Got you going with that last one, didn't I? Yes, I do ship Bosco and Faith, but not really. They're a great team but I don't see them together romantically. No, that last chapter was not a shipper chapter. What's the point of putting this whole thing together only to spoil it by deviating sharply from the norm I've tried to follow?

Now. That said, tighten your seatbelts.

Wickes and Asheby get a lead on the dealer behind the murders, and O'Shea, Bosco, and Faith start hunting down suspects.

The locker room was strangely silent as officers changed for work and to go home. There was nothing anyone could think of to say, the loss of a colleague in the line of duty was far too prominent in each mind. Andy O'Shea had come in for his shift as though it was just another day, but his façade was transparent. Swersky had tried to send him home. Instead of complying, the remaining half of the famous Irish duo volunteered to work two shifts – both that day and the next, with a strong possibility of the day after as well. His intentions were all too clear. He'd be on duty until the guys who killed his former partner were caught.

Bosco's eyes were on the blue stripes on O'Shea's sleeve as the older man buttoned up a clean shirt. Those hash marks meant more than a few years in uniform. To be honest, he was a little bit in awe of O'Shea's reputation. The stories abounded about O'Shea and Malloy, a pair of rough-and-tumble Irish cops who kept their beat as clean as if Saint Peter visited every day. If Bosco wanted to be like anybody in the precinct, it would be one of them.

"If you've got somethin' to say, say it, boy." O'Shea remarked as he hung up his dirty shirt in his locker. He didn't turn his head toward Bosco. "Won't take much t'all to get me takin' a swing at ya tonight, and starin' is a good way to go about it."

"I'm, I'm sorry about your partner." Bosco stammered, caught off-guard.

"Aye, you better be. You were there and did nothin' to help him."

"There was nothing I could have done!"

O'Shea slammed his locker shut, snarling something that Bosco didn't understand. The older officer stepped right up to him, his slightly crooked nose mere centimetres from Bosco's. "There's always something, you don't stand by while a fellow officer is lyin' in a puddle of his own blood and screamin' for your help!" His voice got louder with each word until he was shouting. "When a man is down, you do not just stand there and watch him die!"

The one or two officers still in the locker room quickly found reasons to leave. Bosco fought hard to keep himself from taking a step back, his ears ringing from O'Shea's high-decibel tirade. It was all he could do not to snap something back at the other man. O'Shea jabbed his chest sharply with his index finger, striking the Kevlar vest under Bosco's shirt.

"I've heard about your so-called reputation, boy, and I think it's garbage. You think you're the baddest Yankee to walk these streets, but you haven't got a bloody clue about how bad it gets out there and how tough you have to be to handle it. Standin' back and lettin' your partner comfort a lad cryin' and shoutin' for his partner don't make ya a man. Beatin' up blokes already in irons don't make ya a man." O'Shea shook his head, his voice now deadly quiet. "You gotta have the will to get up after fallin' half a story onto the roof of an RMP and walk over to the paramedics in their bus. You have to be on the losin' side of a brawl, watch your own blood be spilt, and still be fightin' like you got a chance even when there ain't, to know you're a man. And you ain't a man yet."

Bosco said nothing and O'Shea stepped away, his eyes as hard as stone. He watched the older cop fasten on his gunbelt and pick up his hat.

"You best stay outta me way tonight, boy. There's some cleanin' up to be done."

"You seen O'Shea tonight?"

"Only during roll call. Why?"

Bosco finished his walk around the RMP. "All the lights look good. He's got an attitude."

"Well, what do you expect? He just lost his partner."

"He read me the Riot Act in the locker room before roll call. Said I wasn't a man yet, and I'd best stay out of his way tonight." Bosco replied, shaking his head. "I don't know. He seems to be in a really bad mood."

"Then I guess you might want to heed his advice. He's not the sort of cop to mess with on a good day, so why cross him on a bad day?"

"Where does he get the nerve to say that I'm not a man yet, anyway?"

Faith sighed and got into the driver's seat. "Maybe because he's been through more than you or I have and has earned the privilege of passing judgement? I don't know Bosco. Can we just get through this shift without too much excitement?"

"As long as he stays out of my way tonight." Her partner retorted as he buckled himself in. "I still think he's out of line, sayin' that stuff."

"You would."

"What?"

"You would think someone was out of line to give you back the same attitude you give to the world. I don't know if you realise it or not, Bos, but O'Shea's got far more right to have a bad attitude than you do. He just lost his best friend."

"And what do you want me to do about that?"

"Your job would be a good place to start," she replied. "It certainly won't hurt to keep an eye on O'Shea either. There's no telling what he'll try to do tonight."

"Fine. Whatever."

Faith shook her head. It was never any use to argue.

"Coffee?"

Asheby nodded, not looking up from the phone log he was studying. "The big mug on my desk. Forget that little one. It's not nearly large enough."

"Yeah, definitely a three-cup-start day." Wickes filled the oversized plastic mug to the brim before topping off his own regular-size ceramic one. "Lieu wants these bastards dealt with fast. It's one thing to knock off a dealer or two. It's something else when a cop gets killed."

"That's for damn sure."

"Hey, Wickes. Got something here for you."

Wickes set down the coffee pot. "What's this?"

"Print report from the lab on those packets of Ecstasy you gave to Don." The third detective said. "The prints were only about five to six point matches, at best. Don said that the packaging must've been handled by the edges. Whoever's running this operation knows what's what."

"Great. Any hits on the prints? We need something to go on here."

"Don ran 'em through the system. The first set, this one, turned up four hits. The other one turned up seven." The third detective shrugged, looking apologetic. "Wish I could help you two out, but Lieu's got me and Harris runnin' down all the dealers who got outta Riker's on parole within the last two weeks. So far there are at least twelve."

"Sounds like fun. Good luck." Asheby said.

"Thanks. I'll do just about anything to bag these creeps. Shootin' a cop on the street don't go over well with me. Malloy was a good guy."

Asheby grabbed the folder from his partner's hands. "What do you say we start runnin' down these guys?"

"Get right on it. As soon as you're done, I want a call made to every major city with a bad gang problem. Boston, Philadelphia, Miami, Chicago, Seattle, Houston, everywhere. We need to know if this Big T has been a player anywhere else." The unit sergeant said. "I also want you two to canvass the neighbourhood where Malloy was shot and talk to all the witnesses again. It's important that we get as complete a picture of these bastards as we can. Do a photo line-up if you can, or bring in the sketch artist. I want these guys caught."

"Sure thing, Sarge. You gonna run down the numbers on that Beretta we picked up at the schoolyard?"

"Yeah, right after I file a status report on this mess with the Lieutenant. Any ideas on how to make 'no progress' sound good?"

The two detectives shook their heads. "Sorry, Sarge. We're busy."

"Sure you are. Good luck."

Wickes held up the pile of papers that his partner had pulled from the lab report folder. "Yeah, we're gonna need it."

He looked up the sidewalk toward the parked cruiser waiting for him at the end of the block. Yokas and her partner, whatever his name was. That Italian-sounding name. O'Shea was less than thrilled about meeting the pair. He had no problem with Yokas – if anything, he owed her for comforting Malloy in his last moments. But her partner… he was another matter. There would be difficulties if he didn't keep out of the way.

"Can I help you two?"

Yokas lifted a hand in greeting at O'Shea's approach. "We got a call from Lieu. Detectives want to talk to us about something. We're supposed to meet them back at the house right away."

"That so? Wonder if there's any news on the shooters." O'Shea commented. "Back at the house, eh? S'pose I'll meet ya there, then."

"Swersky said right away. I doubt there's time enough to walk back."

"And who asked you?"

Bosco bristled at the sneer in O'Shea's voice. "Hey, I don't have to take any – "

"Not now, Bosco. O'Shea, get in the back and shut up. I'm not in the mood to babysit anyone today."

The two men glared at each over the top of Yokas' head before O'Shea curled his lip and yanked open the door and folded himself into the cramped backseat.

"Men," Yokas muttered to herself as she manoeuvred the cruiser into traffic.

"Bingo."

"Whatcha got?"

Wickes replaced the phone receiver and grinned hugely. "We got a hit on our buddy Big T. I just finished speaking with Lieutenant Sanchez of the Los Angeles Police Department. Seems that Big T, otherwise known as Anthony Morris, was a big player out there for years. Until, all of a sudden, he disappeared. Vanished without a trace. There were one or two warrants out for him for dealing and armed robbery or something like that. I wouldn't be surprised if some jerk-off on the good old LAPD tipped him off. There's more dirty cops in that department than fleas on a dog."

"Prejudices aside, Dave, what'd Sanchez say?"

"You'll love this. Five years ago, Patrolman Anthony Morris was fired from the LAPD for selling drugs from his cruiser. He'd only been in uniform for two weeks and his Field Training Officer came back from getting a coffee to find his disciple in the process of counting out packets of Ecstasy to hand over to another guy."

Asheby whistled. "And they let him off without charges?"

"Guess taking away his shield was punishment enough. The only problem is, now there's an Academy-trained dealer loose on the streets. Heaven only knows why he decided to migrate here instead of going to Boston or Miami." Wickes handed over the notes he had taken. "Sanchez is faxing over everything they have on Morris. We should be getting the files within the next ten minutes or so. I suspect they want him desperately for prosecution."

"Only after we get done with him."

"Of course. Ah, look. Here come our three volunteers. Have a seat, if you please, Officers."

The newly-arrived trio traded quick, apprehensive glances as they sat down. Wickes rose to his feet. "I'm glad you're here. We've just received some very interesting news regarding our main suspect."

"The as-yet-unidentified dealer who's been calling the shots, I take it?"

"The same. He's proving very elusive of our efforts to corner him, and even learn about him. But help comes from the most unexpected of places. Our friend is known on the streets as Big T, but his real name is – "

"Anthony Gregory Morris, date-of-birth 5/17/73 in Los Angeles, California." Asheby interrupted, returning from the other side of the room with a sheaf of papers in his hand. "Shield number 3627. Two weeks on the job with the prestigious LAPD after graduating at the top of his class from the Academy. Their brightest student and biggest screw-up. There are three, count 'em, three, warrants outstanding in Los Angeles County for his arrest, one for shooting an officer who attempted to execute a separate warrant. The other two are for the sale of illegal narcotics and armed robbery. In short, this is one bad dude we're up against, and one who has no problems at all with shooting at the police. If at any point we were to move against this guy, we would have to let ESU take the point."

Wickes took the picture of Morris from his partner and held it up. "This is our guy. The mastermind, at any rate. We still don't know who the shooters are, in either case. The guys who whacked Benny are probably the same ones who did for Malloy, but since they left behind a gun at the first scene, ballistics won't make a bit of difference. We're waiting for the fingerprint report on the Beretta to come back from the lab, and from there we can put together a list of suspects."

"What do you need from us?" O'Shea asked.

"We need you to go knock on some doors for us. The fingerprints on the Ecstasy packets found near Staples' body turned up more than a few matches. We've already crossed several names off the list, but there are still at least seven candidates left."

Asheby took the picture from Wickes and tacked it up on the corkboard easel that had been rolled into the office. "What we know so far is this. Staples, Benny, Benny's friend, and Malloy were all killed within the limits of the Precinct. That means our shooters live or at least operate locally. However, each scene is far enough from the others that more than one person is involved." The detective indicated the red thumbtacks stuck into a map of Manhattan. Small slips of paper with the names of the victims written on them were pinned to the map under the tacks. Next to the corkboard easel, someone had set up a whiteboard. Pictures of the victims were taped up with short notes scribbled underneath each one. Asheby turned his attention to these. "At this point, we know that Benny, his buddy Carver, and Staples were all members of a drug ring under the leadership of Big T. It's more than likely, if not probable based on the information that Benny, Dominic, and others have given us, that the pair who killed Staples and the guys who shot Benny, Carver, and Malloy are members too. The group is called Dolphin, or something like that. It doesn't matter. What matters is the interesting fact that these killings – aside from Malloy – appear to be entirely within the gang. Whether or not it's some form of self-governing we're not sure. There's no way to find out until we get somebody to talk. All our usual informants have clammed right up."

"What about the guys who've dropped out of sight?"

"You mean your brother? It's been three days since he went to ground. I think it's getting hard to stay hidden without access to a steady supply of drugs. We'll be seeing him around again soon. Don't worry, we've got people watching for him and others."

Bosco didn't look convinced. "Let's hope so."

"I've a question about this Morris. If he's behind all this, why haven't we seen him around? He'd need to give orders somehow." Faith said.

"That's a good question. My guess is he uses runners to carry his orders around."

"Aye, maybe. But we can't do piss-all with guesses, though, can we?" O'Shea growled, folding his arms. "What can you tell us that we can use?"

Wickes rubbed both hands over his face. "Not much. All we really have is bits and pieces. There's nothing solid we can build a case on. Not until we get reports back from the lab and get more people talking."

"Here's a list of the skels whose prints were matched by the lab. Good luck."

O'Shea snatched the paper from Asheby without a word and stalked out of the station. Wickes shook his head.

"Poor guy. He wants somebody to take the rap for this, and there's nobody."

"Not yet, anyway." His partner added.

"All the same. Keep an eye on him, you two. It's been years since I've seen him that angry." Wickes said. "He's gonna get himself into trouble."

The well-polished dark oak of his baton reflected the dim lights of the hallway as he raised the weapon to thump it forcefully against the cheap plywood door that stood between him and the bastard who was named in the print report. This one better have something worthwhile to say, unlike the last two. Complete wastes of his time, those two. He hated wasting his time.

"NYPD, open the bloody door."

There was a click from the other side as somebody unfastened the lock. "We ain't done nothin'."

"Bull– " O'Shea shoved against the door, forcing it open. "I'm lookin' for Adam Seavey. Where is he?"

Something around the corner moved and O'Shea was on it in a flash, but still half a second too late. Feet clattering down the metal fire escape told him that his intended quarry was making a run for it. At once, the officer tucked himself through the window and clattered down the steps after him.

"Stop, police!"

People dove out of the way of the pair. Seavey was running for all he was worth, keeping well ahead of the officer chasing him.

"Five-Five Edward Foot to Central, in foot pursuit of a suspect, heading south on Madison."

"Ten-four, Eddie Foot."

"Five-Five David responding. South on Madison."

Dammit! What were they doing? This was his collar!

"Five-Five Charlie responding. We're right on 116th."

O'Shea darted around a cab that had slammed on its brakes to avoid hitting Seavey. The cabbie leant out his window, shouting in frustration. His profane protests at the unexpected interruption of his day went unnoticed. There were more important matters at hand. Seavey glanced quickly over his shoulder. O'Shea was still hard on his heels, not gaining but not falling behind either.

"Stop!"

The skinny little punk pushed past a fruit vendor, scattering the man's armload of bananas all over the street. Approaching sirens drowned out the man's angry yelling. O'Shea shoved past the vendor as the man attempted to retrieve a banana bunch and stepped squarely on one of the crescent-shaped bunches, smashing it flat and squirting banana mush all over the sidewalk. He raced on, oblivious to the mess he left behind.

"Five-Five Eddie Footto Central, now heading east on 116th."

"Ten-four."

He was running out of breath fast. No way he could keep this up much longer. An RMP barrelled around the corner, going in the opposite direction. It was Yokas and Boscorelli. The cruiser was half-way down the block before it was able to pull into a tire-squealing U-turn. Seavey was already heading down 110th as fast as his legs would carry him, the rapidly tiring O'Shea still doggedly chasing him.

All at once, Seavey disappeared. O'Shea sprinted on for a few more yards before coming to a halt in disbelief. What the hell! He had been right in front of him, in full view. Then a group of chattering tourists had crossed between them and Seavey had vanished. It wasn't possible.

"Damn and bloody hell!" O'Shea hammered his baton into the side of a trashcan, his chest heaving. He looked up and down the street but didn't see his quarry anywhere. And where were those two RMPs, anyway? Weren't they following him?

All at once, a tingle rippled down his spine. Something unpleasant was about to happen. His instincts kicked in hard as he sensed movement behind him. Don't look, don't look, that'll tip 'em off. He tightened his grip on his baton and brought it up and around in a tight swing, letting the momentum of the motion turn him toward the threat behind him. The end of the weapon struck its target in the chest, knocking the man aside. As the first assailant fell, three more appeared out of the crowd. O'Shea worked his wrist around in a circle, twirling the baton expertly. He squared himself for the attack that was coming in the form of a baseball bat.

"C'mon, lads, let's see what ya got!"

"Eat this, pig!" The thug with the bat snarled, swinging the weapon with both hands. O'Shea sidestepped and drove the point of his baton into the man's stomach. As the thug folded around the baton, O'Shea slammed his left elbow into the small of his back. Two down, two to go. They rushed him, arms spread wide to prevent him dodging again. The Irishman tensed for the impact as he swung his baton at the thug on the left. Either way, they're gonna hit me. His target went down under the strike, but his companion ploughed into the officer. What little wind had returned to his lungs was knocked away again in the blink of an eye as he hit the sidewalk.

"Get the baton!"

O'Shea headbutted the thug who'd tackled him, stunning both him and the thug. The thug's eyes crossed and he flopped to the side, allowing the officer to stand. Stars were bursting across his vision as he staggered to his feet. That was bright. The other three were back on their feet and moving in on him. If they got his baton, he'd be in trouble. There were few options left.

"10-13, 10-13, 110th and Park!" O'Shea cried, wishing the bells would stop ringing in his ears.

"C'mon, pig, let's see what you got!"

He saw them closing in and he knew he was in trouble. His baton came up, but he was outnumbered. Somebody howled as the oak baton cracked against bone, but there was no driving them off this time. All he could do was defend. He would never run.

One of them moved suddenly to the side and he couldn't react fast enough. Several hands seized his baton. In the brief, furious struggle for the weapon, O'Shea was forced toward an alley, away from the street. The worst place to go, but what could he do? One of the thugs got behind the officer and wrapped one arm around his neck. The battle for the baton was quickly over and the victors hauled their prize into the shadows.

Without his baton, O'Shea was all but defenceless. He took the first blow in the ribs and gagged. The next one dropped him to his knees. As the thugs took turns with the baton, the officer did his best to fight back. His efforts were rewarded with a hard crack on the ribs and a thug pinning his arms behind his back.

"What do you say, pig? Ain't so tough now?"

"Get his gun."

Oh yeah, his gun. How could he have forgotten that he was carrying it? Stupid! O'Shea spat out a crimson-tinged wad of phlegm at the feet of the thug in front of him, the one now holding his gun. He received a blow to the backs of his knees for his boldness, and he couldn't stay on his feet anymore. The thug holding O'Shea's gun sneered and drew out his own as well.

"Are ya sure you know how to use those?"

The skel smirked, studying the police weapon carefully. "I got a licence."

"Oh really? I bet you got a freebie on that, then."

"You wanna find out?"

O'Shea glared up at the thug, terrified but determined not to show it. "You ain't gonna use that."

"Yeah?" The thug pointed his personal gun at the ground and fired one round. Despite himself, O'Shea started at the loud report. The muzzle of the police-issue gun was cool against the beads of sweat on his forehead. "You willin' to bet on that?"

"Aye. You won't pull the trigger again." The officer stared straight ahead, praying that if this was the end of his watch, someone would look after his kids.

"And how do you know that?"

"Because if you do, there will be a bullet in you too." A new voice said.

Everyone froze. O'Shea forced himself to look over the thug's shoulder at the source of the voice. Relief flooded through him, washing away his terror. Yokas and Boscorelli. It was Yokas who'd spoken. Her gun was levelled at the thug's back, in line with his shoulder blades. One wrong move from him and he'd have a round in his spine.

"Drop the guns. Do it now."

Boscorelli moved in quickly, his own gun covering the other three skels. He knelt to pick up O'Shea's sidearm from where it had been placed and tucked the weapon into his jacket pocket, then kicked the other gun out of reach. "Back against the wall. All of you. I want to see your hands."

"Let's see 'em now!" Yokas barked, giving the thug who'd had O'Shea's gun a hearty shove toward his cronies. The Irishman let himself collapse onto his back, hurting everywhere and bleeding from his nose and mouth. He was definitely getting too old for this. Twenty-three years ago, he would have already been back on his feet and walking around. Now his body took a little bit longer to bounce back. Pathetic. I'm getting out of shape, is all.

"You all right, O'Shea?"

"Yeah." He only got a sharp pain in his chest every time he drew a breath. Nothing special.

"Paddy wagon's on its way." Sullivan reported, as he and his partner arrived.

"Beautiful day for a scrap, eh, Sullivan?"

The other veteran managed a half-smile at O'Shea's transparent bravado. "Good to see you haven't changed, Andy."

O'Shea spat out another wad of red mucus and coughed. He pulled himself up into a sitting position, wishing they hadn't belted him round the head so hard. He'd be a little dizzy for awhile, but nothing to go home for.

"You sure you're all right?"

"Aye, I'm fine. Takes more than a few knocks from a couple amateurs to get me down and out." The bruised and bleeding officer heaved himself to his feet. Boscorelli handed him his gun, butt first.

"Thanks."

"Wagon's here. Come on, boys, hands behind your back. I believe you know the drill." Sullivan ordered. The four officers handcuffed each thug while O'Shea stood against the wall and struggled to hide how much it hurt to breathe.

"Hey, O'Shea. Wanna grab a coffee?"

"What?"

"I said, you wanna grab a coffee with us?" Boscorelli repeated.

Yokas looked at him closely. "You don't look good. I'm gonna call a bus."

"No. I'm okay." O'Shea said, bending over carefully to retrieve his baton from the ground.

"No you're not. Look at you, there's got to be at least one broken rib."

"I said I'm fine! Quit buggin' me like a bloody mother hen!"

"Only if you go to the hospital and get checked out," Yokas countered stubbornly.

"You might as well do it, she won't leave you alone otherwise." Her partner offered, crossing his arms across his chest.

O'Shea spat on the ground. "I ain't goin'. There's no need. So what if I got a busted rib or two? So long's I can do me job, that's all that matters."

"Until the next gang of toughs jumps you. Come on. We're taking you over to Angel of Mercy."

"I don't need a bloody doctor pokin' and proddin' me again. I'm fine, dammit." O'Shea snapped. "Ain't there some bastards or other that we're supposed to be running down?"

"Andy."

"No!" He repeated, glaring at the other officer, his eyes barely visible under the brim of his hat. "I appreciate the rescue, but this is personal business. Stay out of it if you don't want to get hurt."

"Andy, you don't get it. We're all out for justice for Malloy. But the only way we'll get it is by working together." Yokas said firmly. "You need to go the hospital. Those thugs pounded on you pretty good."

"There ain't nothing wrong with me!" The older cop snapped as he turned to walk stiffly toward the mouth of the alley. "A couple sore ribs and a black eye ain't worth noticin'."

"Don't you dare turn that corner, Andy."

"And what if I do?"

Yokas sighed, and he heard metal sliding on leather. "Andy, you're going to get checked out. You got lucky this time. We were right around the corner. What'll happen next time, when help isn't so close?"

"Then it'll be the end of me watch, won't it?" O'Shea turned around and stared down the barrel of a gun for the second time in fifteen minutes. "'Tis a right sad thing when an officer will draw willingly on another."

"I'm hardly willing, but you're not leaving me much choice."

The older officer walked slowly forward, his baton twitching in his hand. Yokas swallowed hard as he got closer. "Don't push it, O'Shea. You may not give a damn what happens to you, but you forget that others do."

"What, you mean others like you?" The older officer sneered. Boscorelli moved to step between the two, but O'Shea tapped him hard on the chest with the end of his baton. "Stand down, young sir, this ain't your concern."

"Look, O'Shea. I don't have any idea what you think you can accomplish by getting the crap kicked out of you by guys half your age, but it's a sure way to get killed."

"And you think I care about that?" The Irishman demanded. "You think I care that some young punk grabbed the weapon from me belt and held it to me head and was ready to pull the trigger? Do you think I really care that I could end up never goin' home to see me kids tonight? It don't matter. Nothing does. Nothin' but finding those, those bastards, who shot a man down on the street in broad daylight just 'cause he asked 'em a couple questions. That's all that matters!" O'Shea raised his free hand, balling it into a tight fist. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes as he struggled to find words to express the chaotic mess that he was inside. He dropped his fist back to his side and turned away as if to walk off, but turned back and licked his split lip, shaking his head. "Nothing matters. What's the big deal if I never make it home, anyway? Me kids'll only be orphans. At least Malloy's kids still got their mum. Shoulda been me, not him."

"It's not your fault, Andy."

The anger, frustration, and guilt surged back to life from the smouldering embers they had subsided to over the course of the day. "Like bloody hell it's not! The first rule we made was never to separate on shift. Never separate. Never." O'Shea stepped right up to Yokas so that the muzzle of her sidearm pressed against his Kevlar vest. "I ain't goin' to no hospital 'less it's under a sheet. He'd have been fine if I'd been there too. We'd still be walkin' the beat together, like the old days. We'd still be the pair of lads everybody relied on. He'd still be here, if I'd been there too!"

Yokas' hands trembled as she held her gun up. "Nobody can change the past, even though we wish it. All we can do is work to shape the future so that we don't make the same mistakes again."

"My biggest mistake was lettin' him go off alone."

"Andy – "

"Shut up. Just shut up! Your stupid apologies are worthless. I ain't goin' to the hospital, there ain't nothin' wrong with me. Why don't you go back to the vehicle that keeps you safe from the world and leave the real work to the lads who know what they're doing? I've no use for you. Either one of you. Just stay the bloody hell outta me way. Got it?" O'Shea snarled, lifting his baton. Silent tears leaked down Yokas' face at the harshness of O'Shea's words. The Irishman pushed her gun roughly aside with his baton. "Put that away. You don't know how to use it." He turned his back on the pair so he didn't have to see the hurt on either face any more. He always did that to people.

"Fine. Fine! Don't bother putting out a 10-13 again, then, 'cause nobody will answer it!" Yokas shouted after him, shoving her sidearm back into its holster.

O'Shea pretended he hadn't heard. Leave it to his stupid Irish pride to get in the way. He wished he hadn't ever opened his mouth. Yokas meant well and he was deeply grateful for the rescue. They'd been just in time. A second or two later and they'd been zipping him up in a body bag by now. He couldn't imagine how it stung to be told off for helping out another officer the way he'd told off poor Yokas. She hadn't deserved that. His breath caught in his throat for a second and he had to lean against a streetlamp for support. Maybe he should go to the hospital after all.