Written in 20 minutes. No editing for typos.

Scott swallowed hard, his hands spread at his side to block any possible view of the exhausted and traumatized teenager behind him. In front of him stood his son. The only son he had left—

The sociopath that had played them all for fools these last few years, earning their trust, earning their affection—and then using it against them—

“I’m taking Cameron back to his mother,” Scott said slowly, his heart pounding, a trickle of sweat running down his back beneath his button down shirt. “And then we’re going to the hospital. Your tumor is obviously back—

Franco laughed then, a low chuckle that sent a chill racing down his father’s spine. He’d never heard that sound before, had never seen that light in his eyes—

He hadn’t been in town during Franco’s first rampage—didn’t know exactly who he was looking at—

“There’s no tumor,” Franco said, tilting his head slightly. “Well, there might be. But the tumor doesn’t matter. It never did.”

“Franco—”

“I never lost the taste for it—that rush of taking a life—” Franco closed his eyes, shook his head slightly as if in a dream. “But I had to wait. I had to be smart. I couldn’t play my games with anyone who could be missed.”

Scott swallowed hard. Oh God. “Franco—”

“The homeless, the whores—” Franco sighed. “It’s cliche, but it works. No one even wondered why my art came back to me. Why I could create magic again—”

“Oh, God, he’s going to kill us,” Cameron moaned.

“I thought about giving it up. Elizabeth—” Franco nodded. “If there was ever anyone who might be worth it, I guess it would have been her. But it got boring. The kids were whiny—that one—” He shuddered. “That behind you was going to catch on. It was only a matter of time.”

Franco’s hands were empty, and Scott couldn’t see a weapon. If he rushed his son—maybe Cameron could escape—but what if Betsy didn’t let the boy leave? What if Franco got past Scott and caught up?

Why hadn’t he told anyone where he was going? Why he had tried to save his son?

It was obvious there was nothing left to save. Maybe there never had been.

So with great regret, Scott reached behind him and pulled the gun from the holster attached at his waistband. He pointed it at his son. “Let me take him back to his mother,” he said slowly. Franco looked merely amused at the gun, not at all worried.

“He’s a bit too old for Betsy to raise, I guess. It’s a shame Elizabeth didn’t have any more babies I could have given my mother.” Franco touched a finger to his lips. “I thought about trying to Sam or Lulu’s kid. Maybe even Danny.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “I wonder if he’s my kid after all. You know you can’t trust paternity tests.”

Scott’s stomach rolled and pitched as the reality of that set in. Franco had actually raped Sam. Had obviously been lying all along. How did they miss it? How did they ignore the signs?

He took a step forward, the gun trained directly on Franco. “We’re going to go. You can run. You’ll need to if you want to stay ahead of Jason Morgan and everyone else in Port Charles.”

Franco smirked. “No, I think I’ll stay here and wait. Isn’t the cavalry coming? Shouldn’t they be right behind you?” He arched his brows. “Or did you think you could save me? Is that why you’re alone?”

Scott stepped forward again, his hands trembling slightly as he cocked the gun. “I don’t want to do this, but if you’re right, if you’re still the same sick, twisted, psycho—then I should do everyone a favor.”

“How many children have you lost, Dad? Logan? Karen? You think I believe you’ll make it three?” Franco shook his head. “You’re just not as devious as you think you are—”

Franco lunged forward suddenly, in the middle of the sentence—and Scott reacted. He pulled the trigger. Once, twice, then a third time—

The first shot slammed into Franco’s shoulder, sending him flying back—the second ripped into his gut—and the third missed, taking a chunk out of the wall.

His son slumped to the ground, his hands covering his abdomen as blood pooled beneath him. He stared up at Scott, glazed shock in his eyes. “You shot—”

With one hand, Scott dug into his suit jacket and tossed his cell phone at the stunned Cameron. He heard screaming from the first floor, then footsteps as Betsy struggled to climb to the second floor. “Call Jason.”

“Why can’t I call my mother?” Cameron demanded, his voice shaking as he took the phone, his blue eyes locked on the bleeding man on the wooden floor.

“Call Jason, then call Mac Scorpio. Just do it, Cameron. I’ll explain later.” Scott swallowed hard and watched as the life left Franco’s eyes. As his chest stopped rising.

He’d wanted to protect his son, to save him, but he had to stop Franco from hurting anyone else.

Because sometimes that was a parent’s job, too.

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