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Victor held his hand against the stab wound in his stomach. Little good it was doing, judging by the amount of blood slipping through his fingers. He should just move his hand and bleed to death quicker, that is, if the pain in his head didn't do him in first. No one was going to reach him.

The 911 call had been bogus. He'd caught the call for a 'burglary in progress' at the old gas station, even though he was technically off duty, as it was just a block off his usual route home. He had known something was wrong as soon as he'd pulled up. This place wasn't just old. It was abandoned. Still, he'd gotten out and approached the building with caution. Might have been a mugging, or worse, misreported by a passerby. Could be still in progress, or an injured victim still around.

He spun on his heels when he'd heard the woman screaming behind him. Before he could decipher exactly where the scream had come from, he felt as though his head had been split open as someone hit him from behind with what felt like a crowbar. He'd gone down hard and had been surrounded by five or six young men, hitting, kicking, and punching him until he couldn't even try to get up. Then they had dragged him over to his car and thrown him in the backseat, but not before one of them gave him a parting gift of a switchblade to the gut, then slammed the door essentially trapping him there to bleed to death. Spots were dancing in front of his eyes as he heard the radio crackle to life.

"522 to base, 522 check in…," the tinny voice called out.

He'd love to. He slammed a weak fist against the thin piece of plexiglass separating the front seat from the back. They had been installed in all the undercover cars after a Detective from the 10th had been choked out by a perp with his handcuffs. Though even without it, he wasn't sure he'd have the strength to haul himself over the seat to answer.

Funny that something designed to save his life was going to aid in ending it.

"522, are you code 4?" the voice rang out again.

No, he wasn't Code 4. He wasn't all good. He was dying. He kicked, uselessly at the Plexiglass, then groaned, eye's wide with the pain that caused. Stupid.

Two calls. Usually, after a third unanswered call, they sent marked cars to your last known location, but not for him. He'd ignored too many well checks when he'd thought himself "too busy'. Hadn't Jolene just been on his ass about that two days before?

Jolene.

Now he wished he'd have stopped by her office one more time before leaving and given her a real goodbye instead of just stuffing a dirty note in her jacket pocket as he'd signed out for the day. Of course, he hadn't thought it was a real goodbye. He had thought he would be seeing her in an hour when she got off work and came over to his place to eat Chinese take-out and watch the Knicks game on television.

In the three years since she'd moved to New York, she'd become one of his best friends. Okay, so she had questionable taste in music preferring Simon and Garfunkel to Barry Manilow, that is when she wasn't listening to that God-awful country junk, but she was always up to catch a Mets or Knicks game from the cheap seats, drinking bad beer and splitting nachos. Or all for spending an afternoon in a dark theater watching an old John Wayne movie.

Of course, this meant he'd spent his fair share of time going to Broadway plays, sappy romance movies, and rip off Urban Cowboy dance clubs. Hell, he had even learned to two-step when he'd realized that he really didn't like those wannabe cowboys pawing at her while he sat at the bar talking to her friend, Analise.

Then about six months ago everything had changed. They had gone to the Policemen's Ball together. They'd had a great time, drinking, laughing, and doing their damnedest to show up Marcus and Claudia on the dance floor.

He'd walked her to her door, like always since she didn't live in the best building since moving out of Analise's Park Avenue penthouse. Maybe they had been a little drunk, or maybe they'd just needed that excuse if things didn't work out, but when she'd dropped her keys, they'd both reached for them bumping heads instead. Laughing, they'd stood up, both with a hand to their head. Looking into each other's eyes, the laughter had died, and they'd reached for each other, kissing as though they had invented it.

When he'd woke up in her bed the next morning, he'd worried that he'd ruined everything. Hadn't he turned Christine down for that very reason? Except it wasn't the same. Christine had wanted validation and an escape. Jolene had wanted him.

Still, she'd been adamant that she didn't date cops. He hadn't been sure she would feel the same in the harsh morning sun as she had slightly tipsy the night before. He knew he hadn't needed to worry when she'd woken up and smiled at him.

No one at the station knew yet, well except Petrie, who had bumped into them out on a date and still hadn't gotten it until Claudia had pointed out that they were intruding and pulled Marcus away. It was just as well. He never could keep anything from his partner.

"522 report to base." The voice was getting more insistent.

He shook his head and stared at the roof of the beat-up old car. How ironic. Hadn't Jo just said this very thing was going to happen?

When he'd gotten to work two days before and saw the note on his desk, summoning him to the Dispatch Director's office, he'd grinned and thrown a suggestive look at Petrie as he'd passed his desk.

"Yeah," Petrie laughed. "She was here at four to pull the tapes from this weekend. You may not be so happy when you get back there."

"Nah, it'll be cool." He'd encouraged Jolene to go after the Director's job when Thomas had retired the year before knowing she'd be perfect for it with her background and experience. She'd been worried about others who had been there longer thinking she was stepping on their toes, but he knew that most of the dispatchers were either retired patrolmen who still wanted to be involved or people just looking for extra income or the insurance. No one who wanted the responsibility of running the department.

And she was great if a little too stuck on protocols that Thomas had ignored. Like well-checks.

She didn't look in the mood to appreciate his humor or innuendos right then, so he just took the seat across from her desk.

"How did it go this morning? Was the dispatcher rude?" He asked, knowing that the reason she'd come in so early was that one of her dispatchers had been accused of behaving improperly during a 911 call and she had to review the tapes to see if he had been before writing him up.

She yawned and shook her head. "From the standpoint of a dispatcher, no. He was a little brusque as he explained the limitations of just what Officers could do if he sent them out, but he wasn't rude or lying. But, if I was a Mom whose 18-year-old daughter just ran off with a 48-year-old man, I'm not sure how I would take news I didn't want to hear either. I'm not going to write him up, but he is going to have to do some sensitivity training which means I do too."

"Sorry, Babe."

"That's not why I called you in here." She walked around and sat on the corner of her desk. "I had to listen to the tapes for almost the whole weekend. Victor, you ignored four well check calls. Not answered them late, just flat out ignored them. We rolled marked units four times and you were fine. That's four times they could have been dealing with real problems."

He rolled his eyes. "Would you have rather that I wasn't okay? I was busy. I can't always stop to answer the radio. Half the time I don't even have one. I'm sorry."

"I'm not talking about when you are undercover," she replied, trying to keep her temper under control. "I'm talking about when you are just on the street. Look, I know you are used to wearing a wire and not breaking your flow, but when you aren't, you must answer the calls. It's the only way we know you are okay and don't need back up. There are eight thousand police officers in this city and five hundred and seventy of them work in this building alone and my six dispatchers have to keep up with every one of them. We don't have time to chase around those of you who think we're a joke!"

"I don't think you're a joke," he replied.

"Could have fooled me," she shot back. "I don't have them doing well check calls because I want to be a pain in the ass, or I want to make sure they're awake. I do it because…, because I want every one of those five hundred and seventy officers to make it home." She stopped and covered her face with her hands before whispering, "Especially you." She wiped at her eyes before looking back up, her earlier anger abated. "I'm sorry. It's just that…, I'm scared that one day you won't answer because you really need help, but no one will pay any attention because they're used to you not answering and I don't…, I can't…," she stopped again. She got up from the desk and turned her back to him.

Victor stood up and went over to her, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her temple. "I'm sorry, Baby. I guess I didn't realize how important it was. I'll do better. I promise."

"Well, you better. Next time I'll have to write you up," she sniffled, looking up at him and smiling.

"Hmm…, you know, it was kind of hot when you were yelling at me. Might be worth getting written up for to get yelled at again," he teased, leaning down to kiss her.

"Idiot," she laughed, pushing him away. "Come to my place tonight. I'll yell at you all you want, and it won't have to go in your personnel file."

"522 to base, come in 522," the voice called again.

He didn't realize that day would be just two days later.

"Miss Baker?" A new woman named Nannette stopped her as she was getting her jacket to leave.

"Yes, Nannette?" She replied, distractedly, as she pulled the note out of her pocket, blushing as red as her hair when she read it. That man was truly twisted.

"Detective Isbecki answered at burglary in progress call five minutes ago and he isn't answering the well checks. Do you want me to keep trying or just send out back up?" Nanette asked.

"Wait. You didn't send back up to start with? You always send back up with 'in progress' calls. Get on it," Jolene scolded. She shoved the note back in her pocket and rushed to an empty console.

"Isbecki, call base. Isbecki…," No, they weren't supposed to use real names over the radio and maybe she was a little more panicked than she should be, but a sick feeling had settled into the pit of her stomach. No way was Victor just not answering after the talk they'd had. He'd sworn he wasn't going to do that anymore. Something was wrong. She knew it. "Victor! Please answer me! Victor! Victor!" She waited for maybe another two seconds, instead of minutes like she was supposed to before the panic got the best of her and she initiated an 'Officer Down' code. If she was wrong, 1PP would have her ass, but if she wasn't, he could already be…, No. She wasn't going to think like that.

Victor was fading in and out of consciousness when he heard Jolene call his name. First, Isbecki, then Victor. Over and over. He had to be confused. No way she would use his real name on the radio. Wasn't confusion a bad sign when you were wounded? He couldn't remember anymore. He closed his eyes, his hand falling away from the wound in his stomach. It didn't matter anymore. No way would anyone find him in time.

"Victor! Stay with us! Help is on the way!" Jolene called out again, rousing him from the stupor he was falling into.

Why did she sound so scared? Jo never got rattled. He was okay. Everything was fine. He wasn't even in that much pain anymore.

"Victor!"

He wanted to let her know it was okay. He was fine. Even his head wasn't aching anymore. It was going to be fine. "Jolene, Baby." His voice came out barely above a whisper before the world went black around him.

"Victor! Victor!"

He felt someone slapping his cheeks, trying to wake him. But it wasn't Jolene calling his name this time. It was Marcus.

"Victor! Victor! Come on, Man! You can do it. You can't go out like this," Marcus said, still slapping him.

"Jolene," he said, again, trying to open his eyes. The world spun as he tried to make his eyes focus and he was sure he was going to puke. He was still in his car, but now Marcus was beside him, holding pressure against his stab wound with one hand and trying to bring him around with the other.

"That's it," Marcus said, relief breaking in his voice. "That's it. Stay with me, Partner. The ambulance is almost here. CHRIS! MARY BETH! WE GOT HIM BACK," he yelled outside the car. "Get that ambulance here!"

Victor wanted to tell him to shut it, the pain in his head slamming him back into consciousness as Cagney slung open the other door.

"Ambulance is two minutes out," she reported. "Hang on, Victor. We got you now. Just hang on."

The abandoned building was bathed in red and blue lights as the paramedics removed him from the car, but Victor barely noticed as he slipped from consciousness again, the pain of being moved too much to handle.

As soon as the paramedics had taken over for Marcus, he'd opened the front door of the car and grabbed Victor's radio mic from its hook.

"We got him, Jolene. We got him."

"Thank God," she whispered before dropping the mic. "Thank you, God." Then she lost her lunch in the nearest wastebasket. She'd never been that scared in her life.

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