At the sound of the ear-piercing scream, Lonnie Stevens, moving along the opposite side of the house, stopped dead in his tracks. "What the hell was that!" Taking a step forward, he froze as the cold, hard metal of a gun barrel pressed against the base of his skull. He started to turn.

"Don't even think about it, little man. Now raise your hands."

With the gun barrel nudging the back of his head, Lonny quickly raised his hands high in the air. The man standing directly behind him reached around to relieve him of his gun.

"Good boy. Now, you and I are going to take a little stroll and if you behave yourself, maybe, just maybe I'll change my mind about shooting you. Move it!" The two men started walking toward the front of the house.

***

The ear-splitting scream brought Jessie out of his temporary paralysis. Lunging toward the short, pudgy woman in front of him, he made a grab for her. He had to shut the broad up, and fast!

Squealing, Abigail whirled to run back in the direction she had just traversed.

Jesse barely managed to grab a fist full of the fleeing woman's shirttail, pulling her up short while his right hand tightened around the gun.

Struggling, Abigail tried desperately to break the man's hold on her clothing. Suddenly, the fact that she still held the rose colored cake box seared across her terror filled brain and all of those self-defense articles she had so avidly read kicked into gear. Twisting back to face her assailant, she heaved the cake box at the looming face with adrenaline induced strength.

The box caught Jesse nose high, one corner scraping painfully across his left cheek. "Ahhhhh!" The cake, falling from the tumbling box, hit the boards in front of him.

Jerking her shirt loose, Abigail again started to run.

Jesse's hand shot out, burying itself in the woman's hair.

Abigail's head jerked backward painfully and then suddenly she was free and running.

Staring at the object in his hand, Jesse froze.… a wig! <Damit! I gotta stop that bitch before she makes it to the front door!> As he started to run after the fleeing woman, the box at his feet ensnared his right foot. Frantically scrambling to free himself, he then stepped into the splattered cake. Both feet flew from beneath him, launching themselves above his head. As Jesse Ames began his descent to the floor of the verandah, his gun hand cracked sharply against the wall of the house, breaking his grip and sending the gun flying back over his head. Landing hard, the air painfully left his lungs. Gasping, he rolled onto his side. After several seconds, feeling more like hours, Jesse managed to catch his breath. Pushing up onto his knees, he glanced up….and froze. A tall, silver-haired man stood a few feet away casually leaning back against the wall of the house. In one hand he held a gun pointing in his direction and in the other, he recognized his own gun.

"What do you do for an encore, slick?"

Sighing heavily, he sat back on his heels, his head hanging forlornly.

"Get up!"

Rocking forward onto his hands, he struggled to get his slippery feet beneath him. The man did not move, just stood watching him. With some effort, Jesse finally managed to stay upright.

"Turn around and put your hands behind your back!"

Complying with the barked command, he stood staring down at his feet. An involuntary shudder rippled through him as cold metal handcuffs snapped around his wrists. The man, placing a hand flat against the middle of his back, pushed, propelling him forward down the walkway.

***

Just as Peter cautiously approached the corner and was about to step out to take a look down the side of the house, a shadowy figure barreled around the corner, plowing headlong into him. Two entangled bodies crashed to the floor of the porch.

Rolling off the body trapped beneath her, Abigail's face registered instant alarm. She found herself starring down into the face of the young cop now lying on his back gasping for air, a hand pressed against his side.

"Oh my god, are you all right?" Reaching out, she rested a hand on Peter's chest. "I'm so sorry, I didn't see you! There was this awful man. He had a gun!"

Glancing up, Abigail saw Peter's uncle and another man appear from around the opposite side of the house. As the two approached, she spotted the gun he held against the younger man's back.

Frowning with concern at the sight of his nephew lying on his back struggling to breathe, Rykker asked, "Peter, are you okay? Speak to me, kid."

His nephew's eyes squinted open, his answer forced through gritted teeth. "Yeah, I think so. What hit me?"

"It was an accident! I didn't see you. I was running, I couldn't stop! I was so scared!"

Placing a finger against his lips, the ex-mercenary addressed the babbling woman, "Abigail! Shhhh." It was imperative that he put an end to the woman's nervous, high-pitched prattle before she lost control and became hysterical. "Are you hurt, Abigail?"

"No, I'm okay, at least I think I am. I don't seem to have suffered any injuries. Maybe some bruises."

Having established for the moment that neither his nephew or the woman were in immediate need of assistance, Rykker spoke to the man standing in front of him, "What's your name?" Getting no response, he reached out to sharply thump the back of the young man's head.

"Ouch! That's police brutality!"

"I'm not a cop, so shut up before I decide to really hurt you! Last time, what is your name!"

"Lonny….Lonny Stevens."

"Well, Lonny Stevens, you picked the wrong house and the wrong cop to target." Pushing the man against one of the support posts next to the steps, he growled, "Hug that post like you mean it."

Lonny, circling the post with his arms, kept his eyes on the older man as handcuffs snapped into place around his wrists.

"Peter, tell me again that you are okay."

"I'm okay."

"In that case, you might want to cover up, kid."

Raising his aching head from the boards to look down at his body, he gave an expletive, "Oh, shit!"

Quickly snatching up the towel crumpled between them, the woman started to place it over the young cop's lower torso.

Reaching out, Peter jerked the towel from her hands. Rolling onto his side, with his back to her, he slowly made it up onto his feet. Struggling to secure the towel around his waist, hampered by the cast on his arm, he could feel Abigail Von Morten's eyes on his backside. He didn't care! Let her get an eyeful. He had just had the breath knocked out of him, scraped his bare back, not to mention his butt, on the boards when he landed, and if Reider got wind of this he would probably add another six weeks to his forced convalescence, just for spite!

***

P.T., suddenly appearing around the corner with his wannabe assassin in tow, gave his grandson a questioning look as he passed. Walking his prisoner over to the support post opposite Lonny Stevens, he removed the man's handcuffs. Motioning him to wrap his arms around the post, he then snapped them back into place. He was more than a little curious as to why Peter was standing out here in the cold night air wearing nothing but a towel, but knew the explanation would have to wait for a more opportune time.

Glaring across at his partner, Lonny growled, "How much trouble can the old guy be, huh?"

"Oh, shut up!" Jesse shot back.

Rykker gave Peter the once over. "Are you sure you're okay, kid? Maybe we should have you checked out in the ER."

"No! I'm fine, aside from the injury to my modesty."

"Your modesty is the least of my worries. You didn't have much of that left to lose. The real question is, exactly what the hell did you think you were doing out here running around wrapped in nothing but a towel, anyway? And you better keep those ribs wrapped, if you want them to heal!"

"It was a little difficult to ignore all the racket down here! Not that anyone bothered to clue me in on what was happening."

"We didn't exactly have time to wait around for you to get dressed. Although, it appears that didn't stop you."

Looking across the porch at Abigail Von Morten standing by the railing, her wigless hair plastered against her head, P.T. observed the rather forlorn expression on the woman's face. He felt sorry for the lady. She'd had a difficult evening and none of it deserved. He took off his jacket and walking over to her, wrapped it around her shoulders.

Looking up at him, she gave a shaky smile. "Thank you."

"It is the least I can do, Abigail. I am just sorry you got caught up in all of this."

"It's okay. I can't say visiting here is dull, now can I?"

Chuckling, Sinclair answered, "No, I guess none of us can make that claim."

Suddenly, all eyes turned toward the narrow lane winding up to the house off Lakeside Drive; the main road. Flashing lights appeared as three cars crested a small rise. Two black and white's, along with an unmarked sedan roared into the circular driveway coming to a stop in a spray of dirt and gravel. Doors flew open, spilling two uniformed officers from each of the two cruisers. Kermit Griffin calmly slid out of the front passenger side of the sedan, adjusting his signature green sunglasses higher on his nose. Paul Blaisdell, exiting the driver's side, briskly walked around the front of the car, motioning for his officers to stand down.

P.T., quickly descending the steps, met the two men as they approached.

"Is he okay?" Blaisdell's eyes searched out the form of his foster son.

"He's just fine, Paul."

"Those two are it?" Paul's gaze turned to Lonny Stevens and Jesse Ames handcuffed to the support posts.

"Yeah, just those two bungling idiots." P.T. held out the handcuff keys to Paul.

Blaisdell took the keys and turning, spoke to the officers standing behind him, "Cotter, Radner."

Two uniforms moved up to stand beside him. "Sir?"

"Here." Handing over the keys, he instructed, "Take those two in and book them for the attempted murder of a police officer."

"Yes, sir."

Hurrying up the steps, the officers removed the handcuffs from around the wrists of the two men. Jerking their arms behind their backs, police issue handcuffs were soon snapped into place. Their rights were recited to them as they were marched down to the waiting squad cars. Lonny was shoved into the back of one of the cars as Jesse was being shoved into the back of the other. Seconds later, both men were on their way to the 101st precinct.

Kermit, sauntering up onto verandah, began circling his young friend. Grinning, the ex-mercenary removed his sunglasses. "What's this, Pete, a new hobby - flashing? You know, kid, we have laws against exposing oneself in public."

"Oh, shut the hell up, Kermit!"

A chuckle was his answer to Peter's glare .

Paul and P.T., reaching the top of the porch, walked over to the railing where the Von

Morten woman and Rykker now stood.

"Abigail, this is Captain Paul Blaisdell from the 101st precinct."

"Captain." She smiled up at the shorter of the two silver-haired men.

"If you feel up to it, ma'am, I would like to have one of my detectives take your statement before you leave. It shouldn't take long."

"I don't mind at all, Captain Blaisdell. I just cannot believe anyone would want to hurt such a sweet, handsome young man like Peter. Those terrible men!"

Kermit left off harassing Peter to join the small group next to the railing.

"Ma'am, this is Detective Griffin. He will take your statement. Kermit, this is Abigail Von Morten."

"Kermit? My, what an unusual name."

"Nickname, long story."

"Just call me Abigail, Detective Griffin. Have you by any chance ever done any acting, detective?"

"No, ma'am. Now Mrs. Von Morten, I need you to tell me in your own words what happened tonight."

Paul, P.T. and Rykker moved away, walking over to where Peter stood impatiently waiting. Both Sinclair and Rykker were sporting wide grins at Abigail's inquiry into Kermit's acting experience.

"Peter, you need to call your mother immediately. I spoke with her on the way over and tried to reassure her that you are alive and well, although considering your attire, I am starting to question the 'well' part of that statement. But you know Annie, she won't rest until she hears your voice. And while you're at it, for god sake put on some clothes!"

The young man's eyes widened. "I told her I would call her right back!" A quick about face and he was rushing back into the house.

***

Rykker poured himself a cup of the hot, dark liquid. He had yet to find anyone who could beat his brother at brewing a great pot of coffee. He had just returned from depositing the Von Morten woman at her home. She had still seemed a bit shaken after Kermit took her statement and so it had been decided that she should leave her car here overnight and pick it up sometime tomorrow. Picking up his mug, he turned to view the room. Leaning back against the countertop, he listened to the conversation being conducted around the large wooden table in the center of the room. Paul, P.T. and Kermit were rehashing the night's events as they, too, sipped from steaming mugs.

"If not for the fact that those two yokels were carrying guns with the express purpose of shooting Peter, this entire event could be billed as a comedy." Sinclair shook his head in wonderment. "I hope whoever hired them didn't pay much because they certainly didn't get much for their money."

"It's only a matter of time before we get the name of their sponsor. Neither one is hero material. Turning them against each other shouldn't be too difficult," said Paul

"You know good and well that Laureano is behind this, Captain. He may be sitting in a jail cell, but he is still calling the shots and will do whatever it takes to prevent Pete from testifying."

"I agree, Kermit, but until we can get proof, our hands are tied. In the meantime, we have to protect Peter."

"I'm not going to a safe house." The subject of their conversation strolled into the kitchen wearing dark blue sweats, his feet covered in thick wool socks.

"Not quite as sexy as the towel, but a lot warmer, I'm sure."

Peter gave Kermit a pointed glare.

"I read Von Morten's statement, son. You had quite a night." Try as he might, Paul could not keep the smile from stealing across his face. In spite of the seriousness of this night's events, it read like a slap stick comedy.

"Oh, thanks a lot, Dad. I knew I could count on you."

Paul's expression became serious. "Back to our dilemma; what to do with you?"

"I'm not going to a safe house. They are not going to chase me into seclusion. I'll take my chances."

"Sorry, but it's not your call, kid," interjected Kermit.

"It's my life and I choose not to hide out for the next who knows how many weeks! It is pretty obvious that none of you think I'm capable of taking care of myself! Hell, I can't even be trusted as back up, attested to by the fact that nobody saw fit to clue me in earlier tonight. At least now I know why Rykker's been hanging around."

"Peter, calm down." Paul's tone held a warning.

"Oh no, don't trust the invalid. Can't count on him. Just keep him the hell out of the way. Well, I don't need baby-sitters!"

Suddenly, an iron grip closed around the young cop's uninjured arm. In a matter of seconds he stood in the library, Rykker's expression robbing him of speech.

"Sit!"

Following the barked order, Peter sank down into the chair directly behind him.

Rykker sat down opposite his nephew. Fixing his gaze on the young man who so much resembled his mother and whose personality reminded him of his adored older brother, Peter Sinclair, he cleared his throat. "Let me explain something to you, Peter. Your grandfather and I will always, without reservation and without apology, step in to protect you whenever and wherever we deem it to be necessary. You can refer to it as baby-sitting, if you like. I really don't give a damn. Just because you have some misplaced belief that you should always, under every circumstance imaginable, be able to defend yourself without the help of those who care about you will not fly with either your grandfather or me. It will not change the decisions we make on your behalf. The sooner you accept that fact, the better."

The kid's gaze had not wavered. He detected a touch of fear in those unbelievably expressive eyes now locked on his face. It did cause him a momentary twinge of guilt, but if it gave him the leverage he needed, then he could live with it. "I once stood beside my brother and watched him bury the woman he loved more than his own life. Your grandmother, Peter. Eighteen years later, I searched half of Afghanistan to tell him that his only child was dead; your mother. His voice softened. "And then came the day he thought he had lost you at the hands of other mercenaries. I lived it all, kid, and I remember what those losses did to him."

Taking a deep breath, he continued, "That's what family is all about. They are there for you when you need them most and sometimes even when you think you don't. Know this, Peter. I will do everything in my power to prevent this family from ever again losing another child; even a grown one. Many things are done for the love of family, kid, so accept it."

Standing up, Rykker paused, looking down at the unnaturally silent detective. "I'm going back to the kitchen. I would appreciate you joining us sometime in the next few minutes. We need to make some decisions regarding your safety." Halfway to the door he stopped to look back over his shoulder, "Oh, and don't call me Rykker. It's Uncle Rykker to you." Again, he started moving toward the library doors.

"Uncle Rykker?"

Stopping, he turned toward Peter. "Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

Rykker sighed. "I know, son. Maybe you should tell that to your grandfather." Turning, he left the room.

Glancing at his watch, grinning, Paul speculated, "Well, they've been gone ten minutes. Think it's too early to send out a search party?"

P.T. smiled. "I'm confident he will survive without too many scars."

"That's one conversation I would pay to hear." Kermit grinned. "Too bad the kid isn't wired. Eavesdropping is always an option, though."

"Rykker would have your head. You would be the next one visiting the library, my friend."

"That possibility is the only thing holding me back, Captain."

All eyes immediately gravitated to the doorway as Rykker entered.

"The kid should be here in a few minutes. I believe he now has a much greater appreciation for the importance of his own safety and well being." Winking at P.T., he received an answering smile and a shake of the head in return. Walking over to the countertop, the ex-mercenary picked up his coffee cup, took a sip and then resumed his earlier stance against the edge of the countertop just as Peter entered the kitchen.

Crossing to the cupboard, the young detective took out a coffee mug and filled it from the pot sitting on the counter. Turning around, he reclined back against the edge of the countertop next to Rykker. Suddenly realizing that all eyes were on him, he shrugged. "What?"

"Just glad you are able to join us, Son," answered Paul, smiling.

Looking across the table at his old friend, P.T. spoke, "Personally, I think Peter is as safe here as anywhere, Paul. We have the talent readily available to protect him."

"I agree with P.T., Captain. Three ex-mercenaries should be able handle whatever comes up."

"Three?" Peter arched his brows in surprise.

"That's right, Pete. I'll be sticking around for awhile. Lately, I've been hankering to spend a little time near the water. Of course a certain tropical island and a gorgeous woman comes to mind, but guess I'll just have to settle for you in that sexy little terry cloth number."

"Very funny, Kermit. You should have been a comedian."

"If you two kids can stop squabbling for two seconds, we can get this settled."

"Sorry, but he started it."

"Kermit!"

"Yes, sir!" Grinning, he gave Paul a sharp salute.

"As a matter of fact, I agree with both of you. I doubt the department could do any better than the three of you. What do you think, son? Agreed?"

"Yeah, okay. It beats the hell out of a safe house. At least I'll eat good."

"People are trying to kill you and you are worrying about your stomach?" Kermit asked, incredulously.

"I still have to eat."

Pushing his chair back, Paul stood up. "Well, now that that's settled, I better get back to the precinct and see what they've managed to get out of those two clowns. We should be able to break this open pretty quickly and get the evidence we need against the rest of Laureano's organization. Shake the tree hard enough and something is bound to fall out."

Turning, Peter set his coffee cup on the counter. "I'll walk you out, Dad." He followed behind his foster father until they stood outside on the porch. The evening was growing colder.

Coming to a standstill, Paul turned to face his foster son. "Peter, be careful. I don't want you taking any chances."

"You know me, Mr. Careful."

"I'm serious. Don't make light of this, kid. You are still recovering from your latest brush with death, so don't you dare try to make light of this, understand? "

Peter stood perfectly still, staring across at Paul for several seconds before answering, his voice contrite. "I'm sorry, Dad. I love you."

Taking a step forward, reaching out, Paul pulled the young man into his arms "I love you, too, son," he whispered.

Breaking the embrace, Paul took a step back. "I have to get back to the station. You behave yourself and listen to those three ex-mercenaries, you hear me?"

Peter grinned. "I will. I promise"

"Now get back inside before you catch cold and I have to answer to your mother." Turning Peter toward the door, he gave him a gentle shove. He watched his son step across the threshold and turn back to face him, smiling. "Good night, Dad." Peter gently closed the door.
Paul continued to stand in the chill of the deepening night, staring at the closed door for several seconds. "Good night, kid." Descending the steps, he walked to the sedan, climbed in and drove away.

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