DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN CSI:NY OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS. I ONLY OWN SAMANTHA FLACK AND THE FLACK KIDS.

THIS CHAPTER CONTINUES WHERE THE LAST LEFT OFF.

Fallen brothers

"I was watching the news tonight
Anchorman said there was a fight
And a young man died from his wounds
They showed pictures of the battle
And I almost turned the channel
Like I always seem to do
Then it hit me like a freight train coming through

That's somebody's son,
Somebody's husband,
Somebody's everything,
Out there someone's coming undone
It made me wonder if anyone really wins
When every war has to be won
With somebody's son

I walked down the hall to check
On my youngest lying in bed
And I stood there watching him dream
I tried but I couldn't imagine
how we would feel if something happened
And I didn't have him here with me
Then I cried for that dead boy and his family."
-Somebody's Son, Aaron Lines

"I don't want to hear 'I don't know'!" Flack bellowed into his phone. His free hand trembling in fury and his knuckles turning white as he tightly gripped the steering wheel and speed and swerved through traffic. "What I want is some goddamn answers! Starting with how in the fuck this even happened!"

Sam glanced over at her husband as he expertly handled the SUV through the streets. Defensive driving training in the academy and years of navigating the city streets at break neck speeds had made him more then comfortable and confident behind the wheel while doing twice the speed limit. There was no one that she trusted more in that kind of situation. To be able to get both himself, and her safely from one place to the other. Whether it was in heavy traffic or on relatively empty streets. In inches of snow that covered up dangerous black ice, or a violent rain storm that left the asphalt slick. He had driven in every possible scenario and not once had he doubted his skills. Even when he did have a cell phone pressed to his ear and had to drive and conduct business.

"Well if you can't tell me Parker, I want you to get someone on the phone who can! NOW!"

She physically jumped as the last word boomed through the vehicle. She reached out and laid a comforting, soothing hand on his thigh and alternated between rubbing and squeezing softly. Hoping to calm him down at least a little bit. His entire body was shaking as he seethed from anger. His blue eyes were dark and furious as they remained intently fixed on the road in front of them. His jaw was tense and his nostrils flared. She'd seen him angry many a time in their marriage. They'd been embroiled in countless arguments that resulted in things tossed around the house in fury and holes punched in doors or walls. She'd been terrified and reduced to tears during fights. Not out of physical fear, but out of that loud, authoritative voice that would have even the hardest criminal quaking in their boots.

But she'd never seen him this angry. And it worried her. With the cardiac problems that had plagued his father the moment the elder Flack had hit forty five, and the warnings that the doctor had given that heart disease and stroke were prevalent in the family, the last thing she wanted was her husband falling victim to a heart attack. A trip to the cardiologist -she'd forced him to go the moment he'd begun experiencing tingling down his left arm that had later been attributed to a pinched nerve he'd suffered after being body checked during an NYPD hockey game- had showed that his heart was healthy and in perfect working order.

Still, it was better not to tempt fate.

"Fucking incompetent morons," Flack muttered, the phone still to his ear as he waited for someone to get on that knew what the hell was going on.

"Please calm down, Donnie…" she said, stroking his leg. "I know this is really, really, really bad…but please calm down…you're no good to anyone when you're this upset."

"How can I not be upset when…" his words were cut off abruptly as another party came on the other end of the line. "Whose this?" he shouted into the phone. "Well Detective Johnson, I want to know what the hell is going on over there!….You were the first on scene?…well then start talking and tell me what in the fuck happened…"

Inside her purse, Sam's cell phone rang noisily, startling her. She was anxious and terrified. Worried about the families of the fallen officers and concerned about the status of the crime scene. Lack of information was always a dangerous thing. What had prompted the initial 911 call? How had a single gunman managed to ambush three police officers? Where was the suspect? Was he alive? Dead? Holed up in the house heavily armed? There were so many questions and not enough answers.

She unzipped the small black and pink Kate Spade bag and pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open. She didn't realize, until she held the cell in her hands, that her hands were trembling as bad as they were. It was a tense, frightening situation. And the first and foremost thing on her mind was the phone calls that were soon going to be made to wives or girlfriends who'd kissed their husbands and told them they loved them as they left the house. Brave men who had left their homes smiling. Strapping on that gun and clipping on that badge. Willingly putting their lives on the line for yet another shift. All in the hopes of making the city a safer place to live. Husbands and fathers, brothers and uncles who would never walk through their front doors ever again.

She had been there. She was one of the lucky ones but she had been there. She'd sat by a hospital bed, holding her husband's hand as he lay intubated and in a drug induced coma. She'd listened to doctors giving the gravest of news. She'd cried and prayed each time a Catholic priest came to give the last rights because the specialist had told her it would only be a matter of time. It had happened seven times in total. Seven times she'd mentally prepared herself for her husband's death. She'd rehearsed time and time again what she would tell her very small children when their father did finally pass away. She'd taken his dress blues to the cleaners to make sure they were suitable for him to be buried in. She'd picked out what she and the children would wear. She'd written a small speech she'd ask someone else to recite for her because she knew that she'd never be able to do it. She'd said her goodbyes and her I love you's and I'll miss you's. She had accepted the inevitable.

And by the grace of God, the inevitable had never come.

Not then, anyway.

But now it's someone else's grief, Sam thought, as she checked the call display on her phone. Someone else's pain and suffering. Someone else's everything, their forever so cruelly snatched away.

She frowned at the sight of her home number and flipped her phone open. "Hello?" she asked nervously, struggling to hear the caller over her husband's yelling and excessive profanity.

"Mommy?" Kieran's voice. Sounding anxious. Scared even. In the background she could Liam screaming hysterically at the top of his lungs. She couldn't make out any words other than Daddy and dead.

"K…what…?"

"It's all over the t.v.!" Kieran cried. "We were just watching some stupid thing on CBS and the news came on. I tried to change the channel but I was too late. All they're talking about is three cops getting killed in Far Rockaway! What's going on?"

"We don't know anything yet," his mother told him. Trying to remain as calm as possible. "Your dad is on the phone to a detective right now. Trying to get some answers."

"The guy on t.v that some guy went nuts when the cops showed up at his house 'cause he was beating the shit out of his wife," Kieran told her. "That he was just lying in wait and did them in as they were walking across the lawn. Is that true?"

"We really don't know, Kieran," she said. Letting the curse word slip by. "All we know is that three officers were shot and…"

"And killed!" her son finished for her. "They said that they're dead! That he shot them in the head! Three of them mom! How does something like that happen?"

"I don't know, Kieran…just please…just please calm down…we don't know the whole story and you're getting yourself worked up. Just turn the television off and try and relax."

"We're all freaking out here!" he exclaimed. "We heard it and everyone just went bat-shit insane! Reghan and Alannah and Mikayla are bawling their eyes out, Declan's doing that crazy ass rocking shit he does when he's upset. And Liam's…Liam's gone fucking nuts!"

"Kieran! I know you're upset but watch your mouth! I need you to be calm. I need you to keep it together. If you're freaking out then all of the other kids are going to freak out too. I need you to step up and be the man of the house, okay? I need you to stay calm and cool and collected. Can you do that for your brothers and sisters? Can you do that for me and your dad?"

"Yeah…I think so…I'm just freaking out, you know? 'Cause of dad being a cop and all…"

"I know it's scary. It's a tragic thing. But we really need you to take control, Kieran. I want you to turn the television off and calm everyone down. Then I want you to call Papa Mac and see if either he or Aunt Stell can come over and stay with you guys until daddy and I get home."

"What if they can't do it?" the fifteen year old asked, the confidence and strength slowly returning to his voice.

"Then you keep calling numbers until you find someone who can," Sam told him. "I don't know how long we'll be. But I am trusting you to keep things under control. Understand me?"

"Yeah…but Liam…he's just…can you hear him mom? He's going nuts here."

"Put him on the phone," Sam instructed.

"Well where's the fucking perp now?!" Flack screamed into his phone. "Alive? Dead? In custody? On his way to the morgue! What?!"

Sam sighed and laid her hand on his leg once more.

"Mommy?" Liam sobbed into the phone. "Daddy's dead!"

"What?"

"It's on the news," he cried. "The policemen that got shot. One of them is daddy!"

"No, Liam. One of them was not your father," she assured him, and noticed, out of the corner of her eye, Flack glance over at her, his expression of anger turning into one of concern as he listened to both her conversation and the detective on his own line. "Daddy's fine. He's right here and he's fine."

"He is?" Liam sniffled.

"I wouldn't lie to you, sweetie. Daddy is just fine. Nothing bad has happened to him. He's right here."

"I want to talk to him," the little boy said. "Just to make sure you're not fibbin'."

"Liam, I'm not lying. He's right here and he's on the phone. He can't talk to you right now, okay? He's very busy and he…"

"If daddy's not dead I want to talk to him!" Liam yelled. "Let me talk to daddy!"

"He is on the phone and he can't talk to you right now. When he's off the phone I'll get him to call you, okay?"

"Right now! I want to talk to daddy right now!" her son screamed.

"Liam, if you don't calm down right now…"

"Hang on a second," Flack barked into his phone and laying it in his lap, reached out and snagged the cell right out of his wife's hand. Taking a deep breath, he released it slowly and then gathered himself before putting the phone to his ear. "Liam?" he spoke in a calm, composed and gentle tone. "I'm here buddy."

"Daddy?" he sniffled. "You're not dead?"

"No, I'm not dead. What would make you think something like that?"

"'Cause it was on television," Liam responded. "That three policemen got shot. They're dead."

"There's a lot of policemen in this city, buddy. And I'm fine, okay? Nothing bad happened to me. Now I need you to do me a favour, okay? A big boy favour."

"I can do a big boy favour," Liam declared.

"I know you can. And this is what I want you to do. I want you to help Kieran keep an eye on the house okay? It's going to be a while before mommy and I get home and I need the two of you to keep everything running smoothly. To be in charge of the place. Think you can do that?"

"Yeah…I can do that, daddy."

"So it's important that you stay nice and calm and you help Kieran keep everyone else nice and calm. I'm counting on you, Liam. It's really, really important that you help K out. Think you can do that? Think you can give him a hand? Be his first mate?"

"I can!" the little boy declared proudly.

"Good. Now I've got to go, alright? I've got a lot of work to do. So I want you to be really, really good. Make sure you help your brother out. Mommy and I will be home as soon as we can. Okay?"

"Okay…please be careful, daddy. I don't want the bad guys getting you too."

"I promise you that I'll be fine. You make sure you listen to Kieran and you get into your pyjamas and brush your teeth and go to bed when he tells you to you I don't want to come home and find out that you gave him a hard time. I'll come in and kiss you goodnight when I get home."

"And read my a story?" Liam asked hopefully.

"If you're still up, we'll see."

"I'll wait up," the little boy declared and disconnected the call.

Sighing heavily, Flack pressed end on the metallic pink phone clutched tightly in his hand. His lips set in a firm line and tears brimming in his eyes as he shook his head slowly.

"Donnie…" Sam's voice was soft and gentle as she squeezed his knee.

"I can't do that ever again," he said, his own voice barely a whisper. "I can't…I just can't…"

"But he…"

"I just can't!" he snapped. "Alright? Just…" he tossed her phone in her lap and held up a hand to silence her as she opened her mouth to speak. Sniffling and clearing his throat noisily, he put his game face back on and picked up his own phone. "Johnson?!" he barked. "You still there?…give me the four one one on what's going on at this exact moment…I don't want what happened an hour ago or five minutes ago. I want real time on what's happening! 'Cause I get kids and a wife I need to stay alive for and I don't want to be walking into a goddamn bloodbath."

"Donnie!" Sam spoke in a harsh whisper and tugged on the front of his shirt.

He glanced over at her.

"It's going to be okay," she assured him, and gave a small, comforting smile.

He managed a smile of his own, and tucking his phone into his neck, held it to his with his shoulder and laid his hand over top of hers.

And hoped beyond hope that she was right.

Ridgeview Avenue in Far Rockaway was a hub of activity. Cordoned off with emergency vehicles and crime scene tape for two blocks in either direction, uniform a news helicopter buzzed over head while uniform officers struggled to keep back curious onlookers. Detectives in Kevlar and heavily armed members of the special weapons and tactical unit lingered in the street, cell phones pressed to their ears and walkie talkies clutched tightly in their hands as their attention was riveted on the modest two and a half storey red brick home where all hell had broken lose just forty five minutes before. Among the countless number of blue and whites parked with their lights flashing and the vehicles belonging to SWAT and K9, were two medical examiners vans with their back doors opened and two SUVs belonging to crime lab.

"Do they know anything about the perp?" Sam asked, as Flack parked their vehicle a hundred yards away from the secured area and killed the ignition.

"All I know is that she's still in the house," her husband replied.

Sam's eyes widened. "It's a woman?" she asked dumbfounded. Shootings were not usually the preferred MO of female criminals. Gun crimes were far too gruesome and seemed more of a 'guy thing'. Women preferred less messy ways of killing. Strangulation, smothering, poisoning, electrocution even. Of course, there were always exceptions to the rule. The occasional female perp that went Lizzie Borden on someone or walked into a workplace and shot everyone and everything in sight. But it was rare. Very rare. Bloodbaths just weren't…well they just weren't a 'girly thing'.

He nodded and removing his glasses, folded them and tossed them onto the dashboard.

"And she's still in the house? And you're going out there without a vest or anything?"

"I'm sure one of uniforms or one of the SWAT guys will have an extra one I can borrow. Apparently she's wounded. Self inflicted gunshot wound to an unknown area of her body. They're trying to talk her out of there."

"Fuck that," Sam declared. "Just let SWAT go in there and put her out of her misery. She killed three cops! Who gives a shit if she walks out this alive or dead."

"Calm down, babe," he reached out and ran a hand over her hair. "Just calm down…I don't need you getting all worked up…"

"What the hell were the officers responding to anyway? What was the original nine one one call?"

"Neighbours called saying that the husband was bashing her around. Guess he's a drunk and a common thing. She was apparently worried the cops were going to haul his ass off to jail so she decided to take matters into her own hands."

"And she kills the people trying to save her from that piece of shit? She sounds like a fucking nutter," Sam seethed.

"Babe…please…relax…you need to calm down…getting like this isn't any good for the baby…let's think of the baby, okay?"

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes briefly before exhaling and giving a nod. "I don't want you going out there without a vest," she said. "She's still armed and you're going to walk out there completely unprotected. You want me to think about the baby, Don? You do the same thing. You think about our unborn baby and your six kids at home and me. I don't want you going out there without a vest."

"Sam, this is my job," he explained gently. "I'm needed here."

"And you're needed at home!" she argued. "You're needed in your children's lives! You're needed in my life, Don! Christ for sixteen years now we've had this same fight every time something from work comes up! And I support you and respect you for being so devoted to your career! I do! But I also love you and I'm devoted to you as my husband and the father of my children and I don't want anything to happen to you!"

Flack sighed heavily, and laying his elbow on the ledge of the driver's side window, pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Silence descended on the car. Metal and glass the only things separating them from the sheer pandemonium that existed on the street. Officers yelling back and forth, the news chopper looming overhead. It would be dark in a matter of a half an hour and soon the street would be awash with spotlights from the helicopter and the flashing of blue and reds. The longer the stand off continued, the larger the media circus would become. And it was that attention that perps craved. The desire to be immortalized.

To go down in a blaze of glory.

Leaning forward, his wife's words ringing in his ears and tugging at his heart, he grabbed his cell phone off of the dash and place a quick phone call to one of the detectives he'd spoken to earlier. Within minutes, a fresh faced uniform was rapping his knuckles on the driver's side window with his knuckles, a Kevlar vest in his free hand.

Flack rolled down the window and took the vest with an appreciative nod. "Scene secure?" he asked.

"As good as can be I guess, Inspector. The crazy bitch is still holed up in the back of the house. SWAT's getting ready to give the all clear for the CSI's and ME's office to start processin' the bodies. They're still on the front lawn."

"Well you tell whoever is in charge of SWAT to stand down. I'm the one in charge of this scene now and I'll be the one to gives the orders. Understand me?"

"Yes, sir…" the uniform said, and promptly got on his walkie talkie. He relayed the information -the Inspector's strict orders as he called them- then turned back towards the SUV. "I just don't get this," he said and swallowed noisily. Tears of grief and rage welled in his eyes as he glanced down the street. "I can't believe this happened…three of our brothers…how can someone do something like that?"

Flack had no answer for that. It had been a question that had plagued his own mind millions of times during his twenty-five year career. Two plus decades spent questioning the frames of mind of human beings who were capable of doing horrific things to each other. Of being in sheer disgust and awe at the depth of hatred and evil that could exist inside of people. Drug dealers that poisoned the minds and bodies of not only adults, but children as well. White supremacists that beat down and even tortured and killed innocent people or no other reason then they had the wrong colour of skin. He'd seen love triangles that took disastrous turns. Controlling and abusive husbands that pummelled their wives to death in a fit of rage. He'd been the one, on more than one occasion, to pull a dead newborn, its cord still attached, out of a dumpster or trash can. Left there by crack whore mothers who hadn't wanted to be pregnant let alone value the sheer miracle of life they'd managed to achieve. And he'd seen physically and sexually abused children that would need extensive therapy for the rest of their lives. Many of who would never be able to form normal, lasting personal relationships with anyone. Who would also become an abuser in the future and would end up not only in the system, but leave a horde of victims in their wake.

Many a night he'd gone home and crept into his children's rooms and stood at the side of their beds. Watching how the moonlight illuminated their innocent, angelic faces. Listening to their soft breathing and smiling at their murmurings and sighs. And he'd bend down and run a hand over their hair and press kisses to their foreheads and cheeks and whisper I love you. And promises that he'd never, ever let anything evil get them.

Then he'd retreat to his own room, and still fully clothed, he'd climb into bed beside his wife and wrap his arms around her and kiss her awake. She would never talk or ask what was bothering him. She could always see in his eyes and in how tense his body was that he was troubled. Years spent together had done nothing if not make their bond so strong that they knew what they were thinking, and feeling without having to ask. And how to comfort and console without a single word. They knew what the other needed and when it was appropriate to take things into their own hands.

She would lock eyes with him and her finger tips would gently explore every inch of his weary, scruffy face. And she'd kiss him, long and gentle and her soft hands would travel his entire body, divesting him off his clothes. Her lips would follow suit. Travelling a path along his jaw line and down onto his neck. Across his collarbone and down his chest. And for the next half an hour, he'd get lost in her. He'd forget about his day and the horror he'd seen. The slaughter of innocents would be pushed out of him mind as she made him feel human again.

As she made him feel alive.

Afterwards, as they lay in their bed, their chests heaving, their bodies sated and their sweaty lips entangled on top of equally as sweaty sheets, she'd kiss his face gently and stroke his hair and he'd open up to her. About his day. About his week. About his month. About the years he'd spent on the job. And he'd break down and sob and ask why. Why did people do things like that to each other? Why did good things happen to good people?

And why did he care so much about complete strangers?

"Because that's who you are, Donnie," she'd whisper. "Because you're a good man with a good heart and you have so much love inside of you."

Despite the fact, especially within the last five years, that he'd contemplated retirement with her, he still got out of bed every morning. He still kissed his wife and his kids goodbye and he still went into the office day after day.

"This is you, Don," Sam would say, as she stood at their front door in her slippers, pyjamas and robe. "And you'd be miserable if you weren't doing it and you know it."

She was right. She was right a lot, actually. Although it was something he rarely admitted to her.

But at that moment, his emotions and his feelings didn't matter. What mattered, as a superior officer, was the young man standing outside of his window. The kid's face was ashen and his body was trembling. Flack had been there many a time. And what had gotten him through it, what had stopped from handing in his badge many a time, was the advice, understanding and often tough love handed to him from veteran officers like Gavin Moran.

And as much as Flack hated to admit it, Stanton Gerrard.

He cast a glance at the young uniform's name tag. "How long you been on the job, Francis?" he asked.

The officer blinked and looked down at the highly respected and often feared man before him. "Sir?"

"How long have you been with the department?" Flack inquired.

"Just over a month," the young man replied.

"And in that month, how many times have you seriously considered handing in your shield over something you've seen or heard? Something you've had to do?"

Francis gave a shrug. "A few times I guess."

"A few times in a month? Well you're a stronger man then I am, kid. 'Cause when I first started? No lie, I must have wanted to quit at least three times a week for an entire six months."

"What made you keep going, sir?" he asked.

"I guess I kept going because I had some hope inside of me that every time I put on that gun and badge, every time I slipped into my uniform and hit the streets, that I was going to make a difference in at least one person's life. That if I could touch just one person, if I could bring one person back from the brink or save on life…then the job had meaning and purpose. I had meaning and purpose."

The young officer nodded in understanding.

"And then I became a husband and a father and that meaning and purpose changed. I suddenly had people that depended on me. People that I love more then life itself and I did the job solely because I wanted to make the city a better place for my kids. I wanted to make the parks safe and clean again to play in. I wanted my wife to be able to walk down the street at night and be safe. And that's why I still do it. They're the reason I get up in the morning and do this job. You'll find a purpose, Francis. We all do."

He smiled.

"You'll be okay, kid," Flack assured him. "You're going to go through tough days like this and you're going to see some things that are going to have you running for the nearest alley or trash can to barf you guts out. You're going to go home at night and drink yourself into a stupor and rant and rave about the injustice of the world. You're going to bawl your eyes out over a case and question where the hell God is and how he allows shit like that to happen. But you know what? You'll survive. I did. I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere."

The young uniform was silent for a moment, contemplating the Inspector's words. "I'd be honoured to escort you to the scene, sir," he said finally.

Flack gave a smile "Give me a few minutes okay? I just need to talk to my wife."

Francis nodded, and leaning down, looked into the SUV and tipped his hat in Sam's direction. "M'am," he said politely, then stepped back from the vehicle.

Flack rolled the window back up. Unbuckling his seat belt, he pulled the Kevlar vest over his head and reached for the Velcro straps.

Sam unclipped her own belt and turning, leaned across the seat. Pushing his hands out of the way, she proceeded to adjust the straps for him. Pulling them as tight as comfortably possible before smoothing them down. Then, laying her hands on his shoulders, pressed a feathery kiss to his lips.

"Please be careful," she whispered.

He nodded and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Stay in the car, okay? Just stay here. Don't go anywhere. I don't…" he sighed. "I just don't want anything happening to you or my rug rat, okay?"

She smiled and catching his hand, brought it down to rest on her stomach. "Okay, daddy," she said and kissed him again. Longer but no less tender.

"I love you guys," he told her, patting her stomach gently before reaching for the handle on his door.

"We love you, too," she returned, and then watched, feeling scared and helpless, as he slipped out of the car, shut the door and headed towards the crime scene with the young uniform.

Speed, a dark, dour look on his face and his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the side of an ME's van, nodded in greeting as Flack arrived. Things hadn't been the same between them since Kieran had dumped Addie and immediately took up with Alessa. No father wanted to see their baby girl heartbroken, and Speed was no exception. And while he realized confronting Kieran and Sam at the Flack house had been the wrong thing to do, as had encouraging Addie to get revenge, he was too damn stubborn and proud to apologize. He had once considered Flack his best friend. They'd hit it off immediately from Speed's very first day on the job. He'd always admired Flack's 'take no shit, tell it like it is' attitude, and the devotion and unconditional love that the man had for his wife and his children. And he missed the talks they'd had over beers and the laughs that they had shared. Flack had always been able to make him laugh. The way the sarcasm dripped out of that man's mouth was enough to lift even the darkest cloud from over your head. But he especially missed those moments were Flack was quiet and thoughtful and compassionate as you spilled your guts to him. Flack didn't judge you. He didn't talk shit about you behind your back.

And Speed hadn't, starting with when Kieran had went missing as a baby, given him that same respect.

"This is some crazy assed shit," Flack declared, casting a glance skywards at the chopper. "What? Is photographing the bodies of three cops on the lawn a spectator sport? Is it gonna boost their ratings?"

"You know how it is," Danny gave a weary sigh from where he sat on the tailgate of his Avalanche. "They're fucking vultures, Inspector. Or should I call you Chief now?"

"Not for a couple of weeks," Flack told him. "Word travels fast."

"The Comish is spreading the word," Speed told him. "It's all over the department already. He's sent out memos and emails. I guess congratulations are in order."

"How about we save those for later?" Flack suggested. "When three of our boys aren't lying dead on the grass? So what's the low down, Tim? What the hell happened? All I got so far was that a call went in to nine one one from one of the neighbours for a domestic. And that the wife went sniper and took out three cops."

Speed nodded, and pushing himself away from the van, motioned for Flack to follow him. "She was all but lying in wait," he said, as Flack and Danny walked with him, one on either side, as he led the way to the front lawn. "Ambushed them as they came up the walk. Took them out one by one from that open window up there on the second floor."

"This scene better be secure," Flack told him. "I don't want her to be lying in wait for us."

"She's holed up in the back of the house," Speed said. "Wounded. Shot herself in the stomach. She's refusing medical treatment. We've got a counsellor talking to her on the phone."

"Let the bitch bleed out," Danny grumbled.

"Where's the husband?" Flack asked.

"He's in the house too," Speed replied. "Dead. She shot him after the cops. I guess he tried to disarm her and she turned on him."

"What weapons are we talking about her? A revolver, a rifle, what?"

"Two hunting rifles. Apparently the husband is…was…an avid outdoors men. And he'd taken her to the range and on trips a few times. Word has it she's like a female Rambo. One of my CSI's contacted her shooting instructor? Says she's one of the best shots he's ever seen. And he's seen a lot."

"Yeah…so have we," Flack commented, then shook his head at the sight that lay at his feet. Three officers, two bearing Sargeant's stripes, lying crumpled and broken on the blood soaked grass. Bullet holes to their foreheads. His eyes fell, and remained riveted on, the youngest of the three. His feet facing the front of the house, arms and legs spread-eagled and his eyes wide and staring lifelessly up at the sky.

Jamie Angell.

"That's Jess' brother?" Danny asked, his voice quiet.

"He was the youngest of the four boys," Flack told his friends. "Jess and him were really, really close. You would have thought they were twins instead of there between three years between them. From the time she was hold enough to walk they were inseparable. They had this bond…" he sighed and shook his head. "Words can't explain how tight they are. Were. He was the one that gave me the hardest time when we started dating. Threatened to kick my ass many a time if I so as much ruffled a hair on her head. We used to hang out a lot. Hit Sullivan's, have a few beers. Shoot some pool, play darts. He's a good guy. Hell of a cop."

Both Speed and Danny nodded.

"This is going to kill Jess," Flack said. "And her dad…" he shook his head. Then cleared his throat noisily as emotion threatened to get the better of him. "Danny, go and find out how secure this scene actually is. I want to know that we're not walking on a landmine here. Tell the negotiator to either get the shooter the hell out of the there. Alive or dead I don't really care. They can't do that, tell them to keep her back there as long as it takes so you guys can process and we can get these bodies out of here. This just isn't…it's just not right. Having them here. On display like this."

"I'm on it," Danny assured him, and clapped his best friend on the shoulder before turning on his heel and leaving the scene.

Flack sighed once more and stared down at the bodies at his feet.

"You alright?" Speed asked. Genuine concern in his voice and eyes.

Flack nodded. "I just…brings back some memories you know."

"Your shooting," the other man stated. "That was…that was probably the toughest thing I've ever been through. Professionally speaking. And seeing a friend like that…"

"I think about how I could have died that day in that cafeteria. How it could have been my wife getting that news. That's what bothers me the most. What their families are going to go through. I know what my family went through and I survived. All the times they told Sammie I wasn't going to make it. All the times she prepared herself to bury me. The hell that was put on her seeing me like that."

"You survived, Don. That's what matters most. It was a hell of long road to get back on your feet, but you made it. Both you and Sam made it. And it was a struggle and nearly broke both of you. But think about how strong it made you in the end. Think about how it made you two appreciate and love each other more."

Flack nodded. "Got a pair of gloves?" he asked.

Speed reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a pair of latex gloves.

Flack took them, and snapping them onto his hands, crouched down by the body of Jamie Angell. And, prepared to bear the brunt of the ME's office, reached out and with gentle fingers, closed the man's eyes.

"This is just not right," he whispered.

Thanks to everyone that is reading and reviewing! I appreciate each and every one of you! Even all the lurkers! Please R and R folks! Makes my day!

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