men than you have tried and failed. You're a rank amateur."

"The only thing your father is good at is terrorising sick old men," Devlin spat back.

A starburst of rage rocketed up inside Steve's chest and he allowed the adrenaline to tense exhausted and stiff muscles while still maintaining control. As dawn washed in, illuminating the darkness with diluted colour, it allowed Steve to see his adversary with some clarity for the first time that night. Black brows beetled together in a hate-filled scowl. The focus of each man was absolute and every atom in the ten yards between them was charged with the force of the emotions crackling between them.

"Your father was dying. Dad had nothing to do with it." Steve continued to goad Devlin.

"The doctors had given him six months, he was doing fine until your father's visit."

"You know what I think? I think my dad is just a handy scapegoat for you. What killed your father was learning that his sons were worthless, no-good murderers. You killed him just as surely as if..."

Steve had started moving, sensing Jack's intent even before the other man had formed it, seizing that moment of opportunity as Jack, enraged beyond rationality, turned to snatch the shotgun from his brother's hands, to execute a diving roll towards cover. The last strands of barbed wire, reluctant to release their victim, somewhat hampered his progress until they ripped free in a spray of blood. He scooped up his gun neatly on the move, and was almost entirely behind the wall, every muscle in his body tensed for a moment that seemed to stretch into infinity, when the first barrel exploded. He was far enough away for the shot cluster to have spread considerably, the pattern dispersed, and only a few pellets slapped into his legs before they were withdrawn hastily behind the now comfortingly solid stone wall.

Devlin was shouting profanely, stammering almost incoherently with rage, but since he hadn't yet worked the pump to reload the barrel, Steve risked leaning around the edge to fire two quick shots before ducking back.

There was a moment's silence then a cry of anguish laced with indescribable fury. Any doubts as to the wisdom of staying where he was were removed by the ratcheting of the pump and another tumultuous discharge. There were sounds of immediate reloading, fast, experienced and furious, and more shot smashed against the wall. Even the sturdy stones quailed under the power of destruction, particles blasted into fine powder wafting into the air to form a glistening cloud in the pale light.

Steve kept his head down, scuttling backwards from the most highly targeted area and gripped his gun tightly in both hands as the origin of the blasts drew nearer. If Devlin rounded the wall firing, Steve would have no chance of survival. He contemplated a fast retreat, but even if he were in any condition to lose himself in the undergrowth, it was unlikely that he could outrun a shotgun blast at this point. Fear clawed at his belly, muscles aching with the tension of bracing himself uselessly in expectation of that lethal, agonising discharge.

To his surprise and tentative relief the explosions stopped, probably because Devlin was out of cartridges. "You're dead, Sloan." His voice was low and vindictive, quivering with passion. "You're a fucking dead man. I don't care where you go or who you try to hide behind, I'm going to find you and kill you."

Still wary, Steve stayed motionless listening to the sounds of footsteps receding before rising a quick peek round the gap. He watched Devlin carry his brother's limp body back towards the house with unexpected empathy. Until just a few hours ago he believed he'd lost both father and sibling and that immense loss he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy - a position for which Jack Devlin would definitely currently qualify. It seemed they had a lot in common - apart from the whole homicidal thing Devlin had going. Although considering he'd just shot his kid brother, Jack might disagree with that.

Steve groaned, trying to rein in his scattered thinking. The only thing that really mattered was getting back to his father. He started to stand and, with a yelp of pain, had to grab at the wall to prevent himself from collapsing back down. The blood was singing in his ears and his stomach rolled over queasily as the trees swirled around him in a spiraling vortex.

His injuries from the wire were sore and throbbing but mostly superficial. However, scrambling over stones and twigs without shoes, with the additional weight on his shoulders forcing him down, had badly lacerated the soles which were sliced almost raw by the pounding, bloody from heel to toe. But there was no time for indulging in weakness, Jack would be back to make good on his promise. Steve hobbled forward stiffly, letting the pain course through him and forcing his legs to continue on regardless.

Everything looked different in the light, which wasn't surprising since now he could actually see the trees and bushes that had been merely dark blurs against a black background just hours before. Still, an instinct deeper than thought guided him back without deviating from his path. The beige blanket could now be seen through the foliage of the bush and a sudden shaft of fear slid into him as he realised the Mark hadn't moved an inch since he'd left. This unnatural stillness caused dark thoughts and feelings of desperation to rampage through his mind even when he confirmed that his father was still breathing.

"I'm back, Dad." He studied his father's familiar and beloved face closely, then shook him gently, trying to remember what medical responses he could elicit to reassure himself. Surely there should be some reaction after all this time. "I have to tell you, you're starting to worry me here." It was something of an understatement. Fear was knotting his stomach, drying and tightening his throat until it hurt to swallow, choking him.

Had the Devlins, in their complete and utter disregard for Mark's welfare, actually injected him with a fatal overdose? After all this, was his father going to die? The thought knifed across his heart with a pain that was more racking than anything his body had ever been called on to withstand. He had to get Mark to hospital as soon as humanly possible, yet that was clearly becoming an increasingly challenging proposition.

Never taking his gaze off his father, Steve sat back to take the weight off his feet while he mentally ran through his options. Since his own car was apparently out of commission, maybe he could hotwire one belonging to the Devlins. It would certainly be considerably easier than trying to carry his father to safety, but also carried substantial risks. It would mean walking into the lion's den in the forlorn hope that the predators were otherwise occupied. He had few bullets left as he'd intended the night's foray to be a covert mission, not a confrontational one. Reluctantly, he decided that the risks outweighed the benefits. Jack Devlin had the superior firepower and would be only too delighted to employ it.

In the absence of a car, he really wished he could at least recover his shoes. His eyes fell on the blanket enfolding Mark. It was a poor substitute for leather soles, but it would have to do. Shifting his father slightly, he hacked off a couple of pieces of the material to jury-rig into footwear while continuing his strategic deliberations.

He could leave Mark behind in a more secure hiding place while he went for help. This would give him greater mobility and speed should Jack make good on his threat to hunt him down, but he was too afraid he'd return to find his father dead. It couldn't be safe to leave him alone in his condition even if there wasn't a homicidal maniac prowling the grounds.

The stiff, wiry hairs of the blanket felt like the barbed wire from which he'd recently escaped on the lacerated flesh of his feet, but he grimly bound them up, tying knots with two narrow strips to keep them fastened. He'd whittled down his choices to one -- renewing his flight with Mark draped over his shoulder.

It was a daunting prospect, but Steve refused to acknowledge the intimidating nature of the task that lay ahead. "I'll tell you what, Dad. You promise to keep breathing and I'll promise not to drop you."

He tucked the blanket more firmly round his father leaving his arms clear for the fireman's lift. The material was so waterlogged it couldn't be providing much by way of warmth but it did furnish padding and some protection from the elements.

Wincing, he got his feet underneath him, preparing for the arduous task of lifting his father's dead weight off the ground and onto his shoulders. He managed it in the prescribed stages, pulling Mark into a standing position, then lifting one of his father's arms and ducking underneath before straightening with an effort.

Once upright, he staggered a few painful steps before reaching out and bracing himself against a nearby tree so he could adjust Mark's not inconsiderable weight more effectively. "He ain't heavy, he's my father," he misquoted dryly. "That may be true, Dad. But the next time you suggest shedding a few pounds, I'll be behind you all the way."

He swayed in place and almost fell before regaining some of his equilibrium. He still had to get past the surrounding blockade and the only two places he knew he could achieve that were the entrance and the ill-fated gap he'd recently left. He quickly opted for the gate since it offered easier terrain and presumably was nearer to helpful neighbours. Hopefully Devlin would return to the gap in order to resume the chase and that would give them a much needed head-start.

The rain increased in volume, pitiless and chilling, and almost blinding in its fury. By the time Steve reached the end of the drive, the pain in his shoulders was like white fire and every step agony on his torn feet. The gates swung open willingly for him and he only hoped that there was nothing in the mechanism that sent an alarm to the house when activated.

He contemplated fabricating some sort of travois, but there was no time. With lethal pursuit almost guaranteed, distance was more important than ease of travel. He breathed in deeply, sucking the cool, moist air deep into his burning lungs then set off down the canyon.

Time quickly became meaningless, the concept slipping away as evasively as secure footing on the road. Water streamed almost continuously over the surface sometimes ankle deep, and he often slipped and slid through inches of sludge where minor mudslides had carried debris across his trail.
He was beyond exhaustion and pain defined his existence, consuming his senses in a red haze, yet with a stubborn tenacity that bordered on pigheadedness, he persevered, concentrating only on the next step. Left, right, left, right - it was always possible to take just one more stride.

The deluge cut down on visibility, not that there was anything of the remotest interest to see in the sodden scenery except foliage. He'd fought fires in the summers when the fierce Santa Ana winds dried out the vegetation, but it was amazing how lush the brush had become in the rain. Steve's gaze was mostly focused on the ground ahead, but well-developed survival instincts kept him periodically checking behind. Blinking to clear the raindrops trickling into his eyes, he spotted something moving back down the road and his stomach plunged as if he'd just dropped thirty stories in a runaway elevator as the figure materialised into the shape of a person. There was only one person who would be on this road at this time -- Jack Devlin.