A.N. All right, before you all come for me with pitchforks—or veggies and rotted turnips, which I have to say, is not something I've been threatened with before :D —here is the next chapter!

As always, thank you sooooo much for your support and sticking with this! I'm so glad you are still enjoying it and—hopefully—do not hate me too much and enjoy this next chapter ;)

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Ed jerked in surprise when he heard a shot as he and Wordy escorted the subject out of the building and into open air. It was such a completely unexpected sound.

The shot echoed, bouncing off building walls and reverberating long after whatever bullet that had been fired finished its trajectory… Ed could only hope it had missed its target. The shot had clearly come from the square, the opposite side of the building from where they were, therefore Ed was not concerned they were being shot at. But he was concerned and disturbed about the laughter that arose from the throat of the man standing between him and Wordy. An ugly, throaty laugh that sent an involuntary shiver down Ed's spine.

"What the hell was that?" Wordy demanded, sharing a stunned look with Ed.

"What do you know?" Ed shouted at the subject, shaking him by the scruff of his neck.

Suddenly their radios came to life, full of shouting, of someone screaming to freeze and drop the weapon. Sounds of a scuffle could be heard, followed by more shouting, before finally silence fell.

"Jack? Rivers?" Ed prompted urgently, having recognized his voice as the one doing the shouting. "What's going on?"

"There… there was a second shooter," Jack finally explained, voice breathless. "He moved to the 21st floor of the building we were searching and he managed to get a shot off."

Ed and Wordy shared a shell-shocked look. What the hell, are you kidding me? A second shooter? One wasn't enough?! And if there was a second shooter, what if there's a third? "Who was he shooting at? Who was still in the square? Was anyone hit?"

"We—we don't know, but I think so; the square definitely wasn't clear."

Beside them, their apprehended subject crowed in jubilation, clearly having heard the words over the coms. "Oh man, the back-up plan paid off! I knew he could do it! You all were so perfectly predictable!" He frowned then. "Though you weren't supposed to find him. That wasn't part of the plan… how'd you manage that?" he asked, honest curiosity and confusion on his face.

"'How'd we manage…'" Ed repeated in disbelief. "You think we're going to answer your questions? Are you insane!?" He probably is. "That's not how this works! We do the questioning, you do the answering!" And there were so many questions they needed answers to—who are you, what were you doing here, who was the target, who is the second shooter—but the most important one… "Are there more of you?" he demanded, grabbing the front of the man's shirt collar in both hands and jerking him close.

The man laughed again. "Once bitten twice shy, right? You though you got us when you found me, so you dropped your guard, and now you've paid the price."

The man's words sent another shudder down Ed's spine, because he knew the man was right… they had paid a price. He just hoped that the price was not going to take a friend away from him.

"Ed, he's not going to talk," Wordy spoke quietly. "We should get him back, see what else we can do."

Ed nodded and they took off at a sprint for the command center, dragging the still cackling subject with them.

(…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…)

Spike was jogging towards what he knew was Sam and Libby's location, though he could not yet see them from his current vantage; the concrete planter that had been their saving grace still blocked his view. He was just thirty feet away when he glanced over his shoulder to see if paramedics were following. He was pleased to see a pair just rushing out from the surrounding building, carrying a backboard between them. When he turned back to Sam and Libby, he heard a commotion rise from out of sight behind the planter, then saw the head and shoulders of who he immediately recognized as Ben Gaskill start to rise into view as he clearly tried to stand. Spike frowned, wondering what the hell the man was doing with Sam and Libby, then he saw the man stumble and get jerked back down a bit, before he tried to straighten once more. And that's when Spike got his first glimpse of Sam, as he was pulled upwards by the judge, due to Sam's hand fisted in the front of the man's shirt. This all happened in the matter of a second, just long enough for Spike to take a quicker step in order to intervene in what appeared to be a developing altercation, but he halted in his tracks, feet planted on the hot concrete of the square, heart pounding as his friend's head whipped to the side and both Gaskill and Sam fell from view.

A shot echoed in his ears.

For half a second, Spike stood there stupidly, trying to process this turn of events. He knew what had just happened, he just couldn't understand how it had happened, when the subject had already been caught.

Once that half a second had passed, his instinct told him to drop to the ground, but instead, Spike threw himself forward, casting all thoughts of his own safety out of his head. It didn't matter how it had happened, all that mattered right now was getting to Sam. Who Spike knew without a doubt had just been shot. For the second time.

As he rounded the corner of the planter, already flinging his sling to the ground, ignoring the angry pull in his shoulder as he stretched healing muscles and fresh stitches, he could not have prepared himself for the scene before him.

Ben Gaskill sat on the ground, young daughter now clinging to one of his arms, one leg awkwardly bent beneath him, mumbling incoherently and staring blankly at the two figures in front of him. At Libby and Sam.

Sam lay on the ground on his back, knees slightly bent and falling to one side, twisting his torso. Libby crouched next to him, scrabbling at his head and screaming something that Spike didn't comprehend. Because even as his body reacted instinctively and carried him swiftly forward, pulling off his gray outer shirt, ripping stitches as he went—he didn't care, what did a few stitches matter in the face of this?—he couldn't get past the amount of blood on Sam's face, and what that blood meant. Logically, he'd known that since Sam's head had been what was in his view, it was also what would have been in the shooter's view, but he'd hoped…

It had been a foolish hope.

He fell to his knees on the opposite side of Sam from Libby, already wadding up his shirt and reaching to offer assistance. Libby seemed to be struggling to get a hold of Sam's head, unable to hold it still or brace it in order to staunch the flow of blood, as only one of her hands was working and it kept slipping due to the fact that her other hand seemed sluggish and unable to move properly. At first Spike didn't understand why, but then he saw that the forearm of her sluggish arm wasn't straight and kept moving in ways it shouldn't be able to. He winced in sympathy, recognizing the broken arm for what it was, but then his attention shifted from Libby to Sam, and his heart dropped at the sight of how easily Sam's head lolled in the young woman's hands.

"Libby, Libby let me," Spike told the panicking young woman gently, already moving his hands to replace hers on Sam's head.

Libby's wild eyes flashed up to look at him, and he could tell that until he'd said something, she hadn't realized he was there.

"Sp-Spike," she stammered, heart in her eyes, "I can't stop it—he—there's so much blood, his head—"

"I know," he acknowledged, amazed at how calm he sounded, because inside he was screaming. "I know, but it's going to be okay,"—liar, he whispered inside, you don't know that. You can't promise that. He's shot, Spike… he's not going to be okay… He forced those thoughts from his mind before continuing, "I've got his head, you get his chest."

She nodded furiously and shifted so that one of her hands was placing pressure on Sam's chest, on a wad of cloth Spike thought may once have been a light blue sports jacket, but now was maroon and red with blood. Her other arm now dangled uselessly at her side, a dark purple bruise coloring the forearm to match the color of the jacket.

Spike looked back down at Sam as he pressed his shirt against the side of Sam's head. He swallowed when he felt a very slight give beneath his fingers, and yet Sam remained completely limp in his hands, eyes closed, face so coated in blood it was hard to see anything else.

"Spike I-I-I don't know what happened. I th-thought they got the shooter," Libby stammered, eyes wide. "I thought it was over, I told Sam it was over, that we were going home and now—he-he tried to tell me, he tried and…"

"I don't know what happened, but it's going to be okay."

"Spike, he was shot in the head!" she exclaimed wildly, the note of desperation and terror clear in her voice.

"I know!" Spike shouted, unable to keep his voice from rising in response, his own fear making it sharper than it should have been. "I know, but," he searched desperately for something to cling to, one small shred of hope, and his eyes landed on Sam's chest. Beneath the horrifying mess that was his wound, Spike could see that Sam's chest was still rising and falling. "But he's still breathing, Libby," he finished more quietly. That's got to count for something… please.

At that moment, it finally registered in his brain that the murmur he'd been hearing for the past minute was Ben quietly repeating some iteration of the same question, over and over.

"I don't understand, how did he know? How did he know it was me?"

Spike had no idea. He'd figured it out. But he'd had countless resources at his fingertips and had had to speak with numerous people in order to confirm his suspicions. How Sam had figured it out when he had no resources except for his wits, while slowly overheating and bleeding out, he couldn't even fathom.

He couldn't answer the man's question, but he could try to distract him. "Sir? Sir, are you okay?" he asked loudly. The last thing he wanted to do was turn his attention away from Sam, but he couldn't ignore someone so clearly in shock.

Ben's gaze shifted from Sam's prone form to Spike. "No," he replied shakily. "I mean, I'm not hurt, but I'm not okay," he clarified.

"Okay, okay, that's good. How about you?" he asked more quietly, meeting eyes with Ben's daughter. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head slowly, eyes wide.

"Is," Ben started, then stopped. His eyes cleared a little, losing some of the blank, uncomprehending stare. And then they filled with worry and panic. Though he'd been staring at Sam for the past few minutes, it seemed he hadn't fully comprehended the situation until that moment. "Oh god," he breathed, hand unconsciously grabbing his little girl and pulling her closer, turning her away from the sight in front of them. "Oh god is he…. What can I do?"

Unfortunately, Spike couldn't answer that question either. Because he didn't think there was anything that could be done, not until actual medical professionals arrived. That thought caused him to raise his head enough to look over the planter, back the way he'd come, uncaring that it also likely put him back in the line of fire. He reasoned that if he hadn't been hit in the time it took him to get to Sam and Libby after Sam had been hit, that there wasn't going to be another shot.

He found that the backboard the EMTs had been carrying was now abandoned, the EMTs likely having fled back out of the square once the shot had been fired. Spike couldn't really blame them, but nevertheless, he couldn't fully swallow his disappointment.

Libby apparently caught onto what had drawn his eye. "No, they can't leave, he's been waiting too long! He doesn't have time! Call them," she ordered him, glaring at the headset still on his head, "get them in here now."

He shook his head. "It won't do any good, they're not going to let EMTs in to a scene that might still be active."

Libby stared at him, eyes full of disbelief, not only at the current situation, but at the fact that it so closely mirrored one from three years ago, when Sam had also been fighting for his life but unable to receive care due to a potentially active shooter. Only this time… this time Libby couldn't run in and save the day at the last minute. And they both knew it. All she and Spike could do was sit and wait.

Libby's gaze returned to Sam. "Then he's going to die," she whispered, the first tear slipping down her face.

Spike's heart seized at her words. Libby had always maintained unfailing optimism three years ago, had clung to the possibility that Sam would make it as if that were the only option. If she was losing hope now… Well, Spike certainly couldn't blame her. The toll it must have taken to be the one beside Sam as he slowly bled out, to feel like you were the only one keeping Sam from slipping away… Spike understood that, because he was now experiencing it as his hands cradled Sam's head. So while he couldn't blame her for finally voicing the despair she must have been feeling since the first shot was fired—despair that he had to admit was coiling like a disease inside him as well—he could only hope and pray that she was wrong. But the despair kept worming its way under his skin and burrowing into his thoughts, because as he stared down at Sam, he couldn't help but flash back to a moment years before when it was Sam rushing to a fallen soldier who had taken a bullet to the head, hands quickly becoming covered in blood as Spike's were now. He swallowed.

They'd almost lost Sam that day. Not to a bullet that had hit him, and not because they'd turned their backs on him, but nevertheless, Spike couldn't help but see the parallels. He remembered all too clearly the fear he felt when he walked into the locker room and found Sam's locker cleaned out, the stuff sitting in a bag on the bench. He'd been terrified that he was about to lose his friend.

And today, that morning, he'd felt that fear again once he'd realized how bad it had been between Sam and the rest of the Team after the hot call. And he knew that there was a very real possibility that it would happen again, that he'd get to the Barn only to find all of Sam's stuff gone. And Spike done everything he could to get in touch with his friend to keep that from happening. To keep from losing Sam to some careless actions and words meant to hurt.

Now, hours later, he wished it were only words that threatened to take his friend from him.

But it wasn't just words now, it was so much worse than that. It was a pair of bullets, the sun and time. And despite his best efforts, his mind kept going back to that day in the arena, to the face coated in blood, to the soldier who'd taken a headshot and hadn't made it.

No. Spike could not let himself go there. That soldier hadn't made it, but he'd be damned if this soldier, his friend, wouldn't.

He could do nothing more for Sam's physical wounds, but perhaps there was something he could do to start healing the non-physical wounds Team One had inflicted on their comrade. The ones that had caused self-doubt to creep into Sam's thoughts, had caused him to question his place in the team. In their family.

Perhaps Sam wouldn't hear him. But Spike had to try.

He leaned down, getting his mouth right near one of Sam's ears, the one not drenched in blood and covered by the makeshift bandage. "Hey Samtastic, you need to listen to me. You need to listen really hard. You've done your job. You've done more than your job." He let out a broken chuckle. "Buddy, yesterday, you literally went above and beyond, and I didn't think you could top that, but this today, this was something else. And I need you to know that you did good, yesterday included. You made all the right decisions. You protected me, you protected Ed, you protected Libby," he glanced up and met her eyes, "and you protected Ben Gaskill," he glanced at the man who was now holding his daughter and looking at Sam with intensity, as if he could will Sam to stay with them just by staring. "We're all okay," Spike continued softly, telling his friend what he thought he needed to hear. What Spike needed him to hear. "But now we need you to be okay." Please, please Sam, please. "So you need to hang in there, okay? You need to stay with us, because if you don't…" he paused a moment to bite the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, using the pain to focus. "…because if you don't, I, we are not going to be okay, do you hear me?"

And then there was nothing more he could do but wait and hope, which was something he'd been doing all day; waiting to get out of the hospital and hoping he wasn't too late to fix things between Sam and the team… waiting for Sam to call back—which he never would—and hoping he could find Sam in time… waiting for a crack to appear in this case so they could all go home and hoping that Sam would make it out alive…

… and now, waiting and hoping that someone would come help them soon, because Sam was dying in his hands.

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A.N.2. I remain unrepentant about the cliffhangers... mostly.