Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's note: Well, here's the chapter you've all been waiting for; hope it lives up to your expectations!

The Shootout

"Well, this is a fine mess you've gotten us into," growled Lassiter, clutching his right shoulder. Blood ran steadily through whitened fingers despite his best efforts at applying pressure. He grimaced in pain as he shifted against the protective crate, trying to sit up straighter without accidentally discharging the pistol he still kept gripped in his right hand. 'Thank Sweet Justice they didn't hit a nerve,' he thought, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the pain from his wound. The concrete floor was uncomfortably cold through his trousers, and he slowly became aware that they were damp as well. Glancing down, he realized he was sitting in a small puddle of his own blood. 'Great,' he groused internally, 'Now I've ruined the pants as well. This was an expensive suit!'

"Hey, can I help it if my visions didn't specify 'gun-wielding criminals still at scene'?" Spencer's comment pulled him back to their bigger issues. "Besides, you were the one who just wanted to 'check to see if there was anything to my spirits' information' before calling for back-up. Maybe next time you'll believe me and at least bring Jules." 'Not that I really want Jules in danger, but still…a little help right now would be nice.' The psychic's sharp eyes scanned the back of the warehouse, alert for movement on their exposed side, before returning to fix on the injured detective once more. 'That's really…quite a bit of blood,' he thought uncomfortably as he reached for Carlton's shoulder, ineffectively trying to hide his concern. He lowered his voice, not wanting their assailant to know he'd scored a hit. "Here, let me take a look at that."

"It's nothing; just a scratch," grunted the head detective, swatting him away as best he could. There was no way he was going to allow anyone short of trained EMTs near his injury. Pointing with his chin towards Spencer's pocket, he rapidly changed the subject. "You manage to get out on your cellphone?"

"Yeah, they'll be here in ten." Shawn's expression proved he knew that the detective was trying to distract him, but decided to let it slide. He crouched down to floor level and peeked around the crate's corner, trying unsuccessfully to get a visual on their sniper. He jerked back as a shot pinged the concrete next to his head. "Didn't peg his position," he whispered to the detective.

Uncomfortable with the worry he'd seen in the psychic's eyes, Lassiter responded, "Let me try". Before Spencer could argue, he carefully rotated to his knees, then inched up further to peer over the top of the bin, only to drop back heavily to the floor as another bullet ricocheted past, splintering off a bit of wood this time. The sudden movement caused a white-hot explosion of agony to emanate from his shoulder, blanking out the rest of the world momentarily. He gulped air in small panting breaths as he tried to quell the nausea that suddenly threatened to have him re-examining his breakfast. A cold sweat appeared on his forehead, but he didn't have the energy to wipe it away.

"Didn't spot him," he commented unnecessarily once he'd gotten his voice under control. His eyes slid closed as he concentrated on controlling the torment in his shoulder. "We might be in trouble…" he began.

"Ya think? Let me see that!" Spencer had had it with stubborn, injured head detectives who were trying to bleed to death while pinned down by the bad guys. He latched onto Lassiter's left hand, prying the tense fingers away from their death-grip on the bullet wound, pointedly ignoring the sticky sensation of warm, congealing blood beneath his fingertips. To his annoyance, he couldn't tell much through the layers of Lassiter's clothing, other than there was still active bleeding.

"Leave it," hissed Carlton, blanching white and jerking away. "There's nothing you can do to help."

Spencer winced sympathetically, but remained firm in his resolve to examine the wound. "Take off your coat."

"Spencer, we have more serous problems than a little flesh wound in my shoulder," growled Carlton. "There were two guys shooting before. Only one shot at us just now, so ask yourself - where's the second criminal?"

"Hey, you think I haven't considered that?" Shawn replied, glancing up and scanning the back wall once again. 'It's all I've been thinking about for the last ten minutes.' "I can keep a lookout and check your shoulder at the same time; it's called 'multitasking', and I'm quite good at it." Shawn babbled distractedly as he pulled at the sleeve of Lassiter's suit, then raised his voice loud enough to be heard by the shooters. "Hey Jamison! You know we've called for backup, right? Cops'll be here any second!"

He was answered by another bullet pinging overhead, then a gruff voice bellowed from the direction of the gunfire, "Yeah, well by then you two will be dead, and we'll be gone." OK, the burly ringleader was still where they'd left him.

"And how do you plan to do that? You're not much of a marksman. How about you, Pacheco? You able to hit the broad side of a barn?" By this time Shawn had Lassiter's jacket off the sweating man and had torn open his shirt at the shoulder, exposing the bullet tract. There was a neat entry wound just below the clavicle in the upper axilla, with a slightly larger exit wound just below the shoulder joint in the back. From the blood still pouring out, it was possible that he had an arterial injury. Spencer quickly pulled off his own shirt and began ripping it into strips. "Pacheco? You playing hard-to-get?" Spencer's eyes darted around the part of the warehouse visible to him, still watching for movement as he wadded up bits of his own shirt and pressed them firmly against both wounds. The detective's eyes, which had remained tightly closed to this point, flew open at the sudden stabbing sensation caused by the pressure. The sweat was now running off in rivulets, but he bit his lip and managed not to cry out.

Spencer took a deep breath and ignored the shaking he could feel beneath his hands as he continued to dress the wounds. To distract them both, he concentrated on locating the second shooter. "Pacheco?" he called out again as he firmly secured the makeshift compress with more strips from his shirt wound around the shoulder. No answer. "I think Pacheco is trying to flank us," Spencer leaned in and whispered to Lassiter as he tied the knots tight. His lips firmed to a thin line as he considered his next words.

"Detective, I need your gun."

Carlton fixed him with an incredulous stare and struggled to sit up straighter. "Over my dead body," he growled, arching an eyebrow.

"It might come to that. Listen, we probably only have a few minutes. Pacheco must be working his way to a position where he can see us; when he does, I should be able to see him as well." Shawn stared at Lassiter intently, willing him to understand the quick, clipped words. "We may only have one shot, and right now you're in no position to take it." He nodded to the bandaged shoulder in emphasis.

"Spencer, I'm sure I can handle my weapon better than you, injured or not." He painfully pulled up his gun with his right hand and balanced it on his knee, pointing towards their exposed flank.

Shawn's gaze was as hard as diamond. "No. You can't." The words held all the certainty that the consultant could project. "Not in your condition."

Lassiter met the stare for a moment before dropping his eyes, acknowledging that Spencer might be right, but still reluctant to hand over his weapon. That was when he noticed a flash of movement off to his left.

The psychic had seen it, too. With blinding speed the pistol was snatched out of Lassiter's loosening grip and fired in the direction of the activity, as simultaneously a shot rang out from that locale. There was a satisfying cry of pain from the direction of their new attacker, but the gratification was short-lived. Carlton's brow crinkled in concern as he heard Shawn grunt as he completed an impromptu forward roll. He was reminded of the first suspect as another bullet pinged overhead from Jamison's position. In an instant Spencer had swiveled to face forward, coming up on one knee and bracing the gun before letting loose a second shot, this time at the ringleader. A yelp of pain from the front, then only moaning from both directions.

"I think I got them," panted the psychic as he scurried back to the detective in a low crab-walk. "How's the shoulder?" Setting the gun down beside Carlton's right hand, he carefully inspected his bandage to assure that it was still tight.

"How's yours?" asked Carlton, staring pointedly at the blood now running down Spencer's left arm.

Shawn seemed to notice his own injury for the first time, turning his arm back and forth to get a better view. "Huh. Guess Pacheco wasn't as bad a marksman as I thought." The wound was through-and-through the outer part of his upper arm and, while bleeding freely, appeared to be a clean shot through the muscle. He snagged some more strips of his shirt from the pile on the concrete and awkwardly tried to wind them in place.

"Let me do that!" snarled Lassiter, rolling his eyes and leaning forward to snatch the makeshift bandage from the psychic's hands. He blinked briefly as the room whirled around him, but a few slow breaths later it had settled down. Glancing at Spencer's face, he was irritated at the concern that had reappeared.

"What?!?" he growled, grabbing the consultant's arm resolutely and inspecting the wound.

"You OK, Lassie? You looked a little wobbly there for a second."

"I'm fine," gritted the detective, even though he was certain Spencer saw through his fabrication and was ready to call him on it. Time to change the subject again. "Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"

To his surprise and relief, it worked. Shawn waved his right hand randomly in the air as his eyes shifted away uncomfortably. "Oh, here and there…you know. Mostly from my Dad, though. He always wanted me to be a cop." He hissed in pain. "Hey, not so tight there, de Sade!"

Carlton didn't look up from the bandaging. "It has to be tight to slow the bleeding; you know that, Spencer. You proved you know it on my shoulder."

"Oh, so this is some sort of sick payback, huh?" He lifted his head as the sound of approaching sirens filtered into the building. "Huh. Sounds like the cavalry has arrived." He grunted as Lassiter tied the last knot. "And not a moment too soon." He glanced up towards where he'd shot each criminal, straining to see any movement. Nothing, although moaning could still be discerned from both directions.

"They might be playing possum…" he mumbled worriedly.

Lassiter leaned back against the crate, waiting for the EMTs to arrive, and snorted in derision. "No, you got them. They're down."

Shawn tilted his head consideringly. "How do you know?"

Lassiter chuckled. "I've finally seen you shoot."

TBC…(Just the Epilogue to go)

Author's Note: So, what did you think? I re-wrote this several times, trying to get it just right. Any suggestions?