Chapter 2: "What do you want me to do?"(rated T); this is what he'd signed up for (rated T); 9-1-1(rated T)

Memorial Hospital SICU, Manhattan, December 2014 - rated T

"Detective, we need to move Miss Shaw before the police arrive."

Harold had pulled Fusco aside, now that he had had time to assess the situation. He thought the best plan would be for Miss Groves and Miss Shaw to head to the safe-house together – to wait for him there.

Detective Fusco would stay here in the hospital with Mr. Reese, so that when the NYPD arrived it would only be their fellow officers – Reese and Fusco – left to interview.

Miss Shaw's presence, a civilian wearing a tactical vest shot full of holes, would be impossible to explain. She needed to disappear before the police swarmed the place. Harold sent Fusco to help with Shaw.

The story that Detectives Fusco and Reese would tell, and that Harold would confirm when the NYPD took his statement, was that two armed women had burst through the door, and started shooting at all the police officers in the room.

In the melee, the officer standing next to Detective Fusco had been shot and killed, but thanks to their vests, Detectives Reese and Fusco had survived. The two armed women had been wounded, too, during the shooting, but were able to escape to the elevators. No one knew where they were now.

Harold already knew that the police would find all the security cameras in the hospital had been disabled by the two women, to hide their attack. With security systems down, none of it had been recorded. The police would have to rely on statements from eye-witnesses – a lucky break for Harold and his Team. Their faces would not appear on video clips, played over and over on every news outlet, for the world to see.

Harold was confident that the NYPD would mount a full-scale pursuit of those reckless enough to ambush police inside a major New York hospital. And once the NYPD saw the connection, with a little help from Harold, between this shoot-out and the one in the Park a few nights ago, they would surround Marco Bruzzese with a "blue wall" of officers to protect him. Marco was the real target. Harold would be grateful for the blue wall. He needed all the help he could get to keep Marco safe.

With the NYPD taking over, it would free Harold and his Team to focus on finding Greer and stopping him. This surprise attack had nearly worked. They couldn't afford to let Greer get away again.

Harold looked around him in the darkness. Showers of sparks were still falling from equipment in the ceiling. In the blue-white light he could see Miss Shaw on the floor with Miss Groves and Detective Fusco at her side.

She was sitting up, but looked dazed to them. There was blood splattered on her face. Her shirt was open in the front and the vest underneath it was shredded in the center. Fusco was shaking his head. He'd never seen a vest take that many rounds before. He could see three holes in the center, and two others scattered wide to the sides.

"Shaw?" Fusco knelt down next to her, and she turned her head in his direction, but he could tell she wasn't really seeing him. Her eyes were blank.

"Come on. We've got to get you out of here. Can you stand up?" Fusco reached out to her, and Root got behind her to help her stand. Shaw grimaced as they pulled her up. Couldn't be helped. They had to get her out of here.

"What's going on? Where are you taking her!" A young, dark-haired woman rushed over from the door of the chapel where people had gathered after the shoot-out. Shaw had been the one to shield her on the floor when Martine had tried to shoot her. Shaw had saved her life.

Harold stepped forward, blocking the young woman's view, while Fusco and Root walked Shaw toward the door. In his softest voice, nearly a whisper, he leaned in close to her and said, "Miss Bruzzese, we work with Detective Shaw. She needs treatment right away for her wounds. Please. Let us help her."

Harold placed his hand gently on the young woman's arm, and turned her slowly toward the inner door to the Surgical ICU. Beyond that door was the unit where her brother, Marco, was a patient.

"Why don't you and I go in and check on your brother. I need to share something important with you about Detective Shaw. She needs your help." At first she let him lead her, but then she stopped and pulled her arm away from Harold's hand. Her eyes were dark and serious.

"Who are you – exactly?"she asked. Harold nodded, understanding her reluctance after everything that had just happened.

"Miss Bruzzese, as I said, we are colleagues of Detective Shaw. She's in a dangerous position right now, and I must ask you if you're willing to help her."

"I don't understand."

Harold looked around him, checking for those who might overhear their conversation. He lowered his voice further so that the young woman had to lean closer to hear him.

"Detective Shaw has been working undercover – assigned to protect your brother, Marco. Very few on the force know this, and we must keep it that way. A few days ago she was able to intercept a woman who was sent to find him. If Detective Shaw hadn't been there, this woman, a hired assassin, would surely have killed your brother." Harold could see the look in her eyes – surprised, but not afraid.

"Who are these people? What do they want with Marco? He's a scientist – " she said.

"Yes, we know. Perhaps his work is the reason he's a target. We're not certain yet. Miss Bruzzese, we know some, but not all, of the people looking for your brother. We need time to find them all – and stop them. Otherwise, he'll never be safe." Harold stopped for a moment, gauging her response, and then went on, his voice still a whisper.

" And that is why I must ask you to protect Detective Shaw's identity. You must not reveal that you saw her here tonight. It would put her in grave danger if the wrong people found out."

Harold watched her reaction. She stared down at the floor as she tried to make sense of his story. In a few moments, he could see her square her shoulders, and then she looked up to him, nodding yes.

"What do you want me to do?"

Airspace, Atlantic ocean off the coast of Manhattan, December, 2014 - rated T

"Get another set of vitals on her."

Like a choreographed routine, the team had scooped the injured women at the bottom of the stairwell, up five flights to the rooftop, and onto the waiting helicopter. Their first passenger was already loaded, a white-haired man with a chest wound.

The two females were conscious, but not talking, other than to answer a few medical questions: any allergies? meds? medical problems?

In minutes, they were airborne, off the roof and heading fast for the open water. The sound of the rotor nearly drowned the conversation inside, and the pitch and rocking of the copter made it harder for the medic to move among the wounded. He'd opened the trauma pack and reached in for scissors, then knelt down between the two women.

The dark-haired one had bloodstains soaking her shirt. He lifted the edge up and sliced through the fabric with the open shears, like Christmas wrapping paper. Two wounds, one on each side of her chest. And another one on the inside of the right upper arm. He opened two quick-clot pads and laid them on top of the bloody chest wounds. That would stop the bleeding until they could get her to the ship. Tape wouldn't hold them on the skin. It was too wet from all the blood. He'd have to wrap them to keep them on. He grabbed a roller bandage from the trauma pack and ripped off the plastic, then unrolled it over the top of the first pad, angling it up to the second, and around her torso, stretching it a little to put some pressure on the packs against her wounds. Then he added a second layer over the first. He was watching her eyes. Most people would be screaming bloody murder by now, but she was just watching him, grimacing when he reached behind her with the roller bandage, but that's it.

He lifted the sleeve above the wound on the right arm and clipped it open, then followed the opening with his shears all around the sleeve until it separated from the rest. He pulled the sleeve off her arm and took a look. Only one wound. The bullet was still inside somewhere, and they'd have to find it with an x-ray when they got to the ship. For now, he just wrapped the quick-clot pad over the wound with another roller bandage.

Bailey, the new medic he was training, was just getting back after securing the stretcher with the white-haired man. He stepped over the dark-haired woman, and then over the blonde, rocking with the motion of the helicopter, and knelt down next to her. The towel on the side of her neck was soaked through with dark blood, and he could see her eyes starting to roll back. He ripped off his gloves and threw them on the floor behind him. Then he pulled another pair from the trauma pack and a larger-sized quick-clot pad. The way the towel had filled up like that, he was sure the wound was still bleeding underneath. He just hoped it wasn't spurting when he lifted the towel. He held the pad close by, while he peeled back the towel from her neck. Dark blood gushed from the wound and he slapped the pad down on top to stop it.

Bailey smiled to himself. This is what he'd signed up for. The action. Navy Seal first, then for the last 36 weeks, Seal Medic school, where he'd trained alongside Rangers, Air Force, special ops guys. The classes kicked their butts at first. So much info, so fast. But then most of them found their stride, started getting it. Not everyone, though. Just because you'd passed the test to get in, it didn't mean you were cut out for this. He looked up at Spider, the older medic training him. He'd been to places and done things that Bailey couldn't imagine doing – but soon he'd have his own stories to tell, too, like Spider's. Medics trained like the two of them were in short supply. His time with Spider would be over quick – and then he'd be on his own with his own team of Seals.

By the time the helicopter was hovering over the ship below, slowly lowering to the painted target, IV bags were hanging overhead, swinging with the motion of the copter, and the wounded were ready for transport down to the trauma bay inside the ship. British ship. British flag. Diverted from some other mission to meet them with the wounded. Imagine that – they were landing on a British ship with three wounded civilians, after a scoop-and-run mission in the skies of Manhattan.

Bailey felt the landing gear touch down, and in a moment the door would open and the noise and the smell and the wind from the blades would hit them. This is what he'd signed up for.

Memorial Hospital ER, Manhattan, December, 2014- rated T

"Mr. Reese, we know where Greer and his Team landed. They're on a ship, a British ship, off the coast. We don't have the resources to intercept them right now. You need to stand down, John."

Reese was shaking his head. This was not the right plan. They needed to go after Greer now, while he was still on the run. Greer and two of his Team had been flown off the roof in a medivac helicopter. If they waited too long, Greer and his people would recover; and the chances for another surprise attack increased with each passing day.

"Finch, you pay me to advise you. I advise you not to waste time. We need to go after them before they regroup." He looked up at Finch, who was standing at his side next to the gurney.

"This team has been through enough, and I won't risk it. We're not ready, John. Samaritan is still crippled. Greer and his Team were wounded. They're not in any shape to orchestrate an attack."

Finch could see Reese chafe at the thought of waiting, but Reese had his limitations. He was a Detective in the NYPD, not a Ranger, or an agent in the CIA. There were limits to the kind of chase he could give, with Greer on a British ship in international waters. They would all have to wait for the right time.

On the next gurney, they watched an ER doctor pressing on the bones around Fusco's left eye. Reese could see dark bruising there, the imprint of the sole from Martine's boot. She'd managed to clip him with it to stop him from firing again. Fusco was the only one who'd had a clear shot that didn't put civilians or other Team members at risk, and he'd taken it, but paid the price.

With his good eye, Fusco could see Finch and Reese looking over at him. What were they talking about over there? He was trying to piece together what he remembered from the last few hours. Reese had sent him up to the SICU to keep watch over their POI, Marco, and his family – while Reese and Shaw went down to the main floor of the hospital to find Greer. Harold and Root had joined him there in the SICU, but later, he remembered Harold leaving on some mission to try to get the security system working again.

Fusco remembered standing with another officer from the NYPD, just inside the door to the SICU. They were talking, when the door suddenly opened. The force of it had made him look up, and the other officer had seen the look in his eyes and started to turn around. Fusco remembered it like a slow-motion video replay: the two women entering, the flash from their guns, the officer next to him spinning down to the floor, a force like a hammer-blow against his chest, and him landing on the hard floor, next to the officer. He couldn't think for a minute. He couldn't catch his breath.

Then there were more gunshots, bullets whizzing past him, and then something in the ceiling exploded into sparks so bright that none of them could see anything else. The lights went off all around them, and all the shooting stopped. They'd all been blinded by the showers of sparks from the ceiling. So bright, like looking into the sun. Whatever it was, it had stopped the shooting and saved them from the attack.

He could hear the two women, Kara and Martine, yelling to each other with the sparks exploding all around them. And there was a commotion behind him where Shaw had been standing with Root just a few moments before the gunfire started.

Someone was running in the darkness, in his direction, but he couldn't see who it was. He could hear Shaw's voice, and then people from inside the Unit were running past them to the doors, desperate to get out before the shooting could start again. Screaming. He remembered all the screaming from the panicked people rushing by, seeing him and the dead officer on the floor, in a pool of the officer's blood.

And he remembered looking out the open door, to the hallway. The screaming had finally stopped, and the crowds rushing the door were gone. He could see a man out there now, in the light from the hallway, standing there, looking in. Harold. It was Harold, standing alone at the doorway, looking for them.

Fusco started to raise his head, to warn Harold. Get down! Get down! But he couldn't speak.

Harold had seen him lying in the pool of blood on the floor, and then his eyes found someone else on the floor beyond him. Shaw. And then Harold's eyes looked to the side. Fusco remembered hearing footsteps, uneven footsteps, running. Reese.

He wondered what Harold was thinking, when he saw Kara Stanton taking aim at him. Fusco had turned his head when he saw Harold stop, mid-step, in the hallway. He saw her little smile, a small moment of triumph that she let herself have, before she squeezed the trigger. She hadn't noticed the blur from the side. Reese had gotten there just as she started to fire. A human shield in front of Harold. Fusco could see the muzzle flash in the darkness. He turned over, and raised his gun, struggling for breath, his hand as steady as he could make it.

The shot at Kara Stanton was his first, but the most difficult, just a narrow line of sight past Martine, who was blocking his shot. Kara had gone to her knee, bent forward, her gun skidding away on the hard floor.

Martine had spun his way, her gun in front, aimed at his head. Just one chance. He fired, and she did, too, a split-second later.

Blood ran down her neck, and she reached up with her right hand to stop the flow. She saw Fusco getting ready for another shot. She'd missed him with hers. In desperation, she kicked out with her boot and caught him across the eyes. Her kick threw him back. His eyes. He couldn't see to shoot again.

The next thing he knew, he was waking up on the floor, and he could breathe again. His head hurt, and his chest was on fire. He tried to open his eyes, but the left one was stuck closed. He raised his head and looked around in the darkness with the right eye. Root was kneeling next to Shaw, who was sitting on the floor nearby. He swung his head around, and there was Harold, on his knees next to Reese by the doorway. Reese wasn't moving.

Fusco rolled up to his knees, and then pushed himself up. The officer who had been the first one hit was there at his feet. He could tell by the color of his skin that he was gone, but he reached down and felt for a pulse anyway. Nothing. And the skin was already cool under his fingertips. Fusco shook his head. Never had a chance, poor bastard. They'd come in firing, and there was no cover where the two of them were standing. His vest had saved his life.

He walked over to Harold and Reese. Reese was starting to move on the floor. Harold was calling his name, his face strained, and his hands were shaking when he reached out to keep Reese from trying to sit up. Fusco didn't see blood anywhere, but as he got closer he could see metal reflecting the light from all the sparks falling. With his good eye, he could see the ends of metal casings buried in the layers of Reese's vest.

Reese on the floor like that, and Shaw, too – it reminded him of the two of them in the basement of the hair salon in Queens, when he'd found them after the Zheng had beaten the hell out of them. What was it, with the two of them? Never far from trouble.

He'd leaned down, over Harold's shoulder, as Reese was looking up at the two of them. Fusco couldn't help himself:

"Well, at least I don't have to call 9-1-1 this time. You're already in the hospital."