He moved his head slowly, attempting to open his eyes. Everything he tried to do felt like he was moving through molasses. Finally getting his eyelids to cooperate, he waited till his lenses focused enough to make out the pale green ceiling lit by the dull glow of the small fluorescent light under the panel behind his head.
He had no idea what time it was, only that is was now dark outside, but he did know where he was and why he was there. The flush of energy he had experienced when he'd first been rescued from the trawler had dissipated with mind-boggling speed and he had crashed, as they said in the vernacular.
He raised his head and looked around the room. There was no sign of his partner and he let his head flop back onto the pillow. His brow furrowed as he tried to recall what had woken him, smiling when he remembered, or thought he did.
He had felt a hand on his leg and a soft pat. 'Steve,' he smiled to himself, 'he had to leave and he was letting me know he was here and would be back.' He allowed himself to drift back to sleep, the smiling lingering.
'Yeah, it was my partner, he was here all this time… of course he was…"
# # # # #
Steve was running as fast as he could. The stranger with the big gun was getting closer to the pier and the trawler; he couldn't let him get there.
He briefly contemplated yelling to warn Cox and Harrison but if his colleagues had not yet made their presence known to Danny and the unknown man on the boat, he would be tipping their hand.
He had no choice; he had to take out this third man on his own.
He saw the gunman's long strides falter and his pace slow, no doubt aware of the running footsteps rapidly approaching. Steve watched as the other man spun, saw light from a parking lot lamp glint off the barrel of the large revolver, and he threw himself to the side, behind a pickup truck. He cried out in agony as he hit the ground hard, his injured ribs protesting, the breath briefly leaving his body.
Almost blacking out from the pain, he gasped, trying to inhale, trying to get air into his lungs. Blood was pounding in his ears and he strained to hear something, anything, to let him know where the gunman was. He thought he heard footsteps getting closer and he rolled, almost throwing himself under the pickup truck, hoping that the other man hadn't seen exactly where he had disappeared.
Breathing raggedly through his open mouth, trying to slow his breaths and his heart, he rolled as silently as possible onto his stomach, pushing himself up on his elbows, holding the .38 in both hands as he tried to hear the slightest sound that would give him a location.
He heard nothing.
Fearing that the gunman had decided his first target was more important at the moment and was continuing on to the boat, he started to very carefully work his way out from under the truck when he heard gravel crunching underfoot very nearby and he froze. The sound came from behind him, from the other side of the truck.
He turned his head slowly; almost silently a pair of black biker boots under black pants came into view between the pickup and the van beside it.
Steve's heart began to pound even more; he felt sure the thudding in his chest could be heard.
The boots walked slowly between the pickup and the van. Steve watched as the boots turned towards the van and stopped; then the gunman squatted quickly, looking under the van.
The cop had anticipated the move and, when the man in black crouched, he rolled quickly out from under the pickup on the other side, scrambling to hide behind the large front wheel. He realized he had made a lot of noise but there was nothing else he could do; he would have been a sitting duck under the pickup and he knew it.
He heard the gunman turn, the sound of the boots on the gravel, and knew he would be looking under the pickup, aware that he had found his quarry. Steve's options now were very limited.
His back against the truck tire, he raised the .38 and took a deep breath. Every muscle in his body tensed as he started to move, knowing he would only have one chance.
Suddenly the sound of gunfire came from the pier and he froze. All at once the stakes were exponentially higher; he had to act and he had to act now, no matter what the consequences.
He spun back to his left, ignoring the pain in his chest, dropping to his knees and aiming the .38 under the pickup. He could see the boots and jeans still between the pickup and the van and he fired several times.
One of his bullets hit its target with an accompanying yell of pain and surprise; he watched as the left leg was jerked out from under the gunman and he fell hard to the ground. Steve turned back to the protectiveness of the heavy truck tire, instinctively knowing that the gunman would still have the presence of mind to fire in his direction. And he did.
He heard a thud and a loud hiss as a bullet punctured the tire right behind him; the rest flew harmlessly by.
Steve pushed himself away from the pickup, standing and crossing rapidly around the front of the truck, his .38 out in front of him. "Freeze!" he yelled as he stopped between the truck and the van, the barrel of the service revolver trained on the large bearded dark-haired man lying on the ground, a silver .44 in his right hand. "Don't move… or the next bullet will be right through your heart," he growled menacingly, and he knew the other man believed him.
"Throw it over here," he continued, gesturing with his chin towards the .44, "now!"
The other man hesitated, their stares locked. Steve tightened his grip on his revolver and saw the dark eyes shift very slightly as they left his own and glanced at the Police Special. The .44 began to lower and Steve watched without blinking as the other man's hand dropped and he tossed the large revolver towards him.
The young cop kicked the .44 under the pickup and out of reach. "Turn over!" he ordered, gesturing with the .38.
The man stared at him threateningly but did as he was told, trying not to show any discomfort as Steve kicked his legs apart, causing him to cry out in pain.
"Put your hands behind your back! Now!"
As the gunman did so, Steve realized he didn't have his handcuffs with him. He glanced around, looking for something, anything he could use to bind his prisoner. With an ironic start, he remembered where he was and looked over the lip of the cargo bed on the pickup truck; curled on the floor of the bed were several lengths of nylon rope.
"Steve!" he heard his name being yelled; he recognized Bobby Cox's voice. "Steve!"
Still keeping the .38 trained on the gunman as he reached for a length of nylon rope, he raised his head slightly and called back, "Yeah?"
"Call for an ambulance! Officer down!"
There was a desperation in Cox's voice that sent a chill down his spine, but he kept his eyes and his gun trained on his captive as he began to kneel, the rope in his left hand.
"Got it!" he yelled as he knelt on the other man's back, moving his right foot so it was near the wound in the other man's leg. He knew he might have to use questionable methods to get this guy tied up and restrained but he was running out of time; a colleague's life might be hanging in the balance.
Trying to figure out how he was going to tied the big man's hands with only one hand of his own, and realizing the gunman knew this as well, he did the only thing he could do. He raised the .38 and brought it down with all his might on the back of the man's head.
He heard the startled gasp and moan of pain as the gunman's head jerked up, his eyes snapping wide before they closed and his head dropped onto the dirt and gravel. Forcing down the bile that had risen in the back of his throat, he put the .38 on the ground, grabbed the rope and quickly tied the man's hands.
Picking up the gun and standing, he raced back to the Galaxie, getting in the driver's seat and picking up the mic. "Inspectors 8-1," he identified himself, but there was no response. He listened to the static for a couple of seconds and tried again but still nothing.
Realizing that they were out of radio range this far into Marin County, he got out of the car and sprinted to the marina building. It was closed. Frustrated, his chest really beginning to ache, he looked around. There were a few houses a couple of hundred yards away on the road that ran along the western edge of the marina and he started towards them, looking for the one that he figured would be the most accommodating.
As he broke into a fast jog, he patted his pockets. He had remembered to slip his badge and I.D. into his pants pocket, and he allowed himself a moment of relief.
He found a house with both porch and interior lights on and ran up the short walkway and the small set of steps to the front door. He rang the bell. He was tempted to pound on the door as well but didn't want to scare the inhabitants from answering.
A few tense seconds later the door opened a few inches and a grey-haired middle-aged woman in a granny dress stared at him wide-eyed. He had taken out his badge and held it up. "I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am," he began quickly, trying to control his heavy breathing and not sound like a madman, "I'm Inspector Keller from the SFPD and I need you to make a couple of phone calls for me."
She opened the door a few more inches and his heart soared; she believed him.
"Ma'am, there's been a police involved shooting over in the marina," he continued quickly, gesturing with his head behind him, "and I need you to call for two ambulances and the police, if you could? An officer has been shot."
The woman, who had looked over his shoulder towards the marina, nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes I can do that," she said shakily and started to close the door.
"Thank you, ma'am," Steve said enthusiastically, nodding his head as he slipped his badge back into his pocket and started to turn away. "Thank you," he called again as he leapt down the short set of stairs and started back towards the marina. He heard the door close behind him.
He raced back across the road and through the parking lot. A few boat owners and local residents, who had heard the gunfire, were crowding around under the few lampposts dotted about the wharf area. A couple of older man were standing in the parking lot between the van and the pickup, looking at the black clad man with the leg wound who was lying on his stomach with his hands tied behind his back.
Steve ignored everyone as he sprinted towards the trawler, his .38 out again. His chest was on fire and he was having a hard time drawing breath. He wanted to stop running but he couldn't. A cop, most likely Harrison, was down and he didn't know how badly. This had started out as his and Mike's operation, and any blood spilled would be on their hands, he felt.
There had already been one death; he could not allow another.