His heavy footsteps carried him grudgingly down the hallway, away from her. He found the nearest lavatory and ducked in, locking the door behind him. He stood hunched over the sink. He gripped the basin tightly, clenched his teeth, and closed his eyes. He thought over everything that had happened in the past few weeks. He had been so blinded by his feelings for Olivia, feelings that she had reciprocated, that he hadn't noticed the differences between the two women, which were now becoming glaringly obvious. The brightness in her eyes that only a woman who had not led such a tormented life could have. How her laugh sounded anything but genuine. The forced smile. Her refusal to go out for drinks with him. The way she barely touched her glass of wine while they were out to dinner. How she constantly wore her hair down, he now realized, to conceal that damned tattoo. Even how she touched him, the restraint with which she'd carried out the act.

Which brought him back to the fact that he had committed the ultimate act of betrayal against the one woman he had sworn to himself to never, ever hurt. He had admitted to himself a while ago that he loved Olivia. He wasn't afraid of his feelings for her, which was not like him at all. He'd had commitment issues ever since he could remember. But with her, it was different. Suddenly he wanted to be there for somebody. He wanted to be there for her, to protect her and keep her safe, and to show her that she wasn't alone. So, he decided he'd wait patiently for her to come into her feelings on her own. Every so often he'd get slight hints that she somewhat had feelings for him. But he wouldn't push her. She was worth waiting for. However, once they got back, and he had her, he went hog-wild. An appropriate term, because he currently felt like a disgusting pig. More animal than man. Except it wasn't her. It was the other one.

So there he stood, drowning in regret for actions he could never take back. Anger seeped out of every cell of his body and consumed him. As if that wasn't enough, his brain added guilt into the madness. He was so infuriated with himself. His emotions washed over him relentlessly and he began shaking with rage until it built up so powerfully that it required an outlet. Peter heard a loud crack as radial and concentric fractures perforated the glass mirror his fist had collided with quite forcefully. He let out a scream that was more of a disgusted, self-loathing growl. The warm sensation of the blood trickling down his hand through his fingers felt good. He looked at his split open knuckles and the tiny splinters of glass and scratches that covered his fist. Good, you deserved that, asshole. He would never forgive himself; he'd punish himself for the rest of his life. He just wanted her to be okay.

Very suddenly, his focus was drawn away from his blood to sounds of chaos coming from the hallway. He exited the lavatory and the hospital was in an uproar. Agents were swarming around; some nurses were running frantically around to check on patients, while others were attacking the agents. What the hell is going on? Peter was beyond confused.

He heard Broyles' strong voice shouting, "I want this hospital put on lock-down immediately!"

His orders were followed by the voice of a nurse on the loudspeaker, ordering a complete lock-down of the facility.

Peter's state of panic at the scene was enough for him to pull himself together. He ran up to Broyles. "What's going on?" he implored.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Broyles was curt.

Peter didn't hold it against him. He was in high alert, gun drawn, eyes peeled. Peter then felt him shove something cold and metallic into his hands. He looked down. He knew it was bad if Broyles was freely handing Peter a gun. Peter scanned the crowd, searching for something, anything, to explain what was going on. That's when he saw him, a familiar and disturbing face amidst all the pandemonium. Peter started towards the man, but he disappeared. Peter broke into a full out run, following the man he'd spotted. He could hear Broyles behind him, demanding to know what Peter saw and where he was going. But Peter was too fast and too focused, so he ignored his questions.

He followed the man down several flights of stairs. They had Olivia on the seventh floor. He watched as the man quickly vanished behind the door to the parking garage. Eight flights of stairs later, Peter crashed into the door leading to the parking garage. It had been locked. Not good enough, Bishop. He was not going to let him get away. Peter peeled his cheek, along with the rest of his tired body, off of the door. He took a few steps back, and with the full force of his entire being, he kicked the door in, shattering the lock. It slammed back in his face, but at least now he could open it. He stumbled through in his rush.

Again, he rapidly surveyed his surroundings, looking for the enemy.

"Oh Peter," he heard a recognizable voice taunt.

He spun around, "Newton."

The man sneered at Peter. Peter exclaimed, "What are you doing here?"

Two of Newton's shape-shifters joined him at his side, as he answered, "We're here to complete our mission." A sinister look beset Newton's face.

Peter realized they were here for him, to take him back again. He was not going down without a fight, and if he could help it, he wouldn't be going down at all.

Peter felt the windshield glass shatter beneath the weight of his body as he slammed into it. Damn these guys were strong. He jumped up, remembered his gun, aimed, and fired. Missed. Damn it. He fired a few more times before finally, finally, taking one of the shape-shifters out. Now he was left with Newton and his other shape-shifter. His fist collided with Newton's face. As Newton fell to the ground, he knocked Peter over with his legs, taking Peter down with him. The gun flew out of Peter's hand and skittered under a vehicle. Newton probably thought he now had the upper hand. But this was not the case. Countless visits to Iraq had provided Peter with an immense amount of knowledge when it came to combat. Not to mention his constant need to watch his own back and the necessity of being able to protect himself from the many shady guys he owed money or other favors to.

Surprisingly enough to Peter, the shape-shifter stayed out of the tussle on the floor of the parking garage. Until he realized that they actually need him alive. Peter managed to throw a handful of decent punches Newton's way before Newton threw Peter off of him and returned fire. His fist collided with Peter's face several times. Broken nose, black eye, dislocated jaw. Peter ticked off his injuries in his mind. Newton planted a swift blow directly into Peter's solar plexus and he was doubled over in pain. After several more blows like that along with furious kicks, Peter was writhing in pain on the ground. He looked to his left and saw the gun Broyles had handed to him, barely in reach. He grabbed it and fired into Newton's leg. It wasn't fatal, but it was enough to allow Peter to drag him down to his level. The next several seconds were a little blurry for Peter, probably due to the blood seeping out of the laceration stretching from his forehead extending past his hairline. Newton had knocked him in the head hard with the butt of the gun. Just because he couldn't kill Peter didn't mean he wasn't going to rough him up. He slammed Peter's head down into the cement floor, which disoriented Peter for a moment. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw the shape-shifter approach the pair entangled in a messy skirmish.

"What do you want me to do about the other one, sir?" The shape-shifter questioned with no emotion.

Newton smiled menacingly, and took great pleasure in responding, "Kill her."

Adrenaline went skyrocketing in tsunamis through Peter's body. Olivia. She was in danger once again, and this time it was because of him. "No!" he shouted distraught.

He grunted as he shoved Newton off of him and leapt to his feet. Luckily enough for Peter, Broyles and his men chose this exact moment to burst through the door to the parking garage. They took out the shape-shifter, who was of little consequence to them, but hesitated when they saw Newton. Their guns were raised and pointed at the terrorist. He merely snickered at them.

"You're weak, Peter," he said, his tone derisive.

He raised his gun and aimed for Broyles. What Newton lacked in combative skills, which really wasn't much, he made up for over double with skills in the art of war. He was a strategist. Every move was carefully calculated at a rapid pace, which seemed a conundrum, but was really a rather useful and necessary skill to possess. Peter heard the gun go off, and he ran. He felt the bullet sting into him somewhere on the left side of his chest. The world blurred as his body fell to the floor, and he could almost swear that he heard Broyles calling out his name, and shouting orders to his men to get help as everything faded to black.

Wow. I feel better now. Writing this was rather cathartic. I know. I'm evil. But hey, Peter's soooo hot when he's all broken and bloody.

I'm not finished with this yet. I know where this is going. If you hang in there with me, you'll get what you want ;)

But I'm going to warn you, I'm back at work now after my mini-vacation, and my job seriously craps me out xP

I was planning on waiting to post this until after I had written chapter 5, but certain people were begging for this, so I had to give in ;)