"Move…" Quinn says forcefully, pushing the three men out of his way. Glancing up at him, Scott and the other men back away from Carrie, who now lies semiconscious on the bench seat of the surveillance truck.

Quinn's blue eyes are now cloaked in an intense darkness and searing through everything before him. From the moment he pulled the trigger, he knew the clock was ticking and began calculating the blood loss with each passing second. Just get to her, he kept saying to himself. If he could have flown down from the roof top he would have. Anything to get to her quickly.

Jesus, he mutters as he looks down at her, blood now seeping through her clothes. Though his heart is racing and a mix of anger and fear wash over him, Quinn's body shifts into autopilot. He drops to his knees, pulls out the knife strapped to his calf and in one fluid movement, slices though Carrie's jacket and blouse. Using both hands, he grabs the fabric and rips the rest of the material apart to expose her upper torso. The blood from the wound is spreading down Carrie's arm and shoulder, and has seeped into her bra, but at first glance he thinks (and prays) the damage is contained.

"I need a tourniquet!" Quinn yells out. His hands are already caked in her blood.

Scott sifts through the first aid kit and finding an ace bandage, throws it to Quinn who catches it and quickly begins to wrap it around the bullet wound. Carrie is coming to and panting from pain.

Damn it, Carrie, he thinks. Why can't you ever fucking listen?

He knew why. Brody. Always God damn, fucking Brody. He knew the moment she asked him for his help outside Javadi's daughter-in-law's house, it would only lead to more tragedy, more blood on his hands. Only he never thought in a million years it would be Carrie's blood.

"Hospital's on the line," Scott shouts.

"Tell them we've got a gunshot wound to the upper left bicep, significant bleeding, might have clipped an artery."

Carrie screams out and lurches in pain.

"Hold on, you're going to be alright," Quinn calmly reassures her. He quickly wraps the wound.

"God damn it! Fuck! …Fuck!"

Carrie pants rapidly, gritting her teeth, seething in pain and anger. She tries to focus her thoughts. The bomber…what happened to the bomber?

"Qu..Quinn!"

"Yeah," he say says calmly.

"Is the bomber dead?"

"Yeah," he tells her softly and with regret.

"Fuck!" she screams, her face contorting from all the pain and crushing disappointment, veins bulging from her neck.

"Something's going on…" she pants and tosses her head before him on the bench.

"Yeah, you got shot."

"Yeah, no shit you shot me!" she screams at him. "No…I mean something's going on…none of this makes sense…"

"Just breathe, okay? Deep breaths…come on…" he calmly urges her.

Carrie continues to pant and writhe in pain. She glances around the truck, as if she is looking for something. Quinn turns away trying to hide the anger, frustration and regret in his face.

"Quinn…"

He turns to her again, his hand pressed firmly across the wound, his fingers grazing the side of her breast, and looks down at her.

"Come closer," she urges him.

Quinn bends down, leaning his ear in towards her.

"Where the fuck is Saul?" she asks through gritted teeth.

Quinn turns to look at her. They hold each other's stare for several moments. Carrie desperately wishing Quinn could tell her there was something they could still do to prove Brody's innocence, and Quinn wishing Carrie knew of the internal turmoil spinning in his head.

"We can still prove that it wasn't Brody," he tells her.

He tries to sound convincing. He so wants her to believe in him.

Carrie glares up at him, teeth clenched, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes, unconvinced that Quinn can turn this around. The Langley bomber was dead. Her chances of clearing Brody's name now gone. No, this was beyond Quinn's ability.

"Pulling in," Scott announces as the truck screeches into the ER entrance.

"Carrie?" Quinn says, trying to gauge what she's thinking.

Suddenly, the rear door of the truck opens. Two men dressed in scrubs stand waiting outside with a stretcher.

"What do we got?" one calls.

Quinn stands, leans over Carrie and wraps his arms under her legs and back.

"Okay, I'm going to sit you up and shift you around," he tells her.

Carrie lets out a sharp cry as Quinn tries to gently move her to face him. His face now just inches from hers, he looks her in they eyes and can see the pain and sadness coursing through her. He lifts her right arm and places it around his neck.

"I've got you," he tells her.

Quinn lifts Carrie from the bench, holding her close against his chest, and carries her out the back of the truck, reciting Carrie's status to the men waiting, then gently lays her onto the stretcher. Before he can say another word to her, the men whisk Carrie off towards the ER. He stands alone, covered in Carrie's blood, and watches her leave him. Scott suddenly appears at his side.

"You did the right thing. She was out of control. Maybe next time she'll listen."

Quinn looks at Scott with dark anger in his eyes, then turns to leave.

"Fuck off, Scott."