Still not mine…

Psych

I jumped over the bench, pulling Spencer with me. We landed on the ground, the cement audibly knocking the air of the 'psychic.' I pulled my gun from its holster, clicking off the safety. I peeked over the bench's back, ducking as a bullet came close to hitting me. Thank God for the over abundance of advertisements in this city. The bench was depicting an ad for a nearby real-estate agency and thus helped block me and Spencer from being shot. Thank God for small favors and not having to lug his heavy ass around in light of him getting shot.

"What's going on?" Spencer asked pushing himself to his knees and wiping his hands on his jeans. There would be a large welt where his coffee splattered across his hand, but he was going to be okay-his other problem notwithstanding.

"I'm about ninety-six percent sure those two guys are trying to kill us," I barked back, firing two rounds in the general direction of the shooters.

"Why?" Spencer questioned looking at me as I settled my back against the bench again.

"Shawn, I will tell you, I promise, but right now I'm going to need you to trust me and not ask any questions. Can you do that?" I was half expecting him to say something like 'It's hard to trust someone whose hair isn't as awesome as mine' or-at the very least-"I don't remember anything or anyone and you expect me to trust you?"

Instead he said, "Whatever you say, Carlton. Just don't get me killed." He fell silent, another bullet flying over our heads. It hit the building directly in front of us, loose brick showering down on us.

I made to get up on my knees, fire off in their direction again, when Spencer grabbed my arm and whispered, "They're behind that car." He pointed at a gray Sedan parked, against a curb, several yards from us. I had been firing a few feet from it, toward a large mailbox, and wanted to kick myself for not seeing it sooner. Especially when I caught the top of someone's head, blond hair sticking out.

"How did you…?" I let my voice trail off, deciding to figure it out later, and fired four shots toward the car. Three bounced off the hood, leaving instant dents in the metal, the forth came close to hitting the blond. And it was our momentary distraction.

"Come on," I said pushing myself to my feet. I grabbed Spencer's arm, hauling him up, also. I pushed him in front of me, telling him to run. He obliged, his shoes slapping against the pavement. It was weird, my phrase of the day apparently, that he was listening to me. If I learned anything about the 'psychic', in half a decade, it was that Shawn Spencer doesn't listen to anyone, except occasionally Guster. And I use 'occasionally' loosely. So loose, in fact, that if a bullet travelling 1120 miles a second were to whiz past it, it could very well blow away. That's how loose I used the word 'occasionally.'

I trekked quickly behind him, repeatedly glancing behind me to make sure those guys were still busy. An alleyway was up ahead, one that I hoped ended in an opening and not a brick wall. Hell, I'd even take a fence. Climbing had to be better than getting shot, right?

"Take the next right," I barked at Spencer and he turned the corner. A bullet tore past me, so much for a distraction, and I sped up. I flew around the corner and slammed smack dab into Spencer's back. He fell forward, throwing his hands out before his face could collide with the cement.

"What the hell," I barked pulling him to his feet and dragging him through the alley which, thankfully, opened up to another sidewalk.

"I…I was w…waiting for you," he replied, out of breath, holding his side. Apparently, he hadn't inherited his father's track star like endurance. I am still curious as to how that old man could outrun me, despite spending most of his time on a boat, and being nearly two decades older than me.

"Next time don't," I told him hustling him toward the exit. We burst out onto a new sidewalk, the gunmen most definitely behind us. I spotted the glowing hospital sign in the distance, a plan quickly formulating.

"Come on," I said pulling him toward the sign.

"No," he protested yanking out of my grasp. "I can't go back."

"Spen…Shawn, I need my car," I said trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice, "and in order to get that I need to head back to the hospital. Plus, if we stand here any longer we most definitely will be killed."

"Alright, let's go," he said after a moment's hesitation. I stole one last glance over my shoulder, seeing no one racing toward us, and began jogging toward the hospital, Spencer trailing me. We were closing in on the hospital-sixteen or seventeen feet give or take-when a black van squealed to a stop right against the curb.

"Shit," I whispered skidding to a halt. I made to turn around but froze when two guys came sprinting out of the alleyway we had left moments before.

"Please say you have a plan," Spencer said glancing back and forth at both the van and the men.

"I'm working on it," I said my original plan already forgotten.