Author's note: Apologies for the delay – blame it on ongoing technical difficulties! Still things are getting better so I hope my next post won't be so long in coming!! Thanks again for your support and encouragement.
Two storeys up and he'd started to wheeze. This was far harder than he'd anticipated. Even had he been fully fit, the rain-slicked metal of the fire escape was treacherous enough to tax even the most skilful of climbers. Heights had never been his bag and it was taking every ounce of determination not to freeze with terror. Slowly, gingerly he urged himself on 'You can do this Steve' he muttered to himself under his breath 'just one step at a time. Nice and slow.'
He risked a glance over his shoulder and immediately wished he hadn't, as the ground tilted alarmingly below him. Clamping his eyes shut, Steve fought the wave of vertigo that threatened to overwhelm him, sending him plunging to the sidewalk He'd never been able to explain his fear of heights. For a man who loved action sports, it was an ironic phobia to have. It was his weakness, his Achilles heel. Tonight it really could be the death of him.
Every handhold was tenuous and it was impossible to maintain any sort of rhythm. His injured side made twisting and turning an agonising operation, at a time when agility was of the up most importance. His breathing was laboured, his heart thudding in his chest so hard he thought it would burst. Truth be told, it was only dogged determination and sheer bloody-mindedness that kept him climbing – that and what he'd seen just as he'd swung himself level with the second floor.
Fleetingly, from the corner of his eye, he'd glimpsed a figure dressed all in black, moving cat-like down the fire escape from the third floor. As he'd predicted, the shooter had taken immediate refuge in the multi-storey. Now he was making his escape. As Steve had hoped he would, the man had chosen the more precarious outdoor escape route, figuring the police would cover the interior stairs and elevator. No doubt he was putting his faith in his black disguise, hoping to blend into the night, disappear into the dark and slink away with the shadows. What this figure didn't know of course was that Lieutenant Steve Sloan, LAPD was currently one floor below, cutting off his chosen escape route.
'Gotcha' Steve thought, smiling grimly as he steadied himself and carefully retrieved his gun from his belt. The right hand side of his shirt was beginning to turn red and he winced as he gently applied pressure to the wound. 'Definitely gonna need re-stitching' he thought to himself glumly.
Momentarily he closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. But almost immediately they flew open again, as he was alerted by the sound of a light footfall just above his head. Looking up, he drew his gun in the standard police stance, left arm out straight, left index finger caressing the trigger, with the butt of the gun resting in his cupped right hand for support. Despite his injured side and strained breathing, the gun never wavered; his stance was rock steady. 'Any moment now' he thought to himself and sure enough, almost as soon as the thought had popped into his head, a slim, black-clad figure dropped deftly into view.
Through his drug induced haze, Jesse struggled to make sense of the wailing he could hear. In his more lucid moments he guessed it was just a ringing in his ears, the after effects of being so close to an explosion. In his less lucid moments, he didn't bother trying to make sense of the noise at all.
The problem was; right now he couldn't be sure whether he was asleep or awake. Certainly nothing seemed to be functioning as it should. For a start the wailing noise seemed to get louder and then softer, alternating like some crazy rap song where the DJ insisted on scratching two records together, to create a melee of sound. He didn't know why the volume kept changing, but he did know that the noise was giving him a headache – or did he just have a headache anyway?
He had tried to open his eyes, but they had resolutely refused to co-operate, his eyelids seeming to weigh far too much to be moved. His throat felt raw and although he'd tried to speak, no noise had come out – or could he just not hear it over the wailing? His hands felt unnaturally large and clumsy and he couldn't seem to feel his legs at all
- Oh God, his legs! Had he lost his legs?
Filled with a sickening panic he tried to twist and turn, tried to cry out. And then he felt a hand on his forehead, a reassuring hand, and then the cool prick of a needle in his arm. And then he felt nothing at all.
Wearily Mark wiped the sweat from his brow. It had been only 30 minutes since Steve had taken off into the night, but it felt like 30 hours. And still no back up had arrived. He had distracted himself for a few precious minutes by tending to the cut on Amanda's wrist, and to the other minor injuries elicited by the skirmish, but now there was nothing to do but wait.
Many of the patrons had run screaming in terror, when they had first seen the blood on Ernie Evans' chest. Once the shots had gone off, most people had stayed inside, seeking refuge behind the up turned tables. There was a low rumble of conversation, as people quietly discussed their predicament, but for the most part there was an eerily silence.
He imagined this was what it must have been like during the war, when major cities like London and Paris were bombed – innocent civilians huddled together in bomb shelters and subways, waiting to hear the 'all clear' called. Mark had never been in a bomb shelter, he'd been serving as a young army doctor during World War 2, but now he knew that he could never have coped with the waiting, especially when loved ones were caught up in the battle.
Restlessly his keen eyes scanned the cafeteria, whilst his mind wrestled with the unusual events of the last hour. Why had a hospital financial director been targeted by a professional hitman? Was there something in Ernie Evans' past that would lead a vigilante cop to believe that the mild mannered accountant had to die?
It seemed inconceivable. Mark had known Ernie for three years and granted the guy could be a touch frustrating at Board meetings, but Mark couldn't imagine that excessive pedantry could be a reason that anyone would want to kill him. Turning it over in his mind, Mark had to admit that there was a very real possibility that Ernie hadn't been the target at all, that his death was a tragic accident.
Mark didn't want to entertain this possibility, because if Ernie wasn't the target then he had pretty good idea of who was. It was an idea that turned his blood to ice, but he knew that if they were going to progress with the case he had to force himself to at least consider it.
'Steve' his head was saying to him, although his heart didn't want to listen. His son had been in two life threatening situations within two weeks – surely that was more than a co-incidence even for an LAPD officer, wasn't it?
Now that he'd finally allowed himself to consider the possibility that Steve was the target of a hitman, Mark found he was actually able to think more rationally. He frowned, his razor sharp mind examining the facts slowly and carefully. Before jumping to any conclusions, he needed to establish that the two cases were even connected. The M.O's were so different they suggested two distinct killers. It could be just a coincidence, a sad indication of LA's rising crime rates, but somehow Mark didn't think so. Both attacks had taken place in crowded restaurants; both had targeted successful middle-aged men. He couldn't explain it, but he had a feeling they were linked – perhaps two hired hitmen, both working for the same Crime Lord? Mark thought about that one for a moment, turning the idea around in his head. It wasn't beyond the realms of possibility – hadn't Steve and Tanis been told that someone was recruiting?
But could that Crime Lord really be Ross Cainan? He knew that was Steve and Ron's current theory. If that was true, then there must be something in Ernie Evan's background that would single him out as a target for a vigilante. Mark couldn't think of anything about Ernie Evans that would indicate he was a criminal. The man was a trusted member of the hospital board and had been handling enormous sums of money on the hospital's behalf with no incident. Surely Ernie's background would have been thoroughly checked before his services were engaged?
Mark sighed; he was going round in circles here and he knew it. Clearing his mind he tried a different track, returning to the possibility that Steve had been the target on both occasions. Stroking his moustache thoughtfully, Mark turned over the facts again. If Steve was the target then either his son had been extremely lucky or the killer (or killers) had been extremely careless. Had Sam Wallis and Ernie Evans both been killed by accident?
The more he thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed – professional hitmen don't miss. So, assuming that Wallis and Evans were the targets, and that these two cases were linked, the answer was to look more closely at those two men. What was the link?
The killer had always prided himself in his movement. He was nimble, balanced, cat like in his fluidity and grace. His movements were balletic, precise, economic, choreographed to the last second. Everything was going exactly as planned, until that is, as he dropped lightly to the second floor landing of the fire escape, he came face to face with a muscular, sandy haired, athletic looking man. The man had a square jaw and sharp blue eyes and was obviously injured – he was leaking blood from a wound to his side. But he was holding a pistol and that pistol was aimed straight at the killer's heart. The pistol was surprisingly steady.
The killer froze, staring at his assailant in disbelief.
'Hi' the sandy-haired man said genially, a half smile playing across his face 'Real nice of you to drop in'. The smile disappeared as he continued 'I'm Detective Steve Sloan, LAPD and you are under arrest'.
From the streets below, the distant wailing of a police siren could be heard. Steve's eyes never flickered 'You have the right to remain silent' he intoned. 'Anything you do say can be taken down as evidence and used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, if you cannot afford an attorney then ….'
He never got to finish his sentence. In an astonishing blur of speed, the man in black delivered a vicious karate chop to the inside of Steve's left elbow. His gun dropped from useless fingers, clattering to the ground two storeys below. Before he could recover, a second blow, this time to his injured side, sent him reeling backwards into the wall of the multi-storey. His last conscious thought was that the guy must be some kind of ninja to move at that speed. Just before the darkness closed in, he saw the man pull something white from his pocket and drop it to the floor of the fire escape. And then the man jumped. His back arching, arms outstretched in a perfect swan dive, he turned two complete somersaults in the air, a rope he'd attached to the fire escape rail and his own belt, snaked out behind him. Swinging to a halt a couple of feet from the floor, the killer unattached the rope from his belt, before landing lightly on his feet and disappearing into the night.
TO BE CONTINUED …..