Part 2
Author: Joann Stroh (comments only in English please!)

 

Sun glinting off its wings, the Lear jet raced through a deep blue sky high above a sea of billowing clouds.

Rykker watched his brother, Peter Thomas Sinclair, walk down the isle toward him carrying two glasses of wine.

"Here you go." P.T. set a glass of red wine on the small round table in front of Rykker and, holding the other glass in his hand, sat down in the plush chair opposite him.

"Did you reach Peter?"

"No, but I did talk to Blaisdell at the precinct. Seems Peter just finished an undercover assignment. He didn't give me any details, but said he took the kid home last night and has given him the next three days off. He's afraid he is coming down with some virus sweeping through the 101st. Blaisdell is pretty short staffed at the moment. Guess he gave our wayward kid instructions to get plenty of rest and see a doctor. Paul will give him a call and let him know I'm on my way. Peter has been looking after things for me out at the lake during my absence."

"Paul always was the optimist. No doubt somebody will have to take on that little task. Our boy does not like doctors," Rykker smiled and shook his head, "and for somebody who hates doctors, he certainly has spent more than his share of time in hospital emergency rooms."

"Yeah, so I have discovered. That's something that definitely needs to change."

"Well, big brother, you have your work cut out for you. If there is one thing I have learned about my great-nephew, it is that he can find trouble standing alone in the middle of a desert."

"I'll check on him after we land. I just might have to call on your services." P.T. chuckled.
"You know, Rykker, you have that kid fooled. He is about half scared of you."

"What do you mean, fooled? I'll have you know I am one mean old son-of-a-bitch."

Sinclair guffawed. "Yeah, right! I hope my grandson doesn't discover what a pushover you are, especially where he is concerned."

Sinclair sat quietly studying the wine glass in his hand as he rotated it slowly on its paper coaster.

"A dollar for your thoughts?"

Sinclair glanced up, arching a brow.

Rykker shrugged. "Inflation? I always figure your thoughts are worth a little more than the going rate."

"Oh, just thinking. Mulling over my regrets. Something you do at our age, I guess. I've already lived a good part of my life, but Peter still has a lifetime ahead of him and considering his chosen occupation, I can't help but worry. Hell, one minute the kid's a perfectionist, much too hard on himself, and then, without warning, he can pull a three-sixty and be so damned careless and cavalier, not to mention stubborn! Sinclair smiled. "Can't imagine where he picked up that little trait."

"And?"

"And, I could have chosen a different career, Rykker. Spent more time with my daughter. Been there for my grandson. Looking back I find myself wondering why I ever became a mercenary. How the hell did it happen? Sure, the money was good. Actually, it was better than good, but was it worth the moment-to-moment existence, the worry, the pain? I never realized until recently just how hard my chosen occupation must have been on those I loved. It is a terrible way to live. I love my grandson, little brother. I see a lot of Laura in Peter. I just don't want to lose him and all it takes is one bullet." Sinclair snapped his fingers.

"Sometimes I'd like to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into that young head of his. Hell, who am I kidding? You could not have told me anything at his age and I haven't exactly earned the right, considering the role model I've been. I suppose it's always easier to look back from this side of life's bridge and see your mistakes, what you would have done differently, if only you had known."

Sinclair rubbed a hand across his forehead, staring down into the wine glass. "We lost them all, Rykker. Jack lost his son. I lost Laura and then Kevin...."

Rykker flinched at the sound of his son's name. He knew the pain etched in his brother's face was reflected back by his own. He had spent so many years, pain filled years, trying to accept his son's death and his role in it. He should have tried harder to keep Kevin safe, to keep him as far away from his world as possible. He had failed miserably. During those early days after Kevin's death, P.T. never left his side. He didn't attempt to give solace, for his brother well knew the deep, gnawing pain of losing one's child. He simply stood by him as he raged; at himself, at the mercenary world and finally at Kevin for dying. His big brother, P.T. Sinclair, acted as Rykker's guide through the darkest tunnel of despair he had ever experienced.

"He is not a mercenary, P.T.. Yes, he is in a dangerous line of work, but your grandson has a hell of a lot of people watching over him. Between the two of us, Blaisdell, Kermit, Caine and the Ancient, I sure as hell would hate to go up against us, wouldn't you?"

A smile slowly spread across P.T. Sinclair's face, finally settling in his eyes. "Oh, yeah!"

"Of course that doesn't mean he won't find something to get into. In fact, you can count on it, but between us we should be able to keep him in one piece, at least until he gets a few more years on him and works through all that emotional baggage with his father he's carrying around. He will eventually mellow out, P.T.. Who knows, maybe he will follow in Caine's footsteps and become a Shaolin priest."

"So, Caine is back in town, huh? For Peter's sake, I'm glad. I am looking forward to seeing Kwai Chang again. Have any idea how this second reunion is going?"

"Not well, according to my sources, but then Caine's only been back just over three weeks. Peter has yet to set foot in Chinatown, much less pay a visit to his father. My guess is he is madder than hell and not about to let his father so easily off the hook."

"I am not too happy with Caine over his disappearing act, myself. If Peter isn't talking to his father at the moment, how did he finally discover I have reentered his son's life?"

"Easy. When I last spoke with the Ancient, he was getting ready to drop the hint to Kwai Chang that someone from the past was back in his son's life. Said he would direct him to Blaisdell for the full story. Did Blaisdell mention Caine during your conversation?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, he did. Said he was in his office early this morning. They talked for quite awhile. Paul pretty much brought him up-to-date."

"How did he take it?"

"Paul said he seemed quite pleased to discover I am still walking the planet, alive and well.

Now if you will excuse me, little brother, I think I will pay my very competent pilot a visit and get a confirmation on our ETA."

Sinclair rose and started off down the isle toward the cockpit.

"Hey, I'm glad you finally bought your own plane. I was getting tired of hauling your butt around. I think it is your turn to do the butt-hauling."

P.T. chuckled but never broke stride as he headed to the front of the plane.

Rykker, wine glass in hand, sat back in his chair as he watched his brother walk down the narrow aisle and disappear into the cockpit. He had the distinct feeling that life was about to get a whole lot more interesting.

+++++

Peter moaned and rolled onto his back, flinging an arm out across the bed. He could not seem to escape the incessant buzzing in his ears.
Forcing his eyes open and turning his head toward the night stand, he suddenly realized it was the ringing of the phone reverberating off the walls which awakened him.

"I have got to get a new answering machine!"

Scooting closer to the night stand, he wrestled the receiver from its cradle and retreated back to the pillow, propping the phone between shoulder and ear. "What!?"

"Good morning to you too, sunshine. Somebody sneak in and slip a pea under your mattress during the night?"

Recognizing Paul's voice, Peter glanced at his bedside clock, his eyes widening.

"Oh shit, I'm late! Sorry, Paul." Quickly rising to a sitting position, Peter moaned as pain shot through his head, causing his vision to blur. He quickly plopped his head back down onto the pillow.

"Peter, you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm just great. Nothing a couple hundred Tylenol won't cure" <or one of my Father's concoctions,> he silently mused. <Don't even go there, Peter!> "Give me thirty minutes, Captain."

"Hold on..."

"But, Paul!"

"Peter, does busting the largest drug and stolen car trafficking ring in the history of the state ring a bell? How about running through the woods in a rainstorm, or showering at the station and being driven home last night? Feel free to stop me if anything sounds even remotely familiar."

Peter picked up on the smile in Paul's voice. "Oh, yeah, now I remember. I think you gave
me the next three days off, too, or am I hallucinating?" Suddenly Peter felt apprehensive. "Is anything wrong with the case?"

"Everything is just fine. I spoke with the mayor this morning. She is quite pleased with the outcome of your undercover assignment. There just may be some commendations in the works for all of you."

Peter groaned. "Geez, Paul, you really know how to cheer up a guy."

"Yeah, I know, hotshot. Guess you will just have to go out and buy another display case for all of your awards and commendations." Paul couldn't help but chuckle.

"Thanks a lot, Captain. While we're on the phone, why did you call me? Just to be sure I am up and enjoying my sick day?"

Paul laughed. "Actually, the reason I called is to let you know to meet your grandfather out at Iverson Field later today."

"Granpop is coming home?"

<Granpop? Interesting.> Paul's grin widened as he envisioned Peter's father hearing his son refer to his Grandfather Sinclair as 'granpop'. He just prayed he would be in the room at the time. Their son insisted upon calling his natural father 'Pop.' A habit Caine continuously attempted to break him of, to no avail. He could not even imagine the priest's expression the first time he heard his son refer to P.T. Sinclair as 'granpop.'"

Paul smiled at the excitement evident in his son's voice. "Yeah, kid. He expects to land about three this afternoon. I told him you would pick him up and on time."

"Wait a minute. That's a private field."

"Seems your grandfather picked himself up a new toy while he was gone, in the form of a Lear jet."

"Wow! That's cool. Maybe he'll let me fly it. I did take lessons a few years ago."

Paul snorted. "Not if he has seen your driving, kid, and if I remember correctly, he has."

"Oh, thanks a lot, Paul. Very funny. When did you talk to grandfather? Where was he?"

<Typical Peter, ask two questions at once. Some things never change.>
"He called the station a few minutes ago looking for you. He figured you would be at work. My best estimation is he called from about twenty-five thousand feet. Guess some people actually use those sky phones."

"Well, I better get going, then. I need to drive out to granpop's place before I pick him up. You know, just make sure everything is in order.

"How is the cold? You feeling any better?"

"I'm fine, Paul. I will feel a lot better once I shower and shave. You did give me the next three days off, right?"

"Yes I did and I expect you to get plenty of rest and see a doctor."

"Paul, I don't-"

"That is an order from your Captain and as your Captain I expect it to be obeyed. I know how much you hate doctors and I also know how stubborn you are, kid. That's why it is an order instead of a request. You will not return to this precinct without proof of a doctor's visit and that is final. I want your promise, Peter, or I tell Annie." He chuckled at his son's indignation, almost bordering on a whine.

"You wouldn't! Ah come on, Paul! You know mom. She will be over here on my doorstep with a pot of chicken soup, giving orders, before I can get my pants on. I got stuff to do."

The whine was growing. Paul grinned.

"You wouldn't do that to your favorite son, would you?"

"Oh yes I will and you know it. Now get yourself out of bed and a make a doctor's appointment. You have plenty of time before you have to meet your grandfather. Bye, son."

Paul hung up before Peter's quicksilver mind could come up with a persuasive argument. It was always difficult not to give into his son's pleadings as to why he should or should not take a particular, and usually dangerous, action. He also knew he was more vulnerable right after a close call. A shudder ran up his spine as images of last night's bust assaulted him.

Sinclair's call had been a godsend. Paul decided it would be best to wait for reinforcements before tackling the 'Peter and Caine' problem. He was gratified to learn that Rykker was flying in with P.T.. He could certainly use the extra back-up. A slight smile tweaked the corners of his mouth. He also knew Peter was just a little unsure around Rykker.
<If you only knew, kid. He's been watching your back and saving your butt for years.>

What really baffled him was how one grown, hyper kid could keep three mercenaries, four if you counted Kermit, plus a Shaolin priest and a Shambhala Master on their toes. Between them, they had enough knowledge and experience to run an entire country. If only Peter were a country. Giving himself a mental shake, Paul returned to the pile of paperwork staring up at him.

++++


Rolling to a stop at the bottom of the long drive below his Grandfather Sinclair's house on Lake Muir, Peter sighed and leaned back against the headrest. Although it had been raining off and on for the better part of a week, he found the rat-a-tat-tat of rain on the roof and the swooshing of the wipers soothing.

Pulling out, the young detective made a right onto the main road heading back into town. Two miles down the road, just before cresting a small hill, Peter braked to a stop. A county maintenance truck sat crossways blocking access. A man dressed in a bright orange slicker and hard hat with the Highway Maintenance Department emblem emblazoned upon both, walked up to the Stealth's driver's side window.

Rolling down the window, Peter stuck his head out, "Problem?"

"Yes, sir. There is a bad accident about a mile down on the loop curve. Sorry, but the road is closed."

"Any idea when it will be reopened?"

"At least an hour, possibly two."

"Okay, thanks. Can't wait, I have to get to the airport. I'll just turn around and take the scenic route. Don't envy you your job."

"Well, I'm used to it. Drive carefully, sir."

"Thanks, I'll do that."

Peter checked his rearview mirror before slowly backing the Stealth into a small turnout. Pulling out, he headed back in the direction just traversed.

Passing the entrance to his grandfather's house he continued on, heading north around the lake. This winding road would lead him to Terrace Park Drive and up over Stone Mountain. Dropping down on the other side would put him on a straight line to the expressway leading back into town and the airport. It would also add a good 45 minutes to his trip.

Glancing at the digital clock on the dash, he sighed. Plenty of time. Luckily, for once he had managed to leave early, allowing himself an extra margin of time. He decided taking this longer, slower route just might be the respite he needed. This was a beautiful drive and it would give him some much needed time to think.

<So, granpop, you decided to come back? Well, he did say he would return, Peter! After all, he went to the trouble of buying a house on the lake. Geez, I gotta stop sounding like a spooked, paranoid kid! Keep it up, Pete old boy, and you can add Sinclair to the long list of people who have run out on you.>

Slapping a hand against the steering wheel, Peter's determined words filled the car, "I will not let that happen! I promise, Granpop. Our relationship will be different. We don't have much history together yet and I am not going to screw this up."

<Pop is back in town, but don't make the mistake I did by thinking he returned because he missed his son, the cop. No sire, he would still be wandering if this Cooper guy, who was dumb enough to write a book revealing Sing Wah secrets, had not needed the expert protection that could only be provided by a particular Shaolin priest. Something like that, anyway. I bet he will be shocked to see you. Since he never bothered to share your existence with me all these years, I assume he believes you are dead. I haven't had a chance to let him know about you, either. Been kind of busy on an undercover assignment the last couple of weeks. I'm trying to give my father plenty of space, a chance to find the peace and serenity he so desperately craves. He sure as hell cannot find it with me in his face all the time.>

Making the turn onto Terrace Park Drive, the Stealth started the climb to the top of Stone Mountain.

<Yeah, I seem to be a rock around the old man's neck, dragging him down. It's pretty tough on him having a cop for a son. Not anymore, though. From now on, Peter Caine faces his demons alone. In fact, I am making that promise to you both, grandpop, and it's a promise I plan to keep, even if it kills me! Maybe this time pop won't feel the need to get as far away from me as possible.>

Low lying clouds swirled around the car as Peter crested the top of Stone Mountain and began the drive down into Moon Valley. Glancing at the dash clock and calculating, he mumbled to himself as his fingers tapped a beat on the steering wheel, "Should hit the expressway in about twenty minutes, another fifteen to the airport. Making pretty good time, considering the conditions."

Sadness marred his handsome features, as his mind mulled over the last three weeks.

<Explaining to you what happened to Paul is going to be a bitch, though. It was all my fault. He was trying to help me and got caught up in the middle of all this mystical crap. Bet you have never heard of Shadow Assassins, granpop. Now there's some mean s.o.b's. It was the night my father returned. We were in Paul's car when all of a sudden one of those evil bastards jumped right out in front of the car causing Paul to lose control. The car flew off the road. I tried to help him, but by the time I pulled myself out of the wreckage one of them had Paul on the ground stomping the life out of him. I managed to get off a shot. Big deal, huh? Guy just evaporated into thin air. That's a Shadow Assassin for you. How the hell will you ever believe this story? Sounds pretty cockamamie, even to me. Captain was off work for three weeks, but now he's back working half days.>

Rounding a curve, Peter slammed on his brakes causing the Stealth's rear tires to slide a bit on the wet pavement before completing the sudden, unexpected stop.
Slapping his palms against the steering wheel, he exhaled sharply. "Shit, what the hell is going on now? Another wreck?"

In the middle of the road sat a large, orange panel truck with a blade attached to the front.
With wipers swishing and rain pounding on the roof above, he sat waiting for directions. Glancing around, he noticed the absence of road construction signs. Neither did he see any visible sign of a problem.

A sudden feeling of eminent danger coursed through his body. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he inhaled sharply. Turning and looking over his right shoulder out the back windshield, he spotted a large panel truck identical to the one sitting in front of him. Two figures sat unmoving inside the cab. Rain running down in rivulets prevented him from adding details to their faces.

"Okay, Caine, these are definitely not mountain guides. Nope, doubt they have my health and welfare in mind."

Once again facing forward, Peter began scrolling through his options. Before him lay a narrow, winding, two-lane mountain road. To his right, the shoulder wasn't more than two or three feet wide before it dropped off into the ravine below. Due to his acrophobia, he immediately scratched it off his very short list of options. To the left, the mountain jutted skyward several hundred feet. A narrow patch of dirt, now mud, wedged itself between the pavement and the rising cliff face. Peter realized his chances of making it around the orange panel truck were minimal at best, but it seemed to be the only viable choice left open to him.

"I have a bad feeling about this." A shiver ran up his spine.

Checking the side mirror, he noted the panel truck behind him had not moved. It sat, engine purring, blocking his retreat.

"Okay, guys. I can play this game. Here goes!"

Taking a deep breath, he clinched his jaws in determination. Peter slammed the Stealth into gear and with tires spinning on the slippery pavement, he shot forward on a straight line toward the truck presently blocking his path. The instant the Stealth made its move, the panel truck did likewise, heading straight for him. Peter steeled himself to wait until the last second before making his final move, the one that would tip his hand. He would get only one chance.

At the last second, he jerked the steering wheel to his right and immediately back, causing the driver of the panel truck to anticipate him passing to his, the driver's left, closest to the drop-off. Too late the other man caught the fake. Peter shot around the orange panel truck, barely clearing it and the cliff face. Tires screaming in a shower of mud and water, the little blue sports car made its escape, heading down the mountain to the valley below.

"He's making a run, he's making a run!," yelled a the man sitting in the cab of the second panel truck into the mike he held.

An answering voice, deep and gravely, filled the cab of their vehicle. "What the hell do you mean he's running!?"

"Sorry, boss, he got around Mike! He's makin' a run down the hill towards Moon Valley."

"You stupid shit! You let him get away!?"

"That guy can really drive, boss. He drives that car like a hot rod."

"Get your asses down that mountain and you better not lose that cop! You understand me!"

Lionel Castellanos slammed his fist against the dashboard, causing his driver to flinch. Fire sparked from his dark eyes. "Gawd dammit, I don't believe this! Is it totally impossible to get decent help these days?"

Lionel was not going to face his boss with the news of his failure. This guy simply could not be allowed off this mountain alive! It would put his own life in jeopardy along with his position inside the Laureano organization. He knew his boss would soon be a force to be reckoned with inside the crime syndicate and he planned to rise to the top along with him as his right hand man. Blowing this job would see his dreams go up in smoke. This damn cop, now racing down the mountain, must not be allowed to testify. Lionel also knew this had become a personal vendetta where his boss was concerned. No one played Laureano for the fool and lived to tell the tale. He liked and trusted Peter Daniels, the criminal. Now, Tony desperately wanted Peter Caine, the cop, dead.

His boss was sitting in a jail cell this very moment waiting to receive word of this cop's demise. Just one more unfortunate victim of a terrible, freak automobile accident. Then some big time lawyer would post bail, giving Tony a much needed alibi when Peter Caine's body was found, if it was ever found. The mountain tended to swallow up its victims. Sometimes it took years to discover an accident scene and possibly never.

Gripping the mike in his right hand, Lionel began barking out orders. "Jocko, did you copy? Where the hell are you?"

"Yeah, boss, I heard. Harry and me are just off the road at Sugar Loaf Point. We are about three miles below Will, Danny and Mike."

"See any sign of that cop yet?"

"Nope, but we're expecting him to show any second."

"Okay, you two. Pull out now and be sure he doesn't get around you. If he makes it off this mountain, I'll shoot your asses myself. Do you understand!?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Castellanos."

"Okay, Harry, let's not blow this. It's our chance to get in good with the bosses." His companion reached inside his jacket and withdrew his holstered gun.

Pulling out onto the narrow roadway, the large, nondescript sedan slowly headed down the mountain with both occupants watching for the appearance of the blue Stealth behind them.
"Marco, Will! Jocko will slow him down for you. Get your asses down the mountain and take care of that damned cop! Mr. Laureano doesn't like failure and neither do I! You hear me!?"

"We can't be far behind him now, Mr. Castellanos. We'll get him, don't worry."

++++

Taking the twists and turns as fast as the car could handle them on the slick pavement, Peter gripped the steering wheel, body tense, knuckles white. After a couple of quick glances into the rearview mirror, he felt reassured that the Stealth could easily outrun either or both of the two panel trucks he knew were in pursuit.

"Wish I knew what the hell is going on? Who are these bastards, anyway?"

Not having a clue what to expect next, he dared not slow his descent. The increasing intensity of the rain impaired his vision and required an even greater level of concentration. Rounding the third curve just down from Sugar Loaf Point, he pulled up behind a brown sedan. Starting to pass, the brown car swerved, blocking his passage and it was then Peter realized it was not over yet, not by a long shot.

The game of cat and mouse continued for another two miles. The rain made it difficult to see beyond the other car. The road was now treacherous. He did not dare try to pass on the sharper curves in case of oncoming traffic. He was not going to kill innocent people in the process of trying to get around these guys to save himself. And so, the deadly game continued as Peter made futile attempts to pass the larger car while keeping watch for the two panel trucks he knew were gaining on him.

The young cop had no way of knowing that there were other men, dressed as road maintenance workers, standing at the bottom of this narrow, winding mountain road informing approaching motorists of the road's closure due to a rock slide several miles up.

++++

Kwai Chang Caine began the climb to his fourth story apartment in the middle of Chinatown. After talking to Blaisdell at the precinct earlier in the day, he had returned to his residence only to be hurriedly summoned by Mr. Po, whose wife's arthritis was acting up again, causing her much grief. After gathering the needed herbs, Caine spent the better part of the day treating Mrs. Po with the special mixture and massage until the pain had lessened. Leaving behind a portion of the herbal tea, Caine retraced his steps home. Walking through Chinatown, the priest was greeted by many, but his thoughts were focused on the early morning conversation with Paul Blaisdell. Guilt assaulted him. He must find and speak with his son soon.


++++

The orange panel truck slammed into the back of his car, the dozer blade screeching as metal ground against metal. Peter desperately fought the wheel, barely maintaining control. Again, he attempted to pass the brown sedan only to make contact and bounce off it's back bumper causing the larger car to swerve slightly. He could see the man in the passenger seat turned toward him watching out the back window and knew his job was to help the driver keep track of his movements. Peter did his best to out-maneuver the more cumbersome vehicle on his tail. He knew it would not work for long. His mind raced.

<Come on, Peter, think. Okay, okay. Sugar Loaf Point. Something about Sugar Loaf Point. What is it?> "Miner's Peak, that's it! Yeah, there's a turnout at Miner's peak. Hell! I just might have a chance."

Pulling out of a long, meandering curve into a short straight-a-way, Peter anticipated the fast approaching turnout. In a matter of seconds, the small caravan pulled up even with the semi-circle of pavement just off the roadway.

"NOW!"

Peter shot from between the other two vehicles straight into the Miner's Peak overview and cranked the wheel hard right, sending the little blue sports car into a sliding spin. Cranking the wheel, Peter barely managed to maintain control. Pulling out of the slide, the car shot forward heading back up the mountain. The panel truck and brown sedan were not in sight, but he knew they were only seconds from returning. Just as the Stealth's left front fender cleared the row of trees to his left, a violent jolt rocked the car . The panel truck loomed over him.

"Gawddammit! Where the hell did you come from!"

Desperately trying to escape the relentless blade, Peter felt the rising bile of panic, as his throat tightened and his hands gripped the steering wheel. At that precise moment the other truck and brown sedan reappeared. The rest was lost in a mind-numbing blur of brutal, unrelenting movement and a deafening crescendo of crunching, ripping metal as the Stealth was slowly pushed over the side of the mountain. FATHER! was Peter's last coherent thought as his car, with him trapped inside, disappeared from sight and began its descent into the ravine below.

 

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