An "officer down" call is the one thing no officer wants to hear over the radio.

"Good to see ya back out here, Malloy. Ain't been the same without you."

The red-haired officer grinned, buttoning his shirt over his vest. "Good to be back. I've been goin' crazy at home."

"I know the feelin'." O'Shea said. "How's Turner doing, anyway?"

"He's gettin' better. Doc says he'll be clear for duty at the end of the week."

"Good for him. Always fun to have the rookies come back to visit."

Both officers chuckled. O'Shea worked the slide of his duty gun, grinning slightly at the metallic click of a bullet racking into the chamber. "You up for a round or two after shift? Sort of a, "welcome home" celebration."

"The usual place, right?"

"Aye, the same. Best Guinness in the City right there."

"You drink too much, Andy."

O'Shea shrugged. "What's an Irishman's son supposed to do? Drink water?"

"Good point." Malloy admitted as he fastened the buckle of his gunbelt. "Think we'll need our batons today?"

"More'n bloody likely. Scuttlebutt has it that Lieu wants us to be 'pro-active' today, whatever the hell that means."

Malloy snorted. "Wonderful. First day back and we get to go out and shake down dealers. 'Welcome back, Malloy, hope you're ready for a rough day.' "

"Aye. Hustle up, mate, we'll be late for roll."

A pair of old friends walked easily down 110th Street, gleaming silver shields adorning the front of their hats and jackets. Old-style batons swung with the rhythm of their footsteps, keeping time as precisely as a metronome. People smiled or nodded as the pair strolled past, recognising the gait and manner of two tried-and-tested cops.

"I've missed the foot beat since they saddled me with a new partner. Breakin' in rookies sure isn't my idea of 'good use of experience'." Malloy said, pausing to touch the brim of his hat as an elderly lady passed him. "I'd rather be out walkin' the old circuit with a guy I know has my back."

O'Shea blushed slightly. "Aw, whaddaya doin' that for, makin' an Irishman go red in his face?"

"What, you don't miss the old days yourself?"

"Aye, I do, but there's no need makin' an old lad's cheeks as red as the freckles on your face."

Malloy grinned. "You're only jealous you haven't any freckles of your own. Must be the Yankee in you. Your pa's got so many it's hard to tell when he's blushin' or not!"

"Go on, you. May the devil sit on your head!" O'Shea teased. "It's big enough!"

"You're one to talk, me old mate. At least one of us can admit it."

Sensing his friend's moment of victory, O'Shea bowed in mock surrender. "Well-said, young master. What shall your pleasure be?"

"Just a coffee down on the corner. You're a big fraud, O'Shea."

"At least one of us can admit it."

"Cheater!"

"A lie, sir, a lie!" O'Shea raised his right hand, index finger pointing skyward, his face perfectly straight. "The Irish never cheat." His blank expression held for a second or two, then cracked. Both officers shared a burst of laughter that turned heads their way.

"Good to have ya back walkin' the beat, Malloy. Ain't the same without the Irish duo out keepin' the Yanks in line."

Marine Gunnery Sergeant Staples nodded curtly at the detectives waiting for him on the station house side of the lockup desk, wordlessly retrieving his fore-and-aft cap, wallet, and keys from the guard. He paused to look both detectives in the eye as he descended the three steps leading toward the bustling main floor of the station house.

"Stay out of trouble, Gunny," Wickes said.

"And watch out forFive-Five David." Asheby added.

Staples turned back, his heels clicking together. "Yes sir." The Marine nodded once, then relaxed and turned smartly on his heel.

Wickes shook his head at Staples' back as the other man picked his way across the house toward the door. "There goes one of the most squared-away jarheads I've had the pleasure of meeting."

"I'm sure you've met quite a few, too."

"Yeah, what can I say? The guys in my unit were the same way."

"Huh! You Marines always stick together."

"Why not? With Army children like you around, it's only smart to huddle up."

Asheby pressed a palm to his chest as though wounded. "Oh, the agony. Touché, D'Artangon." He grinned. "Seriously, though, I respect you Marines. I wasn't tough enough for the Corps."

"Whoa, hold on, there! A soldier admitting he respects Marines? Now I have heard it all!"

"Malloy's back."

Bosco shifted the cruiser into park and unbuckled. "Already? He got whiplash from the accident, I thought."

"He's clear for duty and working this shift today." Faith replied, already out of the vehicle. "His old partner is pulling a double to walk the beat with him."

"There's dedication for you."

"Really. They were partners almost since they started, I think. Must be nice."

"What, to have worked together for so long?"

"No, to take a double just to work one shift with an old friend and partner."

The pair walked up the sidewalk toward the coffee shop they frequented. There were already familiar faces inside, lined up along the counter. Faith paused before pushing open the door to look over at Bosco.

"Would you do something like that?"

He stopped, confused by the question. "Do something like what?"

"Take a double just to work one shift with your partner. Would you?"

His eyes searched for a clue in her face, something that would suggest to him how to answer. There was nothing and he floundered for a plausible response. "Why?" The sheer pathetic delivery of the question was nothing but a reflex, an ingrained reaction to anything that even hinted at getting too personal.

Faith bit her lower lip and glanced down at the ground. She'd expected an answer like that. Why she even bothered sometimes was beyond her. It stung that he couldn't, for once, give her a straight answer and not some baloney run-around. Serves me right for asking in the first place. As she pushed the door inward, triggering the merry jingle of the bell over the threshold, she looked at him again. "Because I would."

Bosco remained frozen on the sidewalk as the door swung shut. Because I would. Of course she would. That was the type of person she was. Once again, she'd shown him precisely how big a fool he was. Why? What the hell kind of answer was that to the loaded question she had thrown at him? For once, why couldn't he simply say something that wasn't utterly moronic? He scowled to himself and shoved through the coffee shop door, more irritated at himself than he'd been in awhile.

So much for a good day.

"Hey, the Irish duo returns!"

Malloy and O'Shea grinned at the officer manning the desk as they marched a prisoner up. "Aye, and with a vengeance."

"Good. Been too quiet without you two roaming around and keeping the peace."

"I knew we were missed. Not many of the old guard are still around to help out, so someone's gotta do it."

The guard smiled and nodded. "True. What would you like, sir? We have a very nice single room available with a lovely view of the street. First night stay is complimentary, of course."

"Of course."

All three officers chuckled. The guard signed the log and slid the book across the desk for Malloy to sign as well. Whilst Malloy led the sullen-faced drunk to his cell, O'Shea descended the steps to the chaos of the detectives' area and claimed an empty desk to start knocking off some paperwork. Always the bane of a street officer's existence, reports were the most hated and neglected aspect of the job. O'Shea settled into the cracked leather chair, leaning back a bit to cause the springs to squeak in protest. With a slight, amused grin, he fished a pen from the desk drawer and shuffled through the forms he had grabbed from the desk sergeant. First up, arrest report. Always the most fun.

"Hey, O'Shea. You gonna be here awhile?"

"Aye, for a bit. Somebody's gotta write these bloody things up."

Malloy flashed his old friend a grin. "Make sure you keep those out, I'll need 'em to remember what happened."

"Go on, you." O'Shea shook his head. "I'll not be long. Meetcha down in front of McCray's."

"The old market down on 110th?"

"Aye, that's the one. About fifteen minutes or so, I think."

"That all? You've gotten pretty good at that paperwork thing. Sure you don't want to try for sergeant?" Malloy laughed and ducked the crumpled paper ball that O'Shea chucked across the busy station house floor.

"Hey! Keep the paper on the desk where it belongs!" The desk sergeant called.

"That's me cue, be seein' you later, then."

"Aye. Watch for traffic."

"Yes Mother."

"And don't talk to strangers!"

The detectives who weren't on the phone joined O'Shea in a chuckle as Malloy beat a hasty retreat from the station house. With a twinkle in his eye for the first time in too long, the patrol officer swivelled the chair back around and bent over the reports on the desk.

Uncomfortable silence filled the air inside the cruiser as it travelled down 116th Street, moving with the ebb and flow of traffic. Faith kept her gaze out the passenger window, stubbornly ignoring the occasional glance from her partner. There was little to be said, she thought, that had not already been said. She couldn't wait for the shift to be over so she could go home to her kids and Fred. Please stop looking at me, Bosco. She thought, irritated, aware that he was judging her mood, waiting for the right moment to break the silence.

"Yokas."

There he goes. She didn't bother to respond. Let him stew on it a little.

Bosco let out a heavy sigh and adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. "Look, what I said earlier, it wasn't what I meant to say. It was – "

"Dumb?" Faith finished for him. "You're damn right it was. You always do that. I ask you something that's even remotely personal and you clam right up. It gets old real fast, Bosco, talking about stuff and you not able to open up back."

"And you think I don't try? It's not easy!"

"It's not supposed to be! If it was, every Tom, Dick, and Harry would be spilling their guts to us. It takes trust, it takes a good friend to feel comfortable enough for that. Why do you think – oh never mind. I don't know why I bother."

"What? Why do I think what?"

"Forget it, it's not worth it."

"Fine."

Silence crept over the vehicle again, even more tense and clinging than before. Faith was annoyed at herself for even trying to explain trust to Bosco. The guy didn't trust anyone but himself when it came down to it. In a way, she couldn't fault that. All his life, he'd only had himself to rely on. Why change now, even though there were people he could trust and rely on?

"Bosco – "

The radio crackled to life with the dispatcher's strained voice. Both officers' faces went chalk-white and they locked eyes, a mutually terrified and shocked glance passing from one to the other. Faith reached at once for the console between the seats whilst her partner leaned heavily on the gas. Over the radio, the dispatcher tersely repeated the grim message, causing Bosco's foot to press down more on the gas pedal.

"All units of the Five-Five. 10-13, 10-13, corner of 1st and 110th. Shots fired. Officer down, repeat, officer down."

Every radio in the station house came alive at the same moment with the grim message. All movement came to a halt as people paused to listen in disbelief. No one spoke for long seconds after the dispatcher finished speaking, too numbed to comprehend what just been said. Then, from a desk in the detectives' corner of the station house, a quavering, accented voice shattered the stillness.

"Malloy!" A dark-haired officer leapt to his feet, the reports he had been writing forgotten. He grabbed his hat, vaulted over the railing that ran along the raised section of the house, and hit the floor running. People moved aside to let him through. Nobody who knew him had ever seen him that wild-eyed. It was best to get out of his way.

"Five-Five Edward Foot, 1st and 110th. ETA as fast as I can bloody well run!"

"Ten-four, Eddie Foot."

Five-FiveDavid bumped roughly over the curb and braked to a hard stop. Its two occupants bounded out of the vehicle at once. There was no time to waste. The two officers approached the scene swiftly, white-knuckled fingers gripped around their weapons. More backup was on the way but they couldn't wait. They were Malloy's only hope.

"Malloy!"

The crowd of people around the scene was astonishing. Breathless, stunned silence hung over the spot as the pair shoved their way through. People stepped aside to let them through. A disbelieving voice cried out, "He stopped two guys… they were talking, just fine… then…they just shot him!"

"Malloy!" Faith holstered her gun as she ran to the downed officer's side. "Luke!"

The man's eyes fluttered. "That you, O'Shea?"

"It's Yokas. Hang in there, Luke. Help's coming."

"It went through my vest! Stopped the first one but not the second. Bastards aimed dead on! How bad is it?"

Faith didn't dare look at the source of the crimson pool growing on the concrete. "You'll be fine. Stay with me, Luke."

"Tell me! Don't lie to me. O'Shea!" He tore at his side, at the Velcro straps that held his vest together. "Help me! Get it off! Get it off!"

"Luke, relax!" Faith grabbed his hand and squeezed it. "You're gonna be okay."

The other officer's chest heaved and more blood pumped around his hand as he pressed it against the wound. There was no colour left in his cheeks. His grip on her right hand was strong even though he fought to stay alive. She felt time slow down as she watched the other officer slowly bleed out in front of her. With her free hand, she pressed down on the wound. Maybe if she applied enough direct pressure, the bleeding would stop. The eyes of the crowd were fixed on them, a pair of nameless officers, one fighting valiantly to live and the other urging him to hang on.

"Help me! Please, help me." Malloy begged. "O'Shea! Where's my partner?"

"It's Yokas, O'Shea is on his way. Just calm down. Stay with me, Luke. You're gonna be okay."

Malloy's brown eyes were wild. "Yokas. I saw them. I saw them…" He gagged and gasped. "O'Shea!"

"Bosco, where's that bus?"

"55 David to Central, where in the hell is that bus?"

"Hold on Luke."

"Bus is two minutes out." Her partner said, standing back, unable to help and frustrated because of that.

"O'Shea!"

Faith could feel Malloy's blood pulsing around her fingers. It was a bad wound. The bullet had gone in right in the centre of his chest. There was so much blood. It had to have nicked an artery or his heart. Malloy closed his eyes and let out a gasping breath. His chest rose and fell frantically as he struggled to breathe. Sirens were drawing closer by the second, but too far away still. They would be very lucky to make it in time.

"Hang in there, Luke." Faith said, tightening her grip on his hand. Somehow, she knew he was slipping away. "They're almost here. Don't go to sleep. Talk to me!"

"Yokas… tell 'em I… tell 'em… I don't want to die!" Malloy grabbed the collar of her shirt and pulled her close. "Tell 'em for me… you have to." Tears, helpless tears, streamed down his face as his fingers dug into hers. "Promise me, Yokas! Tell 'em all… they need to know! Please!"

She blinked futilely, succeeding only in smearing tears across her eyelashes. Her ears barely registered the sirens that were wailing so close. Boots were pounding across the sidewalk to them. Probably the paramedics. They were there, shoving her away, breaking Malloy's grip on her shirt and hand. Malloy's desperate, rasping voice came again as he grabbed wildly for her jacket sleeve.

"No! Don't, Yokas! Don't leave me alone! I don't want to… Andy!" His strained features froze, his gasping breaths ceased. The strength of his grip on her sleeve eased and his hand fell away. She saw it in slow motion, dropping to the ground to lay there, unmoving.

"No." Faith bowed her head low, her tears bitter and angry. Each heavy drop rolled lazily down her nose to fall and splash against Malloy's colourless face. She couldn't stop the choked sobs that rose from somewhere deep inside. Her face felt numb from the river of tears. Nothing was real, nothing was important. Nothing but the guilt and the grief. His last desperate plea echoed endlessly in her ears, the same final request she would beg of the officer who was there, by her side, were she to lay there as he had. She would tell them.

"Faith?" Her partner's hands were on her shoulders, his voice low and gentle. "The detectives are here."

"He's gone." She whispered, lifting her face to look at him. "He's gone."

Bosco's features reflected his sorrow and concern. "Come on, Faith. Let's go."

Faith lowered her gaze to Malloy's unseeing eyes. She reached over and gently smoothed his eyelids closed. "Okay."