"Wait, Mom – wait a sec!" Joe laid a restraining hand on her back. "Dad hasn’t given the ‘all-clear’ yet!" But even as he spoke, they heard the familiar sharp whistle, and Joe’s hold slackened. He rocked to his hands and knees, looking about at the chaotic scene with concern, as Laura scrambled up and started across the grass.

Where is everyone? Are they all right? Joe sought familiar faces – Frank, his father, Con Riley – and Jeremy Isaacs, with whom he’d just been playing football. Frank’s okay – and so’s Dad…and Con. But Jeremy’s not…. Joe could hear Con Riley’s raised voice, apparently yelling into his police radio, talking to Dispatch:

"Shots fired – officer down….Multiple casualties, Barb; we need medics here NOW!"

An audible reply crackled back; Con must have had the volume on his radio turned up to the max. "Already rolling, Sgt. Riley! They should be there in just a few minutes."

Joe got to his feet and extended a hand to Erica Ranson, who had ended up on the bottom of the pile, and looked more than slightly shaken as a result.

"You okay, Mrs. Ranson?"

"Yes, Joe – thank you." Erica took his hand and got to her feet. Like Joe, she gazed around, trying to tally the damages. "That was…I didn’t like that," she finished wryly.

Talk about an understatement! "Neither did I. But you’re okay," Joe reminded her, " and we got ‘em!" He pointed at the man who had been escorting Laura and Erica around the lake, who was now lying on the ground, guarded by two plainclothes policemen. He was groaning and cursing, evidently having been injured, but his captors didn’t seem to be paying much attention to his complaints; rather they were ignoring him with callous disregard. Two more men were currently being handcuffed by other officers. "We got ‘em!" Joe repeated triumphantly.

Fenton, yanking off the obnoxious blonde wig, and tugging at his glued-on moustache, strode across the grass towards Joe and Erica, followed by Con Riley. "Where’s your mother – ah!" They changed direction as Joe indicated Laura kneeling beside Jeremy Isaacs. Con increased his pace and arrived there first. He bent over the rookie cop as Laura rose to her feet and flung herself into her husband’s arms.

"Laura – honey…" Fenton crushed her tightly against him, and didn’t say anything more for a few moments. He just held her.

Finally Laura raised her head from his shoulder, feeling surreptitious movements behind her. "What are you doing?" she inquired.

"Taking off this—" Fenton took firm hold of his moustache once again and gave a yank. "OW!" Wincing and muttering, he tried again, this time peeling the offending disguise away from his skin millimeter by millimeter, while Laura watched and tried to stifle her giggles. "Damn it…ouch…ow!" Finally he managed to loosen it, and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans.

"Poor baby," Laura laughed softly, and lightly kissed his reddened upper lip. "There. All better."

Joe had followed his father, and now knelt next to Con, who had gingerly turned Isaacs onto his back. Joe, looking down at the young man, blew out a relieved sigh. Jeremy was conscious, clutching his bleeding right shoulder, and trying his best to force a smile through gritted teeth.

"Ow…ow…ow!" Jeremy hissed with pain as Con folded a handkerchief and put pressure on the bullet wound.

"Sorry….Hang on, the EMT’s will be here in a shake; Barb at Dispatch said so," Con reassured him. "And then you won’t have to put up with my amateur fumbling."

"That’s good – ouch!" Jeremy tried to grin at Joe. "I now know…I don’t want to get shot any more!" he announced, with certainty.

Joe returned the grin. "Don’t blame you."

"How bad is it?" Now Laura and Fenton were there too, and Laura anxiously asked the question, aiming it somewhere between Con and Jeremy.

"Looks like it gouged a chunk out of the side of his shoulder," Con replied, lifting his handkerchief briefly to inspect the damage. "Nothing lodged in his arm."

"It – could be worse, ma’am," Jeremy said bravely. "It hurts like blazes, but I’ll probably live." He gazed up at her. "Are you all right, Mrs. Hardy?"

"I thought we’d decided you were going to call me Laura," she gently chided him, her voice decidedly shaky, "and yes, I’m fine."

"That’s good – couldn’t let the bad guys hurt you!" He essayed another grin, this one directed at Laura.

"But they hurt you," she pointed out with a smile – and misty eyes.

"Heck, I was just doing my job." Jeremy turned his gaze to Joe. "Do you think I can get some dates out of this?" he said hopefully. "The sympathy angle, maybe?"

Joe, Con and Fenton all burst into laughter – and after a moment, Laura joined in, shaking her head.

The sounds of motors and sirens announced the arrival of the paramedics, two full crews. Jeremy groaned.

"Do I have to do this? Can’t I just – I don’t know, go home? I hate hospitals!" he protested.

"Buck up, champ; you’re going to one anyway," Con informed him, his eyes twinkling. "If the Chief heard I didn’t insist on it, it would be MY head on the chopping block – so you’re going to be a good boy, and cooperate."

Jeremy sighed and capitulated. "Yes sir, Sgt. Riley," he said glumly. "I’ll try."

Frank, meanwhile, had picked himself up from the turf, testing his shoulder and finding it no worse than usual. He removed the tape-adorned dark glasses and stuffed them into his pocket with relief, and ran his hand through his dark hair, mussing and ruffling it a more normal style. He couldn’t do anything about the shirt, but he was delighted to spit out the chewing gum!

Seeing Erica Ranson standing alone and looking anxiously around, he walked over to join her. "Erica? Are you okay?" he asked.

She looked up at him, and he saw her chin quiver. "I think so...but…"

"Would you like to sit down somewhere?" Frank inquired gently.

"N-no." She continued to gaze about worriedly. "Frank, have you seen Michael anywhere?"

"Michael?" Frank frowned in some confusion. "I didn’t even know he was here!"

"He was here – he rode in on the Harley!" she exclaimed. "But now I don’t see him anywhere…."

The guy on the Harley – was Mr. Ranson? Frank could scarcely believe his ears. He looked around again, and not finding what he sought, called to his father. "Dad! Have you seen Mr. Ranson?"

Fenton came over to them. "No – I didn’t see him at all." Which is odd, he thought, abruptly worried. After all the fuss he made about being included, and with Erica here – why wouldn’t he show up?

Frank quickly explained Ranson’s disguise, and after an amused snort, Fenton frowned in thought. "The biker, hmmm? The last time I saw him, he was near that row of bushes, down the hill…coming towards us right before all the shooting started."

Erica ran in the indicated direction without a backwards glance, and after a second’s hesitation, Fenton and Frank followed her. She darted down the little hill – and the next moment, the two men heard her give a sobbing cry:

"Michael!"

The Harley was lying on its side on the grass, and beside it, sprawled on his back, lay the leather-clad biker. His eyes were closed, and in addition to the purple stripes in his hair, there was now an additional one – a dark crimson slice along the side of his head. Fenton felt his heart lurch. Michael, a casualty? Ranson’s words echoed in his mind: I’d…take a bullet, even….

Erica flung herself on her knees beside her husband, sobbing. "Michael!" she whimpered again. "Michael, wake up…wake up…please….You’re all right – tell me you’re all right!"

"Erica – honey, let me see…." Fenton said gently. He crouched down, and eased her to the side, then took a good look at Ranson. Frank yelled up the hill, calling for the paramedics, then squatted down too, across from his father.

"Strong heartbeat…" Mr. Hardy commented softly.

"He’s breathing fine," Frank murmured in reply, "and that gash is pretty shallow—" He broke off abruptly. "Mr. Ranson?"

For Michael’s eyes had opened. He blinked, then squinted in obvious pain. "God Almighty, what a headache! What happened to me?"

"You were shot," Fenton informed him. "Stay still, Michael, we’ll have the EMT’s here in just a minute."

"Shot?" Ranson echoed weakly. "Wow…." He reached to enclose Erica in his arms. "Erica – sweetheart, don’t cry! It’s just a little nick. I’ll be fine." He looked hopefully at the Hardys, over Erica’s bowed head. "Won’t I?"

"A little nick!" Her tears were fast turning into hysterical sobs. "Getting hit at all was too much – how can you be so calm about it?"

"I…don’t have…much choice, sweetheart. I think…my head would explode, if I got excited. Never had a headache like this before." Ranson sought Fenton’s face and attempted a smile. "You know, Hardy – when I said I’d take a bullet to save Erica…I didn’t have any idea it was going to HURT so damned much!" He closed his eyes, grimacing.

"Should have had your helmet on," Fenton said with a sympathetic grin.

"Yeah, yeah – but I couldn’t see well enough, with it on." Michael patted Erica again. "Come on Erica, it’s okay—"

The medics arrived, followed by Con Riley. "What’s this? Some civilian get mixed up in this mess?" the police officer demanded testily, as the EMT’s set to work.

"Look again, Con," Fenton advised him with a knowing grin, "it’s not an innocent civilian bystander at all!"

Con took a second look, and appeared to notice Erica’s presence and state of mind for the first time. "RANSON?" he gasped in disbelief, and started to chuckle. "I never would have known you!"

"That was – the whole idea," Ranson gritted. "It wouldn’t have been much of a disguise if you’d recognized me!" He submitted to having his vitals checked, and a bandage wound about his head, but then he sat up, waving off further assistance, and cuddled Erica in his arms. Her sobs began to slowly diminish as he held her, rocking soothingly.

His presence no longer needed there, Frank ascended the slope and found a bench to sit down on, thinking about what a close thing it had been. Jeremy Isaacs shot, Michael Ranson shot…way, way too close! Idly, he watched the two police officers who were still standing guard over the fallen kidnapper.

To Frank’s mild surprise, the balloon-bearing clown seemed to have been in on the capture of one of the would-be kidnappers. No longer remaining mute, the man was talking to one of the officers, gesturing at the prisoners. As Frank watched, the clown doubled up a fist and smacked it into his palm, apparently demonstrating his technique. Frank wondered who he might be. One of Con’s men, he supposed. He also wondered what had happened to all the balloons! Had the guy simply let them go? He looked up into the blue September sky, but no helium balloons were to be seen.

The wounded kidnapper had evidently already been attended to by the paramedics, and he lay on a stretcher, waiting to be placed in an ambulance. His groans were interspersed with language that Frank certainly did NOT wish Laura to overhear! He hoped she was too busy comforting Jeremy Isaacs to pay attention! Deciding to add to the diversion, Frank went over to Jeremy’s side.

One of the paramedics was bandaging Jeremy’s arm, and preparing him for transport to the hospital, as Laura and Joe stood by, watching and attempting to keep Jeremy’s spirits up.

"He’s going to be fine," the EMT said cheerfully, fastening off the bandage. "He’ll have to wear a sling for a couple of weeks while the arm heals, though. The doctor can tell you better, after you’ve been fixed up," she added to Jeremy.

"Weeks?" Jeremy complained.

Frank nodded knowingly. "It’s not so bad – for a couple of weeks," he told the young policeman, indicating his own sling and cast. "When you’ve worn one for a couple of months, come back and gripe about it to me!"

"I’ll try to," Jeremy grinned. "Or…maybe I won’t!"

Jeremy was helped into one of the ambulances. Laura, Frank and Joe were shortly joined by Fenton, who wore a very determined look on his face.

"I need to do some interrogating," Mr. Hardy growled beneath his breath, and proceeded to walk over to where the ringleader lay on his stretcher. Con Riley followed him, still on guard.

Fenton looked down at the man, who was glaring up at him with unconcealed hostility. The detective stared thoughtfully for a few moments, then glanced over to where Michael and Erica Ranson sat on a nearby park bench. He looked back at the man on the stretcher.

"Fabian Keebler," he said with certainty.

Keebler glared at him with even more ferocity. "You aren’t going to get away with putting me away again, Hardy!" he snarled. "You’re going to pay for this! You’ll be dead before it ever goes to court!"

Con Riley’s gaze was as cold as blue ice. "Keebler, get one thing straight: if anyone dies, I’ll make sure you’re locked up so deeply that no one will ever see or hear from you again!"

Hearing the name, Michael Ranson slowly rose from his bench and walked towards them, followed by his wife. He stared down into Keebler’s face, then moving very carefully, got down on one knee beside the stretcher. He didn’t say anything, but the look on his face was dangerous…extremely dangerous. The bandage on his head, his black leather clothing and other ‘biker’ accoutrements only served to make him even more menacing.

"Fenton, how do you know this Keebler person?" Laura asked quietly of her husband.

"I put him away 20 years ago, for robbery and homicide," he stated grimly. "That explains why he was after you…but I don’t know what Michael’s connection is."

Ranson glanced up. "I fired him about a month ago," he reported glacially, "for trying to steal corporate secrets from one of my companies. He threatened me and Erica…and I told him if he ever came anywhere near us again, I’d have him hung by his thumbnails from the Empire State Building!"

Erica looked down at Keebler nervously, and then took Michael’s arm in a firm grasp.

"Michael, I want you to go the hospital and have that head wound seen to," she stated with finality, and tugged at his arm. "Come on, get in the ambulance."

Michael reluctantly got to his feet, but rather than immediately following his wife, he paused beside Fenton.

"Fenton…I – I just want to say – thanks," he said quietly. He looked back at the man lying on the gurney. "I never knew that one was so dangerous when I fired him. It’s incredible how someone from 20 years in your past and a month ago in mine could have been the same person. We could have played ‘who do you know?’ after all, I guess." Ranson paused a moment, then finished: "Thanks for – for everything."

For just a moment, Mr. Hardy hesitated, then held out his hand. "You too, Michael. And I am very sorry you got shot during all this!"

"I asked for it," Ranson said with a wry grimace, shaking hands. "And I’ll heal in no time. I think, though, that I’m going to take Erica on a long vacation – preferably one a long way from Bayport, if you don’t mind!" He paused as a thought struck him. "I wonder how he managed the golf balls?" he murmured, glancing back at Keebler.

"Or dumping me into the bay? That," Fenton replied softly, "is something we may never know!" He smiled down at Erica. "Enjoy your vacation."

The Hardys watched as the Ransons ducked into the waiting ambulance, for transport to the hospital.

Fenton took a long breath and sighed deeply. He hugged Laura tightly for a long moment, then wrapped his arms about his sons. He was thankful that all of them had made it through this ordeal unscathed…and extraordinarily grateful that at last, the danger was over.