It didn't feel real.

Not when the deep voice shattered the silence.

Nor when the man who'd kidnapped him stepped out from between the trees.

Not even when a gun was suddenly aimed at his head.

It didn't feel real at all.

It felt like a nightmare.

Shawn vaguely saw Juliet whip around, and reflexively shift herself in front of him.

Protecting him.

The surge of feeling he would have felt at her gesture was quickly lost in his fear.

And... the fact that he no longer had her help in keeping him upright.

With a jolt of fear, he felt himself lose the battle with gravity. Blindly, his fingers reached out, grabbing the back of Juliet's jacket, clinging onto it desperately to keep himself upright. Panted breaths slipped out between his clenched teeth at the shot of adrenaline and panic, holding onto her jacket—holding onto her—so hard his knuckles were white.

"Not looking too good there, Spencer," said Randall. He cocked the gun. "Perhaps I should put you out of your misery."

"Stay away from him," hissed Juliet, shifting herself only more in front of him.

But dammit it was his job to protect her.

But being as hurt as he was, he couldn't do a damn thing.

It didn't mean he wasn't going to try.

"Ah, ah, ah," tutted Randall, and Shawn froze his movements, having been ready to try shifting himself in front of Juliet. "I may have underestimated you before," sneered Randall, "but don't think it will happen again. Move, and I'll kill you both."

Shawn set his jaw, reluctantly staying put. He held himself back, fingers gripping Juliet's jacket only tighter, as if to both keep himself from falling, and to keep her close, safe. But damn it, this man has nothing to lose. They were the furthest thing from safe.

God, they had been so close to safety.

Shawn swallowed hard, desperately trying to get his mind under the semblance of control. But... he was afraid he was already far past that. The weak adrenaline that kicked into his veins cleared some of the ringing from his hearing, and he blinked fast, but his vision was still far too blurry, the trees still moving too much. He was still seeing double. He blinked, trying to get the two imposing men with guns to remain one.

"What do you want?" demanded Juliet, her voice strong and fearless, but Shawn could feel how rigid she was.

"I want my money," sneered Randall. He tilted the gun in his hand, shifting his weight, crushing leaves underneath his boots, the sound chilling the silence.

"Then..." said Shawn, resisting the urge to shut his eyes against his dizziness and exhaustion. "Then get it," he slurred. "Th-that was your... your plan this whole time," he gasped out. "The cops are h-here," said Shawn breathlessly. "Just take me and... trade me for it."

"Shawn—" began Juliet fearfully.

"J-Just leave her out of this," he said firmly, though there wasn't a trace of strength in his breathless words. "Take me."

"Shawn!" exclaimed Juliet, sparing a panicked look toward him, eyes begging him to stop talking. Turning her glare back to Randall, she said, "You are completely surrounded! Your partner is in custody—this doesn't end well for you," she said firmly. "They aren't going to negotiate with you for that money, so just let us go, turn yourself in, and we can lessen your senten—"

"There wasn't even supposed to be any negotiation!" Randall glared at Shawn, fury beyond anger. "You even realize how much you screwed this up?" he demanded, taking a step toward them, making both he and Juliet nearly flinch.

Shawn felt Juliet's back pressing into him, staying as close to him as possible. But, god, she was pressing hard into broken bones. Shawn fought the urge to gasp as his broken ribs sliced sharp pain through him, stealing his breath.

"But you're right about one thing," said Randall, snatching Shawn's attention away from the pain. "The cops are out there with my money and I'm going to make a trade for it. You think they won't negotiate, well... I'm willing to call that bluff." He glared at Shawn, but then, a smile cut through his anger, but it was no less twisted. "However... something tells me that the cops will be much more motivated to keep their detective alive than their consultant."

Oh, no.

Panic suddenly raced Shawn's heart. "No," he breathed.

Juliet suddenly leaned her weight further back into Shawn. He barely caught a groan in his throat, his eyes screwing shut. She'd already been close enough that her back had been brushing his chest. Shawn cracked his eyes open, fighting the urge to cringe as she pressed sharply into his broken ribs.

What was she…?

Shawn's delayed mind suddenly caught up to the rest of him.

It wasn't Juliet that was pressing into his side.

It was her gun.

Her gun was in the waistband of the back of her pants, now mere inches from Shawn's hand.

Trying to breathe shallowly through the fire of his ribs, Shawn slowly nudged the small of her back to acknowledge that he understood what she meant.

He was going to have to grab the gun and shoot this man.

Shawn felt the back of her shirt with the hand that wasn't clinging to her to stay upright, deciding that relying on his screwed up vision wasn't going to do him any good. His fingers brushed her back. Juliet's muscles were tense as steel.

Shawn's hand met the cool metal of the gun, and he slowly started to pull it from her waistband.

"Now," the man said sharply, "I'm going to tell you how this will work. I am going to walk the detective out of this damned forest, put this gun to her head," he sneered, "and the cops are going to trade my money for her." He cocked his head. "And it works out better that you've taken care of my other colleague; no more two-way split." He grinned. "I was also planning on killing you," he told Shawn, making him swallow hard, and Juliet press into him only closer, this time out of pure protectiveness. "But instead," said Randall, "I think I'd rather you live with the fact that I'm going to kill your girlfriend the second I get that money."

Shawn's eyes widened.

No.

No.

"You—you touch her," gasped Shawn, fury and panic racing through him, only gripping onto her jacket harder, pulling her to him closer, "I'll kill you." Shawn's fingers curled around Juliet's gun. He slowly pulled it free from her waistband.

The weapon felt heavy in his weakened state. Shawn's hand shook and he hesitated.

He could barely sit up without lilting to the side, much less hold his focus on anything for too long.

How did Juliet expect him to shoot this man with any accuracy?

But suddenly, the man took a step toward Juliet and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her roughly to her feet.

"JULES!" cried Shawn.

Heart jumping into a frenzy, Shawn lifted the weapon in his hand to aim, fighting the gravity trying to pull him down, and the fact that the gun felt like it weighed twenty pounds.

But before he could even wrap his finger around the trigger, he felt something hard hit him across the face.

The hit was horrible and sharp, tearing pain through his skull, erupting fire behind his eyes, the force of it sending him straight back to the ground, slamming him into the dirt.

Pain.

PAIN.

—everywhere—

He felt sick, he felt so sick—

—god, he couldn't breathe—

The gun was ripped out of his limp hand, and before Shawn could attempt to recover from the molten pain clawing through his brain, something struck him in the side.

Agony exploded.

Someone screamed.

No—

That was him.

Miles away, he thought he heard someone cry his name.

But by the time he opened his eyes once more, Juliet and the man were gone.

"What do you mean there's a third kidnapper?!" exclaimed Henry, panic consuming him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Lassiter shoved the man he'd shot to the ground, making him groan in pain. "Where is your other partner?" hissed Lassiter.

"I don't know!" growled the man.

Lassiter pressed his knee into the man's back, pushing him even further into the dirt, eliciting a groan from him. "Tell me," demanded Lassiter, "and maybe I'll make prison less painful for you."

"We're—we're ex-military, man," gasped the man. "Just—just trying to make some extra cash. That's—"

"Where is your other partner?" demanded Lassiter.

"I don't know! W-we… split up!" the man choked out underneath Lassiter's pressure. "L-lookin' for that… kid—"

"That kid is my son, damn it!" raged Henry, and lunged forward only for Gus to grab him and hold him back. "You—"

"Weapons down!"

"Stand down! Everyone, stand down!"

Lassiter, Henry and Gus froze. Shouts were coming from officers not too far away.

"Shawn!" whispered Henry, hope searing through him. "That could be Shawn!"

He took off at a run, hearing Gus' pounding footsteps behind him, and Lassiter's hissed orders at the kidnapper to get up.

Henry strained his ears, thankful that he'd trained himself in observation using all five senses. The voices were coming from the southwest, and Henry had no trouble pinpointing where the parking lot was. He heard Gus' panting behind him, but Henry didn't slow down to let the younger man keep up.

Henry ignored the twigs whipping into his face, feeling the sting as the branches cut into his skin. The light continued getting brighter as he raced through the trees and out of the dense woodland. He heard the officers' voices louder, repeating the same two phrases he'd heard them first say.

His chest tightened with a sense of instinct that usually wasn't wrong.

This didn't this feel right.

The parking lot came into view, and Henry squinted through the branches, seeing the navy and black of the officer uniforms. Officers were lowering their weapons, all heads pointed in the same direction, wary gazes on each face.

Chest tightening only more with fear, Henry burst through the trees.

A few heads snapped toward him.

Including Chief Vick.

"Karen," huffed Henry, out of breath, as he ran to the Chief. He looked wildly around, following the gaze of each officer, "Did they find—"

His gaze landed about thirty feet away.

It wasn't Shawn.

Instead, a man had a vice-grip around—

"Oh, my god," breathed Henry, watching the man practically choke Juliet, and a gun pressed firmly to her head.

The young detective's hands were gripping the arm around her, but muscles rippled underneath the material of the man's shirt. Juliet struggled, but they were futile; he wasn't giving her enough air, draining her strength.

"—the money," the man was saying, as Henry's hearing broke through his shock. "Give it to me, or the detective dies." the man growled through his teeth. "My patience is running thin, so make your decision fast." The gun pressed harder against Juliet's temple, and she gasped, making every officer flinch.

Making her choice, Karen gestured at the officer to her right, and he slowly stood up, leaving his weapon on the ground. Henry watched Juliet's captor's eyes follow the man, ensuring that the officer wasn't going to make a move. The officer opened the door of a patrol car, and pulled out the bag of money Lassiter and Juliet had confiscated from the taxi station.

Henry knew the drill with exchanges. If it came to handing over the actual ransom, the police usually had a backup plan to ensure that the perpetrator wasn't getting away with it.

But this wasn't planned.

"Slowly, Dobson," said Karen in a low voice, as Dobson took measured steps toward the man. She shifted her gaze to the man and said, "The bag for my detective."

The man nodded stiffly, his eyes giving away nothing. "That's the deal."

The man's knuckles were white on his grip on the gun, pressed firmly against Juliet's head.

"Oh, god—O'Hara."

Henry and Vick turned sharply at the voice behind them. Gus and Lassiter were suddenly there, watching. Lassiter stared at his struggling partner, his hands tightly securing the other kidnapper, knocked out cold in his arms. Lassiter's face was ashen.

Henry turned back to the man, his eyes suddenly scanning the area around.

This man was supposedly the third kidnapper, who'd kidnapped Shawn.

If this man was using Juliet as a hostage, then...

Henry was suddenly terrified.

Dobson stopped ten feet away from the man and Juliet.

Henry couldn't contain himself.

"Where's Shawn?" he demanded. "What the hell did you do to my son?"

The man shifted his eyes from the bag to Henry, and Henry ignored the hisses he got from the three standing beside him.

"Your son," said the man, low and even, "is dead."

This must be what dying feels like.

Reality had mostly slipped from Shawn's grasp, frayed at the edges. Agony was a vapor, clawing at him from the inside, each breath a sword through his abdomen, each erratic heartbeat a knife in his head.

His eyes were screwed shut, the agony paralyzing him. He was only half-aware he was still vocalizing his pain, broken sounds that were too close to what he dared admit was a whimper, something wounded and keening as he tried to breathe, but his lungs only knew pain.

He had to get up.

He knew he had to.

Juliet was in danger.

The man was a killer.

He was going to shoot her whether he got the money or not.

Shawn had to get up.

But the pain finally reached a level beyond what he could handle. Agony was ripping through him with every breath, like jolts of electricity from a cord in water, and—god—he suddenly wasn't sure if this or dying would be worse. It was only pure, damn will and the sharp gift of adrenaline that kept him conscious, stubbornly determined to claw himself out of the call from oblivion.

He would not pass out.

He couldn't pass out.

Another hoarse, broken sound escaped his clenched teeth, his arms useless grasping at his middle as if he could alleviate the broken ribs that Randall just broke into smaller pieces.

Somewhere in the distant back of his mind he realized he was near-writhing, like he'd imagine someone set on fire, but the fire was on the inside and he had no idea how to put it out but wished to god someone would.

Shawn didn't know how long it took for the fire to cool. But after what felt like years, he felt it begin to recede, the inferno settling into a mild wildfire. A hoarse breath of relief slipped from him at the pain decreasing its intensity, no matter how little the change was overall. The toxic pull to give in and let unconsciousness take him was still there, but less adamant now, and reality slowly filtered back in. He could hear the silence, the rustle of leaves in the wind, his own harsh breathing in the still air.

He was lying on the ground, his cheek pressed against the mud, the ground still damp from the thunderstorm that morning.

To think he'd been sitting in the Psych office watching the rain hitting the window less than ten hours ago.

Shawn mentally shook himself.

He needed to focus.

He needed to get off the ground.

But...

That was the last thing his body wanted to do.

Though the agony had calmed from unbearable, it wasn't gone.

Shawn took a shuddered breath in preparation, hissing in pain as the simple breath shifted his rib cage. He gave himself a moment to let the pain subside. But, with a sinking feeling, Shawn realized that the pain wasn't going to subside. It burned steadily; it wasn't getting better than this.

He needed to get to Juliet.

Shawn let the rush of his desperation force him to lift his hand, and plant it firmly on the ground in front of him to push himself up. His fingers sank into the damp dirt, and his muscles trembled to keep his arm from falling back down.

Damn it, just that simple movement felt exhausting.

How the hell was he supposed to save her if he can barely move?

Not even that—he had no idea where the hell he even was, or how to get out of this damned place. Even if he did manage to get up, how the hell was he supposed to find them?

Shawn cracked his eyes open, facing the faded sunlight casting lazy rays through the branches. Doubt spun his mind almost as much as the concussion did.

There.

Shawn blinked, his blurry gaze catching onto something near him.

There was an instinct, somewhere buried beneath his pain, sparking that feeling in him that always preceded finding a clue in a case.

Just like with the fire escape, Shawn's subconscious was apparently working overtime.

Shawn squinted, trying to focus his eyes on whatever it was that caught his eye a few feet away.

It took him a moment to make out what he was looking at: there were imprints in the dirt, not far from him. There were several, some close, some far. He blinked at them.

He blinked a few times, unable to place why they seemed important.

His vision was still spinning slightly, and blurred at the edges. But… there was something there.

Something… important.

Imprints.

No, they were more than that.

It suddenly clicked.

Footprints.

The thought flashed through Shawn's backwards thinking and he shut his eyes at his own slowness.

He couldn't even recognize footprints at first glance.

But there it was—some small, some large.

It was Juliet's and Randall's footprints.

Trying his best to focus on them again, he saw them lead away from him.

Wait—that was it.

He could follow their footprints.

A sliver of hope cut through the doubt and the overwhelming ache of the pain.

However… those footprints only proved useful if he could actually get up.

Briefly shutting his eyes, Shawn took a moment to revel in the mild storm of agony before making it a hell of a lot worse.

But with one more thought of Juliet, his eyes were snapping back open, determination sparking back into his veins.

Shawn realized his arm had fallen back to his side. Without readying himself for it, Shawn lifted his arm again, pressing his shaking fingers back into the ground.

And then, with every ounce of strength he had, he sharply pushed himself up.

He screamed through his teeth as his ribs seared with molten fire, jerking himself up, his arm holding nearly all of his weight, shaking like he was hypothermic.

—holy—

Shawn breathed hard, leaning desperately on his forearm, his body shaking harder from merely trying to hold himself three inches off the ground.

God, he can't do this—

With a frustrated growl and the determination to prove that thought wrong, Shawn pressed his other hand into the dirt, pushing himself up further, his breath now coming in short gasps, each one a stab through his chest.

He quickly got his knees underneath him, ignoring his ribs' sharp protest, every movement jerky and uncoordinated, tearing only more broken sounds from his throat.

He made it, though, gasping as he kneeled on his bad knee, somehow recalling the broken glass from the window he'd scraped it on. But it was more than just the sting of a cut; there was a heaviness to that pain. Something was wrong with the joint; he must have landed on it badly. He'd fallen so many times; it could have been anything.

But it didn't matter.

Screw the injuries he had.

The pain was only pissing him off now, and he used it, growling through his teeth and clawing into the dirt only more to keep purchase.

Shawn lifted his head, his vision still spinning, but not as much as before.

But he could still make out the footprints beside him.

Shawn hesitated, his body trembling with his own weight. Crawling out of the forest would be agonizing. Moving his knees underneath him would jostle his abdomen far more than walking would, not to mention his knee aching sharply from the glass cut.

He was going to have to stand.

Shawn let out an exasperated breath, cringing as he straightened his arms, pushing himself up higher off the ground, getting his feet under him. His weight seemed to double, protesting his movement, like he was trying to move limbs that weren't his own. It was as if his body was going… how did Gus always describe it?

Boneless, thought Shawn.

His own body was threatening to go boneless on him.

Shawn clenched his teeth as he fought it, pushing himself up with everything he had, something between a groan and a growl escaping his teeth.

The bark in the tree beside him bit into his shoulder, telling him he was at least a foot or two higher off the ground. Shawn hissed a gasp as it jolted his injured shoulder, and shifted away from it—

No, that was it.

Shawn looked sluggishly back toward the tree, wavering with utter exhaustion, but an idea forming.

He could use the tree to keep his balance as he forced himself to his feet.

Shawn took a breath, and sharply pushed off the ground with everything he had, letting himself fall back against the tree.

His back hit the trunk, and Shawn bit his tongue hard as the impact ricocheted pain like lightning. Tasting blood, Shawn sank back against the tree, resting for a few seconds, glad to have his feet already underneath him. He breathed hard with the effort it took to stay semi-upright, trying to will away the rise of the feeling he was going to be sick.

But he was halfway up.

He could do this.

Shawn gave himself a moment longer to rest, fear hammering his heart for both Juliet and the prospect of needing to move more than he already has. He pressed his back hard against the tree, waiting for the pain to subside.

Oh, right, thought Shawn bitterly.

It doesn't.

He's wasting time.

His eyes shut, shoving down the fear of waking more pain.

There was no use trying to do this gently.

So, Shawn grasped a low branch on the tree, and he yanked himself up.

Shawn didn't know how to describe the sound that escaped him as white-hot pain ripped through his abdomen. Heart thudding painfully against his chest, Shawn held onto the branch for dear life, not giving himself the chance to rest as he forcing himself up to his full height. He pressed his back firmly against the tree as he slowly rose to his full height, the bark scraping his back, but he'd take that over the unbearable pain he knew would come if he fell.

Shawn breathed hard and fast, pain following his every jerked, uncoordinated movement.

The mixture of agony and motion was enough to send his vertigo into overdrive, pitching the world sideways and then down, and Shawn held an iron-clad grip on the branch, terrified of falling back to the ground.

It seemed to take years for the world to right itself, and Shawn cautiously opened his eyes, panting painful breaths.

He found himself standing, pressing firmly against the tree.

He'd done it.

He was standing.

Too bad that was only the first step in getting to Juliet.

Shawn shoved his doubt away.

He could do this.

He's gotten this far.

Cracking his eyes open, facing the ground, Shawn tried to find the footprints again.

Through the relentless pain throbbing behind his eyes, Shawn managed to find them. Holding tight to the branch he was clinging to, Shawn lifted his gaze, finding another thick branch of a tree that was closer to the footprints.

With a shuddered sigh, Shawn slowly reached his other hand to the branch.

Successfully grabbing a hold of it with trembling fingers, he paused, steadying himself between both trees. His eyes roamed the fuzzy ground, and he dimly found the footprints again, leading to the left.

Shawn swallowed hard, heart thudding, and took a hesitant step forward, shifting his weight carefully to his left foot, feeling his almost drunk-like coordination tilt his balance as he worked to shift from relying on this branch to the next tree. Once he felt his weight successfully transfer to it, he clung onto the new branch tightly, righting himself as his knee threatened to give out beneath him.

He did it.

He blinked a few times.

He moved a few feet.

He could do this.

He could do this.

Encouraged, Shawn reached for a branch on a tree next to the one he was leaning on, following the path of the footprints. Securing his shaking grip on it, he took another step to his right foot, following the footprints. Thankfully, doing this wasn't nearly as painful as getting up had been.

Now he just had to focus on keeping upright, or... he'd have to do it all over again.

Shawn swallowed hard at the very thought.

Focusing again, Shawn reached for another branch that was a few feet away.

However... his vision decided to play a trick on him, because the branch he was sure he'd grasped was nothing but air.

With nothing to hold onto, Shawn pitched forward, hitting the trunk of the tree chest-first.

A mix of a cry and a curse escaped him, pain jolting in his ribs and head. Shawn desperately threw his arms around the trunk of the tree, catching himself from falling. His ribs burned with the stab of a million knives, but damn it he was not falling down. "Shit," he croaked, desperately trying to get his feet back under him, only relaxing when he felt them cooperate.

He steadied himself, breathing hard, and planted his feet firmly on the ground.

When he could open his eyes again, Shawn struggled to find the footprint trail again.

Hurry.

Being much, much more careful, Shawn reached for another branch, only releasing this one when he felt his fingers cling onto it.

And so began his journey, slow, halting, and less than elegant, but he was moving.

Adrenaline swam in his veins, but Shawn kept his pace slow—even slower than before—as he followed the trail. He took more steps forward, keeping his hold shifting from tree to tree. His movements fell into a painfully slow and slightly off-balance rhythm. It wasn't fast, but it was progress. The pain had mellowed out to a constant burn, buried beneath the desperate need to get Juliet to safety.

Shawn blinked away his fatigue. His exhaustion crept up on him, feeling like a thick, heavy vapor, threatening to pull him back down. Shawn fought it, growling every misstep. The adrenaline was still within him, driving him forward. He wasn't putting himself through this agony just for the hell of it.

Juliet needed him, and there was nothing in the world that could stop him from protecting her.

"Weapons down!"

"Stand down! Everybody, stand down!"

Shawn nearly lost his footing as the yells pierced the silence, competing with the deafening ringing in his ears.

He grasped the branch he was holding on to keep from losing his balance, and strained his ears.

Those yells were close.

Very close.

He was running out of time.

Shawn picked up his pace, praying his shaking fingers and blurred vision wouldn't betray him, eyes shifting from the footprints to what was ahead of him quickly, tripling the viscious pounding in his head, but he didn't care.

The exchange was happening now.

He had to hurry.

Shawn blearily looked up, seeing the parking lot looming ahead through the branches, maybe forty feet away.

He's almost there.

Shawn picked up his pace more, shifting his weight from foot to foot, hearing Randall's voice speaking somewhere in front of him.

Shawn's vision was twisting everything in sight, and Shawn blinked rapidly, trying to clear it as best as he could. Pain radiated from his abdomen, his heart thudding excruciatingly against his injured ribs, his knee still threatening to buckle beneath him.

He was ten feet away from the parking lot now.

He wasn't giving up now.

He was almost there.

"Your son," the man told Henry, "is dead."

A thick silence settled over the parking lot. No one spoke. No one moved.

Henry couldn't breathe.

Your son is dead.

He learned a lot as a detective. He learned how to control his emotions, keep them in check during sting operations, to lie undetected to get information out of criminals, to deal with shock.

But shock had never felt like this.

"I'm waiting."

Heads turned back toward the man. Vick recovered first, her face white. Dobson had frozen as well. "D-Dobson. Give it to him."

Henry felt himself shaking. Karen Vick had just stuttered.

Karen Vick never stuttered.

In silence, every officer watched as Dobson took three more steps toward the man.

Then man watched him carefully, then said, "Stop."

Dobson stopped a few feet away. The man nudged Juliet with the gun, then he turned to Dobson. "Drop the bag and walk away."

Dobson complied. He put the bag on the ground and retreated back where the other officers stood. Henry watched everything as if from someone else's eyes.

Shawn was dead.

Dead.

"I'm going to release her," said the man to the officers. "I'm going to release your detective, pick up my money, and walk away. If you take a shot at me, I'll shoot her." He shifted his gaze between the officers, tightening his grip on the gun, eyeing the officers. "I promise I'm faster."

"He's—He's ex-military," said Lassiter in a quiet voice to Vick. "Don't shoot." His face was blank.

Dobson retreated and stood next to Vick. Everyone watched as the man slowly released his tight hold on Juliet. She fell to her knees, gasping for breath. The man kept his gun trained on her as he picked up the bag of money and started backing up. He continued walking backward, his gun glued to Juliet's back. She coughed hard, and seemed to be trying to tell them all something.

Henry took a step toward her.

"He's—He's—" she gasped, coughing again, rubbing where the man had held her around the throat. "Sh-Shawn's—not—" Juliet coughed again, out of breath.

The man took more steps backward, tightening his grip on the weapon, picking up his pace a bit, a hint of a grin slicing across his face.

"Chief," said Lassiter suddenly, eyes widening at the man. "He's going to shoot her. He—He's going to shoot!"

"He—He's going to shoot!"

Pure panic froze Shawn where he stood, hanging onto a tree mere feet away from the concrete of the parking lot.

Jules.

She'd fallen to her knees on the pavement.

And there, backing away from her, was Shawn's kidnapper.

With a gun trained on her.

His finger poised on the trigger.

Shawn felt something strong suddenly take him over, and suddenly all the pain was forgotten.

His fear was reduced to raw desperation.

He was suddenly running out through the trees, straight for Juliet.

Shawn watched as she turned her head toward him and her eyes widened in fear.

He threw himself forward toward her, straight into the line of fire.

Just as the man pulled the trigger.