A/N: Thank you for the kind words, everyone! I've enjoyed hearing from some old friends, as well as meeting some new ones! Glad you're all still here!

I'd also like to thank Collider, who is reprising her role as my Beta Reader of Win and Awesome. All these years later, she still rocks the casbah.

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. Some of you may recognize a character from Castle hopping over to make a cameo appearance; I don't own her,either.

Chapter 2

Containing Somali Amphetamines, Iron Gates, and Things Which Draw Lilly's Notice

It seems like weeks before backup arrives. Scotty triages the shooter while I comb floors, stairwells, trash bins, every possible nook and cranny, looking for that damn gun. When CSU bursts onto the scene, I'm all too glad to hand the task off to them.

By the time I return to the third-floor hallway, a crimson smear on the cream-colored tile floor is the only sign of the fallen officer. As for the shooter, the EMTs have him on a stretcher, ready for transport to the hospital.

"Bag his hands for gunshot residue. He shot a cop," Scotty tells CSU. They nod, and the stretcher clicks into place.

For just a moment, I study the boy's face. His mocha skin is pale and clammy with shock; he stares, unfocused, at the ceiling. Did he shoot out of malice? In cold blood? Or was he panicked? Cornered? It seems his parents don't speak any English; does he? Is he from someplace where cops are the enemy, where violence is a way of life, and shooting back is the only hope? I run an absent hand over the side of the stretcher, hoping to find the answer in the young man's eyes, but they flutter closed a split second before the stretcher starts to move.

One of the EMTs pauses next to Scotty. "Nice triage. You saved his life."

We watch the stretcher round the corner, then Scotty turns and slowly walks toward me, trying in vain to wipe the boy's blood from his fingers with a handkerchief.

"Damn near took it, too," he mutters as he passes. Once glance at his face tells me he's got the same questions swirling around his mind that I have.

Suddenly, Scotty bends down and picks something up off the floor. It's shiny. Metal.

But it's not a gun. Just some kind of small, rectangular box.

"What's that?"

"Musta fallen out of his coat." Scotty shakes it open to reveal a wad of dried greenish-brown leaves. He gives it a sniff, then looks back at me. "It's khat."

In response to my furrowed brow, he explains. "East African amphetamine. Ran into it some when I was in Narc. Somali pirates use it to make themselves fearless."

He passes the box to me, an earthy, herbaceous smell wafting into the air between us. As I turn the leaves over in my hands, it all starts to make sense. "So that's why he ran. Why he had the gun."

"Who's the other shooter?" An authoritative voice echoes down the hall and we turn to see a brusque, no-nonsense-looking woman striding toward us, the rapid staccato of her heels echoing off the concrete block walls.

Scotty braces himself and turns around. "I am."

She looks familiar, but I can't quite place her. Looks like Scotty can, though. "Captain Gates. We've met. Scotty Valens, Homicide."

The captain's steely gaze slides from Scotty to me. "And you must be Rush. Your reputation precedes you, Detective."

"Thanks." At least, I hope it was a compliment.

But Gates has apparently dismissed me from her mind and turned her attention back to Scotty. "You saved my guys. Thank you."

My eyes flit toward Scotty, the leftover adrenaline mixing with a sudden surge of pride. He's come a long way since that awkward first meeting outside the interrogation room, that first case where he bratted around like he was too good for us, like working the cold jobs was some sort of dues he'd have to pay before he could get out on the line. Over time, though, he developed a passion for the old cases that almost rivals mine, and now I simply can't imagine anyone else as my partner.

The captain's immaculately-groomed black brows crease in a frown. "I didn't know Homicide was working my precinct."

"Oh, we're not," I reply. "We came upon the scene and saw Officer Dragin get hit by a cab."

"Officer McKenna gave chase," Scotty continues. "I ran in to back her up, she rushed in, got shot, and I fired to cover. How is she?"

"She's lost some blood, but she'll be okay." Gates offers a hint of a smile, and Scotty looks relieved.

"I hate to ask, but I'll need your weapon, Detective. You know the drill," the captain says, with sudden sympathy. "You'll be escorted to the hospital…complete workup, blood alcohol…"

Oh, crap. The scotch. Scotty didn't have a lot—none of us did-and there was plenty of food. But in an officer-involved shooting, even a small amount can spell trouble.

As Scotty pulls his gun from its holster and hands it to Gates, I feel a sudden urge to defend him."It was a good shoot."

Gates arches an eyebrow in my direction. "The kid was armed? Then find the weapon."

Yeah. If only it were that simple.

The relative quiet of the apartment building explodes into chaos as Scotty and I step out into the chilly night air. Reporters and photographers swarm around us like a school of hungry piranhas, the fangs of their cameras glinting in the darkness. As my eyes adjust, I see Miller and Vera, our senior colleague Will Jeffries, and our lieutenant John Stillman pushing through the fray.

"Hey, thanks for stealin' our thunder, jackass," Miller jokes.

"Yeah, Scotty," Vera agrees. "Miller and I are engaged, but you still gotta make tonight be all about you."

But as Scotty gets closer, Miller's eyes widen, and she drops both Vera's hand and her snarky attitude. "Wait, Scotty, are you okay?"

Scotty frowns. "'Course I'm okay."

Miller's horrified expression leads me to notice, for the first time, the large bloodstain on the front of Scotty's light blue dress shirt. He gazes down at it, fingering the hem of his shirt for a moment, then hastens to reassure Miller.

"The blood…it ain't mine."

Our friends' relief is palpable.

Boss steps forward. "What happened, Scotty?"

"Rush and I…ran into a mess." His voice is still a little shaky. "Uni chasin' a dealer; he shoots her, I shot him. His gun's still missin'. CSU's doin' a grid search."

"Boss, it was a good shoot." I'm beginning to feel like a parrot.

Jeffries looks from me to Scotty. "Lucky for that cop you two were there."

"Is their captain here yet?" Boss asks.

I nod. "Captain Gates."

"Make sure you call her 'Sir,'" Miller pipes up. At the surprised glance she receives from me, not to mention the rest of the squad, she goes on. "Victoria 'Iron' Gates. My old lieutenant from Narc." Closing her eyes, Miller shudders, the motion setting her heavy mass of dreadlocks aquiver.

I'm stunned. What the hell kind of person must this "Iron Gates" be if even Kat Miller is afraid of her? But I can't take too long to ponder that. We have bigger problems.

Vera glances from his fiancée to our lieutenant. "Well, we know her. That's…good, right?"

"Even so, Scotty, don't say anything to anyone until your delegate shows up." Boss extends his right arm. "C'mon, I'll take you to the hospital. The rest of you, go find that gun."

I stand frozen to the spot. Training and logic tell me I need to go back inside, that that's where I can do the most good. And Scotty'll be all right by himself. He's strong. He—he doesn't need me to go along and… hold his hand, for God's sake. Not for a simple blood draw and yet another retelling of this whole sordid story. He can do this. The best way I can help him is find that goddamn-

"Go with him, Lil," My head jerks up to see Jeffries standing next to me. His voice is warm, his gaze penetrating, but kind. "We'll find the gun."

Unexplained heat creeps into my cheeks. Was it that obvious?

I glance toward the lieutenant. "Boss?"

He nods.

"Thanks, Will," I murmur. A hand on my arm, a slight smile, and then Jeffries heads into the apartment building.

I'm on Scotty's right, Boss is on his left, shoving through the crush of reporters and shielding him as best we can from the cacophony of shouted questions everyone knows he can't answer. They press against us all the way to the parked squad car, the swirls of red and blue lights combining with flashbulbs and cell phone cameras to create a macabre disco-ball effect.

I climb into the back seat next to my partner, the slam of the car door instantly muting the hordes. He turns to look at me then, his face drawn, his eyes inky pools of worry. "I ain't sure that boy's gonna make it, Lil."

We've never been all that affectionate, Scotty and me…but all I can think to do now is slide my hand over and slip it into his. It's cold to the touch, his fingers still stained with blood.

"You did everything you could." I give his hand a squeeze. "The doctors can take it from here."

Swallowing hard, Scotty nods, brushes his free thumb over his upper lip, and blows out a breath, his head falling back to the headrest.

He doesn't let go of my hand until we reach the hospital.

These blue, plasticky chairs are awful. The cell reception is awful. The two-year-old copy of Us Weekly is awful.

This waiting room was the last place I expected to be. I didn't plan on Scotty's union delegate arriving just as the nurse was about to draw his blood, and I certainly didn't expect her to kick us both out of the room so she could talk with Scotty about the shooting. Guess the fact that I was there at the scene, that I'm his partner, didn't mean much.

Of course, the piranhas followed us to the hospital, and Boss has been out there running interference ever since our arrival. He won't give them so much as a crumb, but that won't stop them from circling, their jaws snapping for any bit of information, real or imagined, to quell their relentless appetite.

So now I sit. Restless. Helpless. Useless.

Maybe I should've stayed back to look for the gun.

Heavy footsteps behind me cause me to turn in my seat, the plastic squawking its protest. Jeffries.

"You find the gun?"

Will shakes his head as he walks toward me. "Vera found an open window in the bedroom. Picture on the bookshelf makes us think the shooter has an older brother."

"Who you also can't find."

He confirms my conclusion with a nod. "John called me here to help get Scotty out the back. Keep him away from the-"

"Piranhas," I say, at the same time he says, "sharks."

Despite the situation, Will flashes a brief smile, his white teeth a stark contrast against his coffee-colored skin. "How's Scotty?"

I shrug. "Wouldn't know. His delegate ran me off."

"That her?" Jeffries indicates someone passing in the hallway. That's her, all right. Tall, blonde, fiftyish. I can't remember her name. Gigi or Fifi or something else better suited to a poodle than a person.

"Yeah." I gather my things and start toward Scotty's room. "You comin'?"

Will shakes his head. "I'll see if I can get anything outta the doctors about the other cop. The boy. Scotty'll wanna know."

I smile my thanks and head for Scotty's room, passing the nurse on the way in.

"Hey," I say with a slight smile as I slip into the exam room. "We good to go?"

"Yeah." Scotty's perched on the exam table, rubbing the spot on his bicep where the nurse just removed the tourniquet. One of those fake peach "flesh" colored bandages that match no one's actual flesh stands sharp against the bronze skin at the crook of his elbow. His hands are clean, the bloodstained shirt nowhere to be seen, leaving him wearing only a white sleeveless undershirt.

In all the years I've been Scotty's partner, I don't think I've ever seen him without a shirt. This is neither the time nor the place to notice such things, but my suddenly ravenous eyes don't seem to care. They feast on his sculpted shoulders, artfully rounded biceps, the broad expanse of his chest...

"The other cops okay?" Scotty's question jolts me back to reality. My cheeks aflame, I risk a glance in his direction, but he's focused on putting his watch back on. It doesn't seem like he's caught me staring.

That doesn't mean you can keep staring, Rush.

"Dragin's got a broken leg, concussion, some bruised ribs." Why the hell does my voice sound so husky?

"And the other?"

"Name's Shannon McKenna." Jeffries pipes up behind me. "She's fine."

Scotty slides off the exam table, a sudden whiff of spicy aftershave cutting through the smell of leftover rubbing alcohol. "You're here, too? That mean you found the gun?"

"No." Jeffries shakes his head, then glances over his shoulder. "Look, Scotty, it's a circus out there. The press, the brass, Reverend Curtis…"

My stomach gives an uncomfortable twist. The only reason that rabble-rouser would be here is if-

"What, they think this is about race?" Scotty looks thunderstruck. "That I shot the kid because he's black?"

"And of course, IAD is here," Jeffries continues.

Of course.

My partner's jaw clenches. "Well, that didn't take long."

It never does. If the media are piranhas, then IAD are the sharks. One whiff of blood, and they're already circling. Oh, they're going to have a field day with this one.

"Lil and I are gonna take you out the back." Jeffries hands Scotty his coat, and my traitorous eyes insist on a greedy, lingering look as he shrugs into it.

"How's the boy?" Scotty asks.

"Name is Yusef Barre," Jeffries replied. "And he's gonna make it, thanks to you."

My knees turn watery with relief, and Scotty heaves a huge sigh. He looks like a thousand pounds have been lifted from his shoulders.

To keep from staring at those shoulders, again, I force my eyes back toward Will. Something in his expression gives me pause.

"Scotty," Jeffries sounds a little hesitant. "They found one of the bullets in his spine. The doctors don't know what that means yet."

The words slam into me like a slug.

Scotty's head snaps up. He blinks at Jeffries, stunned, his whole frame seeming to sag under the weight of what Will has just told us. "Yeah, they do."