"I had just turned on the ceiling fan, popped a movie in my VCR, and sat back in my recliner when the call came in.

"Hello?"

"Is this Marty Daniels?"

"Who's this?"

"Lieutenant McManus of the Los Angeles Police Department."

In an emotionless monotone, McManus explained that my best friend, Stu, was in deep trouble and was asking for me.

"He's taken his wife hostage on the roof of his apartment building. He refuses to speak with anyone but you."

In my heart, I always expected something like this to happen. Stu had been battling a crack addiction for several years. Methodically, patiently, the drug captured bits of his life, driving him deeper into Hell. He refused to allow himself to realize it, so he kept sinking.

"I'll be there," I said.

Grabbing my pack of cigarettes and my keys, I left.

***

A one-block radius surrounding the apartment building has been cordoned off. I was escorted to the mobile command post setup directly across from the building.

"Is that sniper in position?" McManus barked in his two-way.

"Roger," a voice confirmed.

"You Daniels?"

"Yeah."

"Listen, boy, this is what you do. Get the girl off the roof. I don't care how you do it, just do it. If she ain't down in thirty minutes, I'm shooting your friend."

I would have sat and argued the points of excessive force with Lt. Stick-in-his-ass, but I actually believed him, leaving me thirty minutes to save my best friend's life.

I was escorted to the roof-access door by another officer who, after I declined the suggestion of a bullet-proof vest, whipped out a disclaimer I was to sign indicating I was warned, yet failed to comply.

"Good luck," the officer said as he left me at the door.

The crunching of the tar-covered roof under my shoes was enough to grab Stu's attention. It was a moonless night, but the fluorescent bulbs from the rooftop billboard leaked enough light for me to see. Chrome-plated pistol in hand, Stu was squinting.

"Who's there?" he asked.

"Marty."

"Marty?" he repeated, lowering the pistol. "Hey, man, you came."

I continued walking toward him. "Of course I did, buddy."

"I wasn't sure," he said.

This was the worst I ever saw Stu. Sweating profusely, his eyes were red and glazed, distant. He was dressed in jeans and a white v-neck undershirt. Though it was only about fifty degrees, his brow was dripping and he had sweat circles under his arms that extended almost the length of the shirt.

"You're in a heap of shit," I said.

Anger boiled in his stare. He snapped his eyes to the far corner of the roof. I turned and saw Kelly. She was sitting, knees pulled tightly against her chest, swaying slightly.

"It's all her fault! That bitch!"

He started for her. I followed. "Hey, Marty, hold on."

I grabbed his arm and he stopped, turning to face me. Tears had begun to work their way down his cheeks.

"Do you know what she did?" he asked, anger giving way to sadness in his voice.

"No, what?"

"She took my son away," he said. "She filed a restraining order saying I was a threat to their safety."

He broke down and cried. He sat back against the ledge and wiped at his face.

"She took my son, Marty. What am I gonna do now?"

I sat next to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

"I don't know, buddy."

"Shit, I'm in trouble, man."

"Yeah, Stu, you are. But, I'm here to help, okay?"

I patted his shoulder and walked over to Kelly. She looked up at me. Her right eye had swollen shut, her cheeks were puffed and red, and dried streams of blood ran from her nostrils and lips. Her striking red hair was knotted and frizzled.

"Hi, Kelly," I said. "How are you?"

Stupid question, I know. She had the shit kicked out of her and probably thought she was going to die. Still, she tried to smile.

"Hi, Marty," she said in a defeated tone so unlike the Kelly I knew.

"I'm gonna get you out of here," I said, untying the belt Stu had strapped around her wrists.

"Okay."

I helped her up and we walked to the door.

"Hey," Stu said, jumping to his feet. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm getting her out of here, Stu."

"The hell you are," he said, hurling toward us.

For the first time that night, I was scared. I was certain Stu could feel the beat of my heart against the barrel of the pistol as he shoved it into my chest.

"You trying to get me killed, Marty?"

I knew there was a distinct possibility I would be shot. Still, I swatted at the pistol with my hand.

"Don't point that thing at me, Stu. I'm trying to help you. The cops told me they'll shoot you if I don't get her off the roof."

"Bullshit. They'll shoot me as soon as she's off the roof."

"I'm going to take Kelly to the door now. If you have to shoot me, so be it. As soon as she's gone, I'll come back and we'll talk, okay?"

Without waiting for an answer - afraid of what I might get - I continued for the door. Motionless, Stu said nothing.

The moment Kelly was off the roof, the bullet tore through Stu's chest, like a bolt of lightning ripping through the night. I watched him fall face-first to the asphalt.

"Shit," I said, running to him.

I turned him on his back. The blood had already spread across the front of his shirt and began to trickle from his mouth.

"Oh, man," he whispered.

"Hang in there, Stu," I said.

He held up his hand and I took it.

"Thanks for trying. I love you, man."

"Just hang in there, okay?"

"Nah, it's over, man."

Stu was right. He knew it, I knew it.

"One last favor?" he asked.

"Anything."

"Promise me you'll take care of my son."

My heart fell into my gut like lead. There was only one thing I could do.

"I promise, Stu, I promise."

A smile formed on his lips, his eyes closed, and he was gone.