A/N: Thanks so much again for all the reviews and for the alerts and favorites! You guys made my week... seriously. I'm going to make this author's note short, since I'm at work, but I do want to say that parts of this chapter were my absolute favorite to write. I hope you guys enjoy this, and as always, please leave a review!

Million thanks as always to Lily for her help with this chapter... I was stuck on it for a long time, and I'd probably still be stuck without your help. Thanks also to Moska, who totally made my week with that review! You're the best!


Chapter 7

Sheldon Hawkes licked his lips in anticipation as he spread a hearty helping of mustard over his turkey sandwich. He hadn't had anything to eat all day, so when he'd finally returned from Queens he'd secured the evidence and left in search of something to eat. He was absolutely famished and in desperate need of a break from the lab. It had been a particularly difficult case to process. And the entire time, he'd been mulling over the Lombard murder. As he'd secured the evidence from Queens, Adam caught him up on all that was going on with the case – the most recent murder, Stella's connection to it, Mac's visit to Sing-Sing. Something about this case didn't sit right with Hawkes, particularly Stella's connection to it. She was one of his closest friends, and the thought of her being injured again knotted his stomach. He still remembered the haunted look in her eyes after Frankie.

As he added some lettuce to his sandwich, he checked his phone for the time. Danny had called on the way to the deli down the street from the lab, asking if he could join him for a bite. Poor guy, Hawkes thought. Danny was starting to go a little stir-crazy. He couldn't really blame him. Cracked ribs were extremely painful, as Hawkes had found out not too long ago after he'd been trapped on a diving expedition in the Hudson. He shuddered, recalling that sickening crunch of bone when the mast fell on him. It felt like a moose had been sitting on his chest every time he tried to breathe. And with a new baby in the house, lying flat on his back with his arm in a sling wasn't easy for Danny Messer.

Hawkes slid into one of the stools at the counter, setting the police radio he'd grabbed on the counter. This particular little deli was one of his favorite places to eat in Manhattan. It wasn't like many of the other delis – rundown, infested with bugs, not inspected since the Reagan administration. Instead, it was quaint and clean, with pictures of New York City cops and firefighters decorating the off-white walls. An American flag hung over the huge plate-glass bay window looking out onto the sidewalk. Along one wall were several cushioned booths, and the black-and-white Formica tables matched the countertop.

He pulled the glass of water sitting an arm's length away closer to him and took a quick sip. He didn't have much time to eat, because the longer the evidence sat there the more likely it was that anything he'd find would be degraded. Hopefully Danny would show up soon.

Suddenly the bell over the door tinkled merrily, as if it had read his mind. Danny limped slowly into the deli, allowing the glass door to slam shut behind him. Hawkes gave his friend a sympathetic look. Poor guy looked like he was in so much pain.

"How you doin'?" Danny said in feigned cheerfulness. Hawkes studied his colleague for a long moment. Danny had dressed comfortably for his injury, wearing sweatpants and an old New York Mets t-shirt, his right arm in a sling against his side to protect his ribs. But the skilled physician didn't miss the pained wince when Danny gingerly slid onto the stool next to him.

"Man, you look like hell," Hawkes observed for the second time in just as many days.

Danny snorted and glanced at his friend. "Gee, thanks." He waved down the young brunette waitress and ordered a bowl of soup and some water.

"How do they feel?"

"They hurt," Danny said simply, nodding at the waitress as she slid him his bowl of soup. "Lindsay keeps telling me I need to take it easy."

"Well, from my vast medical experience, I'd say she's right." Danny shot him a look, and Hawkes raised an eyebrow. "Dude, broken ribs are nothing to joke about."

Danny harrumphed and picked up the spoon next to him. "No jokin' here." Out of the corner of his eye, he barely caught a glimpse of a man with a big black bag sprinting past the deli. He was there and gone in a flash, and Danny narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

Hawkes noticed and followed Danny's gaze. "What?"

"Thought I saw a guy with a bag run by." Danny shook his head and pushed his glasses farther up his nose. "Probably nothing."

"Everyone's in a hurry these days," Hawkes replied with a grin, just before he took a big bite of his sandwich.

*****

Glass clung to Mac's hair and clothing, scratching at his skin.

Slowly he raised his head off the floor, cautiously surveying the damage to the room with a wary eye on the shattered window at the other side of the room. The glass wall behind him that had enclosed the conference room had disappeared, carpeting the floor in shattered glass. Down the hall, he could hear the screams and shouts of his colleagues, yelling at one another, trying to figure out what happened.

And then he saw the gaping hole in the wall across the corridor, just beyond the shattered window. He knew instantly what it was.

Sniper.

Mac's Marine training kicked into high gear, his mind quickly formulating where the shot probably came from. The trajectory of the round would have probably had it coming from somewhere across the street. His eyes flickered over to where the window had once been. There were at least four tall buildings within his line of sight. And the sniper could've been in any one of them.

Suddenly someone groaned and shifted beneath him, and he looked down to see Stella on the floor under him, eyes closed, his body resting on top of hers. He remembered pulling her to the floor when the window shattered, shielding her from the sudden spray of glass. They'd fallen to the floor with an oof with Mac's arms wrapped tightly around her, feeling her breath skating across his neck as he held her. Vaguely Mac recalled the sickening crack of her head smacking into the floor on their way down, and he grimaced.

Out of his peripheral vision, he spotted a uniformed guard running toward them, sidearm drawn. "Hey!" Mac shouted, sitting up so he could see. The guard skidded to a halt. "Across the street! Go!" The guard hurried off, and Mac returned his attention to Stella. There was no way he was leaving her there until he knew she was all right.

"Stella," he whispered. He gently patted her cheek with the palm of his hand, brushing his thumb over her smooth skin. A flashback suddenly hit him – bending over her, patting her cheek, feeling for a pulse, calling her name almost frantically. Except that time was in her apartment, not in the lab.

Mac shook that picture out of his head. "Stella," he called just a little louder.

Her green eyes suddenly fluttered open, and she drew a deep breath. Mac breathed a sigh of relief and let her slowly sit up, making sure she couldn't be seen from their position behind the table. He wrapped an arm around her waist, supporting her gently.

"Mac?" she murmured, glancing around the room.

"I'm here," he replied, keeping one hand on her face. "You hit your head."

Stella grimaced and touched the back of her head. "That explains the 'Stomp' routine in my skull." Her mouth dropped open when she noticed the hole in the plaster across from them. "Did…?"

"Yeah," he said quickly. "You're not hit, are you?"

"I- I don't think so," she answered, quickly taking stock of everything that was supposed to be there.

Mac's cell phone screamed at him, and he yanked it off his belt. "Taylor." He listened for a moment and softly swore under his breath. "Okay, thanks." He hung up the phone and looked at his partner. "Guy's gone. No sign of him." All of the sudden he noticed a streak of crimson running down Stella's arm. "Stel, you're bleeding."

Her face blanched as she looked down at the deep cut on her upper arm, and her green eyes clouded in pain. "Damn it," she muttered.

Mac spotted Adam sprinting past the door, and he shouted the tech's name. Adam slid to a stop outside the door, his eyes widening at the scattered glass all over the floor and the strip of scarlet making its way down Stella's arm. His face paled, and he seemed to be fixated on the cut marring Stella's skin.

"Adam," Mac said gently. Adam's head jerked up. His eyes connected with Mac's. "Adam, we need to get an ambulance here. Now."

The lab tech stared at Mac for a moment, not saying a word.

"Adam!" Mac's voice was a little harsher this time. "Call an ambulance! Now!"

Finally Adam comprehended, and he nodded, pulling out his cell phone.

Mac quickly unbuttoned his dress shirt, glancing at Stella to make sure she was still with him. Her eyes were slightly glazed, but she looked back at him with that same determined spark in her eye. "Can you walk?" he asked, ripping a piece of his shirt off and tying it tightly around her wound to staunch the flow of blood.

"Yeah," she replied, her voice trembling slightly. It sent a pang through Mac's heart. He'd only heard her voice shake like that a few times in the entire decade he'd known her.

His blue eyes connected with her green orbs, and he gave her a reassuring smile. Wrapping one arm around her slender waist and keeping the other hand pressed to her wound, he helped her to her feet. "Adam, walk behind me."

Adam complied immediately, moving to stand between Stella and the shattered window while flipping his phone shut. "Ambulance is on its way."

Mac nodded his understanding while pulling Stella closer into his side. Glass crunched loudly under their feet as they silently made their way to the elevator, reminiscent of the way the snow had crackled beneath Mac's steps just days before, at the beginning of what was quickly becoming a nightmare. Every second of the attack played back in his mind: pulling Stella to the ground, the feel of her breath on his skin and her body under his, those nightmare moments she was unconscious seeming like days. His jaw clenched. Whoever did this would pay a dear price.

*****

Danny leaned back in his stool with a groan, patting his stomach with his free hand. "Damn, that was good," he murmured, sighing contentedly. That chicken noodle soup, with the slices of celery and big chunks of carrots and chicken, had really hit the spot for him.

Hawkes chuckled and wiped some excess mustard off the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "C'mon, man, Lindsay's cooking can't be that bad."

"Nah, not at all. But all we got in the fridge is stuff from when she was goin' through all that crazy craving stage. I like pickles and everything, but a man can only take so much."

They shared a laugh, invariably ending in Danny groaning in pain and grabbing at his injured ribs. Hawkes grimaced sympathetically and put a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder. "You okay, Danno?"

Danny gritted his teeth together and nodded slowly. "Yeah. Just hurts like hell. Doc gave me some pills; guess I need to take some more when I get back." He looked up at his friend, curiosity in his blue eyes. "This how it felt when you cracked your ribs?"

"Pretty much. Felt like someone stabbed me every time I took a breath."

"That would be a good description." Danny relaxed just a little, keeping his hand at his side. "What helped?"

Hawkes thought for a minute, pressing his lips into a thin line. "Rest. Home-cooking. And those pain-killers are miracle-workers."

Danny grinned. "I fell in love with those all over again the first night."

As they shared a laugh, the radio on the counter beeped twice loudly. They glanced at each other, eyebrows raised in mirroring expressions.

"All units," the voice of the dispatcher intoned. "Shots fired. 1585 Broadway. Officers involved."

Both their jaws dropped, and they looked at each other wide-eyed. "Oh my God," Danny murmured. "That's the lab."

Hawkes snatched the radio from the counter and yanked his coat off the back of his chair with a muttered curse. "Let's go," he said over his shoulder as he dashed toward the door.

Danny didn't need to be told twice.

*****

Blue and red lights danced off the steel and glass skyscrapers and the black asphalt of Broadway. Half a dozen marked police squad cars blocked off both ends of the street, erecting police barriers to keep out prying eyes. Two more unmarked cars idled nearby, providing extra security if needed. More than two dozen cops milled about the area. Some stood by the barriers, guarding the scene carefully. Others simply meandered about, looking like they were busy but not really doing much of anything.

Stella sat quietly in the back of the ambulance parked right next to the building. She mostly ignored the paramedic working on the deep laceration on her arm, though every once in a while it stung when he wrapped the bandage tighter. Her head ached from the drop-off in her adrenaline production and the severe whack to the back of her head she'd taken, feeling a little like Gene Kelly was tap-dancing inside her skull.

Her thoughts whirled. She could still hear the whine of the bullet passing right by her ear, buzzing angrily like a hundred furious hornets. She could still feel Mac's hand, dragging her down to the floor.

If he hadn't pulled her down…

She shuddered at that realization. She'd been literally centimeters from certain death. And she'd been so stubborn, so adamant about refusing Mac's offer of protection. But she hadn't thought that someone would actually come after her.

The sound of footsteps on the pavement reached her ears, and she looked up to see Mac slowly walking toward her. He was still clad in just his undershirt and trousers, but he carried his ruined dress shirt in his hands.

Finally he stopped just a couple of feet in front of her, and a smile that was almost shy crossed his face. "Hey," he murmured.

Stella gave him a small smile before replying, "Hey."

He looked at the paramedic, who was just finishing wrapping Stella's arm. "How does it look?"

The paramedic stripped off his gloves and tossed the excess bandage toward the back of the truck. "Not too bad. It's pretty deep, so you'll probably need stitches. And the hospital's gonna want to check out that lump on the back of your head. You might have a concussion."

She sighed and glanced at Mac. "I guess it's better than the alternative."

Mac's lips pressed together in a thin, thoughtful line. Finally he averted his gaze from Stella to the young paramedic, who was watching the exchange with great interest. "Can you give us a couple of minutes?"

The corner of the young man's mouth quirked up into a knowing smirk, and he jumped down from the back of the ambulance. "Sure. I could use some caffeine anyway."

Mac watched as the paramedic wandered off toward a coffee shop just outside the yellow police tape. Then he returned his gaze to Stella. They studied each other for a long, silent moment. There was something behind those blue eyes of his. Worry? Anger, maybe? Perhaps just a hint of relief? She wasn't completely sure.

At last his sigh broke the silence, and he stepped just a little closer to her. "How do you feel?"

Stella sighed and glanced down at her hands, playing with her scarred fingertips. "Alive," she whispered, before looking him in the eyes again. "Thanks to you."

He gave her a little half-smile. "Don't mention it."

"You saved my life, Mac."

"I seem to remember someone telling me once that it's what partners do." This time both corners of his mouth turned up into an actual smile, and Stella couldn't resist returning it.

"Thanks, Mac."

"You're welcome." He cocked his head to one side and pointed toward her with his chin. "Mind if I come up?"

Stella shook her head and slowly scooted over to make room for him beside her. Mac sat down on the tailgate next to her and pushed himself back so that his legs dangled over the side, brushing against hers every once in a while. For a moment, they surveyed their surroundings wordlessly. Sid and Adam stood off to the side, conversing quietly, and the other officers milling about the scene completely ignored Stella and Mac. For just a moment, they were alone.

"I'm sorry," Stella said in a quiet voice.

Mac looked at her sharply. "For what?"

"Well, for your shirt, for one."

He chuckled and held up the ragged pieces of his shirt. "I can always get a new one." His smile faded though, and she followed his gaze to her bloodstained shirt.

"I can always get a new one, too, Mac," she said softly.

Mac's jaw tightened, but he didn't say anything.

Stella sighed and caught his gaze again. "And I'm sorry for being stubborn and pig-headed earlier. I know you were just trying to help."

Mac paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. "It's only because I care about you, Stella," he replied softly. "I don't know what I'd do without you." His eyes steeled, becoming the color of flint in the low night light. "If it had been any closer…"

A loud screech from a set of tires shattered the moment, and they looked up just in time to see Flack's unmarked car come to a squealing halt. Immediately three doors were flung open, and Hawkes, Danny, and Flack leapt out of the car. Hastily they ducked under the crime scene tape – though Danny moved much more slowly than either of his two friends, still holding his right arm close to his side.

"What the hell happened?" Flack shouted, flinging his arms out as they strode toward the ambulance.

Hawkes looked at Stella worriedly. "Stel, you okay?"

"I'm fine," she replied quickly. "What're you doing here?"

"We heard about it on the police scanner," Danny answered, shifting the arm in the sling slightly.

"And you still haven't answered my question," Flack interrupted. "What the hell happened?"

None of them missed Mac's jaw tightening. "Sniper," he practically bit out the word.

Three sets of eyes widened. "Stel, you didn't –" Danny started, but Stella cut him off with a shake of her head.

"Flying glass." She gave Mac a meaningful look. "I'm okay."

"Did you see anything?" Hawkes asked.

Stella and Mac both shook their heads. "Happened too fast," Stella said. "I didn't know what had happened until I woke up."

"Woke up?" Flack's voice was immediately tinged with concern. "Stel…"

"I'm fine, Don," she interrupted him hastily. "I was just out for a couple of minutes. Don't worry about me."

Danny pushed his glasses up his nose and inquired, "Where'd it come from?"

"One of those four buildings." Mac gestured toward the set of buildings across the street from where they were. "Probably an empty office. Hawkes, grab Adam. I want to know where this guy was and how he got there."

"On it, Boss," Hawkes said with a nod before he spun on his heel and disappeared to find Adam.

"Danny," Mac turned toward the younger man, "go with Stella to the hospital. I don't want her left alone, you hear me?" Danny affirmed with a nod. "Flack, you're with me. Let's go."

"Wait, where're you going, Mac?" Stella protested as he jumped down from the back of the ambulance.

He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes burning with a fury she hadn't seen from him in a long time. It took her aback, and she almost pulled away from him instinctively. "To get answers," he finally replied. "Keys, Flack."

Flack handed them over without a word, exchanging glances with Stella. As Mac strode off toward Flack's car, with the detective on his heels, Stella stared after them. She'd never seen him that angry before, and she could only hope he wouldn't do something stupid.

*****

In all their years of friendship, Don Flack had never seen Mac so livid.

The CSI drove silently with his jaw clenched and his hands gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. Flack tried to get him to talk, about the case, about Reed Garrett, about anything. But Mac ignored him. The only time he even acknowledged Flack was in the car was when the detective asked where they were going. And then he'd responded with a short but effective glare. Flack realized then that it was best to back off.

So he sat back in the passenger seat and watched the city fly by. He had a few guesses as to why Mac was so angry, and most of them had to do with Stella sitting in the back of an ambulance clad in a blood-soaked shirt. The picture bothered him too. Stella was one of Flack's dearest friends. But it was always a little different with Stella and Mac, a little more intimate, a little closer.

Actually, Flack figured it was about time the two of them started realizing what they had. They were both so stubborn, so closed off that the attraction simmering between them never quite boiled over. He just wished they'd figured it out sooner, rather than messing around with other people.

Finally Flack saw some lights in the distance – lights of a small village and then some unusually bright floodlights a few miles to the west. His jaw dropped as he recognized the place.

Sing-Sing.

"Mac, why the hell are we at Sing-Sing?" he asked.

Mac didn't answer. He just stared straight ahead with that stony gaze, and Flack let out a deep sigh. Damn stubborn man. He had an idea why they were at Sing-Sing, but he didn't actually believe Mac would do that. Well, he almost didn't believe it.

Until they stood inside that familiar four-by-four interrogation room with the plexiglass window and the metal furniture.

Flack fidgeted worriedly as he stood next to the door. Mac still hadn't said a word to him. In fact, the only time he'd heard him speak was when he flashed his badge at the guard and said they were there on official NYPD business. And then he'd spoken with short, clipped words. Mac Taylor was pissed off, and Flack wasn't sure that whatever was about to go down was going to be a pleasant encounter.

"Listen, Mac…" Flack's voice trailed off, but at Mac's glare, he quickly regained his nerve. "Look, I know you're pissed about Stel. I am too."

"I just wanna talk to him, Flack," Mac said, his voice calm but low. "I want answers."

Flack opened his mouth to respond, but that familiar buzzing sound filled the room. The door at the other end of the cubicle swung open. Two different guards escorted the shackled Krasinski into the room. A wide smile spread over the prisoner's face upon seeing the two detectives. "You guys must be racking up the miles on those squad cars." He flopped into one of the metal chairs. "Two visits in one day. What'd I do to warrant such attention from New York's finest?"

"You're the scum of the earth," Mac growled. Flack didn't like that tone.

Neither did Krasinski, apparently. "Look, if you ain't got anything else to say, I'm done here."

"We're done when I say we're done." Mac's voice was dangerously low, and the tension in the room was palpable. "Stella Bonasera."

Krasinski raised an eyebrow. "Now that name sounds a little familiar. Who knows? I did many a woman in my time."

Mac exploded.

He leaped across the room and grabbed Krasinski by the collar of his orange jumpsuit. The metal chair clattered to the floor. All Flack could do was watch helplessly as Mac slammed the convict against the wall, blue eyes blazing. "You son of a bitch," he growled, slamming Krasinski against the wall again, ignoring the pained groan he made.

The guards moved off the wall, hands on their nightsticks, but Flack shouted, "Hey, hey, hold up a sec!"

"This is police brutality," Krasinski choked out, his voice fearful.

"Stella Bonasera is my partner," Mac hissed dangerously. "Someone tried to kill her tonight."

"Mac," Flack warned, moving a little closer to his friend. He definitely didn't like where this was going.

The CSI ignored Flack, moving his face closer to Krasinski's until their noses were practically touching. "And when I find out – and I will find out – who did this, they're gonna pay a very, very big price. Because there's no one else I care more about in this world. "

Mac removed one hand from the man's jumpsuit and grabbed his throat into a chokehold, his legs dangling about two inches off the floor. "I'm going to search every inch of your cell. If I find one shred of evidence that connects you to this crime, I'll make sure you never see the light of day again."

Krasinski opened his mouth and tried to draw a deep breath, but Mac's hand increased pressure on his trachea. "And I swear to you," Mac seethed, so low Flack had to strain to hear it, "if anything else happens to her, if one hair on her head is harmed…" He tightened his grip on Krasinski's neck, and the prisoner gasped for air. "I'll kill you. I swear, I'll kill you."

He released Krasinski, and the man fell to the floor, coughing, trying to get oxygen back into his lungs. Mac turned toward Flack, and the younger man stared at him, jaw slackened.

From the look in Mac's eyes, Don Flack knew he wasn't kidding.