Disclaimers: See first chapter.

Summary: Running away is for cowards, so therefore giving chase is heroic. And heroes always win the day...right?

A/N: This chapter was written as uni started again. Ironically, that also means increasingly longer chapters from here on in.

For Charlene, for helping me beta this and for managing to fix up my blunders. And thanks to everyone that gave me feedback. I can promise that this chapter won't disappoint.

CALL OF DUTY
High Noon

Part Five
Last Gasp

Diablo had absolutely no chance of escaping me, even with my aching ribs, smashed hand, and a bullet graze on my shoulder that was still trickling blood. He ran hard, no doubt harder than he'd ran in a long time, but he still couldn't out-run me. For every ten yards he fled, I took three to five yards off him. Even though he had demonstrated fitness – earlier covering 100 metres in three seconds over record time – and he was younger than me, I still knew I was faster.

After all, any half-decent vigilante without meta-abilities like flight or speed needs to know both how to sprint and how to keep it going longer than most athletes could only dream of doing. If you couldn't out-sprint a running perp, then you might as well hang up the nightsuit and return to a normal life for all the good you'll do. And another factor on my side of the equation was the fact that his muscles were bulkier than mine and he had more of them. Some people never learned that bulking up usually only made them slower when it came down to it.

That was one lesson, though, I had a feeling Diablo was learning the hard way. I gained on him with every running-step I took, and he knew it. He'd glanced over his shoulder often enough to see how quickly I was gaining – and saw it often enough to panic.

Which was, of course, exactly what I was hoping for.

He glanced over his shoulder one last time when I was only a few metres away and preparing to tackle him, and really began to look spooked – and in that quick glance, I saw no hint of madness in his eyes. He was, for once, quite firmly grounded in this reality, even if this reality wasn't one he would've wanted a part of. And why would he? He had a cop chasing him who obviously wasn't taking 'no' for an answer and whom he'd already winged with a bullet. Besides, right now, even if he'd managed to seriously injure me, I'd still be chasing him: I had a score to settle with him, consisting of one painful hand and six weeks of paperwork. If he thought he could get away from me, then he had another thing coming.

Of course, that didn't mean he had any plans to make it easy for me. He put on a burst of speed at the last possible moment, pulling ahead and momentarily out of my reaching fingers in what was a last minute dash for freedom. In the distance, barely fifteen metres away, was the entrance to a park, where he'd have a lot more options to evade me with than on an empty sidewalk. If he made it there, he'd pretty much be home and hosed, as they say.

I followed suit and dredged up the strength to increase my speed from hidden reserves I rarely used...and it showed. I already knew that I was really going to pay for this later when I finally stopped, I could feel it in my aching muscles and the burning in my chest. Still, at least the burning pain in my ribs distracted me a little from my poor hand, which was starting to really ache as all this running made the heart pump blood to the extremities, and with the increased circulation came increased pain.

But I pushed all that out of mind and just concentrated on running, exactly like I was trained. It was really the only way to keep going.

Finally, I managed to close the gap down to a metre and, at the top of my run, launched myself at him. I impacted with the top half of his legs, wrapping my good arm around his waist and using my weight and inertia to bring him down to the pavement. I barely managed to ignore the sharp, agonising pain knifing through my chest telling me it had been a really bad idea to tackle someone when I already had cracked ribs.

True to the way the rest of today had gone, Diablo hit the ground but managed to twist as he fell, my one-handed grip around his waist suddenly not enough to hold him. Suddenly free of my grip, he rolled with the landing and sprang up, intending to dash away. Unfortunately for him, years of training allowed me to spring up with him. I slammed my shoulder into his lower back before he'd even managed to take a step.

He went down again, landing on his stomach with the wind knocked out of him, and this time I had the cuffs ready. I went down with him, landing on top of him on his thighs. Quickly sitting up, I wrapped my legs around his to keep them from moving and grabbed one flailing right arm to hold it in place behind his back and cuffed it, somehow managing to do all that using only my good hand. His other hand wasn't going to be so easy, because by now he'd recovered his breath and was rearing back and blindly swinging his free hand back towards me. I looked up, catching the motion in peripheral vision, and made a quick decision. It was either let it hit me in the ribs, block it with my bad hand, or release the cuffed wrist to use my good hand and thus give him another hand to hit me with.

Once again, there was no real choice.

I quickly raised my left forearm, in time for him to hit it with enough force to break bones if I hadn't managed to let my arm give way underneath the blow at the last moment. I was somehow able to keep hold of his cuffed wrist while I leaned back with the blow and to the side, redirecting the force of the strike down and towards the other hand I still held. Then I quickly leaned back to the other side, rolling my forearm around to the back of his arm and immediately forcing the arm down with everything I had left.

With my damaged hand hanging limply from the end of my arm, I let out a few soft curses when the hand landed on his back, but managed to keep pressing down using my forearm regardless. Compared to all that, it was relatively fairly easy to snap the free cuff around his wrist once I got the arm near my good hand. Click

Still using my good hand to keep his hands in place, I leaned back and gasped for breath, panting hard and struggling to regain lost oxygen as I gingerly swiped the sweat off my forehead with my left arm. One last task. Releasing my right-handed grip on his hands only to grasp the back of his collar and twist slightly, I leaned down and jerked his head back so I could say my piece. "Diablo Simmons...you're under arrest...for resisting arrest and...using a firearm unlawfully." No need to repeat the full list; that was the judge's job. Just breathe. "You have...the right to remain...silent, the right to a...a lawyer, and anything you...do say can and will...be used...against you in court." Breathe, dammit. That was enough of his Miranda rights too; he had the basic gist of what other cops could expand on, and I didn't have the breath to spare to tell him more anyway. "...You get me?" I whispered harshly, twisting his collar only a little to emphasise my point.

Diablo found the good sense to nod.

I released his collar and sat back, still breathing heavily and already feeling a creeping exhaustion overtaking my limbs. Too much unexpected exertion in too short a time, that was the problem. It also didn't help matters that I was slowly coming down from one incredible adrenaline rush. It had only been, what, five minutes since he fired the first shot? I felt him struggle lightly underneath me, but dismissed it, knowing my weight would be enough to keep him still until the backup—

The backup. Damn. Where the hell were they?

I cursed again under my breath at the failings of the Blüdhaven Police Force. Okay, so it wasn't unusual for backup not to arrive at all in the seedier districts, but only two blocks from the BPD headquarters? Crazy. Pure and simple craziness. Looks like it's up to me then. Again.

Still quietly gasping for breath, I reached down with my good hand and pulled out my own gun for the first time in the entire affair. I left the Bristol where it was, in my waistband and under my jacket. It was safer there than anywhere else, and besides, it already had enough of my prints on it. As soon as I'd shifted my weight, however, Diablo started struggling for real. Hnh. It's just like riding a Bronc.

He quickly settled down when I put the cool metal of my gun against his neck. "...Feel that, Dabie?" I whispered in his ear.

He nodded, holding his breath.

"Then don't...make me mad," I threatened in my Bat-voice.

His face paled and he shook his head frantically, desperate to convince me he didn't really mean it. Of course he was lying, but then he didn't need to know I'd also lied about me shooting him. I just hoped he'd be thinking something along the lines of contemplating what I'd do to him if all this had been me being calm. It had to be one of the few times the BPD's bad reputation has come in handy for me.

"Good." I leaned back up, speaking once again in a normal voice, albeit a bit forced. I couldn't seem to fully get my breath back for some reason. "Now get up."

"C-Can't," he answered shakily, finding his voice for the first time in something that wasn't a diabolical laugh.

"Oh, that's right," I said, feigning sudden remembrance. "I'm sitting on ya...aren't I?" I unwrapped my legs from around his and stood, gun aimed at him the entire time. "Now stand, Dabie...and remember...you're in my sights," I warned, using the pauses for what I hoped were quiet gasps for breath.

He stood awkwardly with his hands cuffed, forced to bring his legs up underneath and then put his weight on them as he straightened. When he looked up, he was looking straight down the barrel of my gun, held unwaveringly in my good hand. My other hand, the one I'd long since lost feeling in even if the pain had never stopped, hung loosely by my side as if I'd forgotten about it – fat chance of that.

His gaze flicked in that direction and I quickly flicked the gun's safety off and again forced myself to speak as normally as possible, "Don't even think...you can out-race a bullet... Besides...you're already under arrest... Don't make it worse." His brown eyes flicked back to my face and I saw in them his understanding and grudging compliance. I gave him a grim smile and jerked my head behind me in the direction of the abandoned taxi. "Now...start walking."

He walked.

Only once he was past me did I allow myself to wince and hug my swollen left hand to my body. The pain lessened with the slightly decreased circulation, but only a little. It was still going to need splints, maybe even surgery and a cast, to fix the damage. That, along with the ribs I was really starting to feel, would keep me on desk duty – and paperwork duty – for far longer than would be good for my mental health. By the time I healed, I knew I'd be really considering the advantages of that locked rubber room I'd get for screaming my frustrations at the world.

I followed quietly behind Diablo, gun trained on him the entire time. We headed back to the crashed taxi, which had by now finished its acrobatics, having ended up on its roof in quite a sorry state. Yep, definitely a write-off. At least ol' Willy Jacknife wouldn't be terrorizing Blüdhaven's citizens for a few weeks – maybe even a coupla months if we were lucky.

We had made it about halfway back before I finally heard the sound of approaching sirens. I snorted under my breath. Typical Blüdhaven. The cavalry and backup were, as usual, arriving long after the need for them had passed.

"Stop and kneel," I ordered Diablo and he readily complied, for which I was incredibly glad. It was safer that way, both for him and me. If he was kneeling and I had my gun already on him, there'd be no need for some trigger-happy cop to use him as target practice. And as long as he was down there, I figured he couldn't be causing me any more trouble.

I stayed behind him and rubbed my chest with a pained grimace, wondering idly what damage I'd done when I'd tackled the guy. One or two cracked, or even broken, ribs shouldn't be hurting and affecting my breathing this bad. I closed my eyes as I felt another spasm of pain in my chest. Maybe I'd done an extra rib in when I tackled him. Wouldn't be surprised, knowing my luck. I certainly had enough pain for it. Great. Just what I didn't need. I immediately started breathing shallowly, which eased the pain somewhat.

The sirens were even closer now, barely five seconds away if I had to guess. I could hear the engines. My eyes opened when I heard a scrape of clothing, but found Diablo apparently hadn't moved. His hands were still cuffed behind his back where I could see them and he was still kneeling. Nope, nothing to worry about. I must just be getting edgy now that it was finally over.

Sure enough, just as I reached zero on my mental countdown, squealing tires and shouted commands heralded the much-belated appearance of Blüdhaven's Finest. I just stood back and let them have at it, although I did put my gun away when I saw they had Diablo covered. Two of them came over and corralled the psychotic perp, each taking hold of one arm and guiding the Latino to the back of the paddy wagon that had also pulled up, while another officer approached me.

I recognised him immediately. Officer Kelly Chavez, one of the few good guys on the Force in this crazy town. We'd been put in the same taskforce once or twice, enough to know each other by face and name even if we'd never technically been assigned together as partners. He came over towards me looking more than a little surprised to see me. "Dick? Dick Grayson? Is that you?"

"Last I checked," I replied quietly, trying not to breathe too deeply.

"And this is your handiwork?" he continued, eyebrows raised and nodding his head towards the smashed taxi lying on its roof behind him. There was glass all over the place, and more than a few engine parts. That was one car that wouldn't be going anywhere except the dump.

"Partly," I responded wearily. "Diablo did most of it... I was just...along for the ride," I finished, grimacing again as my chest again complained at the exertion of speaking. Rubbing it didn't do a thing to ease it.

"Ribs?"

I nodded. "Elbowed me...when we were...getting off the taxi." I closed my eyes for a moment at another painful spasm in my chest. It was getting harder and harder to take a decent breath. "That...was after...I did my hand."

Kelly swore softly when he saw the swollen hand I was still hugging close to my chest. It must've looked pretty bad by now – I hadn't been game enough to look at it since we'd gotten off the taxi. "You're gonna need a hospital for that, Grayson." With that, he led me over to the nearest police cruiser and had me lean against it. Having that extra support was more of a relief than I liked to admit, even if it felt like I had a plank sticking into my back. For some reason I couldn't think what it was.

"So'll Diablo," I paused for a couple of breaths that accomplished nothing. "He did...something...when...he landed. And his...fingers too." I paused again when I finally realised what was pressing into my back. I reached back and pulled out the Bristol, shoving it at Kelly. "Here's...his gun." Leaning back against the cruiser, I rubbed my aching chest again. Breathe Grayson, dammit! Even breathing shallowly wasn't helping anymore. Hell, breathing was helping much of anything. I was starting to feel like I was trying to swallow the moon whenever I inhaled.

"You're awfully white, Grayson," Kelly observed, voice rising in alarm. "You need the hospital ASAP." He turned away and yelled over his shoulder, "Get the medics over here! Now!"

"Family's doc...L-Leslie...Leslie Thom'son," I managed to gasp out, the pain in my chest getting worse and worse with each strangled breath. "...G-Gotham. Runs a...sh-shelter."

"I'll call her," Kelly assured me. "Just save your breath, Grayson. I don't want you dying on me."

Dying? Who said anything about dying? Just breathing would be nice.

He yelled over his shoulder again for the ambulance and I nodded anyway, gritting my teeth against the pain. I closed my eyes and grimly concentrated on my breathing. I heard voices coming near, footsteps and exclamations at something. I think it was me they were talking about, but then again everything was getting distant, far away, like I was at one end of the tunnel and they were at the other.

But then I heard something else, something startlingly close and so familiar that there was no way I could ignore it: The sounds of confusion, of grunts as blows connected and the thuds of bodies falling to the ground.

Barely able to breathe, I forced my eyes open and squinted. Everything was blurry. The big white thing next to me was probably Kelly, and there were a few other whitish-blobs with him. More officers, I guessed. And dead ahead of me was another white blob that kept moving up and down, like maybe the earth was shaking...? I shook my head to clear it and squinted again. It was no quake. The owner of the white-thing was running. Running. Towards me? But how—

Gunshots.

And then my chest and leg exploded in pain. My knees gave way beneath me as I gasped for breath and fell to the ground. Panic set in immediately when I realised I couldn't breathe and my lungs were already burning up. Everything was red hot, burning hot all over... And then it went quiet, deathly silent, and I suddenly realised I was still falling...falling forever . . . .

...Voices. Confused. Concerned? Calling to someone. Who? Him? Someone.

"Damn. Where's all that blood coming from!"

Bright light, white hot and bleeding into his eyes. "Grayson? You with us?"

Were they still talking to him? Or someone else? Whatever. Groan in reply; can't speak. No energy, no air, not much of a voice either. It doesn't matter. Just go away. Leave him alone. Let him be...

"He's not breathing!"

Now they're probing him, pushing in his chest. Sharp, painful, like a knife stabbing him. Hurts. Everything hurts. Too much. Wants to leave it, get away, like the air did. The light's gone too. No light; just white. Very bright and very white . . . . .

TBC... ;-)