"O'Hara?"

Juliet gazed blankly at the paper, looking at the words but seeing straight through them.

Shawn.

The missing passenger was Shawn.

"O'Hara…?"

She must have read the address wrong.

Juliet refocused her eyes on the letters that Hal had scribed into the box in untidy handwriting. She's barely been sleeping all week since their breakup.

She's seeing things.

She has to be.

But… there it was.

The address of the Psych Office.

Juliet stared at the letters, gaze drilling into the paper, willing them to shift. Form a new address. Anything.

"This is where the driver hit the windshield?"

"No," said the EMT, looking up from the files he was reading. "The driver was wearing a seatbelt."

Lassiter stared at the cracked windshield of the cab. He turned to Juliet. "Something hit the windshield."

Juliet walked around the front of the car. "Or… someone."

There'd been a passenger.

Someone hit the windshield.

Shawn had been the passenger.

Shawn had hit that windshield.

"Actually, there being two people in the car would make sense," said the EMT. "There's a severe amount of blood here, much more than should have come from the driver's gunshot wound. He wasn't bleeding anywhere else."

The blood.

The broken windshield, the sprayed shattered glass from the window, the bloodstains, still wet.

Shawn's blood.

Juliet felt her chest hitch, suddenly every bit of her anger and hurt gone and replaced with a horrible sense of fear, her imagination building its terrifying idea of his condition based on the state of the car. She'd seen the amount of blood—he was somewhere bleeding.

"Is she alright?"

"Shut up, Hal."

Could Shawn have even gotten out of that cab after a crash like that?

Was he somewhere bleeding out, running from a madman with a gun?

Or...

Or did the killer...

Her chest hurt.

She couldn't breathe.

She couldn't breathe.

How could this be happening?

It didn't make sense; it had to be a mistake.

Why would Shawn have even needed a cab?

Juliet's eyes quickly followed Shawn's address to the column that read Destination.

She felt herself go still at the next word.

Airport.

Her heart stopped.

"Shawn, I need space."

God, no.

He was in that cab because of her.

Suddenly, a hand was on Juliet's shoulder, and the papers clutched so tightly in her hand were slowly tugged out. She numbly let go of them, barely noticing the spider web of wrinkles her crushing grip left on them.

"Juliet?"

Her head snapped up. Lassiter never used her name. He was looking at her, the slightest concern in his eyes.

She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came.

"What do you know about this client?" demanded Lassiter, thrusting the papers in front of Hal's face roughly, his thumb indicating Shawn's address.

"I—I don't know—I'm no driver." said Hal nervously, sinking back into the wooden desk. "I don't—don't know any clients, it's not like clients pass through here."

Lassiter's glare intensified, his eyes narrowing into slits. He took a breath in such a frightening manner, Hal sank further back into the desk. Lassiter pushed the papers closer in Hal's face. "I need you to tell me something," he said dangerously.

If the desk wasn't solid oak, the amount of weight Hal leaned into it would have pushed it across the room. He cowered under Lassiter's glare. "I—I don't know anything, Officer!"

Lassiter shoved the papers into his jacket and said, "We're going to have to take you down to the station for questioning."

"I don't know anything!" exclaimed Hal, continuing to bruise himself on the desk.

"You were sharing an office with five million unmarked bills, sure you don't." muttered Lassiter.

"O'Hara," said Lassiter, turning to her.

She blinked, trying again to shake herself free from the thoughts that only became scarier and scarier because if Shawn was missing, and so was the killer, what if that meant the killer had him?

Or had already...

"O'Hara."

Juliet jumped at Lassiter's voice. "Yeah?" she asked, her voice small and quiet. She cleared her throat, shaking herself, straightening. She was a cop. She needed to be a cop.

"Take him to the car," said Lassiter. "I'll grab the money, and see if they're hiding anything else here that they shouldn't be. Call this in, and..." He hesitated. "Put out an APB on Spencer."

Juliet felt a chill race down her spine.

But she nodded, cuffing and escorting Hal to the cruiser outside, trying to ignore the kid's constant rambling about how he didn't know anything.

Nine.

Nine phone calls.

Nine times, she let Shawn's calls go to voicemail.

What if one of those calls prevented all of this?

Juliet felt her eyes burn, locking Hal in the back of the cruiser.

She pulled out her phone with shaking fingers, finding her incoming call log.

Shawn Spencer... (9)

She clicked on his name, pressing the phone to her ear.

It went straight to voicemail.

It was either dead or off.

Fear prickled even sharper in her veins.

Flashes of the wreck of the cab, the blood, the windshield, Shawn—

Her breath hitched.

"Falling in love with you was never part of the plan."

It was never part of hers, either.

Juliet felt Shawn's arms wrap around her where she sat at her desk, half past two o'clock in the morning, still working on paperwork from a long case.

"Shawn," she said to him, where they were in the empty police station. "It's my fault I'm this backed up in paperwork; go home and I'll come when I'm done."

She felt his grin as he gently rested his chin over her shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You hate paperwork," she reminded him.

"True," he said. "But I love you."

Another tear joined the first.

That night was the first time he'd ever said those three words to her for real.

Words she couldn't help but echo right back to him.

Destination: Airport.

"Shawn, I think—I know... I need space."

He might have died trying to give it to her.

"Are you saying this was all a lie?"

All she knew was that it wasn't for her.

Her chest ached, another tear burning down her cheek.

She couldn't lose him.

She could be mad at him forever, she could spend the rest of her life angry, never forgiving him.

The one thing she couldn't do was lose him.

The pain in her chest only emphasized that that was the only truth she knew for sure.

Lassiter tossed another useless duffle bag to the side as he rifled through the pile of them in the corner of the station.

With Juliet gone from the room, Lassiter felt his firm, steady cop demeanor slip, just for a moment.

Spencer.

Rare fear suddenly tightened his chest, recalling the image of the wrecked cab.

If Spencer was in that cab, where the hell was he now?

And how the hell did he get himself involved in every single mess in Santa Barbara?

Not to mention the one he was already in with O'Hara.

He didn't know what happened between them. All he knew was that something went down at his wedding between them, and they were no longer together. And, it wasn't mutual.

It didn't take a detective to know that Spencer screwed something up, bad.

And it also didn't take a detective, he thought as his gaze traveled toward the door Juliet left through, to know that though they weren't together, it wasn't because they didn't care about each other.

Something happened, he didn't know what, didn't even attempt to pry, at least not yet , and for as much as he openly stated hating their relationship, there was something… eerie around the station the past few days left in the wake of that breakup.

His attempt to keep Guster—and therefore Spencer—off this case by locking him in holding was supposed to keep Spencer off of O'Hara's mind.

Only now, Spencer was the case.

Lassiter grabbed the last bag, a backpack, pulling out useless items as his mind plowed on.

What was Spencer even doing in a cab? And what the hell did he need the airport for?

However...

Thinking about the mess he was in with O'Hara, it almost made sense. Lassiter himself had often thought about getting some distance during his separation.

Someone killed that driver, for some reason there was a million dollars in a sketchy cab station that definitely didn't come from cab business, and now the killer and the passenger from that wreck were missing.

There was little chance Shawn walked away from a crash like that, especially not wearing a seatbelt. His stomach turned a little, recalling the heavy crack in the windshield.

"Something hit the windshield."

"Or someone."

If Spencer didn't walk away from that crash, then…

Gravely, Lassiter had a feeling the missing killer and missing psychic would be found in the same place.

But why kill the driver and take Spencer?

Lassiter huffed as he threw the last bag to the side and stood, lifting the bag of cash with him.

They were going to have to get answers to those questions, and fast.

Spencer's life depended on it.

If he was even still—

"Oh—hello…"

Lassiter's head snapped up.

Two men were suddenly in the doorway, walking in, but stopped short, obviously not having expected to find anyone in the office.

One was on the taller side, looking like the exact type of guy Lassiter catches starting fights outside of bars. The man with him was shorter, dark-skinned and had tattoos galore.

"Hello," said the taller one, giving Lassiter a nod in greeting. "Can we help you?"

Lassiter raised an eyebrow. Employees, then? "I don't know. Do you work here?"

"Yeah," said the man, gesturing to his friend. "My buddy and I are drivers here. Need a ride?"

Lassiter held in a bark of laughter. "No," he practically scoffed. "I'm Detective Lassiter, I'm with the Santa Barbara Police Department. Have either of you seen Juan Matis today?" asked Lassiter.

The taller man squinted as if thinking back on the day. "Yeah!" he said slowly, drawing out the word as he nodded. "Yeah, saw him this morning. Why? He in some sort of trouble?"

"He was involved in a hit and run this morning." said Lassiter bluntly. "He's dead."

"Juan's dead?" said the taller one, both of them seemingly shocked by the news. He looked at his buddy. "Juan's dead?"

"Do you know any of his clientele?" asked Lassiter.

"Some," said the taller man. He scratched his head, letting some of his dark hair fall across his forehead. "You're saying he was killed?"

"Do you know who he drove this morning?" asked Lassiter, ignoring the question.

"I think I remember him telling us he had a guy this morning." the taller man said. "Said he was going to stop back here, and we… we were supposed to meet him for our lunch break."

No one in this damn station was helpful.

Lassiter pulled out his wallet. He held up a crumpled business card that had been jammed behind old coupons and credit cards. Shawn and Gus' Psych business card. A photo of him and Gus back-to-back was on the back. He pointed to Shawn. "Was this man with him?"

Both men looked at the photo. For maybe a half a second longer than Lassiter would have thought they'd need to. After a moment, the taller man and his friend both shook their heads. "Yeah, didn't see any of his clients." The taller man paused, then asked, "Why? That guy missing or something?"

"Something like that," said Lassiter. He put away his wallet and grasped the money again. Both men's eyes briefly scanned the bag, and Lassiter squinted at them, but they didn't seem to recognize its significance. He'll be getting warrants on all of these employees within the hour. "Excuse me."

"No problem, Officer," said the taller man as Lassiter walked between them. Lassiter swallowed a retort to the incorrect title.

Lassiter returned to his Fusion, getting into the drivers seat, handing the money to Juliet to hold.

It took her a moment to react, and he watched her hastily swipe her cheeks before grabbing it.

"We'll find him," he promised quietly, putting the car in gear and giving her a firm, steady gaze.

She looked at him, and it was one of the rare times she didn't look like a cop. Just a frightened person.

The last time he'd seen her look like that, she'd been strapped to the clocktower.

Concern for her—and the moron who was on her mind—only growing, Lassiter gunned it for the SBPD.

Because if Shawn didn't make it out of this mess alive, he'd kill him.

No matter how Shawn thought about it, there was no way he was going to make it out of this alive.

He could see the van's door, at least three feet away, but he couldn't get it to before Javier could shoot him.

Not that he could even sit up at this point without throwing up.

Damn it, he needed help.

But with literally no one knowing he was even in trouble, help was as far away as it could get.

Trying to think past the haze of his mind, Shawn tried to remember the significance of the cab station.

Damn it, nothing was scarier than his memory being impaired.

His heart sped as his crippled mind vaguely—once again—pieced together what was happening, as if suddenly recalling a vivid dream after waking.

He was taken from the cab. They thought he was working for the cab driver—Juan.

What did Juan do again?

The money.

Javier was in the back with him, but the two up front—Trent, and Randall, was it?—were getting out.

Right, thought Shawn. He struggled against the tape he suddenly remembered was there. His father mentioned something about tape…

Shawn shut his eyes, willing the memories to come back, but his mind was too fragmented, distracted by pain and…and…

What was he thinking about again?

If his head hadn't already been so messed up, he'd have bashed it into a wall.

It was as if his thoughts were wrong puzzle pieces he was trying to jam together.

All he knew was he needed to get out of here.

Juliet needed to know the truth.

Shawn tried pushing himself up, but didn't get an inch off the ground before a hand was around his throat, slamming him back to the floor of the vehicle.

This may have been a good time to have remembered that he wasn't alone.

Shawn felt a groan slip out between his clenched teeth, pain radiating throughout his skull and somewhere quite angrily in his midsection that screamed broken ribs.

Right—he'd already forgotten about that.

Cold metal was suddenly against Shawn's temple. Shawn's breath caught in his throat, eyes shooting open, fear freezing him.

"You stay put," hissed Javier, cocking the gun, "and you stay quiet. You scream, and I swear I'll kill you right now."

Shawn stared at Javier, the man who so literally held Shawn's life in his hands, fear sobering his messed up mind.

Seeming satisfied Shawn was going to keep quiet, Javier removed it from his temple, but kept it aimed at him from where the man sat across from him.

Suddenly, Shawn was grateful the gun just scared him.

Fear seemed to finally wake him up and instill some focus into his concussed mind.

Something else struck him, too—something about the man's gun was familiar looking. Shawn squinted at it, trying to place it, struggling with the broken pieces of his mind. The familiarity was dancing at the edge of his understanding, and he nearly growled with frustration as he tried to cling onto it.

A military weapon, Shawn realized vaguely, victoriously, understanding blooming, however delayed. That wasn't a traditional thug gun.

Something was… he was able to deduce something about that.

Something…

Shawn blinked rapidly, trying to will his mind to focus.

Javier held the weapon with a practiced hand. He had the air of a man who'd used the gun in the past plenty of times and was not afraid to do so again.

Shawn was suddenly reminded of Juan's death—

"I told you you shouldn't have killed Juan."

"I was pissed; he deserved it."

Great, trigger-happy and anger management issues.

But that wasn't helpful.

Shawn winced at the steady throb in his head, the dizziness that still hadn't quelled.

Focus.

A tattoo was showing under the sleeve of the man's t-shirt—a shape Shawn also thought he recognized, even blurry. Apparently his mind was only interested in telling him that he's seen things before, but not what they were.

The man had a rugged beard and mustache—that isn't helpful either—and he favored his left arm.

Though…

Shawn blinked to clear more of the blur in his vision, and looked at Javier's right hand.

Blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision more.

Between the double vision, Shawn managed to catch a few details thanks to the man being so close—

Calloused middle finger.

Knuckles were more pronounced.

This man was right handed, yet held the gun with his left.

And—

Shawn did recognize that tattoo.

It all suddenly clicked in Shawn's head.

"You fought for this country," said Shawn slowly, the words slipping out as he thought them. "You fought for it and now you're stealing from it." he murmured, mostly to himself, just working out the realization aloud.

He really has to stop doing that.

Something changed in Javier's eyes. Something very close to disbelief.

The gun was suddenly back to his temple, pressing harder against Shawn's head, making him cringe. "We're not stealing anything," said Javier in a low voice. "That money is ours. Now shut it."

Shawn slowly raised an eyebrow, unable to help himself from saying, "Maybe not… But selling weaponry you took from the Forces is."

"I knew you were working with him," growled Javier. "So what if we stole them? They wronged us. All of us. They took me off duty because I got shot. They wouldn't let me fight; said I wasn't worth keeping around." he spat. "I gave up everything to fight for this country. We all did."

"So," said Shawn, slowly piecing together the story. "You… you and your friends stole weaponry and decided to make a pr-profit."

"Juan was a middle man."

Juan was supposed to have traded the weapons for the money, and had lost it.

"But, look—the money is there," said Shawn, really only hoping it was. "You don't need me." His eyes met Javier's. "So… how 'bout you… untie these and… and maybe help me up a little cause every side looks like up at the moment," managed Shawn, trying to keep his words from slurring. "And, y'know… maybe drop me off at—at a hospital?"

"Like hell I'd let you go before we get that money," said Javier darkly. But something glinted in his eyes suddenly, like a flash of an idea that only promised horrible things.

Shawn felt his blood run cold.

"Actually," said Javier, looking from his gun to Shawn. "You are right about one thing. Whether the money is there or not... we really don't need you anymore."

Fear shot down Shawn's spine.

Javier grinned. "Say hello to Juan for me."

He raised the gun, aiming at Shawns head, cocking it.

Shawn screwed his eyes shut, fear consuming him—

"What the hell are you doing?!"

The van's back door was suddenly open, and Javier and Shawn both jumped at the shout, startled.

Standing there were the two other thugs—Trent and Randall.

Randall, who looked just short of livid, even more so at the sight of Javier about to kill Shawn.

"What are you doing?" demanded Randall. "Did I tell you to kill him?"

Relief spread through him with Javier's gun lowered.

But that didn't mean he was safe yet.

Far from it.

"We don't need him!" said Javier defensively. "You find the money?"

If they didn't find that money, or even if they did, he was dead.

Shawn felt fear race his heart.

"Oh, we found the money." said Randall in a low voice, his eyes not leaving Shawn. Something in the way he said it was a threat that promised pain.

Even more not good…

"Well?" Javier glanced from his boss to Trent, who was suddenly in the driver's seat, starting the engine of the van. The van lurched forward, and Shawn winced as the rough driving angered every injury. " Well ?" repeated Javier to Randall, who hadn't yet stopped glaring at Shawn, and for once Shawn was scared shitless.

"Our money is now in the hands of the Santa Barbara Police Department." said Randall slowly, grounding out the last four words.

What?

"What?" exclaimed Javier. Trent took a sharp turn, nearly making Javier and the man lose their balance as they stood on their knees. Shawn tried to use the distraction to slide himself away, attempting to find the direction of the door, because hell, there was no way this ended well for him—

—but suddenly a gun jabbed into his shoulder, making him freeze with a cringe, vaguely hearing Javier demand, "How?!"

"The police beat us to it." said Randall, glare still on Shawn. "Some cop, Lassiter."

Lassie.

The man watched Shawn's eyes. He watched the recognition flash through them.

With an angry growl, Randall grabbed Shawn by the shirt collar and lifted him off the floor of the van, throwing him roughly against the wall.

Shawn cried out, fresh waves of pain erupting throughout his torso—knives—fire—

And his head—

Spots danced before his eyes, even as he was pinned to the wall with a heavy muscled arm.

The gun came to rest once again on Shawn's chest, which was rising and falling with panted breaths.

"Sawyer here hasn't been very truthful," growled Randall.

"So this was all a lie?"

Shawn felt his eyes burn, tears threatening as pain thrummed. God, he hurt. He hurt so much.

He blinked rapidly, trying to stay conscious.

They couldn't know anything. There would be no reason for them to know who he was.

Before he could stop them, words flowed out of his mouth.

"No," said Shawn, blinking his eyes open, his concussion speaking for him, "maybe I haven't. See… See, the story of Tom Sawyer was that he actually didn't paint a fence," he slurred,"that wasn't th–the whole truth. He—he convinced some poor sap to do it for him—"

The sharp, hard pain suddenly striking his cheek whipped his head to the side, killing whatever nonsense Shawn would have finished his sentence with. Shawn cried out, coughing, tasting blood. Don't be sick. Don't be sick, don't be sick—

"What are you talking about?" Javier asked Randall, somewhere beyond the drum of Shawn's heart throbbing in his skull. "Who is this guy?" he demanded.

"His name is Shawn Spencer," said the man, making Shawn flinch at the sound of his own name. The man's gun-hand twitched, making Shawn sink involuntarily back into the wall of the van, because damn it, getting pistol-whipped was not fun the first time, and was even less fun the second time.

"This man, gentlemen," said Randall, "is our golden ticket to getting that money back. He works with the police department."

Shawn want to groan.

Not good, not good, not good…

"He's a cop?" asked Javier, anger elevating.

"Nah," said his boss, replacing the gun on Shawn's chest. Shawn's heart raced and he hoped the man couldn't feel it. His eyes darted around the van, trying to find something to save him. Anything. But the van floor was bare. His hands were tied. He couldn't see straight.

There was nothing he could do.

"Nah," the boss repeated, and Shawn struggled to meet his eyes. "He's some sort of consultant."

"That's—" began Shawn, but the man cut him off with a harsh jab of the gun, making him gasp.

"The cop had your business card." Randall went on, "Turns out the department is looking for you. How touching."

For half a second, Shawn felt himself surprised that Lassiter even kept that thing.

But it was gone at the sick smile on Randall's face.

He grinned. "You're going to get us our money back."

Shawn cringed. "If—if you hadn't noticed," he said with difficulty, "not feelin' too hot at the moment." He winced again at the gun pressing into bruised or broken bones. "But if you want to go get it, I'll… put in a good word."

"I don't need you to get it, moron," said Randall with another jab of the gun that made Shawn lose his breath. "They're going to trade it. For you."

That was what Shawn was afraid he meant.

"I'm—" began Shawn, cringing from the pressure of the weapon. "I'm flattered that you'd think I'm worth all that money—really. I'd always—always priced myself out at around six million." Shawn considered. "How m-much money are we talki—"

"Shut up." snapped Randall, seeming ready to pistol-whip him again. Shawn reluctantly complied. "The police want you, we want our money. Seems like a fair trade."

Police don't negotiate with kidnappers, Shawn heard hopelessly somewhere in his head.

Breathlessly, Shawn tried: "How—how about you let me go, and—and I'll have my friends at the Department mail you the money. I'll—I'll even throw in an Edible Arrangement." He looked from Randall to Javier. "You guys like pineapple?"

Shawn probably should have expected it when the pistol struck him again, hard enough to finally plunge him into darkness.