The Broken Road

Chapter Thirty-Six

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters in this fic!

The threat lingered, sharp and deadly, hidden just beyond the softly uttered words. Trixie drew in a deep breath, desperate to bring more attention her way, and hopefully leave Jim out of the limelight. She didn't know what she was going to say. Something soft and pleading; something defiant and scathing. The words formed on her lips. About to utter them, a soft, disturbing and easily distinguishable pop disturbed the sudden tense silence engulfing the terrace.

"What the…" Distracted, unable to comprehend what had just happened, Mr. Young glanced down. His eyes bulged out in almost comedic disbelief. A steady stream of blood started to seep through the tiny hole in his chest. It took a millisecond for the truth to sink in. He'd been shot. Somehow, he'd been shot. Then he staggered and desperately reached out for something to hold onto before he lost the ability to stand. The back of a chair offered a modicum of momentary relief. He held onto it with a death grip. It couldn't handle his weight; couldn't keep him up. It wasn't strong enough, just like his body wasn't strong enough to support him any longer. With a loud gasp, his grip slipped. The chair toppled off to the side as he followed it. They both landed in an untidy heap on the pretty tiled floor.

With her mouth gaping open, Trixie stared in shock as rich red blood began decorating the tiles. A quick shake of her head brought her back to her senses. Quickly, she glanced in the direction the gunshot had come from and aimed an unpleasant sneer in the culprit's direction. Keeping a sharp eye out on him, she grabbed a set of plush towels from a nearby stand and rushed forward, immediately offering help to the pale, shaking, and scared man. All the while she was aware of the overwhelming irony of the situation. Mr. Young wouldn't have hesitated to inflict serious pain on either her or Jim. And he wouldn't have lifted a finger to assist them, before, during or afterwards. Now here she was, helping him. Because it was the inherent part of her she inwardly termed the Bob-White way, she knew that she would never be able to tolerate watching him suffer without attempting to do something. Murmuring hushed words of encouragement to the man who'd up until a minute ago had been their enemy, she started pushing a towel against the gaping wound.

A shadow she instantly recognized covered her. "What can I do?" Jim asked aloud, eyeing her with admiration as she competently worked to stem the flow of blood.

"Cushions," Trixie ordered curtly, jabbing a finger in the direction of the fallen chair. While she worked, she kept part of her attention focused on the other occupant in the room, wondering when he was going to either interrupt their help or attempt to put a bullet in them.

Jim tugged one, hard. He broke the ties that wanted to keep it attached to the seat and grabbed another cushion for good measure. Aware of what she wanted him to do with them, he pushed away the chair and came around Mr. Young. With more care than he wanted to exhibit, he put it gently underneath the older man's head and bit back a sigh. It wouldn't make the downed man all that comfortable. Nothing would; except the assistance of highly trained medical professionals. "You're doing well, Trix," he said encouragingly and was rewarded with her quick smile.

"You…you…" Mr. Young reached out, covered her hand with his. His voice was weak, as was his touch, yet it sounded amazed, to both of them. "You're helping me."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Trixie muttered in response, concentrating more on her attempt at first aid than anything else. She accepted a clean towel from Jim, pressed it up against the wound, and glanced wildly around for something to tie around the towels, to add more pressure and hopefully halt the flow of blood. But nothing was visible. She settled for yet another towel instead. Knowing they were doing all that they could, she looked at Jim, ready to voice the question on what they should try next. The sounds of approaching footsteps brought her back to reality with a harshness she'd hoped to avoid.

A lowly-whistled tune covered the sounds of his footsteps, a sound much too chipper and cheerful to be utilized at a scene such as this. Ritch started forward, towards his former employer, the gun in his hands, and a ruthless feel to his stride. He spared an amused glance at the two clustered around the downed man, working furiously to save him. He shook his head in feigned sympathy and offered the paling man at his feet a little bow. "I must offer you my deepest apologies, Eric. It's nothing personal, you understand."

Each breath was getting harder and harder to maintain, was taking more and more of an effort to make. While not an expert marksman by any stretch, Mr. Young knew enough to realize that Ritch had not given him an immediate death blow. He wasn't going to die…yet. He found the strength to glare at his old right-hand man. Condemnation poured forth, infecting his words, twisting his lips. "I trusted you."

"Clearly, your mistake." Ritch lifted a shoulder, not the least bit disturbed by the results of his actions or the ugly swirl of confusion on Mr. Young's face. Ignoring his former employer, he turned to the two witnesses in the room. He was only half-finished with his plan. They still had a part left to play, a vital part. At least, it was vital to him. He rubbed the barrel of the silencer under his chin and, since he'd always liked the looks of the woman, decided to speak to her instead of the man, "Before my bullet met Mr. Young, he brought up a very good question. What is going to happen to you and your husband?"

"You let us go," Trixie suggested breathlessly, her hands as steady as her voice, although she knew he'd never accept her suggestion. "We didn't see anything. We don't know a thing. We promise we won't say a word. Ever. You can count on us. Really. You can. Right, Jim?"

"Whatever she says. We didn't see a damn thing." Jim tightened his grip on Trixie's shoulder, already aware that he shouldn't allow Ritch to have any sort of access to his girl. In the short time that they'd known him, the man had more than made it clear what his intentions were towards her. He'd see the bastard in hell first.

Ritch appeared to give their answer some consideration. Then he gave a sorrowful shake of his head and released a resigned sigh. "As charming as your idea is, I just don't think it's going to work out. You see, I'd find it very hard to trust you."

Mr. Young drew in a sharp intake of breath at the word trust. "You're a fine one to talk about trust," he whispered faintly, with sweat starting to bead on his forehead and pain on his face.

"That's why I can recognize a lie when I see one." Skirting around Mr. Young, whose eyes were beginning to glaze, he stopped by the table and picked up a wineglass. Without any thought for a man who may be dying merely a foot away from him, he downed the last of its contents. "Excellent vintage," he remarked in a jovial undertone towards Mr. Young. "As usual, my compliments to the connoisseur."

She suppressed a shudder. Ritch was a much more dangerous enemy than she'd ever expected him to be. "We really won't tell anyone," Trixie reiterated fiercely, dying for the chance to get her hands on a gun. Any gun. "We can call for an ambulance, get Mr. Young some help, and then get out of your way. If anyone should happen to ask us a question, we can simply say that Mr. Young was cleaning his gun and it backfired on him." She bit her bottom lip, already knowing that her suggestion wasn't going to be accepted. "It's so simple. It would work."

"Simple, maybe. Practical…eh...not so much. At least, not from my vantage point." Ritch gestured towards the gathered group with the empty wineglass. "I do find it curious that you're willing to help out Mr. Young, though. You do realize that he wasn't going to let either of you walk away from tonight's meeting unharmed, right, Mrs. Hart?"

Yeah, she'd suspected as much. What she hadn't counted on was a swift, and undeniably shocking, change in the playing field. It threw her off track. She only wished that Max and the damn back-up team would arrive. Sooner would be much better than later. Momentarily forgetting that she should be simpering instead of snappish, she shot back, "He's a human being. He needs help."

Ritch's eyebrows lifted, taken aback by the forcefulness of her delivery, while he stated another universal truth. "He wouldn't have helped you. Or your husband. Revenge was what he had in mind. Isn't that right, Eric?" Ritch nudged the man's leg with the tip of his toes and grinned at the series of small moans coming from him.

Knowing it was best to ignore the insinuation, especially since the once-planned situation definitely was not going to occur, Trixie turned her back on Ritch and placed the last of the fresh towels against Mr. Young's chest. "There," she spoke lowly, as comforting as possible. "I think that should do it. At least, for now."

"Th…thank you." The effort to voice the words took most of his strength. Still breathing, but with considerably less energy, Mr. Young laid his back on the cushions and closed his eyes, in desperate need to search out some peace from the all-encompassing pain.

Having not taken his gaze off of their newest enemy, Jim reached down for Trixie. When she made a sound to protest, he shook his head. "We can't do anything more right now, Trix," he whispered urgently, more concerned with Ritch and the dangerous vibes bouncing off of him than with the care of the injured man.

Still kneeling, she wiped her sweaty, blood-covered hands on the front of her skirt. Taking a deep breath, she looked back down at Mr. Young and apologized sincerely, "I truly am sorry. I wish we could do more."

"Watch out…for Ritch. Trixie," Mr. Young murmured through lips starting to thin. He wanted to warn her, a way to help her as she had assisted him.

"I will," she replied quietly. Accepting Jim's arm, she slowly rose to her feet. She aimed a sharp glance around the room, searching out any sign of Max or his team. Nothing. Just three closed doors…She inhaled sharply. Oh, God. And a row of glass windows. She looked out into the dead of the Las Vegas night, knowing with absolute clarity what Max had done. Forces had been mobilized. They were out there. Feeling lighter, she pivoted around on her heels, to face the man watching them.

Never relinquishing his own weapon, Ritch brought his hands together in a mockery of applause. "Excellent show, Hart. Mrs. Hart. It surely touched me. Right here." He thumped a hand over his heart, attempted to look downtrodden and failing miserably. "Such a shame that it's all for nothing."

"I don't understand what you mean," she responded, the blue of her eyes piercingly bright. Her fingers tapped against her thigh while she kept her attention focused on him.

"This." He spread his arms out, encompassing the whole of the show before him. "Eric Young is going to die, you know. He's not going to get the medical services that he so desperately needs. I'm certainly not going to call for help any time soon. You're certainly not in any position to call." He picked up the cordless phone, tossed it a good ten feet away from them where it landed on the floor and broke in a loud clatter of plastic. "By the time help finally arrives, you and your husband will take the blame."

So he was planning on pinning the murder on them. Not bad as plans went, Trixie mused to herself, starting to piece together Ritch's thought processes. If she was grading it, she'd give him a C minus. Unfortunately for him, he hadn't considered all the avenues, was obviously working more on impulse than brains. And he had some serious tunnel vision right now. He wasn't seeing the big picture. Wanting to engage Ritch in conversation for as long as possible, she inquired, "I don't understand you. How are we going to blamed for…this? We didn't shoot Mr. Young. In fact, we've tried to save him."

"Seriously? You want a monologue?" He let out a low, unpleasant laugh, the kind that made her feel dirty just for listening to it.

"No, no," she immediately disagreed, her tone calm and placating. Just keep him talking. It ran through her mind. She needed to gather all the information that she could. And they needed all the time that she could buy them. With that in mind, she forced a tiny little giggle. "We're curious, that's all."

"Well, we do have a little time. Only a little, mind you," he assured them, a mockery of a grin splitting his face in two.

Trixie felt more than saw Jim tense up behind her. Suspecting that he wanted to take charge of the conversation, she once again stepped on his foot, halting the flow of words that Ritch would find inciting. Ritch, she understood, would much rather speak to her, not to Jim. He'd either shut down or do something much worse if Jim attempted to insert himself into the conversation. She needed to keep him talking, to either defuse the situation, if at all possible, or to allow her co-workers their chance to finally break through. "Why did you shoot Mr. Young?"

He lifted an eyebrow, surprised by the directness of the question. Although, when he really thought about it, being surprised wasn't such an unusual emotion for him to be experiencing. She'd been surprising him ever since he'd unveiled his plans. He'd been expecting endless cowering and annoying pleas for mercy, not the cool, untainted blue staring back at him. It left him disconcerted. "You haven't figured it out yet, Mrs. Hart?" Making a small tsking sound, he shook his head. "I think it should be fairly obviously by now."

She shot a look at Jim over her shoulder, ordering him without words to stay quiet when he tensed up. "Enlighten us."

Completing ignoring Jim, which was exactly how he preferred it, Ritch looked directly entirely on her. "It's the perfect time, the perfect opportunity, the perfect chance. The perfect everything. You see, I've been waiting for a chance such as this for a very long time. I couldn't let it slip by me. It's destiny."

Jim slipped a hand around her waist. He held on, tight, and broke her unspoken command without regret. "How's it perfect?"

Instantly, a pair of eyes leveled on him, deadly, dark, and extremely dangerous. "I'm not talking to you," Ritch growled out, thoroughly displeased with the interruption.

And she was most definitely right. "No, you're talking to me." Trixie fixed as wide of a smile as she could make on her face, hoping to pacify. "You were telling me about your plans…you know, for tonight…and what made it so…um…perfect." She giggled, a nervous, helpless sort of a sound, and watched with some relief as Ritch finally stopped glaring at Jim and turned back to face her. Even though the simple motion made her stomach want to turn, she batted her eyes. "There's got to be a reason. I'd love to hear it."

He thought he detected flattery in the motion, in the tone, in her eyes. Never one to overlook it, he puffed his chest out. "No one's here. No one. The butler's been given the evening off. Ginny's out and about, doing whatever she does to keep herself entertained. She won't be back until the wee hours of the morning. Every other employee was deployed to another part of Vegas. Eric didn't want any witnesses to tonight's festivities. It's just us. The four of us. No one else is here." Pleased that it was working out so well in his favor, Ritch let a slow, satisfied smile work its way across his face. "Since I plan on being the only one of us to leave this room alive, I'll be the one to tell the police what happened. They'll have to believe me. There won't be anyone left to discount my word."

Trixie took a step back so there wasn't an ounce of air left between herself and Jim. Matter-of-factly she stated, "So, you do plan on killing us, then."

"Oh, it's a foregone conclusion," he replied without a bit of contrition or apology. "I'll say it's self-defense, of course, and stick as close to the truth as I can. You two were here, trying to shake down Mr. Young for more money for an item you were trying to sell him. When the deal went bad, you fired on him. Unfortunately for poor Mr. Young, he died before help could arrive." He heaved a small sigh, ruined it with a cheerful little wink. "And, being the kind, considerate, and loyal employee that I am, I had no choice. After I saw what you did, I immediately took matters into my own hands."

Trixie stared as he held up the gun, the potential murder weapon of one Eric Young, and placed it on the table. Curious, she frowned as he knelt down, wondering what he was going to do next. With ease, he slipped out a gun out from a holster strapped to his calf. Another weapon. Her eyes grew wide while she nodded once in understanding. He wasn't going to use the gun he'd shot Mr. Young with. No, he was planning on killing them with the new one. Not bad, she thought dispassionately, upgrading his plan to a C plus. However, it still wouldn't work.

"Totally believable," he continued, unaware of the rapid-fire thoughts circulating through Trixie's mind or how quickly law enforcement would poke holes in his story. "I'll tell the police everything. How you came here to sell Eric Young an illegal disc, how the deal turned bad, and about your…ah…criminal actions. No one will ever suspect what really happened. I'll get off, scot-free. And the only people who will ever know will be six feet under."

The ugly light in his eyes forced her to swallow back her next words, ones that threatened to poke vicious holes in his plans. Gun-shot residue, rebuilding a crime scene, estimated time of death, their supposed connection to the NSA…all things that would easily disprove his story. But pointing out the many flaws in his plan wouldn't help them. No, it would only rouse his anger. The last thing she wanted to do was make him angry. Keeping that in mind, she spoke quietly and noted, "And you'd get to keep the disc."

Ritch put his hands in his back pockets, cocked up one edge of his lips, and rocked back and forth on his heels. "Yeah. The disc is mine, Eric Young is dead, and the two of you would be held responsible. Sounds like an okay deal to me, all in all."

Sounded more like a circle in hell to her. She put her hand around Jim's waist, felt a familiar object in his pocket. Wide eyes flew to his before she dropped her gaze. "Your cell?" she questioned lowly under her breath.

"No. Yours," he mumbled back through clenched lips, unable to take any attention off of the man in front of him. The crazy vibes ricocheting off Ritch seriously worried him now. And the way he kept looking at Trixie…yeah, it was enough to enflame his temper. He flexed his hand, wanting action.

She shuffled even closer to Jim, feeling oddly calmer now than she had before. There wasn't a single doubt left in her mind now. Max knew exactly what was going on. In fact, she'd bet everything she had that he was on the other side of the door, listening in and waiting, just waiting, for the best chance to break in and take control. And he definitely had mobilized a sniper team, one that was already watching them through the thick glass. Breathing easier, she tossed out another question, needing to distract the man and give Max all the information he could need, "What do you want with the disc?"

"If it's ever safe to sell it, I'll see to that, pocket the cash. If I do, great for me. But I don't care all that much. I've been siphoning off Eric's bank accounts for a while now so there's no hurry to ever sell it. All I want is money. Even without selling it, I've still managed to build up a nice little nest egg over the years." He flipped open the barrel of the gun, more to terrify than anything else, and counted the bullets inside. He had all he needed. "I don't have designs on much. Certainly nothing that nefarious."

Nothing that nefarious. God, the man had no conscience. If he was willing to take three lives, he most definitely had designs. And on more than he was sharing with them. Speaking calmly, she inferred, "So money is your objective. It's got to be very important to you."

"Damn right." He snapped the bullets back in. "This whole disc thing is merely a means to an end. I've been looking for the right way to get rid of Eric for a while. Finally, tonight, it all came together. I couldn't resist this opportunity. It's golden. I've got him down, I've got you and your husband to take the fall, and no one's around to know the true truth. You see?" He glanced up, looked at them through conscienceless eyes. "It's fool proof."

"You're…a….bastard," Mr. Young found the strength from within to call out, his eyes once again open and a glare on his face, although his words were sounding more slurred than they had a few minutes earlier.

"So what if I am? Big deal." Feeling immensely satisfied with how the evening was turning out, Ritch let the unflattering term roll off of him. What did it matter? He was in control. The only one in control. The others were mere patsies, ready to play the parts he'd hastily assigned them. When all was said and done, he'd be the only one to walk away. Anticipation ate away at him. He couldn't wait to make it happen. "At least I'm alive and all my blood's where it's supposed to be. You can't say that much right now, can you, Eric?"

Before Ritch could get distracted, Trixie infused her voice with as much pleading as she could. "There's got to be something we could do. Isn't there?"

Shrewdly, he whipped his head around, gazed at her with what someone could almost term pity. "I'm afraid not. While I've certainly entertained thoughts of you, me, and what we could be like together, it's not going to happen. Unfortunately, I can't let myself get sidetracked."

"I didn't mean that!" Trixie remarked with the right amount of shock and horror. "I mean…money or something like that. Whatever we have, it's yours. All you've got to do is let us go."

A shake of his bald head was her answer. "Not negotiable," he insisted unapologetically, holding up his hand when he saw Jim was about to insert himself into the conversation. "Shut the hell up, Hart. I'm not interested in anything you have to say." He brought his gun up, gave him a speculative look, while one edge of his lip curved. "I don't mind chatting with your wife. You can just stay quiet."

It made Trixie shiver. She knew, without a doubt, that the first person he planned on shooting was Jim. She splayed her free hand out, held onto Jim's thigh, tightly. She wasn't about to let it happen. "All right. All right. I think I understand. There isn't anything we can do to prevent you from…umm…."

"Killing you?" he supplied helpfully when her voice gave out, obviously unwilling to voice his plans. "Nothing. Not a damn thing." He pinged a finger against the barrel, grinned evilly at Jim, and admitted to her fear, "Your husband's first, you know. You may want to give him a proper farewell before you two meet again in hell." Realizing he'd unintentionally rhymed, he chuckled, delighted with his sense of humor.

The man was cracking up. He had to be. The sounds coming out from his mouth were more in line with a devil than a human being. Decision made, Trixie whirled around quickly. She didn't have much time "You. Duck and go for cover. Now," she ordered, low and fierce, and prepared to force him if need be.

Jim pressed her to his side. "Not on your life," he insisted, a tick starting to work on the side of his forehead.

"Those are your orders," she shot back before nuzzling against his chest. Allowing herself one blissful second, she inhaled deeply. He smelled so damn good. Then she dropped back to remind him again in a low whisper, "I mean it. Find cover. Now."

He almost laughed. Almost. If the situation hadn't been so dire, he would have. Jim wrapped a strong arm around her waist, kissed her fiercely on the lips. He felt her go all warm and soft and reveled in the feel of it himself before he resolutely made his move, a move she clearly wasn't expecting. Lifting his mouth from hers, he quickly whirled her away and pushed her as gently as possible off to the side, well out of the line of fire and away from him. Then, he attacked, much quicker than she'd ever given him credit for.

She landed on the tile floor with a low oomph of amazement, her back to the action, and an unhappy scowl on her face. Blonde curls flopped over her forehead, covering her view. Swearing inwardly, she impatiently brushed them back. About to let loose with a fierce growl, Trixie flinched as another gunshot rang through the terrace. This one wasn't muffled by a silencer. It reverberated around the room, made her heart stop and fear threaten to swamp her. Don't let it be Jim. Don't let it be Jim. For God's sake, don't let it be Jim! It became a litany, one that played itself over and over through her mind in the time it took her to push herself to her knees. Grabbing the nearest chair for support, she pulled herself up, blue eyes bright with fear, and found the fight.

Jim felt more than saw her stand up. He cursed. Wishing she'd stayed down, he gave a short, hard jab to his opponent's mid-section, nearly chuckled at the answering low moan of pain, and then made a grab for the gun, which had fallen out of Ritch's grip after he'd accidentally discharged it. The weapon had skidded along the floor; now lay a good five feet away, underneath a chaise lounge that had been overturned.

Ignoring fresh blood trailing from a thick cut to his lip, Ritch sucked in deeply. When the mound of male fury momentarily ceased pounding him and turned away, he aimed a kick at the wide back. While it wasn't a solid kick, it worked to give him a few much-needed inches from the man, as well as allow him some much-needed freedom. "Stupid move," he sneered through a fat lip. "Very stupid."

Instantly, Jim rolled into a crouched position, aware that he'd been detoured from retrieving the gun. It also pleased him to note that he wasn't having any trouble controlling his breathing, unlike his opponent. He sprang again, going for Ritch's knees. Once again, he took the other man by surprise and knocked him back, flat on the tiled ground. He found some sense of satisfaction when Ritch's head cracked against the floor.

Wanting, no, needing to be part of the action, Trixie pushed a set of chairs out of the way, widening the arena for the two men scuffling on the floor. While she could have easily debilitated Ritch, she couldn't enter the fray, not without interrupting Jim and his fleet of flying fists. And, she had to admit to herself, she rather liked the looks of Jim taking care of the other man. She watched with avid interest until she heard a small moan coming from near her feet. As curious as always, she glanced down, surprised to see Mr. Young awake and aware.

"Trixie." He stared up at her. With what was left of his strength, he gestured towards his leg, wanting to offer help. "Trixie," he said again.

Confused, she leaned forward, keeping most of her attention focused on the action to make sure that Jim still had the upper hand in the fight. "What?" she mouthed quietly.

"G…gun," was his answer. Closing his eyes to ward off the pain, he used a limp hand to gesture once again to his leg.

Her eyes grew to twice their normal size. Hardly daring to believe their luck, she pushed the leg of his pants up, looked with amazement at the slim, black Beretta just begging for her to take ownership of. With a pleased grin, she slipped it out of its holster. The metal felt warm in her palm. Mumbling her thanks to her unexpected benefactor, she stood back up and confidently cocked her gun. Ritch, it seemed, was about to get an unpleasant surprise.

As much as he hated to admit it, Ritch recognized that the tide had more than turned. Knowing that he was on the losing end, he fought, both viciously and with serious intent to harm, only to find unforgiving air or apply a glancing blow that didn't harm Jim in the least. Finally, after one extremely punishing blow under his chin that made his head ring and stars pop out behind his closed lids, he reluctantly gave in. Sullenly, he made his body go lax, a bitter light to his eyes, and an impressive string of curse words fleeing from his lips. He'd been bested; he'd been beaten.

Finding no satisfaction in pounding on someone who wasn't fighting back, Jim stood up. After swiping a hand over his hair, mussing it even more than it already was, he put his hands on his hips and tried not to look too pleased. "I think he's had enough," he mumbled, ignoring the fresh bruise on his face and a few aches to his side.

"My hero," Trixie replied smoothly, her lips twitching. Keeping her gun trained on their fallen man, she added with a little laugh, "You did good...Hart."

Jim lifted his head, aimed his famous lopsided grin her way. Wanting to be near her, he moved around the enemy, made his way over to her. Dropping an arm around Trixie's shoulder, he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'd offer to take the gun from you," he whispered near her ear. "But I know you're a much better shot than I am."

She couldn't help it. She giggled again. "For that, I'll forgive you for pushing me out of the way."

He had the grace to look ashamed. "Sorry about that," he murmured, hating the shiver of guilt that snaked up his spine. Jim squeezed her side and reiterated fiercely, "I'm really sorry about that."

"Like I said. I'll forgive you." Turning her head, she tenderly touched the new bruise on his check. It was the only fresh mark Ritch had left on Jim. Leaning into him, she giggled again before admitting, "I have to. You see, I was already planning on doing something very similar to you. To get you out of the way, of course."

"I guess I beat you to it, then." Looking down into the beautiful blue eyes staring up at him, Jim let out a bark of laughter and grabbed her around the waist. Smiling, he rubbed his lips gently against hers. "I really am sorry, though."

As they only had eyes for each other, neither saw Ritch pick up a forgotten gun, the one that had slid underneath a table at the beginning of the fight. The one with a silencer on it. He pushed himself up, ignoring the aches and pains vividly blossoming through his body. Feeling vindicated, feeling victorious, feeling unbelievably fortunate, he sprang up, all ready to fire, taking only a second to enjoy the twin expressions of astonishment coming his way.

Trixie responded with the quickness she'd been trained with. Without hesitation, she lifted her own gun and pulled the trigger. As she was firing her shot, another bullet zoomed in, crashing through the glass windows, and caught Ritch right in the center of the forehead. Her bullet wasn't so well-aimed. It hit him in the shoulder, made the gun clutter to the floor. Ritch didn't have time to react. He toppled backwards, landed with a loud splash in the sparkling waters of the pool. Lowering her weapon, Trixie turned her head into the protection of Jim's shoulder, not wanting to watch the once pretty, pristine water change to an ugly shade of red. "Oh God," she breathed, squeezing her eyes shut and laying her gun against her side. "Oh God."

"What the…How the hell…Where did…" Surprise didn't cover it. Jim glanced over her head, looking for the owner of the other bullet to step forward. No one did. He tilted his head to the side, confused because they were still the only ones left standing in the room.

"Sniper," she supplied immediately, her voice muffled by his shirt. She pointed in the direction the bullet had come from. "Thank goodness. Max came through. I knew he would. It must have killed him to have waited so long. He set up snipers around the building." She paused long enough to take a breath, then borrowed a fresh phrase from their now dead enemy, "The glass walls made it the…and pardon me for using this phrase….the perfect opportunity for such an attack."

The description was a little too close to Ritch's. Jim let out a small breath of air. "At least Max finally did something." He dropped his head onto hers, hardly daring to believe that the mess was finally over. He closed his eyes, concentrated on the sweet smell from her shampoo, and rubbed his chin over her soft curls. "We've been left alone for far too long."

"We made it, though. We made it through." Trixie grinned into his chest. Before Max and the rest of his team broke into the room, she stood up on her tiptoes and gripped his shirt. Hard. And then she pulled on it, making his head come down. Whispering against his lips, she declared throatily, "Let's actually enjoy it for a moment." Quickly, knowing they didn't have much time, she stood up on her tip-toes. With desperation riding her, she took his mouth in a swift, hot and passionate kiss, making both their heads swim and helping them momentarily forget what had just transpired in the room.

Then she drew apart. With great reluctance. But she understood now wasn't the time to indulge in her own desires. That was for later. "We'd better see to Mr. Young," she murmured, reluctantly taking a step back from Jim. She smiled once before stooping down to peel back the bloody towels from Mr. Young and replacing them with a fresh one. "He gave me his gun, you know," she told Jim over her shoulder.

Jim glanced around the room, taking note of where all the weapons had been scattered. "Nice of him to come through in the end," he muttered under his breath, not being able to drum up too much sympathy for the man. He purposefully didn't look in the direction of the water, having no desire to see what was left of Ritch floating there. "When do you think help will finally arrive?"

Trixie dropped back on her heels. Breathing a silent sigh of relief, she hooked a thumb towards the terrace doors, ready to see her partner. About damn time, too. She opened her mouth, about to say something about how grateful she was that they'd managed to come out of the mission together and unharmed. But then the realization hit her, and it hit her hard. Their mission together was finished. A pang, vivid and searing, shot through her. She stubbornly ignored it. Later. She'd concentrate on it later. Her voice was whisper-soft and hoarse as she murmured, "Right about now."