Authors Note: DianeM is awesome and has amazing beta skills. Any mistakes are my own. Thanks to Maple Street for being such a nice place for J/S fans to hang out. The last bit of this is new, I haven't posted it anywhere before so next chapter is all new stuff. I finished at uni yesterday and now have a whole month off so I'll be working on the Better Angels and Christmas fic I promised. Sorry it's a day late but I was very busy yesterday with tests and then packing and driving home. Enjoy!
NYC Hospital
Half an hour later
'This can't be happening. Not now. Not to my team.' Jack thought as he ran through the entrance into the bustling ER. Biting back a surge of bile, adrenaline pulsing through his veins, Jack stood at the entrance, scanning all around for the sight of either of his two male colleagues. He couldn't see them. Instead, he saw harassed doctors in white coats over various colors of scrubs going from bed to bed, crash cart to crash cart, gurney to gurney, making diagnoses and issuing orders. Nurses and orderlies dashed about at the doctors' bidding, creating a blur of activity. The activity wasn't what brought a new wave of terror over him; it was the sights and smells of the place. Bloodied bodies, screaming children, crying relatives, and pain, so much pain. It brought back memories of every failure, every time they'd failed to find the missing person alive or relatively unhurt, every time they'd lost one.
Swallowing hard, Jack walked with purpose over to the reception desk. As he pushed through, annoyed and angry, comments followed him uttered by the people waiting in line. In his desperation, he didn't notice their annoyance. The receptionist looked at Jack as he, with an urgent tone, tried to bring some semblance of order to the chaos swirling in his mind.
"I need any and all information you have on the two federal agents brought in an hour ago, Special Agents Martin Fitzgerald and Danny Taylor." The receptionist nodded.
"I'm afraid that I can't give out any information to non-family members or until I've seen some identification," the woman stated in a cool, professional detached voice. Jack could have throttled her.
"There's your damned identification." Jack practically ripped his ID out of his back pocket and threw it at the receptionist. "You don't seem to understand. You've got two of MY people, MY PEOPLE, lying somewhere in this hospital."
"Jack!"
Hearing the sound of his name, he spun round in shock and saw somebody who, for all he knew, was close to death standing amidst the bustle of the ER. Ignoring the remonstrations of the upset receptionist, he hurried over to where his colleague and friend stood.
"Danny, I thought . . . you okay? You don't look so good, what are you doing? Shouldn't you be in bed?" he anxiously inquired.
Danny weakly held up his one good arm to ward off the flow of questions, swaying slightly with the movement. He didn't look well at all. He was as white as Jack's shirt, the florescent lighting making his skin almost appear waxy. His left shirtsleeve was slit up the arm and saturated in drying crimson blood. A thick bandage was wrapped around his upper arm, the only apparent injury he had suffered.
"They wouldn't tell me anything about Martin, so I thought I'd go find something out," At that Danny swayed violently. Worried, Jack grabbed hold of him and guided him over to the nearby seating row of white plastic chairs where, luckily, one had just become available.
"Danny," Jack sighed unwilling to tell Danny off properly given the circumstances, particularly because if he was in Danny's shoes, he would more than likely do the same thing.
"Do you know anything?" Danny fixed his dark eyes onto Jack as he transformed in that instant to a scared, powerless little boy. Jack shook his head.
"I'll find out in a minute. Now do you want to tell me what happened?" Danny closed his eyes, seeing again the image of a pale and bloodied Martin.
"There was so much blood, Jack." Danny's voice cracked. In the last two hours, he'd been shot, his friend and colleague had been shot, and now he was being asked to relive the experience - it was just too much. Jack cursed himself for being so insensitive, and for putting his need to know and to understand before his friend. Danny was too shocked to be able to tell him anything and he had all the time in the world to learn what had occurred later. Now was the time for comfort and nothing else.
Jack carefully placed his left hand firmly onto Danny's right shoulder, attempting to comfort the younger man. The person sitting on Danny's right looked between the two agents before standing up and vacating his seat in an understanding gesture. He could always stand, or maybe he'd be lucky enough to find another one; whatever the case, that injured man needed the other man's comfort, more than what could be provided by the positions they were currently in. Jack acknowledged the small sacrifice with a small smile and took the seat before putting his arm around Danny's shoulders in an awkward kind of embrace.
"It'll be all right, Danny, I promise," Jack murmured. Danny turned his head to stare at him, his eyes showing skepticism.
"How can it ever be all right, Jack?" he asked. Jack didn't answer because he wondered the same thing.
NYC Hospital
1 Hour later
"Excuse me, excuse me," Samantha pushed her way through the line to the reception desk, brandishing her badge. When she reached the front, she leaned on the desk and held the badge in front of the receptionist's face. "FBI, I need any information you have on Special Agents Danny Taylor and Martin Fitzgerald."
The receptionist looked up and pasted on a fake smile. "Naturally," she started mechanically tapping away on the keyboard. "Agent Taylor is in room 401 and Agent Fitzgerald is in surgery," she announced woodenly, displaying as much emotion as a cardboard cut-out would have.
"Thank you," Samantha muttered, too pre-occupied to notice the receptionist's lack of feeling. Had she noticed, she probably would have been enraged and saddened that the devastation that was currently rocking their lives didn't affect anybody else in quite the same way. Without a thought, however, she turned and hurried down the corridor, the doors banging shut behind her.
She felt sick. When Jack had got the call, all he'd managed to tell her was that Danny and Martin had been involved in a shooting. He'd ordered her to stay at Fennings' house and manage the scene until another FBI agent could get there to relieve her. That half hour had been the purest form of hell she could ever remember. She knew practically nothing and she could do nothing to help. Never in her life had she felt so powerless.
'What had they done to deserve this?' The thought flashed through her mind. Had anybody thought the same when she'd been shot? Had they felt the same feeling of helplessness? Since the bookstore incident, she'd hated hospitals, spending as little time in them as possible. She hated everything about these institutions; she hated the dirty colored linoleum floor; she hated the dull cream colors of the walls; she hated the florescent lighting that flicked and made everybody look pale and sickly; finally, she hated the antiseptic smell which pervaded everywhere and even after you'd left seemed to cling to you, and your clothes, as an ever present reminder of where you'd been.
Room 401 was just up ahead. Without slowing down, Sam rounded the corner. Danny was lying in the bed, despondently staring at the ceiling. Vivian was sitting next to him, her hand placed over his, the only means of comfort she could offer. When Sam cautiously walked in, the older woman looked up. Her expression made Sam feel a little less alone as it mirrored how she felt inside. Sam's eyes flicked to the other side of the bed, to the empty waiting chair.
"Where's Jack?" Sam asked, walking round the bed and sinking gratefully into the chair.
"He was here, but he went to the scene," Vivian shrugged showing her disbelief at Jack's action. As if he's just noticed her presence, Danny turned his head slightly to look at the latest arrival.
"How's Martin?" he asked, his voice cracked and devoid of emotion.
"Still in surgery," Sam simply replied, Danny turned back to stare at the ceiling. "He'll be okay, Danny." She got no response.
Mr. Pizza
1 hour later
"What the hell happened?" Jack yelled the instant he caught sight of Alex. Alex turned towards him and Jack instantly wished he could go back and modify his tone of voice. He sounded pissed; hell he was pissed, but he shouldn't take it out on her. She looked weary, her shoulders slumped, her posture defeated.
"We were just walking towards the pizzeria when two men inside opened fire. Both Danny and I returned fire -- the paramedics pronounced them both dead half an hour ago. Forensics are all over it at the moment. The shooters have been identified as a Frank Rosseti and Nico Giovanni, both junior members of the mob."
"What about Tony Mercury? That also doesn't explain why they suddenly opened fire on MY agents," Jack said his voice softening and his anger ebbing away. It was just all so senseless. He could see where Martin had fallen, the sickeningly large puddle of blood left behind. They were carrying out a body bag now, one of the mobsters. It just didn't make sense, why had they thrown their lives away?
"Tony was the third shooter; he came out of nowhere and shot at Danny when his back was turned. He was running down the street when he fired, which threw his aim off. I fired back but didn't chase him. I stayed to administer first aid." Alex was looking more troubled as her report progressed; now firmly addressing it to Jack's shoes. Jack placed a finger under Alex's chin to make her look at him.
"You did the right thing," he reassured. Yes, it would have been nice to have caught the guy, if only to know why this had all happened, but chasing an armed suspect on your own was against procedure anyway. He didn't normally agree with procedure, but in this case it was definitely advisable. He would never want her to get hurt.
"Maybe,"
