Two

Cheryl pulled in a deep breath, locking her knees to stop their shaking. "That would make you a murderer."

The grin flashed again, more broadly this time. "Perhaps you should arrest my dog then, no? But - um…" the grin grew to include another chuckle. "I don' think he will go peacefully. He has a temper, has Mijo."

Cheryl forced her eyes not to wander to the bulky shadow, crouched just out of her line of vision. "I think I could make that work as assault with a deadly weapon."

"Or maybe I could complain of trespassing. Mijo protects my property from night prowlers. What do you think, amigo - were you trespassing?" Like lightning, his hand shot down and grasped Steve's collar, yanked him into sitting position so that he bounced against the crumbling stack of pipes. The darker blotch that represented the gun stayed firmly thrust against his neck. Steve didn't gasp this time - the only sound he made was a wet, struggling wheeze, like a damaged bellows.

Cheryl could see the faint light reflect whitely off of the puddling wetness that drenched Steve's front and her brain sang in her skull.

Stop it, Cheryl, she ordered herself. Steve needs your courage and cool head, not your sympathy.

She forced her eyes to stay fixed on the shadow with the gun, her ears straining for the sound of a siren. "Doesn't matter," she managed in a voice that was only a little breathless. "You know he's a cop now and you're standing by and letting him bleed. That makes you an accessory after the fact and, if he bleeds to death, a cop killer. That gets you the death penalty."

"Hm…" the figure shifted, the gun nudging with seeming nonchalance at Steve's neck. Cheryl didn't fool herself for a minute that there was anything casual about it - she knew he was using brutalizing Steve as a means to unnerve her. Problem was, it was working. "Of course, there would have to be someone to say that this is what happened, no? And maybe there won't be anyone."

Cheryl tightened her muscles. "There's me."

"Sí …" the thoughtful tone was underlined with mockery. "But then, maybe I shoot him, and Mijo panics and attacks you. This gun - it is a - what do you call it? Import?" The white teeth flashed again, "Sí . A import. Very faulty trigger, these imports - it goes off sometimes with the smallest twitch, and my finger is getting tired. Or maybe I shoot you, and Mijo finishes making a snack of your friend. Yes, I think that would be better. I hate to see what Mijo could do to a pretty woman. A few bullets are much cleaner."

Cheryl heard the dog's chain rattle warningly and stiffened her neck until it ached to keep from turning her head to check on him. "Of course, in the meantime, maybe I'll shoot you too," she suggested.

"Maybe." The shadowy head bobbed in agreement. "We would just have to see, hm? But either way, I think he is a goner, yes?"

Cheryl could see a dark glimpse of movement shoot out at just above ground level, heard the dull, sodden impact of a boot heel somewhere around Steve's arm, Steve's shout of pain, cut short by a snapping cough.

"And I don' think that's what you want. I'm right, yes?" The mock friendliness of the voice was threaded with anger now, challenge.

"No. I don't want that." Cheryl wished she could wipe her hands on her slacks and get rid of some of the clamminess that drenched them. "And I don't think that that's best for you, either. Don't forget, there are cops on the way. I called this in. We can't just disappear. It's all about damage control now. It doesn't have to mean a lethal injection for you."

There was a pause. "They're very slow, your friends the cops," he suggested at last.

Tell me about it. "But they'll get here. You don't want them to find a dead cop. Cooperation will look good for you."

"Ah. Cooperation." The voice was very serious this time, but Cheryl still got the impression that he was laughing at her. "So you would like me to…? What?"

Cheryl sipped in another breath. "At least let me bandage him - try and stop the bleeding."

The figure seemed to consider this, the gun muzzle digging warningly at the hollow where Steve's jaw met his neck. "Sí," he said at last.

Cheryl felt the breath whoosh out of her lungs in relief.

"Of course," the voice continued musingly, the white flash glimmering again, "that will mean putting down your gun."

Cheryl swore inwardly, clenching her teeth. "You do it, then."

"Hm." The voice was reflective. "But you see, that would mean ME putting down MY gun. So, no, amiga. I do not think so."

"We can't just stand here and watch him bleed to death!" It wasn't anything that she had wanted to say, it had sprung from her unbidden, but it was too late to take it back and the slow, sighing sound of Steve's breath as he struggled against blood loss was picking away at her resolve. How long could somebody last like this without dying of shock? How would she feel when all this was over if she just stood here, helpless, and let Steve die?

The shadowy shrug repeated itself. "So. Put down your gun and see to him. I will not shoot you if you do. I promise."

Cheryl hesitated. It was a possibility. She could do that. He would make them both hostages, of course, but at least she would be able to look out for Steve, to prolong his life until help got here. It was a calculated risk, but worth it if it saved them both in the end. Or maybe she could even convince him to trade her for Steve as a hostage. A wounded man could become a burden, if he wanted to make a deal to flee. On the other hand, Steve's condition made dealing with the man urgent in a way that a healthy hostage like herself could not. Or he might decide to shoot Steve then and there and make do with her…she hesitated, frozen by indecision.

"Sergeant."

The voice was so faint that she would have missed it if she hadn't been unconsciously waiting, hoping for some sign from him. She saw the man with the gun stiffen, licked her lips.

"Hit…in…jurrr…" The words dragged themselves out so painfully that Cheryl had to swallow a sob of protest.

She tightened her grip on her gun, her head spinning, trying to understand. Steve never mentioned the difference in their rank - ever. He always addressed her by the more neutral title of detective. So he was trying to get her attention, to tell her something important. Hit..hit what? Hit in…

The sky was growing somewhat lighter, the shadows greying, and she could make out more than an outline of her opponent, could catch the faint shine of Steve's eyes in the minimal light, telling her that he was watching her, willing her to understand him. Hit…in…gyer…oh. She felt tears spring to the corners of her eyes. Hettinger.

Karl Hettinger had been an LA police officer who had given up his gun to save his threatened partner's life. The situation had ended disastrously, and standard LAPD procedure from then on had dictated that an officer would never, NEVER surrender their firearm in a hostage situation.

Cheryl blinked fiercely at the moisture clouding her vision. Well, I know just how you must have felt, Hettinger. What were you supposed to do - just stand there and watch him be killed? But that had happened anyway. Hettinger's partner had been murdered before his eyes and it was only through a fluke of fate that Hettinger hadn't joined him in an early grave. That's what Steve was trying to tell her. To remind her. God damn you, Sloan, don't be such a hero. I'm trying to save your life here.

But nobody's life would be saved that way. She needed to remember that. And if he could half kill himself to try to remind her, then the least she could do was not let him down. Determined now, she tightened her grip on her gun and renewed her focus on the ever-clearer figure before her.

Her opponent must have noticed the change in her resolve, must have understood the cause, because he spit some swear words that she couldn't recognize under his breath and thrust his gun barrel forward in a brutal jab. There was a sickening crack as it rebounded off of Steve's skull, a sharp, warning bark from the vigilant dog, a rush of movement.

It was only the briefest of seconds that his attention was on Steve and not her, but she took full advantage of it: This one's for you, Steve, she thought, and swung and pulled the trigger.

There was a yelp, and a thump of flesh flattening along the ground. The narrow dark eyes, which she could just make out now, swung back to her immediately, but she already had her gun aimed and back in place. Except for the drag of Steve's slowing breathing, all was silent.

"That was not well done, Guapa," murmured her opponent reproachfully, yanking Steve back into sitting position with one hand on his collar while repositioning the barrel of the gun tightly against his bleeding temple with the other. "That dog cost me a lot of money. And he never did anything to you."

"I like to think of it as evening the odds." Cheryl was surprised by how hard it was to catch her breath, but at least her voice sounded cold and steady. "Now maybe we can deal."

TBC