Karen Rose - Count to Ten

"I know. I saw him, fucking little bastard. Same MO that got him in this mess to start with. Drive-by shootings, killing innocent bystanders. You'd think the fucker would learn his lesson, but no. He's still shooting up the damn neighborhood with no care for bystanders caught in the crossfire." She was muttering as her breath hitched. "He's already ditched the car by now. He always does." Her body sagged beneath him and she rested her cheek against his forearm. "Dammit." The last was a weary murmur, as if she hadn't the energy for more.

His own body slumped. Any of those bullets could have hit them. If he'd been a second later, she could have been dead. If her car had been any smaller, he could have been dead, too. That last shot had come way too close for comfort. He dropped his head and took another breath, this time smelling the lemon of her hair instead of burning rubber or gunpowder. Awareness was returning in degrees as the adrenaline began to ebb. Glass was everywhere around them. The sidewalk was hard against his elbows and his left knee would have a hell of a bruise by morning. But she was small beneath him, soft and round. And for the moment, learning on him. It was a vulnerability he suspected she let few people see.

That she let him see was… sweet. Thrilling. And combined with the feel of the soft curve of her rear end against him… undeniably arousing. Get up, Solliday, before you - But it was too late. He grimaced as his body stirred and with an effort he pushed himself to his hands and knees, hoping he'd been fast enough, hoping she hadn't noticed. Carefully he straightened, wincing as the discomfort in his knee took his mind off the ache elsewhere. He shook his shoulders free of pebbled glass, then bent his head and brushed more glass from his hair.

She pulled herself up to sit against her car, every movement slow and tentative. It was the second time in as many days she'd taken a blow to her injured shoulder. He'd tried to take most of the brunt of the fall himself, but he'd obviously hurt her just the same.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

She drew a breath and took her radio from her belt. "I'm okay. Just knocked the wind out of me." But she didn't meet his eyes as she called for Dispatch and he wasn't sure if she had noticed his physical response or if she was just embarrassed that he'd seen her as anything less than a superwoman.

"This is Detective Mitchell, Homicide. We've had shots fired at 1342 Sedgewick Place from a moving car. Shooter and driver have escaped in a late model Ford, brown." She rattled off the license plate and he was amazed she'd had the presence of mind to notice. "You'll probably find the car abandoned within a block radius. Send a CSU team. Tell responding units there are plainclothes officers on the scene." She clipped her radio back on her belt.

"What do you want to do?" he asked.

Sirens were faint in the distance. "He's gone," she said.

Reed pushed himself to his feet and bent his knee. "If he's on foot, we can search," he said, but she shook her head.

"Let the uniforms search the area and I'll call Spinnelli."

She looked up at him then, understanding in her eyes. "You couldn't have done anything. You definitely shouldn't have chased him. You're not a cop."

You're welcome , he thought again, twice as irritated as before. He wasn't a cop, but he was law enforcement. He carried a gun. Her attitude was so typical of cops, it made him pissed. But it wasn't worth fighting that one tonight.

She stood up, gingerly. "You're angry," she said and he gritted his teeth.

"Getting shot kind of makes me pissed," he said sourly. He waited for her to say something else… like thank you , but when she didn't, he frowned and moved past her.

She stopped him, grabbing his arm. "Thank you, Reed. You saved my neck."

He looked down into her face, let himself shudder over the thought of how close they'd both come to being shot. Even though she was safe, her cheek was a mess, scrapped and raw. Gently he cupped her chin, ran his thumb along her jaw, felt her flinch. He now understood she was more likely to flinch at tenderness than at real pain. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. Just now or back at the newsroom."

Just as gently, she pulled away. "I know." The sirens now screeched down her street. "The cavalry's here."

Apartment windows had started to open and residents were cautiously poking their heads out now that it appeared to be safe. Two cruisers with flashing lights rolled to a stop in front of her car.

"Goddammit," she snarled and Reed's head whipped as he checked the area. All he saw was broken glass and the beginning of a small crowd.

"What?"

She pointed at one of the cruisers. Just behind the right front tire was the remnants of Lauren's plastic bowl, smashed to smithereens. "Now I'll have to eat Pop-Tarts."

He couldn't help it. He had to laugh.

Wednesday. November 29. 6:00 A.M.

He'd had a good night's sleep and now his mind was working efficiently once more. He'd looked all over for Young, the next name on his mental list. There were four Youngs. One had known, but was merely a coward. His death would be less painful. Two knew and looked the other way. They would suffer. But one… he'd caused great pain. He'd killed Shane. He'll wish he was dead a thousand time before I'm done . He'd been unsuccessful in locating any of the Youngs. Until now.

How could he have missed it? The one he sought sold real estate. Realtors plastered their names everywhere-including the high school alumni Web site. Tyler Young now lived in Indianapolis. Finding him would be easy. He would finish off the Doughertys tonight, then head south.

But he still needed to find the other Youngs. If he had to, he'd go back. He didn't want to. But he had to find the other Youngs. He'd faced down a lot of ghosts already. What was one more? But it wasn't just any ghost. It was Shane's. And his own.

Wednesday, November 29, 7:25 a.m.

Mia was waiting on the curb when Solliday pulled up in his SUV, her plastic garment bag slung over her shoulder. He leaned over to open her door. "You look like hell."

Folding the hanging bag, she tossed it in the back and swung up into the passenger seat with a wince. Her head ached, her shoulder burned and the whole right side of her body was sore, despite the way he'd tried to cushion their fall with his own body the night before. "Good morning to you, too, sunshine," she muttered as she buckled up.

"Did you get any sleep?"

"Some." Maybe an hour total, spread over four. She kept waking up, normal after an adrenaline rush like she'd experienced. But when she woke it wasn't to the sound of shots and shattering glass, but to the memory of his body stretched over hers, hard and aroused. And when she woke, she reached for him. That was the worst part. "You?"

"Some. Do you think we can be a little late for Spinnelli's eight o'clock meeting?"

She studied him warily. "Why?"

He looked away, but not before she saw his cheeks redden and suddenly the cab was too warm. He was remembering last night, too. Which was why it was against regulations for partners to have any extracurricular involvement. Which was why it wouldn't happen.

"I watched the tape when I got home last night. In the home video the guy with the camera was shouting at somebody to get behind him, to stay away from the fire."

"Probably didn't want whoever it was to block his shot," she said sardonically. "So?"

"So he called the person Jared. Maybe it was another neighbor. Or his kid."

"Very cool," she said slowly. "So we find out who Jared is, hopefully before the neighborhood's left for work. I'll call Marc, but he won't be able to move the meeting too far. He called last night after you left. Wanted to be sure we were both still alive. He said there's a press conference at ten. We're expected to put in an appearance."