Title: Death Is in the Air(port)

Author: nao_asakura, aka SuperMiss

OoOoO

Half an hour later (and half way to the nearest airport where the plane had be diverted for safety measures), Gus and Shawn were sitting in the crew cabin, and Shawn was eating with one free hand, the other still cuffed to the seat.

"Why, this is so unfair... Eating spaghetti with a spoon should be considered a crime against culinary taste," he moaned.

"You're nothing but classy, Shawn. I've seen you eat unnamed things you'd found on the floor. I mean, you did try to pick up your handcuffs with the plastic fork they gave you..."

"At least tell me what's going on back there. I can't really do my thing when I'm..." He jolted his cuffs and the metal scrapped against the chair.

"Well, Lassiter has things under control. I think.

"You think?"

"He's barking orders and terrorizing half the plane crew."

"Good old Lassie," said Shawn fondly. Then he sobered: "And that Marshall? Did he phone his friends down there again?"

"I..." Gus hesitated. "I don't really feel like following him too closely. It, it might be unsafe, and I—"

"Anyway, you're sure the plane is going to be diverted?"

"We should land in about..." – Gus raised his watch to eye level and studied it for one moment – "... ten minutes or so."

"Good. Now, if you could please find me a sharp tool or—"

But Gus wouldn't find any sharp tool – they were on a plane, not in a hardware store, Gus told him.

OoOoO

Salem airport was busy as hell – was hell a busy place? Hell, he didn't know – but not very much more than usual. Well, it wasn't as if a frigging standoff was happening right now – Wait! Oh yes, there was. Shawn's thoughts were jumping in his head like little flailing bubbles – What? Bubbles don't have arms so there couldn't be any flailing involved, and— He closed his eyes and tried to mentally shut himself up. Didn't really work, though.

Stupid, he had been stupid. Or he had run out of luck, he couldn't tell. The Marshall had managed to persuade Lassiface to keep him cuffed until the plane had landed. Or maybe Lassie had just forgotten him, or he was being mean, in his petty way. Anyway, the Marshall had managed to grab him in the corridor between the plane and the airport, shoving his gun in Shawn's face, twisting his bound arms with unnecessary force.

Gus had yelped and covered. Shawn had yelped and followed because he didn't want to see his brain splattered on the grey walls of the corridor, or his arms dislocated and popped out of his shoulders. The other passengers screamed and basically scattered away, while Lassiter was nowhere to be seen.

And there he was, trying to keep his balance despite the Marshall's strong grip on his arms, standing in front of the black muzzles of security guards' guns. The firearms weren't exactly trained at him, but, in Shawn's opinion, it didn't change the general idea. The faux Marshall was expecting his friends to be waiting for him, not to set foot in another airport. He had been spooked and Shawn would have kicked himself if he had been free.

OoOoO

"I'm not going back to prison. If I'm going down, you're coming with me," the Marshall snarled very close to Shawn's ear.

"I'll pass," Shawn tried to say, but the bulky man switched to a stranglehold and Shawn's suddenly didn't have a lot of room left to speak, let alone breathe.

"How did you find out? I know you're not really psychic," he added, as if he was reading Shawn's mind himself.

"The tattoo," the smaller man managed to croak. "A real Marshall wouldn't have graduated from a Mexican jail."

"How do you—" The Marshall unconsciously looked at his arm, where the ink was showing just a little on his tan skin, under his rolled-up sleeve.

"I know where that comes from," Shawn began, trying to look smug despite the current situation, "because I saw it before" – on a computer screen, in a police report, months ago, he thought – "in a vision."

"You'd better have looked away, smartass."

Shawn would have liked to argue that one couldn't really look away from a vision, that it didn't work that way, at least not with his visions, but he didn't manage to speak up. It was probably for the best, however.

Lassie was there, Shawn suddenly noted through his mumbled thought. He was really lacking air, now that he had infuriated his hostage taker for good – Was he really a hostage? That was kinda cool. Not. Gus was there too, and a dozen of airport cops. Weapon drawn.

Then he saw it, from the very corner of his eye. The security of the Marshall's gun was still on. Was it because the he didn't intend on killing him, or just plain stupidity on his part, Shawn couldn't tell, and he really couldn't care less.

He went boneless.

The Marshall strained to keep him upright with only one hand, the gun never wavering. The confusion wasn't enough for Shawn to try and take a run, and anyway he was feeling light headed for good now that the Marshall's arm was cutting off his airway. But he opened his eyes just one second and blinked at Lassiter

Next thing he knew, a gunshot was ringing and Shawn was falling backward, the Marshall's grip still on his neck. The faux Marshall was twisting, trying to retrieve the gun he'd dropped when Lassiter's bullet hit his shoulder, then trying to stem the blood flow because there was a hole in his shoulder.

Feet running towards them. Shawn was coughing and coughing, trying to free himself, but he couldn't, not with his arms still bound in his back, and twisted beneath him.

Lassie pried him away from the Marshall while the airport cops surrounded the wounded man, weapons strained at his weakly struggling form on the floor.

"You" – cough – "believe me now?" Shawn asked Lassiter.

"I'm sorry, Spencer."

"Wait, what?"

"Don't make me say it again," Lassiter growled, holding out the key to the handcuffs. Then he helped him up to his feet.

OoOoO

Sitting in the office of the head of security of the airport, Lassiter really wished Spencer wasn't a "key witness", as their had put it. Now he was stuck in the same room while the psychic was recalling his version of the events, much to his advantage, with occasional interventions from Guster. He still felt a little bad Spencer had been hurt on his watch – there were purplish marks on his neck and a bruise was beginning to form on his temple – but he was resolute not to let it show.

"And that's when I saw the tattoo that I understood the whole plot," Spencer was saying, raising his hands emphatically. Shit, even his wrists were bruised, Lassiter thought, his jaw set. "Sun-something..."

"Stuntgrass," Gus helpfully provided.

"... was supposed to appear to have died from natural causes, while it was only a masquerade to silence him."

"Too bad they achieved their goal," Lassiter mumbled.

"Actually," said Spencer with a smile, "there may still be a way to get to them. You see," – he adopted his psychic stance and closed his eyes – "the Marshall was not alone on this one."

"I'm pretty sure he won't talk, Spencer, what are you getting at?"

"Shush, Lassiface, I'm having a vision." He frowned, as if concentrating really hard. "It rings," he whispered. "Small, black... hmm, telephone-shaped thingy."

Their resident psychic must really be exhausted, because that wasn't even remotely good, Lassiter thought. But it still sounded interesting.

"You mean he talked to someone? When, how?"

"On the plane!" Guster exclaimed. "The Marshall had a satellite phone. It still must be there," he added.

Spencer looked thankful and sat down, waiting for the head of security to connect the dots.

"I'll have the plane fully searched," the man said, picking up the phone to brief his crew.

"Trace the calls, you'll have your lead," Spencer said. He and Gus bumped their fists.

"Good job, Spencer," Lassiter breathed, surprising himself.

"I didn't quite hear that!" Oh, he could have strangled the man himself.