A/N: I'm posting a little early this week because I have to leave town and I'm not too sure about the Internet connections where I'm going. Besides - I know I left it in a really bad spot - thanks for your patience. J Hope everyone whose celebrating The Fourth has a safe and enjoyable holiday.

Chapter 14

The curb, probably, was what saved his life: the front wheels bumped up over it, slowing the car's momentum just enough to ameliorate the impact. He belatedly tried to jump, a wavering lurch that was more of a fall, and felt himself slide upward the length of the hood, felt the safety glass of the windshield give with a crunch as his back rammed against it, felt the bounce that sent him corckscrewing off again, the sky disappearing and reappearing in flashes of sickening sequence, finally tossing him to the pavement so that he careened across it like an askew slide to home plate. When his long slide finally came to a halt he lay still for a moment, the sky and asphalt still switching places so rapidly that he couldn't have said for sure that he wasn't still in motion. It was the faint, electric sting in his palms and cheek where they were pressed against parking lot that finally tugged at his consciousness and he tried to push himself up, hissing ferociously at the fire that erupted in his hands. Damn. Hunching, bracing his forehead against the tarmac, he tried his forearms instead. He made it halfway up, his back heaving like a bellows, before dropping down flat again. Maybe he'd just stay here until…until…

He heard the screamer start up again, wanted to press his hands over his ears and block her out, but old habits die hard and he instinctively forced his eyes open to slits to check for trouble. Huh. Didn't the world used to be in color…? The ground was heaving underneath him now and he longed to close his eyes again until it stopped, but he became vaguely aware of a loud humming noise, like the approach of an over-sized hornet, the high-pitched squeal of rubber under stress, and opened them further instead.

What…? He wasn't - ? Sure enough, Brian Fuller was wheeling his sedan for another approach. Was he crazy? Vehicular homicide on a cop in broad daylight? In front of witnesses…?

He rolled awkwardly onto one shoulder, clutching at the pavement for balance, blinking to clear his vision. Then he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of one eye and his heart crowded into his throat: the blurry figure of the screamer running towards him as if to help him up.

No - he managed an unspecific wave in her direction to signal her back. Sucking in what breath he could, he choked out, "911! Officer in trouble!", then collapsed in an explosion of coughing. Oh, this was not good…

He curled into a ball, trying to pull in slow breaths, blinking at the black spots that danced across his vision, even behind his eyelids. Enough, enough, Sloan - get up, get moving…Breathing hard, he forced himself onto his back and up on his elbows, tried to place himself and take stock. Damn, this place was full of innocent bystanders. All he needed -

The sound of Brian's engine rose to a roar and he glanced hastily over his shoulder, crabbing clumsily backward until he felt the side of the nearest car bump up against his shoulders. Stretching flat, he crammed himself underneath it. At least Fuller'd have to get out of the car to get to him under here. That would give him a minute to think and the girl some time to…he paused, puzzled, listening, then with his heart quickening in his ears. That car didn't seem to be slowing down. He wasn't going to…? Son of a -

He scrabbled forward wildly, groped frantically for the undercarriage of the car in front of the one he'd taken refuge under, swore again as his raw palms made painful contact with the metal of the muffler. Pushing himself forward with his heels, he managed to swing one arm around a rear tire and yank himself clear of the first car, just as, with a boom of impact and screech of tearing metal, it swung in a violent torque, ricocheting off of the car he was using as a shield so that it jumped against its shocks, rotating a few inches and caroming him off the inside of the tires. He coughed again, trying to snatch back his breath, grit his teeth until they ached, swallowing repeatedly to force his stomach back down out of his throat. Crap, that hurt.

He set his teeth on edge and listened, praying he could lie here for just a second and re-gather his energy. Come on, come on - that must have done some damage to something…Water pump? Engine? Something - that car can't be nearly as frisky, I don't care what kind of a crash frame it's got… heard the screaming spin of wheels, chewed his lower lip, hoping to distinguish direction. Fleeing, or…? Oh, God. Coming back for another try.

Pulling in one more staggered breath, he dragged himself out from under the car by his elbows, allowed himself just a moment to collect his wind, letting his head hang limply between his arms. You're just gonna have to suck it up this time, Sloan, because there's really no time for you to be sick here...

He rose as far as his knuckles and knees, struggled to the base of a nearby light pole tucked between two parked cars and collapsed into sitting position against it. He leaned his head back and tried to think. He was sure that Brian would not hesitate to ram the pole and crush him between it and the car, but he also knew he was going to have to come back around the other side to get a good head of steam to do it, and that would give him at least a heartbeat to come up with a plan of action.

He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to settle the jumping, wavering world, then opened them again, trying to look around and take stock. There weren't nearly enough cars in this parking lot to play a successful game of hide and seek, besides - he didn't have a whole lot of reserves left to play with. The spiderweb of cracks his body had left on the Crown Victoria's windshield had succeeded in impairing Brian's vision, making it almost as poor as his own, and that was buying him a few precious seconds. He needed to get someplace that the car couldn't follow. The stores were the safest bet, but Brian would almost certainly follow him over the curb, and that would risk any number of innocent shoppers. The parking lot was almost as bad - shoppers could arrive at any second and be crushed and killed in the melee. He needed some kind of cover, but far away from everybody else. An itch of moisture tickled his ear and he rubbed irritably at it with the back of his hand, made a face when he gleaned through his hazy vision that his hand was now smeared with red. That had better not be from his stitches, or Jesse was going to kill him. He heard the purring roar of an accelerating engine and winced. Always assuming that Brian Fuller didn't beat him to it.

*

Cheryl cursed quietly as she pulled onto the highway, glancing in her rearview mirror to see if the doctor was still following. He was. Of course.

That was what you got for partnering with a guy like Sloan - a coterie of trailing civilians and a bad case of perpetual heartburn: the guy just never seemed to know when to give up or back down. Her frown twisted into a faintly sardonic smile. She could never quite decide if that was the thing she loved most or hated most about him. Today she'd vote for hate. She turned on the police radio and reached for the microphone. Before she could call in her request, the speaker crackled.

"All units - 911 call from South Beach mall. Officer in trouble. Officer in trouble. Please respond."

Her smile disappeared. Officer in trouble. Of course there was. She thumbed the button on the mike. "Officer responding. ETA ten minutes. Over." Sloan, I'd better find you relaxing over a cup of coffee with Brian Fuller, or I'm going to - going to - She slammed down the microphone. Well, I don't know what - but I'll think of something. Slapping the cherry light onto the car roof she flicked on the siren and hammered her foot on the accelerator.

*

His eyes flew open, his heart trip hammering high and fast in his temples. He had been out - only for a second, but a second was more than he could afford. He could pass out later - now he needed to keep moving. Which was in itself pretty laughable, because his body felt as inert and immovable as stone. He heard the whine of an engine and coughed to coax his sluggish lungs back into action. Thanks, Brian - nothing like a little incentive…

He thought he spotted something across the parking lot - it was hard to be sure, the way it was shimmying like a mirage in the distance, but…he narrowed his eyes and concentrated until his head swam - almost smiled. A dumpster. Yeah. That'd do it. Now all he needed to do was get to it without becoming a hood ornament first. He braced his feet and tried to push himself upright, fell back almost as quickly with a ragged jounce that made sparks cluster in front of his eyes. He reached out to catch himself, remembered his hands too late, choked on a cry as his abraded palms ground into the tarmac. He had lost the energy to swear except in vague, unspoken, half-formed expletives - he didn't have the breath to waste on them anyway. He tipped forward onto his knees, looking for the Crown Victoria, listening hopefully for signs of a hitch in the engine. Damn thing sounded as hearty as ever. Was it indestructible? Where the heck did they get it, anyway - from Stephen King?

There was a small concrete divider a short ways off sporting three young trees - maybe four - he had to admit he couldn't be sure any more - and he blinked at it thoughtfully. That was the direction he wanted to go in…and those trees might slow Brian down a little. He was almost subconsciously aware of a pattern to Brian's attacks - they were systematic, consistent - not hurried. If he'd been in a little better shape, he probably would have been able to elude him by now. He listened carefully, could hear the engine humming in his direction, got ready to move. Not too soon - he didn't want to give Brian a chance to change course - needed him to kiss that light pole. Not too late, either, his brain warned him - your agility is not your most reliable quality right now. He saw the car skidding toward him, careening onto two wheels - God, David Fuller thought this car would make his son less reckless? - pushed himself into a sloppy football crouch. Don't panic, don't panic, just another second, just…oh, hell - what a time for that double vision thing to kick in - which one…? He took a chance and threw himself to the side at the last possible moment, must have misjudged slightly, because a sledgehammer blow exploded on his upper thigh and suddenly he was airborne, landing with a bone-jarring thump in another long skid across the pavement, plowing through the gravel on his side this time. He felt the knee of his jeans disintegrate under him and any remaining flesh on his palms peel away, heard the squealing of brakes as Brian Fuller tried to slow his momentum toward the light pole and the booming concussion of metal on metal as he didn't quite succeed.

He lay struggling to get up, to remain conscious, to remember how to breathe. The edges of everything were indistinct now, shrouded in a muffled grey. Sounds were far away, echoing, but he still made out the rumble of an engine being thrown into reverse. He struggled harder to rise, squirming unsuccessfully like a bug pinned to an examination board. He managed to lift his head and thought he saw the concrete island he had been hoping to reach not too far away. As he watched, it swung upside down so that the trees were rooted in the sky, swung back again, split into half a dozen trees. He dropped his head. Where the heck was his backup? If this was the average response time for a 911 call, then he was going to…if he survived, he was going to…he heard the engine rise to a whine and strained to force himself back to his knees. The leg that had glanced off the car gave way under him and he just stopped himself from hitting the pavement again, teetering precariously on one knee. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the black blur of movement that was Brian Fuller's car.

…if he survived, actually, he was going to have a heck of a lot of explaining to do. Because he had a sinking suspicion that this was exactly the kind of thing that fell under Jesse's heading of "derring-do".