I'm too late, was the first thing Goren thought when he burst into the warehouse. He took in Logan, practically hanging by his hands from a metal pipe, and the man holding the gun against Logan's head at the same time, and reacted purely instinctively. His feet separated into his shooting stance, the Glock in his hands leveled, and his finger hit the trigger –
A split second before Harold Weaver's did.
Goren's shot hit Weaver in the neck, and the man went down, brain-dead. But his body's last muscle contraction, its last nervous tic, was to pull the trigger on the gun in its hand. The bullet did miss Logan's head, where it had originally been intended, but it did not miss his chest. The bullet entered low on the left side of the chest, splintered its way through a rib and tore through both lungs before exiting through Logan's right shoulder blade.
Logan's body jerked with the force of the gunshot. Blood exploded from his side and his back, soaking through his shirt. His knees gave way, and he slumped, the ropes around his bleeding wrists the only things holding him up.
Goren was already sprinting across the warehouse. He drew a knife from his pocket and, wrapping an arm around Logan to support him, sawed through the ropes as best he could. The last few strands broke, and all two hundred and ten pounds of detective collapsed on Goren. Stretching Logan out on the floor, he took stock of the injuries. There would be no need to call for an ambulance.
Backup was pouring through the doors already, a confused group of beat cops, detectives from neighbouring precincts and hostage negotiators. Barek pulled up just short of them and pressed her hand to her mouth. Next to her, Eames' breath caught.
Goren was kneeling, perfectly motionless, in a slowly growing pool of Logan's blood. Several feet away lay a fortyish man with a boyish face and curly dark hair. There was a gaping wound in his neck. Two guns lay in the mingled blood. Logan's green eyes were wide and staring, his lips parted as though in surprise.
Barek was the first to speak. "Logan..." She shook her head in disbelief. "My God."
Eames forced herself out of her shock, stepped forward, and laid her small hand on Goren's broad shoulder. "Bobby."
He shook her off, not rudely but decisively. His white shirt was bloody from the cuffs to the elbows, and he had powder burns on his left hand. His right hand was on Logan's chest, fingers crumpled in the bloody shirt. Blood streaked his forehead from where he had unconsciously touched his own face. He stared down into Logan's vacant eyes and in a breathtakingly tender gesture, gently closed the lids.
Eames pressed her lips together. Tears filled her eyes. Barek turned away. Tentatively, out of the slowly gathering crowd, which was now beginning to include civilians as well, emerged medical personnel in white coats with black bags. It meant nothing. They were too late.