Hey Dad Part 2

It’s hard being a single dad struggling to relate to an adult son, but it’s harder still when we’re both cops—and he refuses to listen to my advice.

He blames me for the breakup of our family, and now that Em’s dead, he blames me for everything.

If there were only some way I could redeem myself in his eyes, but I doubt even dying in the line of duty would do it.

I’m not a hero, just a flawed man, who would like a bit more acknowledgment from my son other than an occasional, Hey Dad.

I admit I've been trying to pull down some high profile assignment that will impress Brad.

I finally catch a break and am chosen to lead the team assigned to protect the Saudi ambassador.

The banquet’s being held in the Royal York downtown and we’re the plainclothes presence.

There have been no threats against the ambassador’s life and the bomb squad boys have been in and swept the room—but they’re still on standby.

“Lieutenant Reilly, I trust everything’s in place?”

“Smooth as clockwork, Chief.”

He nods and continues into the huge dining room. I watch him shake hands with the Mayor and the two of them exit through a side door, presumably to meet the ambassador.

I’m left with overseeing the security detail.

The ambassador is regarded as a person of high status but low risk—no one’s anticipating protests, let alone assassination attempts, but protocol must be followed.

I leave no stone unturned—right down to checking the kitchens and ordering a cleaner to turn off his transistor radio. No distractions.

The entire staff is searched and undercover officers take up their duties camouflaged as Hotel employees.

Soon, the banquet is underway and proceeding nicely.

Just after the toasts and before the ambassador is about to speak, shots ring out.

A Hotel security guard fires a pistol at the head table, narrowly missing the ambassador. The guard then flees down a hallway.

I make sure the ambassador is removed to a secure area and then pursue the shooter.

He’s taken a Hotel employee hostage and is threatening to kill him, unless we negotiate his safe conduct out of the country.

“The man’s highly agitated,” Sam Kellogg, one of my veteran officers explains. “We’re communicating with him via the phone in the small dining hall.”

My mind’s sifting through possibilities. “But he wants to negotiate, right?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Is the hostage in immediate danger?”

Sam shrugs.

"What about the sate of mind of the shooter?"

“He’s making wild demands and waving his weapon around—I’d say he’s out of control, Sir.”

“Tell him I’m going to negotiate with him face to face.”

“That’s high risk, Lieutenant—you sure you want to take it?”

“I’ve got a plan, Sam. I want you to get the bomb squad’s bomb sniffing robot and then find the Hotel employee with the transistor radio. I’ll fill you in on the details later.”

Sam hurries off to carry out his assignment and I stuff a 38-caliber pistol behind my back, between my belt and my spine.

Ten minutes later, I’m walking into the small dining room, hands raised above my head.

“Don’t come any further,” The man warns.

I stop and check out the surroundings. The shooter has one hand clamped on the hostage’s shoulder and a Glock in his other hand. He’s wild-eyed and breathing heavily—the hostage looks pale and faint.

“Why don’t you allow your hostage to sit down? He looks faint.”

“I give the orders here,” The man shouts. “Are you going to comply with my demands?”

Before I can answer there is a noise behind him and the sound of someone talking.

He wheels to fire at the intruder, and I reach behind my back, draw my gun and shoot him in the right shoulder—the part of his body furthest away from the hostage.

The shooter slumps to the floor, and I hurry forward and retrieve his weapon.

The story’s all over the six o’clock news and the late edition of the papers.

Robo Cop Disarms Assassin. Detective, Frank Reilly uses bomb sniffing robot with a transistor radio strapped to it, to distract and wound a terrorist.

At first, the Chief of Police is upset by the flaunting of protocol, but relents when the Mayor points out it’s an opportunity to boost the image of the police force—not to mention their own prestige as well.

I get slapped on the back by everyone, except the person who really counts.

I don’t hear from Brad, my son.

Still, all in all, it was a good day—I didn’t piss off the Chief, didn’t get shot, but I did shoot someone.

Hell, two out of three ain’t bad.

I get home late that night and sit in the dark, drinking a beer in my empty apartment.

I notice the small orange light blinking on my phone—I’ve got a voicemail message. I pick up and listen.

“Hey Dad, it’s me. Saw the news. Good job.”

I press erase, wiping tears from my eyes.

Oh Dear dad, Can you see me now?
I am myself, like you somehow…
-Pearl Jam

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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