This is my first Psych fic. So let me know how the characters feel. Thanks!

Prologue:

Lassiter hated being right sometimes.

He WASN'T psychic and he'd still known. And it wasn't like he hadn't gotten in the man's face a hundred times, warning him off. It wasn't as though he hadn't warned Karen it was going to come down to some effed up scenario just like this... and Henry too. In fact, over the years, he'd warned anyone who would listen--and some who wouldn't--that Spencer's infernal meddling would end up in someone getting hurt one day.

But as much as he'd wanted to be listened to--to have his expertise and common sense acknowledged--he'd never wanted to be right. Not about this. This wasn't how he'd wanted to win.

"Drop the knife and put your hands up!" Carlton shouted, gun trained on Max Castillo, or rather, what could be seen of him around his current human shield.

Spencer...

Lassiter growled in irritation. Rather than being a cooperative soon-to-be-convicted-felon, Castillo had the temerity to actually try thwarting Cartlon Lassiter, tightening his grip on his hostage, digging in the tip of the blade at Spencer's already bruised throat, just a fraction--all the while dragging Lassiter's loud ass, personal cross-to-bear backwards towards the open street.

Castillo knew the detective couldn't open fire on the street for fear of striking civilians. 20 yards and he was home free. "Fuck you!" Castillo laughed. "I got somethin' you want, homie. An' if you think I'm letting little piglet here go, you're one stupid fuck!"

Great! Lassiter thought venomously. Just what the situation didn't need--a perp with decent instincts... Well, except for the part where he thought Spencer was a cop.

As if!

"Hey, hey, HEY!" Spencer yelled hoarsely, looking less than his normally flip self in Lassiter's estimation. "Don't I get a say in this?" the fake psychic gasped.

"No!" Echoed both Lassiter and Castillo at once. Lassiter snorted. Apparently he shared something in common with Castillo after all--a dislike for Spencer's lip service.

"C'mon Lassie, you might wanna put the gun away. Castillo and I... we got rapport here," he veritably squeaked, and Lassiter had to wonder how much air he was getting.

"Better listen to your partner, Ese. He's gonna bleed, you don't back off."

Lassiter keenly studied Spencer, taking in the bruises across his face, the swelling and discoloration on his left wrist wrapped so tight around the arm cinched under his chin. There was probably a lot more. He'd been worked over but good before Lassiter had arrived.

Instead of complying, Lassiter followed menacingly, keeping his gun trained and his eye riveted, searching acutely for an opening to drop Castillo without hitting Spencer. For an instant he calculated the odds of taking out Castillo by dropping his vic. Shoot Spencer in the leg and he was useless as a hostage. With his expert aim, chances were Lassiter would be able to miss bone and venous blood supply, even in the dim alleyway. Of course, that would end his career, even if he didn't do Spencer permanent damage. So as gratifying as it would be, Lassiter couldn't shoot the giant pain in his ass. Not yet. He'd rather save Spencer AND keep his job, thank you very much.

Another tactic might well work though. If he could use Castillo's misconception against him. "You kill an officer of the law and you might as well turn the blade on yourself, Castillo. There won't be a place on the planet you can hide. Cops don't like cop killers even seeing a trial. Too much risk of some sleazy lawyer getting them off." It was true to some extent, though not something Lassiter prescribed to as an ideology. But it was a common enough myth on the streets. Kill a cop, the cops kill you. "Just imagine it. A witch hunt with your face in every police station on the continent--Every tv station, every news broadcast. There won't be a rock to hide under between Argentina and the Northwest Territories, scumbag."

Castillo's glance momentarily darted askance, searching for other cops in shadows, a wild, desperate paranoia filling his eyes. He suddenly looked very scared. Too scared. Oh shit! Lassiter thought. Way to go, Lassiter. Leave the freaked out perp with nothing to loose and explain the body to Henry Spencer later.

"Just let him go and put your hands up." Lassiter switched tactics immediately, making his stance, his voice reflect an tentative offer of reprieve without untraining his weapon. "No one has to get hurt here."

Truth was though, the longer Castillo waited to release Spencer, the more likely it was that backup was going to get there and this wouldn't end well. "You're already going down for one murder, Castillo. Don't make it any worse than it already is."

"Back off pig! I mean it!" Castillo screamed, edging back faster.

Lassiter internally cursed, noting a momentary, tiny opportunity Spencer just missed--an opening in the perp's resolve and attention for a slim instant. Not enough for Lassiter to fire his weapon, but enough that if Spencer had had any training in self defense whatsoever he could have risked trying to free himself. With Lassiter there, it would have been a sure bet. Now the moment was gone and wasted. He met Spencer's eyes, saw the pain, the confusion and fear. Still, there was resolve there...a sharpness that never seemed to leave the man. It was just as Lassiter had thought then, Spencer wasn't incapable of acting on the moment, he simply didn't know how. Karen and he would be having a long talk after this--if Spencer survived, that is.

"Lassiefrass... You could just, you know...let all this go. Let the VERY nice Mr. Castillo get away? I'm sure he's just planning on taking the money and starting a... a bakery. Yeah! A bakery, in another town. So that you don't even have to buy his muffins..." Lassiter could hear the panic under Spencer's nervous babbling and could almost sympathize. Almost. If not for the fact that the man's idiocy was what caused them to be in this predicament to begin with and even now he was spouting crap.

"Just shut up and stay sharp, Spencer. We'll work this out." And he would. He had to.

Castillo took that moment to cinch an arm tighter around Spencer's throat, wrapping the other arm around his hostage's waist in a sick parody of an embrace--the blade-tip resting just under Spencer's sternum. A heart kill if he stabbed there and Lassiter got the message loud and clear. Back off.

He gave up a few feet, nothing that would cost him a shot, but might let the perp relax a fraction. Lassiter spared a moment to look Spencer over again. He wondered if the useless lunatic was going to pass out. It was obvious--even in the dimness--that he was sweating and pale as a sheet. Shock setting in, no doubt. It wouldn't hurt if he did. In fact, it might be just the thing to give him an opening if Spencer hit the ground. If only he could communicate to Spencer that some of his girly theatrics would be oh so welcome right about then.

They were still gradually working toward the crowded street. The alleyway would be ending soon, and with it Lassiter's last chance to avert tragedy. If it were O'Hara the bastard had hold of, this would be over--a hand gesture from Lassiter, a subtle communication of intent...a team effort would have already dropped the perp. But Shawn was on the outside, never having learned the right lessons from Henry... or Lassiter. And now he was paying the price. Lassiter could hold up a damn sign and it wouldn't guarantee Spencer would comply.

And there wasn't time to wait any longer. It came down to either letting Castillo make it to the street where civilians would unwittingly interfere with apprehending him. Worse yet, if Castillo did the smart thing, he'd drop Spencer with a mortal injury before he fled, leaving Lassiter behind to save the pain in the ass while Castillo got away. OR Lassiter could drop Spencer, then drop Castillo. Save Spencer, catch the murderer and kiss his career goodbye.

It wasn't any real choice. Lassiter only hoped that in the dim light of the alleyway, he could aim to do the least amount of harm to Henry's son.

He stopped his advance forward, meeting Spencer's glance, wishing he could apologize ahead of time. And it was there, dammit! A queasy sort of recognition in those green eyes that said Spencer knew just what was coming. How in the hell could Spencer realize what he was planning with a mere glance but couldn't work out how to help avoid it? Lassiter's stomach turned, his resolve shaking as he witnessed honest, open panic in the man.

"Lassie! Don't!"

He took aim.

"Hold still, Pinche Maricón*!" Castillo screeched at Spencer who chose that moment to struggle madly.

Lassiter's mind split in two for a hair's breadth of an instant--torn between abject horror that Spencer had decided to squirm unpredictably just as he'd pulled the trigger and irritation that yet again, the damn charlatan was ruining his best laid plans. It firgured Spencer couldn't have thrown the perp off ballance when it would have been advantageous. It figured he'd have done it when it was most risky, most likely to go sour.

TBC soon...

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

* Pinche Maricón is Spanish derogatory slang for a homosexual. Equals the term "f****** faggot".