A/N: Oh, yes, another update so soon. It feels like old times... Anyway, the following is what happens when my background noise is some random episode of CSI.

Chapter 19: That's The Answer?

"Fucking shit!" Patterson screamed as Max tapped "lightly" on his wound with the toe of her boot.

"Watch it, or I'll clean out your mouth with soap," she warned.

"You little bitch, I'll kill you," Patterson replied with an angry snarl.

In the few minutes he'd been on the ground, wavering between consciousness and a dead faint, Patterson had lost all that was debonair and groomed about him. He snarled at Max, and every other word out of his mind was a profanity. It was almost amusing. Almost.

Max pressed a little harder on Patterson's leg, and the stream of curses that escaped the wounded man's lips was enough to make a teenage boy blush. His reward was a swift kick, and, in response to the pained howl, Logan grimaced and turned away. This really wasn't his area of expertise. He'd had some experience in the hit-him-until-he-talks line of interrogation, but generally on the receiving end. Luckily, he'd always been perfectly capable of cajoling people into telling him what he wanted to know. Needless to say, Patterson wasn't going to be won over by eloquence, so Max was in charge of the questioning.

Avoiding the interrogation, his gaze was suddenly arrested by the sight of Scarface, whose body lay in a slowly-growing pool of deep red blood. A wave of nausea hit Logan as he quickly stepped away from the grotesque puddle. The reminder caused every feeling of pity and empathy to leave Logan in a flash. Yes, he'd shot Patterson in the leg, and the man was clearly suffering, but Patterson had shot down another human being in cold blood. For all his airs, he was nothing but a crook and a murderer. In truth, the man was just as slimy as Logan had expected. He absolutely reeked of that sense of entitlement that Logan had been fighting against his entire life. Patterson had made a great deal of money by stepping on innocent people, and he believed that gave him the right to continue to do so. It would have made Logan sick to think of it... if he hadn't already been feeling ill.

"Ready to answer some questions?" Max asked Patterson calmly, her voice sweet and innocent as she increased the pressure on the bullet wound.

Patterson only gurgled. Undoubtedly taking that for acceptance, Max removed her foot. Everyone in the hall took a deep breath, with the exception of the late Scarface, who would draw breath no more. For the space of that one inhale and exhale, the world calmed. The dead man, the injured man, and the blood leaving its insidious polish on the cold marble floors all disappeared. They regrouped. They focused. They began again.

Taking care to sidestep the blood, Logan approached Patterson and none too gently helped him into a sitting position, letting him rest his back against the wall. It wasn't a gesture meant to increase the man's comfort, so much as hasten his answers. It was likely that Patterson would be more inclined to answer when he was upright, rather than rolling about on the floor like a landed fish.

"Who was your contact at Manticore?"

Patterson didn't reply. He merely sat, leaning heavily against the wall, his body tensed against the pain that was flooding through his body. Max repeated her question, and again Patterson refused to answer. Her heavy boot made contact with the dark stain on Patterson's pants, and the man screeched in frustrated pain.

"Lieutenant something-or-other," he finally groaned. "He... he was fired two months later. It's not... important." Max paused to glance over her shoulder at Logan, and he recognized the look she threw him. At least he hadn't said Lydecker, White, or Sandeman - three names Logan hoped to never hear again. The answer seemed to satisfy Max, as she quickly moved on to the subject that was really on her mind.

"Why the cameras?" she asked darkly.

"I wanted answers," Patterson shrugged.

"Okay, sounds familiar," Logan muttered, trying not to let his impatience show. "Answers to what?"

Patterson groaned. He was losing a lot of blood, and he knew it. When he finally answered, he was gasping with effort. "I just wanted to know who she was. My son was thinking of marrying her. Then… inconsistencies with her story, the visits from her 'cousin' at strange hours and without announcement. I… I added equipment slowly. Then, one night, they had a conversation about Manticore..."

"That's it?" Max asked, making no effort to control the frustration in her voice.

"That's it. I just… saw my chance."

Max reached down and grabbed a handful of Patterson's gray hair, forcing his head up to look at her. From where he stood, Logan could see the flash in her eyes. He could see the pain, the anger, the fire simmering just beneath the surface, and he couldn't help but wonder what she was doing in the cold, blood-soaked hallway. All she wanted was a normal life. How did she keep ending up in these cesspools of pain and aggravation?

"Manticore doesn't explain the cameras in the bedroom," Max spat, leaning down closer to him, her eyes drilling fearlessly down into those of her antagonist. A small, dark, disgusting smile crept over Patterson's lips as his eyes left Max's and scanned her body with obvious appreciation.

"That needs an explanation?" he asked hoarsely. Disgusted, Max threw him back against the wall. She looked like she was about to vomit, and it was enough to make Logan wish he'd shot Patterson in the heart rather than the leg. Apparently, he wasn't the only one.

The world stopped as the shots rang out, one after the other, again and again, the thunder rolling through that hallway of death. It was all Logan could do to shove himself against the opposite wall, and he never knew whether he pulled Max with him or she pulled him with her. He only remembered holding on to her, watching in horror as the bullets ripped through the elegant suit, the dark stains spreading quickly as Patterson's chest bounced like a marionette on a string with every impact of burning metal into skin. He was dead in seconds, though his end was nowhere near as swift as that of the late lackey whose body graced the floor not ten feet away.

"Fucking disgusting son of a bitch!"

Apparently, dirty mouths ran in the family.

They'd forgotten about Will. They'd forgotten they gave Will a gun. After Scarface had been downed, Logan had forgotten about his "hostage." He'd assumed that Patterson wouldn't harm his own son, and he had been correct. He hadn't even considered the possibility that the son would go after the father. In the relatively short time that they'd known each other, Will hadn't struck Logan as someone with violent tendencies. He wasn't the type of man who could handle a gun, or so Logan had thought. He'd obviously been wrong.

Will collapsed as soon as his grim job was finished, and he didn't move again until long after the echoes of gunfire faded from the hallway. His eyes were frozen on his father's unmoving body, staring at the result of his work. No tears ran from his eyes, and no sobs escaped his lips. He was calm – unbelievably, incredibly, silently calm – and he was still.

The air finally rushed back into Logan's lungs several moments after the last bullet was fired. He relaxed his grip on Max's waist as she disentangled herself from the undignified pile they'd made on the floor. There were splatters of blood shining on her arm and clothes, and a look of grim determination on her face, but she also appeared to be shaking slightly. Looking down, Logan saw that he was similarly spattered, and he was also shaking. Slowly, he rose to his feet, and did a quick check. Thankfully, Max appeared to be unharmed, and all his own limbs were accounted for.

It was Alec who moved to remove the gun from Will's hands. There was no response from the stunned son. He didn't move, didn't say anything. He merely allowed the weapon to be removed from his grasp. Cold, empty silence reigned as the three survivors reoriented themselves. Patterson was dead. He was dead, the Reds were, apparently, on their way, and the police had a way of finding out about double murders. They needed to leave, and they needed to do it quickly. That was fine with Logan. The sooner he and Max were back in Seattle, the better. They promptly helped Will to his feet, and proceeded to make their exit.

A/N: Almost done... thank goodness. Did I mention that I'm writing this by candlelight? How very Post-Pulse of me. Actually, every lightbulb in my apartment burnt out today... every single one. I think it might be Karma, but I'm not exactly sure what I did to deserve it. Sigh... daylight in six hours.