Disclaimer: While MS-13 is a real gang, the characters and actions depicted here are fictional. As to our boys: if we owned them, there would be hella more shirtless crime solving.

SPOILERS/Timeline: Takes place during season 6 between 'A Bullet Runs Through It' and 'Daddy's Little Girl'

UNDYING GRATITUDE: To Cristina who supplies all our Spanish translation with amazing insight and skill.

NOTE: The last two chapters will post on Tuesday and Friday of next week, instead of Monday and Thursday. Thanks for your understanding and readership.

CHAPTER 11 – Falência

Nick knows this look. He's SEEN it, up-close and personal. More than once. When Jeff straightens and turns on them, Nick sees the blankness on Jeff's face – an absence of conscious thought, fringed with intent. This is a dangerous face. A truly deadly affect.

Nick doesn't breath for a second, eyes flicking between Jeff's face, Jeff's knife, Alex's vacant dead eyes. Suddenly, Warrick's in front of him, has physically moved over to shield him from Jeff; shoulder against Nick's chest, pinning him to the wall. It hurts in too many ways; physically, emotionally, mentally: Not like this. No, no, no, no, PLEASE. Not like this.

The door behind Jeff – the one that leads out to the upholstery shop's main warehouse – slams open. Rabbit flies in, face more panicked than when he left. "Alex! We got a big problem! " And then the jumpy banger skitters to a stop and stills, toe of his tennis shoe inches from the spreading pool of maroon beneath el jefe. "Oh, fuck…"

Jeff spins on him. "Cierre la puerta! Fuck! Close the goddamned door, Conejo!"

Rabbit does. Retreats two steps until his back rests against it. He crosses himself, eyes full on Alex. "Jesus, Jeff. What the fuck did you do?"

What the hell does it look like he did? "Oh, God," Nick mutters, and it's only the weight of his best friend's protection – Warrick's shoulder holding him back, and safe – that keeps the other words at bay. He killed him. What does it look like he did?

Jeff closes in on Conejo, knife – still wet with blood – jumping in his right fist. "I just got us out from under Graciela Flores and Alex Arrué, both."

Rabbit's eyes dart between Jeff and Alex, between Jeff and Nick and Rick. His head shakes violently left and right. "But…but the cops--"

"They're dead. Están muertos.

Nick's mind explodes with neon green light. No, no, no…

Rabbit's eyes go to Nick and Warrick again, then back to Jeff. "What about Eduardo?"

"Fuck Eduardo."

"He's here."

"What?"

Nick sees Jeff's fingers tighten around the hilt of the knife. Warrick adjusts slightly against his chest, turns his head and whispers over his shoulder.

"Nick, man. You gotta calm down. You're gonna hyperventilate. Just calm down for me, a'ight, bro?"

Nick manages to nod his head, but nothing more.

"He's here," repeats Rabbit. "Eduardo's here with a coupla his crew. Says he wants to talk to you."

"Hijo de perra."

"Jeff, man," Rabbit whines, eyes once more on the very dead Alex, "What are we gonna do?"

Jeff bounces twice on the balls of his feet. Looks down at Alex and then back to Rabbit. "Who we got here?"

"I can't believe you killed him, pelon. I can't believe you killed el jefe."

Jeff's left hand flies up, grabbing Rabbit's narrow jaw and pulling his face away from Alex. "I'm el jefe, now. Yo soy. Now, who do we got here, Conejo?"

Rabbit's bloodshot eyes roll in their sockets. He's an animal caught in a trap. And if the trap weren't clamped on his jaw, Nick thinks, the animal would chew through its leg to get out.

"Uh…" Rabbit grinds out from under Jeff's grip. "We got Freddy and Joker and Hector and Little Juan… Oh, 'Nardo is here. So's Tiny and Willy."

Jeff nods like he's running the list mentally. His hand drops from Rabbit's jaw and fists in his shirt. "Everybody packing?"

"Yeah."

"Okay," says Jeff, some decision reached in his head. "You stick with me," he finishes, and makes to open the door.

"But what about…" Rabbit motions behind them with a wave that encompasses Alex and Nick and Warrick.

Jeff turns, floats his eyes over all three, and smiles. "Cadáveres. They're just corpses. They're not going anywhere."

"Alright, easy there, Bogey."

"Actually, Catherine, it was Alfonso Bedoya that says that line in Treasure of the Sierra Madre. See, Bogart says --"

"Yeah, thanks for the edification, Gil. But I'd still like to see if we can get enough for a warrant. The thought of this asshole getting away with anything …"

"Archie?" Jim breaks in. "You doin' that voodoo that you do so well?"

The A/V tech just nods as his fingers continue to fly over his keyboard. "I'm doing a Dun & Bradstreet search. Alright, I'm in. How do you spell this Alex guy's name?"

Jim turns to Sam who smiles and spells out Alex's full given name.

Four heads peer over Archie's shoulder as he enters the information, but the tech never wavers in his focus on page after page of tiny black print on a blank white screen.

Catherine paws for the reading glasses that hang on the chain around her neck, as Gil pushes his own glasses closer to his eyes.

Jim just eases back and starts pacing the small lab. He wants to bounce on his toes, shake the kinks out like a boxer in his corner before the big bout. They're closer - so much closer. He can feel it. He understands the need for the warrant, knows that cutting corners leads to dead ends in the courtroom. But he still has to fight the urge to grab Sam by the arm and bodily haul him out to the parking lot and drive somewhere. Do something. SHOOT something.

"Alright, I think I got something," Archie says, snapping Jim back in place with his friends behind the tech's shoulder.

Archie leans back in his chair. "Arrué shows as the sole officer of a corporation called Sol Rey, Inc. That corporation in turn, owns approximately…" He scrolls down the page. "…a handful of companies in the Vegas area. Hang on."

He plays the keyboard some more, then grimaces. "The companies then each show as owners of various businesses. I can't narrow them down by type; I'll just have to pull each of them up to see what kind of business they're registered as doing."

Jim sighs explosively and resumes pacing as Archie starts at the top of the list. An idea - so ludicrous, so out there it makes him bark out a tight laugh - sparks in his head, and Jim actually hesitates voicing it. "See if Carbonell comes up on any of the companies. Like a cross match; hit for both names."

Archie nods and enters the info, his nod quickly taking over his whole body. He smiles and points at the screen. "One hit. Carbonell shows as VP of a company called Vegas Tapiceria."

Sam hits Jim sharply on the arm. "That's upholstery, my friend!"

"Archie--" Gil starts.

But the tech is way ahead of him, feeding the business address into Google Maps. A red thumbtack forms over the gridded street map.

"It butts right up against Nellis," Catherine breathes as if afraid to say it out loud. But the tack isn't moving- it clearly shows the boundaries of the Air Force base running right along the industrial street where the shop is located.

Archie clicks the mouse and the map is replaced by a satellite view of the property.

A small cluster of buildings, all grey and blocky, squats at the end of a long road running off the interstate. A parking area with tractor trailers and box trucks sits in front. And a thin line that could be a fence cuts off the property from the vast paved expanse where Nellis's airstrips begin, about a half mile farther. Everything in between is desert.

"How current is this, Archie?" Gil asks.

The tech shrugs. "Probably a year or so old."

Gil, Archie, and Catherine continue to talk quietly while Jim steps to the side and pulls out his cell phone. Dials the number of the one person he's been doing his damnedest to avoid for as long as possible. Screwing on his best telemarketer smile- they can hear it in your voice!- he waits through the tones, unconsciously straightening as he hears the gruff voice of his boss answer the phone. "It's Brass. I need a warrant."

"Gimme the rundown," is all he gets, but he figures it's better than 'Go to Hell'.

"Got a print off the phone. Comes back to a felon with paper. Known association with the gang we think took our guys, and a confirmed business connection with Alejandro Arrué, the leader of our Bangers Local Union 666."

The last thing Jim expects to hear is the response that gets. "Alex? Alex Arrué?"

Jim actually pulls the phone away from his ear for a second. "You, uh, you know this guy?"

"He was a major contributor to my last campaign," Burdick says slowly. "Are you trying to tell me you suspect him of gang activity?"

Jim casts a quick glance at the now questioning looks of the others in the small lab.

"He is a person of interest in our investigation, yeah," Jim says with a sigh. In for a penny, in for a pound… "We have reliable information that he's the leader of an MS-13 gang."

"And this information is from…?"

"A reliable source." That's what makes it reliable information, asshole. "An informant from a rival Mexican gang, actually. Had Arrué in for an interview earlier and he--"

"You brought him in for questioning? He's an honest business man, concerned about his community, friend to the LVPD, and you take the word of some Mexican banger piece of trash?"

Jim sticks a finger in his collar and pulls it away from his neck as cold sweat starts to form. Could this shit roll downhill any faster at me? The anger, fear and frustration he's been tampering down, compressing down into the pit of his stomach suddenly flares, ignites."We have a print off a phone pulled off the truck that held our CSIs. We have that print matched to a knife-wielding psycho with a record. This same rap sheet carrying thug is listed with Dun & Brad as the Vice President of one of your honest businessman's companies. And we have Arrué's voice off a message from the same phone, giving the psycho orders."

The dead air at the other end of the line has Jim on the verge of asking a completely inappropriate, 'Can you hear me now?' When the silence is finally broken, Jim has to pull the phone from his mouth so Burdick doesn't hear his long sigh of relief; he's got him.

"What do you need the warrant for?"

That's what I thought, asshole. He knocks the back of his hand into Sam's arm and gives the detective a thumbs up. "Warrant for a search of an upholstery shop. We think our guys are there."

"You'll have it in fifteen minutes."

"Make it ten," Jim says shortly, then shuts the phone in his hand. "You ready to roll, Sam? Let's go see if we can't bring our boys back home."

As soon as the door closes, Warrick's rolling away from Nick, talking a blue streak, wriggling and twisting like he's in the throes of a convulsion.

The movement barely registers with Nick. He's only now noticed how really too goddamned CLOSE Alex's body is to him. How the blood pool ends just east of Nick's knee.

"Fuck. Son of a--"

"Warrick, man. We're gonna die."

Warrick stills next to Nick.

"No, we're not. We're not goin' out like this."

Nick looks over at his partner. Warrick's on his side, head pointed at the door. Zip-tied hands snugged under his butt, face a grimace. A harsh bark of laughter pops out of Nick's mouth, completely surprising them both. "What the fuck're you doin', man?"

Warrick's laughter is interrupted by a hiss when his shoulders pull at the physicality of it. Nick can see a tiny line of red where the plastic binds are cutting into his friend's wrists.

"I'ma get us outta here, Nick."

Nick shakes his head, suddenly serious. "Didn't you hear what Alex--" and Nick's voice catches. He stops himself from turning back to look at the dead man. "He said he was at the PD. Talkin' to a captain. That's Brass, man! They're comin' t' get us, Warrick."

"We don't know that. Just 'cause Alex was hauled in doesn't mean they got anything from him. Like you said before, if he's who you think he is--" and now Warrick's words catch. "Who you think he was… Guy's good at keepin' on the down low. They might not make the connect."

But, I was rescued… Nick's throat swells and tightens. "Warrick, man. I don't wanna die."

"We're not dyin'," says Warrick, and starts to worm around again on the concrete floor.

Nick watches for a beat, squeezes shut his eyes, painfully tight, opens them. He's figured it out, now. Just doubts his partner's flexible enough to make it happen.

But then Warrick's tied hands pass under his butt, his toes pressing against the floor to push back his pelvis. He lets out a little groan and stills to breathe for a second, wrists straining at the back of his thighs.

"You…you bendy enough to do that, man?" Nick asks with a plastic chuckle. Yes. Say yes, man. Please.

"Heh. Yeah. Let's hope so. If this works, thank Tina for both of us."

The laugh from Nick is genuine this time.

Warrick draws in a deep breath and rights himself with a grunt, rolling back into a sitting position, chest forced down to his legs. He pauses, blows out the breath he just took in, and brings his knees up around his ears.

Nick's so confused by the contradiction of thoughts flying around his brain he can barely figure out what to do. The still totally-stoned, 14-year-old part of his brain wants to make all manner of inappropriate jokes his adult brain would normally filter. Bleat laughter like a hyena. But the desperate – oh, God, I really don't wanna die - don'twannabehere part of his brain is winding up all his hope and energy around his best friend's attempt to get his bound legs through the loop of his arms. Get free. Get loose. Oh, God, please do it, Warrick. You can do it. Please DO IT.

And then the first thing to go right…goes right.

Warrick's hissing and then whooping quietly, bound hands in front of him instead of behind. He pauses for a second, catches his breath, and then he's pulling up his legs again, rolling onto his knees.

Nick watches like it's all happening in slow motion. Maybe it is… Warrick's shuffle-stepping on his knees, zip-ties around his ankles making the going difficult. Nick sees it, though. His head clears enough to realize what his friend's after. The adrenaline buzz is making the high recede a bit.

On the edge of the pallet that holds the bolts of material where Rabbit had sat: a utility knife.

A fire-bright 'YES!' – like stadium lighting – flashes through Nick, and then dims when he hears muffled Spanish shouted somewhere beyond the storeroom door. His head snaps back to his partner – so far to the left his neck aches with the granting of visual access. "Rick?"

Nick hears Warrick's quick breathing, hears the quiet 'Come on, come on…' from his partner's mouth, and then hears a soft 'pop'. The cut-apart zip-tie cuffs flick into Nick's periphery and tic across the concrete. There's blood along the edges of the plastic, wet and red. Fresh. Warrick's. And then everything sort of tunnels and spins like a sci-fi movie time vortex, and his partner's kneeling in front of Nick's feet, sawing at the bindings around his ankles.

"…outta the way and get through that door."

Huh? Warrick's talking, but it's not all getting through to Nick's processing center. "What?"

There's another soft plastic snap, and Nick's legs are free.

"We gotta move those boxes to get to the door," says Warrick, crabbing around Nick's right side and sidling up next to his shoulder. "Things are heatin' up out in the warehouse, sounds like."

Nick feels Warrick's hand fall to rest on the left side of his face, his gaze on the bloody ties redirected to his partner with gentle but firm guidance. Nick forces himself to focus on Warrick's face.

"You with me, bro?"

Nick bobs his head. "Yeah. Boxes. Door."

Warrick's hand slips to Nick's chest, pats reassuringly. "Need you to scoot up for me, a'ight? So I can get your hands free."

"Yeah," says Nick, and nods again. "'Kay."

He wills his knees to bend, his legs to pull up. His strained stiff muscles scream in protest. Using his boot heels against the concrete for leverage, he inches himself forward and away from the wall.

Warrick scuttles behind him, and Nick feels his friend's fingers force their way between his wrist and the zip-tie surrounding it. There's pressure, and then the light yanking back-and-forth of the utility knife at work. Nick winces as the sharp edge of the plastic digs into his flesh. He sympathizes for Warrick, because he knows this pain is less than what his partner's own damaged wrists must have suffered.

Suddenly, it's all pins and needles and – Ants. Like ants! – up and down Nick's arms, as the makeshift cuffs are cut, and his hands are finally loosed. "Oh, God…"

Warrick's hands are on his shoulders, now; supporting, steadying.

"Nick. We have to move fast. How you feel about gettin' upright?"

Nick glances down at his arms, just to confirm – No ants. Nothin' there – and then at his partner. He nods, tries to return Warrick's intense stare. "Yeah. Help me up. Gotta… Get me up, man."

Warrick stands, offers Nick a hand.

A few dozen flares go off behind Nick's eyes on the upswing, and then his back's soft up against the wall, Warrick's hands pressing against his chest.

"Nicky?"

"'M okay. 'M up. I'm up, right?"

Warrick smiles, nods his head. "Yeah, man. You're up. You're good."

Warrick's hands fist in the front of his shirt, and there's a little shudder in Nick's brain that turns his partner into Jeff for a fraction of a second. Nick looks away quickly, catches sight of Alex's body on the floor. He sucks in a breath as Warrick pulls him over to the corner of the storeroom where their only escape lies.

When Nick's back in real time again, Warrick's handing him a box. They're clearing the path to the door – to freedom – like a bucket brigade. Nick tosses aside the box in his hands and turns to take another from Warrick.

"Okay, listen to me," says Jeff, hand tight on the back of Rabbit's neck, pulling him close. "You send Little Juan and 'Nardo out the side way, tell them to go up front, check and see if Eduardo has boys in car. He does? They need to take care of them. ¿Entiende?"

"Yeah. I got you."

"The you tell Freddy and Joker to make sure everything's locked down, make sure they got extra clips."

Rabbit's eyes grow wide and he turns his head under Jeff's heavy hand. "Man, what the--"

"Just do it, Cojete! You hear me?"

Everything in Jeff's voice tells him to agree, so he does.

"You go out there and you tell Eduardo I ain't here--"

"Why--?"

Jeff's grip tightens at the back of Rabbit's neck, cutting off further protest. "Because I'm el jefe. And I say so. That good enough for you?"

The knife, silver and crimson –stained with Alex's blood – flashes in Jeff's hand, and Rabbit finds the strength to nod again.

"I don't care what you tell Eduardo. Just get him the fuck out of here. Because if I'm going down for killing Graciela? I'm taking you with me, hermano."

"What about those cops. They know about… And Alex…"

"I'll take care of those cops."

"What are you--"

"Don't worry about it. Just do like I told you, you shit." Jeff pushes Rabbit forward, toward the hall that leads back into the shop.

The jittery banger rubs at his neck, shoots Jeff a furtive glare, and then walks down the hall.

As soon as he's out of sight, Jeff hightails it to Alex's office. He knows the leader keeps at least a thousand dollars cash in the bottom lock-drawer of his desk. What he doesn't know, and won't ever know now, is that Jeff can pick the lock in about ten seconds. Can make the money disappear even faster.

Because fuck if he's going to stay in Vegas. He's got cousins in L.A., knows crew from at least three other 13 cliques. He could stay and take Alex's spot, but he'd end up having to kill a whole bunch of people to do it. And not that he minds it, it just takes a lot of time. Time he hasn't got.

He grabs the biggest wad of hundreds he can, once he's in the drawer, and helps himself to the glock under some paperwork. He shoves the bills in his pocket, and the gun in his waistband. He picks up his knife from Alex's desk, and heads back to the storeroom to tie up lose ends.

Warrick's thankful for one goddamned thing. At least they're passin' fire inspection. Because hanging on the wall next to the door that leads OUT, is a bright and shiny fire extinguisher.

He spares a second to glance at Nick. His partner's not looking so hot; pale in the spaces he's not bruised and bloodied, one arm slung around his middle where Warrick had witnessed the landing of at least three brutal punches. Nick's leaning against the pile of relocated boxes, eyes closed and head back. Man, that nose is definitely busted, Stokes. Shit. Warrick wrestles the extinguisher from the wall mount. "Nick."

Nick makes a noise in his throat, but nothing articulate. His eyes stay shut.

"Nick, man. Hey. Look alive." Warrick winces at the unintentional irony in his command, but his partner snaps to.

"Yeah. 'S it opened?"

"Not yet, man. Listen. The door's locked--"

"'Course it is," Nick says, and laughs sadly. "Storya my fuckin' life."

"I'ma pound the knob off with this extinguisher, but it's gonna make some noise. Nick! You listenin' to me?"

Nick's eyes are closed again and he's swaying slightly.

Let's be safe and tack concussion onto the injury list, too. Son of a bitch. "Nick!"

"Yeah," Nick answers at last, turning his good right eye full on Warrick.

"I dunno what's goin' on out there," Warrick says, head tilting toward the warehouse door, "But somebody's probably gonna hear me bangin'. We need to be ready to move."

"Yeah. Let's get the fuck outta here, bro."

Nick straightens enough for Warrick to feel okay about doing what he's planning on doing; hopes some adrenaline kicks in soon for his partner. And he hopes whatever is going on in the warehouse is enough to keep Jeff occupied.

Warrick wraps one hand around the neck of the extinguisher's nozzle mechanism, one hand around the body, near the bottom. The whole thing weighs maybe seven, eight pounds, and Warrick's thankful for the long reach of his piano-playing fingers. Just doesn't want to accidentally smash them. He figures three, maybe four good powerful blows should pop off the doorknob. It's not an industrial fixture, thank God. He hefts the extinguisher and stifles a quick chuckle; it looks like he's about to go to war with a chub of bologna for a weapon.

He hears Nick faintly say his name on the first downswing. The knob takes the thunk and veers to the left a little. Warrick steps in closer to the door to make his next swing fall from directly overtop. He's raising the extinguisher for a second go when Nick calls out again – this time a little louder. With more urgency. "Yeah, man?"

"Warrick?"

He pounds down once more, and the knob bends and bows like a supplicant, but stays put. "Son of a--"

"Warrick!"

He turns because Nick sounds freaked. And Warrick instantly understands why.

Eduardo is right where Rabbit had left him. Standing just inside the workshop proper; legs apart, tattooed hands crossed in front of him, two of his crew flanking him on each side. He's the picture of casual ease; a man used to having his orders answered without question. And Rabbit's returning without Jeff.

"My man ain't here," Rabbit says as he strides in, Jeff's instructions clear in his head. As clear as anything can be in a brain with that much THC clogging up the works.

"I don't believe you," Eduardo replies calmly.

"You don't gotta believe, man, you just gotta know. Jeff's. Not. Here."

Eduardo's entwined fingers fall apart and he plants his hands on his hips, arms akimbo. "Then where is he?" he bites back

Rabbit shrugs, but it comes off as more of a twitch; shoulder rising and falling, stuttering in that short path. His eyes try to meet Eduardo's, to give him a steadfast, I'm bein' sincere, man stare, but they dodge and weave before finally coming to a wavery rest somewhere over the gang leader's shoulder.

Eduardo snorts in disgust. "Fuckin' stoner." He juts a chin at Rabbit while talking to his posse. "That's why I tell you not to fuck with that shit. Fuckin' stoned-ass motherfucker."

He turns back to Rabbit, takes in his jittery stance, hopping on his the balls of his feet. "That all you on there, stoner? You got any brain cells left? If you did, you'd be telling me where Jeff is. Now."

"Tol' ya. Jeff ain't here," Rabbit says glancing behind him as Freddy and Joker enter the room with the bang of a door closing in their wake.

Eduardo and his men stiffen and stand straighter at the appearance of the two new players. The leader takes a step forward. "Then I'll talk to Alex."

Alex? Fuck, man! You gotta try long distance for that poor motherfucker. The thought strikes Rabbit as one of the most clever things he's ever come up with, and while the filter between his brain and his mouth is currently struggling to stay in place - what with all the weed - he manages not to tell Eduardo his joke. He DOESN'T manage to not start giggling like an evil clown on helium, like Frank Booth on nitrous, like a man high as a fucking star in the sky.

"Alex isn't here," Rabbit manages to choke out as his laughing has his already jittery body jerking and jumping like the floor is electrified.

Eduardo's face darkens. "There's no way Alex would leave, not with this much shit going down. And he wouldn't leave you fuckups in charge."

Rabbit stifles his giggling and goes cold. Freddy and Joker step up next to him, hands hovering over the pieces each carry stuck in their pants waists.

"Who the fuck you callin' fuckups, cabron?"

"You. I'm callin' you a --"

Eduardo's last words are cut off by the 9 mil bullet that enters his left eye. Rabbit looks at the end of his gun, smoke still curling from the end, and giggles.

Warrick shouldn't have worried about the noise catching anybody's attention. That issue's cleared up when the door between the warehouse and the storeroom slams open and the shouts in Spanish are magnified by ten and a volley of gunshots ring out. What he SHOULD have worried about was listening for somebody jiggling the handle of the OTHER door. Somebody like JeffBut – shoulda, coulda woulda. Son of a bitch.

Warrick can see it play out in a flash across Jeff's face; he's processing like a motherfucker, taking in the scene. A stoned-ass CRAZY motherfucker who still has a knife in his hand. Warrick turns with the extinguisher and takes one final heave. His fingers vibrate from the impact but – yes, yes, yes! – the knob drops to the concrete like a stone. Warrick's shouldering open the door, turning to grab his partner and go, go, GO when Jeff launches himself across the room.

Warrick's brain – that most powerful, amazing, CONFUSING fucking organ in the body – takes that moment to posit the question of whether or not he got some kind of contact buzz from the blunt smoke earlier. Because he's feeling all kinds of NOT RIGHT. Everything speeds up. The color in the storeroom brightens. The noise from the warehouse increases. Even Jeff's knife is bigger and sharper and – no, no, no – moving so fast toward Nick. Jeff's moving so fast toward Nick.

Before his best friend's name can crawl from his throat, before his body can react, Warrick sees the knife--

"Nooo!"

slide into Nick's chest

"Nooo!"

and then Jeff's on top of Nick, driving in the blade.

The pile of boxes behind them collapses at the same time as the barrier between Warrick's brain and body. Without thinking – without CONSCIOUSNESS – he lunges forward and brings the extinguisher down on Jeff's head. The result is instantaneous; Jeff stiffens for a fraction of a second, and then goes limp. Conscious thought comes back to Warrick when he hears Nick's moan, and then he's lowering the extinguisher, dropping it with a hollow clunk, and shoving Jeff's body off his partner.

"Nick?" Oh, Shit. Oh, no, no, no, no, no.

The knife's hilt – and a few spare inches of blade – juts from Nick's chest like the Sword in the Stone, and Warrick fights the compulsion to pull it out. And then he's pushing Nick's hands back, away; stopping him from doing the same.

"Oh, Christ. Oh, Rick, man…" Nick grits his teeth, bruised and bloody lips curling up. His back arches and he presses himself against the collapsed boxes. "Fuck! It hurts!"

Warrick gets his partner's hands pinned down. Nick's bleeding, Nick's moaning, Warrick's trying to comprehend and estimate and figure out a thousand things at once.

The gunfire on the other side of the door. Maybe six, eight shooters? Semi-autos.

And Jeff. What if I killed him? There's a growing puddle of red under his head – how hard did I hit him?

But mostly it's Nick. Nick motherfuckin' what'd-you-ever-do-to-deserve-this, Nick. The knife in his side is surreal, and so is the black stain growing on the navy henley surrounding it. Fuck.

Warrick knows how long that knife is. Saw enough of it the last hour. So he knows there's maybe four inches of steel inside his best friend's chest. Four inches of highly polished, sharp as glass, serrated, goddamned HOOK AT THE TIP steel. "Oh, shit, Nicky…"

"I can feel it man. I can… I can feel it inside me, Rick."

Don't forget he's high, too. Because all of this isn't fucked up enough.

"You gotta… I gotta take it out, man…"

Warrick's eyes dart across the storeroom, wild and worried. Because they need to get OUT. Right now. And there's a fucking KNIFE sticking out of Nick's chest. He spots what he thinks he can use in the corner where Rabbit had sat and watched Jeff torture them both. He turns back to Nick, yanks down on his wrists until Nick gives him his attention.

"Nick, listen to me. Listen. We gotta get get outta here, man. You hear those bullets poppin' out there? Huh?"

"Yeah…" Nick says, halfway between a word and a whine.

"I gotta pack somethin' around the knife and then wrap it up. Stabilize it so we can get outta here--"

"But--"

"We can't take it out. You know that, Nicky. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, man. If we take it out, you're gonna bleed out. We gotta leave it in. You know that, right?"

Nick pinches his eyes shut, face a grimace.

Warrick yanks down on his wrists again, knows he's causing more pain. "Hey! You know that, right?"

Nick manages a short nod, and it's good enough for Warrick. "I'ma let go of your hands and grab some stuff for bandages, okay? You gotta leave the knife in, Nick. You stay cool, and you don't take it out. You hear me? Nick!"

Nick manages another small nod.

"You stay cool, and you don't take it out, a'ight?"

"'Kay."

Then Warrick's up on his feet, to the bolt of polyester upholstery and the roll of cotton batting. And as he grabs it all and works it with the utility knife, he's struck by a powerful delayed déjà vu. He's there in the storeroom, but he's back in that hole. Back a year and a half ago when they'd torn the lid off that goddamned box and then told Nick to stay there. Told him to be still. A powerful ache swells up in Warrick's chest, and his hands move faster. "I'ma get us outta here, Nick."

When Warrick's back at his friend's side, he sees he's stayed true to his word; hasn't touched the knife. But the boxes directly under Nick's hands have suffered damage; torn and ripped by scrabbling fingers. There's crushed brown cardboard held tightly in each of his fists.

Warrick apologizes for every one of Nick's gasps and moans and each held breath, for all the pain he causes as he packs batting around the knife and winds the strips of upholstery he's cut around Nick's middle.

"I'ma get you up now, Nick. It's gonna hurt, but it's gonna be better if you can help me. Can you help me?"

Nick's hand finds Warrick's shoulder and fists the material of his shirt there. Once Warrick gets his arm behind Nick and has a grip on his wrist, Nick gives a sharp nod, like a bull rider signaling for the gate to be opened. Warrick swings them both up as quickly as he can, grits his own teeth as Nick yells out in pain.

And then they're running out the side door – even if it's more like Warrick carrying Nick on his hip, Nick's boots making occasional contact with the orange dirt – they're running. Running straight for the desert. Because there's nowhere else to run.

There is a heartbeat of stunned vacuum, then Eduardo's men pull their pieces. Dive to either side, and start firing.

Rabbit's stoned, but not too wasted to realize the shit has hit the fan, and he's standing directly in its path. He takes a flying leap of desperation and lands behind a chair set up at a sewing station. With one adrenaline fueled push, he shoves the industrial sewing machine onto the floor, the massive hunk of steel knocking loose a chunk of concrete from the grey painted floor. He knocks the table onto its side and crouches behind it, gun hand firing blindly across the warehouse, toward Eduardo's men.

Freddy and Joker take up position behind enormous bolts of upholstery fabric and trade gunfire with the rival crewmen who have fallen back behind racks of half-finished car seats and the skeleton frames of living room furniture. As lead hits home, thunking into the thickly padded seats and the upholstery bolts, it sends up a flurry of stuffing and burnt fabric bits that settle like snowflakes on the body of Eduardo Flores .

"Fuck! Where the hell is Jeff?" Rabbit hisses at Freddy.

His only answer is Freddy's shrug, and the slideclick of a new magazine slamming home in his automatic. Joker keeps shooting nearby.

"Jeff! Jeff, you son of a bitch! El jefe, my ass, motherfucker!" Rabbit yells at the still-shut storeroom door. There's no fucking way Jeff's not hearing the storeroom's turned into a war zone.

A bullet whizzes by, two inches from Rabbit's head, and sprays his face with soft white polyfill. He swipes a hand down his face, clearing the fluff from his eyes, and cackles. "You missed me! You missed me, you blind mother--"

The next bullet takes off most of his lower jaw, and Rabbit falls to the floor, choking on his own blood.