Liftoff (Santa Barbara, We Have a Problem)

Summary: After a drug bust gone wrong, Shawn finds himself alone with Lassiter—who is somehow under the influence of a large dose of the aphrodisiac upper that has driven several users into uncontrollable rages. Yeah, it's not the best of situations. Shawn!whump and Lassie!whump. But mostly Shawn!whump. READ CONTENT WARNINGS!

Rating: M, for language, graphic depictions of drugging, abduction, violence, rape, medical procedures, and injuries.

Note: My god, has it really been over two years (three? four? idk anymore)? Time flies when you get a full-time job and freelance on the side because you're poor—thanks, capitalism. Anyway, I'm breaking the rules of Psych not only to introduce unspeakable violence to the narrative, but also retconning Shawn's childhood and behaviors for extra whump and for good old chummy bonding. Also, there's an open-ended question of whether Shawn is really psychic or if he is mentally ill—do with that what you will! No beta; we die like Mary Lightly.

Liftoff (Santa Barbara, We Have a Problem)

1986.

Under a sunny Santa Barbara sky, a father and his young son sat facing one another on the red bench of a picnic table. It was one of many life lessons the boy was forced to endure, and today he was as uneager as ever, barely restraining his body from slumping off the bench to the green grass in ennui. His father, of course, took no notice.

"All right," Henry said, shaking a few shelled peanuts into his cupped palm. "Let's say these are drugs, and people are getting high around you. And someone offers you some." He held his hand out toward Shawn. "What do—"

Shawn slapped the peanuts out of his father's hand and sprinted towards the front door of the house, screaming, "Just say no!"

"Shawn!" Henry called after him, exasperatedly. "Get back over here."

Shawn tipped his head back in agonized boredom, throwing his weight back as he held onto the doorknob. Then he let go and trudged back down the steps to the red picnic table his mother insisted was nice to have, even though Henry complained it killed the grass.

Once Shawn had retaken his seat, Henry restarted the scenario, shaking out a few more peanuts. "Now, minus the slapping and screaming, what do you do in a situation where people have been taking drugs?"

"Join them." Shawn reached for the nuts, but Henry closed his hand with a short, "No."

Shawn licked the salt from his fingertips. "Pretend to join them."

Henry shook his head. "No. You leave the situation."

The boy squinted skeptically. "So I just walk away?"

"Maybe, depending on who it is and where you are." Henry took Shawn's hand and dumped the peanuts into it. As Shawn popped them into his mouth and chewed, Henry continued: "If you're not able to just leave, you talk to them. The key is less asking, more convincing. Example: If you're in a car with someone, it's better to convince them to drop you off somewhere you can find help—a payphone or a restaurant or something. Tell them you need a bathroom, or that you're hungry. Offer to buy them food. Whatever gets them to pull over and let you exit."

"What if I don't have any money?"

"That's not the point. You'd go into the restaurant and tell someone what's going on so you can call me or your mother."

"And then you'd come buy food for me and the driver?"

"Shawn, it's not about getting food! It's about being safe."

"Well, what if we're on a boat?"

"What do you think?"

"Tell them I'm seasick and I'll throw up on them if they don't take me back to shore."

"That could work. Or they'll just throw you overboard. You have to gauge all your options and the people you're with. What will convince them? Especially when they're in an altered state? That's why thinking skills are important, kid. Drugs kill your brain cells."

"Well, what if I can't convince them? What if we're too far away from a restaurant? Should I take the drugs?"

"If you can't reason with them, you'll have to observe their behavior. Are they losing control? Are they becoming violent towards you? If you can't leave the situation, you'll have two options, kid: wait it out or fight it out. It's up to you to figure out which one will save you in the long run."

2008.

"He would never hurt me!" she insisted tearfully, still dabbing her split lip with a tissue. Her dark curly hair was swept back from her flushed, battered face. Her broken nose was hidden under a splint, and butterfly stitches held her left eyebrow together. Both eyes, ringed with purplish black, were nearly swollen shut. She folded the red-spotted tissue and reapplied it, her other hand adjusting the gray-blue hospital blanket covering her legs. "He didn't mean to."

Lassiter gave her a tightlipped look, while Juliet looked more sympathetic. "Are you absolutely sure you don't want to press charges?"

"Yes! Yes, I'm sure!" the woman snapped. "I've said it over and over. My husband just had a bad trip, that's all. My coworker said it was just an aphrodisiac, not LSD or whatever. John had no idea what was going on or what he was doing to me. I didn't even want the police involved but the neighbor heard screaming and called 911." She furiously wiped away her tears, wincing as her knuckles rubbed over bruised eyelids.

"Mrs. Geralt, you said you bought this…liftoff…online?" Lassiter clarified.

"Yeah. Off Craigslist. It was marketed as tea powder or something. My coworker said it was an aphrodisiac that she and her girlfriend used together. To—to spice up their sex life. She said it was amazing. I don't understand why John reacted badly to it."

"Well, it's not just one drug," Juliet said. "It's a cocktail of different chemicals. Liftoff has cocaine and ecstasy in it, which can easily cause aggression and hallucinations, and it's got PCP, which seriously enhances those and has a longer comedown time. Liftoff is incredibly dangerous."

"You and your husband are lucky to be alive, Mrs. Geralt," Lassiter chimed in, arms crossed.

"Oh please!" she scoffed. "One bad experience doesn't mean it's that dangerous."

"Over thirty people have died after ingesting liftoff, Mrs. Geralt," Juliet said.

Both detectives felt a bit of satisfaction as her face registered surprise.

"If I were you," Lassiter said, "I'd warn your coworker about it. So she doesn't end up drowning in her own saliva. Or worse."

They took their leave of her, preempting Mrs. Geralt's request to do so.

•·················•·················•

Shawn grimaced as he quickly flipped through the reports and evidence photos. Behind him, Gus muttered irritably about being forced to stand watch. The private psychic investigator wanted so badly to be on the case, since he did have to pay bills once in a while, but he had to touch and see what he was working with before he could start spouting off in the middle of the bullpen, forcing Chief Vick's hand. Photos of battered faces and bodies, the results of a high and paranoid partner or friend who lost their hold on reality. Arrest reports by officers who assumed they were responding to a straightforward DV call, only to discover much more than they bargained for. Statements from remorseful and horrified people who came down to find their knuckles bruised and bleeding, and the ones they loved beaten to a pulp or dead. Statements from victims and survivors expressly insisting it had been the drug—liftoff—not the user who was at fault. Coroner reports for the many who have died from hyperthermia or worse after ingesting the drug. All collected providentially in one file for Shawn's prying eyes.

Gus gave the signal—"Hey, detectives!"—and Shawn flipped the manila folder shut in an instant and spun around, fingers at his temple, mind whirring with words and flashes of visuals that sometimes fit together as neatly as jigsaw pieces, and other times didn't align at all. By the time Lassiter and Juliet rounded the corner into the bullpen a second later, Shawn knew exactly where they needed to go.

"T-minus ten!" he called out. "Nine! Eight! Seven!"

Lassiter groaned in disgust.

"Liftoff?" Juliet hazarded.

Shawn pointed proudly at her. "That's one small step for Jules."

"Dare I ask what you're doing here?" Lassiter asked drily, coming forward to his desk and lightly pushing the psychic away from it to put a little more distance between them. "Besides telling us what we already know?" He sat down and pointedly ignored Shawn as he logged into the server.

Shawn only smiled at him, duly noting his credentials for future reference. "Oh, Lassie. As usual, I come bearing gifts. The gifts of knowledge. As in, the warehouse where the drugs are being packaged. And the fact that two, maybe three, SBPD officers are taking a cut."

At this, both detectives and Gus tensed and looked over their shoulders before glaring at Shawn, who preened smugly under their eyes.

"Shawn," Gus hissed, "you can't just say stuff like that out loud—in a police station!"

"Spencer," Lassiter frowned, "that's a serious accusation. If I find out you're messing around, so help me—"

"When have I ever messed around?" Shawn demanded indignantly.

Before Gus or Lassiter could respond with one of many examples, Juliet cut in: "Shawn, do you have any names? Who's taking the cut? How are they involved in this?"

"That's a good question," Shawn replied. "So far the spirits haven't told me. They're absolutely sure about the warehouse, though."

Lassiter's scowl deepened. "Great," he muttered, pushing out of his chair and past the trio toward the chief's office.

Shawn quickly caught up with him. "It's my vision! I get to tell her."

Vick barely resisted an eye roll as the psychic met Lassiter's body in the doorway of her office and squeezed past him, crushing him inelegantly against the frame. "Chief Vick!" he cried. "I've figured it out—I saw a vision—Oh, the humanity—blood everywhere, screaming—Houston, we have a prob—"

"Just spit it out, Spencer!" Lassiter snapped. "The longer we're waiting on a location from you, the more people are taking this drug and raping and killing each other." Entering behind them, Juliet and Gus grimaced at his insensitive language.

Vick raised an eyebrow at him, then turned her impatient gaze on Shawn, who took the cue. He closed his eyes and placed fingertips to both temples in concentration. "A big warehouse. No, not a warehouse—"

Lassiter threw his hands up in exasperation.

"Storage? No, inventory! And packing, pick-up, shipping—distribution! For curvy people." Shawn looked up, satisfied with his answer.

"That doesn't make any sense," Juliet pointed out.

"Curvy people need to send packages, too, Jules," Shawn responded.

She scoffed and shook her head, hands coming up in frustration.

Vick intervened. "So in other words, Mr. Spencer, you don't know the exact location."

"Yes, I do! I can see it clearly. There's a white wall with green ivy growing on it. There's a white building behind it where the packages are stored, and then there's another building with a glass front where people are going in and out. It says Curvy Distribution on it, but the people are all shapes and sizes."

Gus spoke up, "Curvature Distribution Center?"[1]

"That's what I said!"

"Isn't that an electronics store?" Lassiter frowned.

"IT hardware inventory and shipping," Gus replied. "They have a great selection of routers, but they mostly service businesses and corporations who are purchasing in bulk. The boxing and shipping happens in the back."

"It's close to here, isn't it?" Juliet asked.

"About ten miles," Gus confirmed.

"All right," Vick said. "Let's brief the narcotics officers on this. I want to move out ASAP before any of this leaks."

Shawn looked like he was about to protest, but shut his mouth when Lassiter shot him a glare on his way out of the office. It wasn't the right time to bring up corruption in the police force, it seemed. Perhaps the dirty cops would be at the distribution center when they arrived—though that would impact Shawn's ability to get the credit—in the sense of both the commendation and payment for services rendered—for divining their involvement. He could probably trust Jules to say something to the chief when the time came. Shawn filed out the door with the rest and watched the beehive scramble as they set up for planning and briefing.

He frowned a little, realizing that the officers involved might be there and be able to shoot off a signal to the guys working the distribution center. Shawn hung back and watched for a moment to see if anyone looked suspicious, but in the next moment he was distracted by a pack of donuts making their way to a center desk. He hurried forward to grab two for himself and one for Gus. In retrospect, that must have been how he'd missed Officers Yourse and Jackson exchange a glance, and the surreptitious way Yourse texted one-handedly, then stuffed his phone into his uniform pocket.

So it was that when the SBPD had arrived at the distribution center a little under an hour later, the bay had already been abandoned by several key employees. The others, sequestered in one of the back offices, insisted on their ignorance of and innocence in any illicit activity. They were a computer hardware store, not a pharmacy. Officers picked through packing materials, ripped open boxes, and swept flashlights under shelves, looking for any traces of the off-white powder that made up liftoff or for any of its ingredients. Vick called in a K-9 unit, hoping the dogs would be able to track any of it—if there was any to find. Shawn stood in the midst of it all, squinting around, waiting for any clues to make themselves known. This was exactly what he had been worried about—the officers taking a cut from the drug sales had clearly tipped off the distributors before they'd arrived, and they'd managed to scatter and take their nasty business with them.

Shawn frowned at Lassiter from across the room, and the detective sneered back at him briefly before resuming his supervision of officers digging through packing peanuts. The younger man knew that Lassiter wasn't involved, but by not informing the chief of Shawn's suspicion, wasn't that aiding and abetting the criminals? He focused his gaze past him, examining the employees through the office window. One was shiftier than the others, and Shawn beckoned Juliet over. One hand poised at his temple, he gestured to the stocky man who was dabbing his sweaty upper lip with the collar of his uniform polo shirt. "He knows something," Shawn said.

"About the drug smuggling?"

He cocked his head. "I think he samples the merchandise."

Juliet nodded. "I'll tell McNab to bring him in."

As she headed over straightaway, Shawn began to step carefully through the strewn packing materials, mind racing. Would they have managed to keep everything small-scale enough to hide the entire operation? Where would they have kept the powder so that their innocent coworkers remained oblivious to their dealings? He supposed it was possible that the employees involved carried the drugs in one of the many pockets of the cargo pants that seemed to be required by dress code. If that were the case, the drugs would be brought on and off the premises for every shift. But what if they had a larger order to fulfill? Would they have to take a smoke break to restock their pocketed inventory and bring it back? Would a producer or mule deliver the goods to the center, or to the employees involved? Shawn turned in place as he reached some shelving, and spotted a stepstool near the corner. Top-shelf storage seemed a promising hiding place, if they hadn't taken it with them when they fled, he thought.

At a sudden eruption of shouting behind him, Shawn spun around and was instantly met with a plowing force that knocked him back into the shelving. The metal shelves remained steady enough to bruise but not collapse, and a few boxes cushioned his fall. He recovered his wits just in time to see the stocky employee he'd pointed out to Juliet making a break for it, somehow managing to agilely dodge the grasps of several officers and Lassiter hot on his heels. Shawn winced as Buzz and Juliet stopped to help him up.

"Shawn, are you okay?" they asked in unison.

"I think I broke something," he grimaced as they pulled him upright. He patted his back pocket and pulled out his iPhone. The screen was totally shattered, and toggling the buttons did not revive it.

"Oh no," Buzz lamented sympathetically.

Juliet, seeing that he was physically unhurt, uttered a quick condolence, then hurried off to join the commotion of badges outside.

Shawn distractedly insisted that he was fine and that Buzz really didn't have to fetch him any cold glasses of water or ice packs, that only his pride and impeccable sense of balance had been wounded. He stuffed his broken phone in his pocket, intending to have Gus see about whether he qualified for an upgrade, and made his way outside to see that Vick was rushing to coordinate a fan-out maneuver in an attempt to catch the culprit before he got too far.

He idly remarked that the guy had been a linebacker in high school, but Vick waved him off with agitation, threatening to have him transported off the premises if he continued to pester her. Shawn went back inside and did a final sweep for potential traces of liftoff, but found none, to his disappointment. He would have to share his insight about employees keeping drugs somewhere on—or in (ew)—their person.

By the time the K-9 unit arrived to sniff out the packing center, the officers involved in the fan-out maneuver had regrouped, all empty-handed. Shawn could practically hear Lassiter's teeth squeak as the detective clenched his jaw, his breathing still slightly labored from the exertion of the chase. Once it had been made clear that Lassiter was the last person to see the guy before he leapt into the bed of an already moving truck with no license plate, which had then peeled off with squealing tires, they knew they weren't finding him any time soon. Most of the officers were released to finish their shifts in other areas, and others whose shifts were already finished clocked out and left the scene. Juliet headed out to get started on the report, and because Lassiter was staying, Buzz gave her a ride back to the station.

Shawn continued to hang back a little, inconspicuously watching Vick and Lassiter put their heads together as they pored over a map of the area. He surmised they were brainstorming potential routes and checking them against the employee's address that was on file. He peeked back into the distribution center and saw that it had been mostly cleared out—even the K-9 unit had packed up and left close to midnight, the dog duo chomping on well-earned treats as their handlers reported to Vick that the whole building had been searched, and while there had been a positive, it turned out that one of the other employees was in possession of marijuana, not liftoff. And the perpetrator having left by vehicle meant the dogs would be useless in tracking the man who was presumed to have it, so there was no sense in keeping the K-9 unit on scene any longer. Vick and Lassiter turned back to the map, brainstorming.

Shawn watched with interest as a few forensics investigators moved in and set up shop, unpacking multilayered tackle boxes full of lights and dust and tape. Then he shook himself, remembering he was supposed to be focusing on Lassiter and Vick to see what they were saying, so that he could insert himself with some insight and earn some extra dough on the case. After all, the faster he caught the bad guys in serious cases like this, the more handsomely the chief tended to reward him.

As Chief Vick straightened up and scrubbed a hand down her face, Shawn saw his chance to swoop in. Bearing two chilled bottles of water he had borrowed from the employee break room, he sidled up and proffered them first. Vick accepted it on instinct, while Lassiter glanced first at the water that had appeared between his face and the map he was studying, then scowled over his shoulder at Shawn. The latter raised his eyebrows, giving the bottle a little shake. Lassiter snatched it with a grunt that might have been a thanks. Vick broke the seal on the cap with a sharp twist and then sipped quietly, staring off thoughtfully into nothing.

"The spirits have been quiet tonight," Shawn said quickly, glancing down at the map and the penciled lines tracing potential routes and circles suggesting hideaways, as no one had yet reported any response to the BOLO put out around 10 PM. Since it was already nearly 1 AM, according to the analog clock in the employee break room, Shawn knew there wouldn't be any sightings until probably the next night, if any. He doubted the employee would be foolish enough to step out in broad daylight as long as he was still in Santa Barbara.

"So have you," Vick responded wryly. Then she took a more serious tone. "Mr. Spencer, why are you still here? It's nearly—" she glanced at her watch—"it is one in the morning."

"You know how I work, Chief," he said, grinning. "I have to be in the proximal area of the scene, touch and feel things in order to commune with the spirits. I become one with them." He made a spiritual gesture, slowly wax-on and wax-offing in the air before turning his palms inward and pressing them against his own chest.

Lassiter scoffed and barely resisted an eye roll as he took a swig from the water bottle.

"And has your oneness with the spirits yielded any useful information?" Vick returned.

Shawn's lips thinned sheepishly. "Except that the drugs are being kept on—or, uh, in—the persons involved?"

Vick and Lassiter exchanged a glance.

"We'll keep that in mind, Mr. Spencer," she said. "In the meantime, why don't you go home and get some rest? You, too, Detective. I'll see you at the station in a few hours. I'll follow up with CSI and then head out myself."

"Actually, Chief," Shawn raised a finger, "I need a ride."

Lassiter reacted viscerally to this even before Vick said, "Detective Lassiter, if you wouldn't mind?"

He gritted his teeth as he folded the map with a little more force than necessary. "Yes, Chief," he responded.

Vick headed into the warehouse to touch base with CSI, who were packing up.

Shawn grinned at Lassiter. "I'd ask Gus, but he has to go to his other job in the morning."

"I didn't ask, Spencer."

"Not out loud."

The detective didn't dignify that with a response, shouldering past the younger man and striding across the parking lot to his department-issued car. Shawn quickened his pace to catch up, reaching the passenger side as Lassiter rounded the fender and unlocked the driver's door.

"No," Lassiter snapped. "You sit in the back."

"What?" Shawn whined. "It's still stinky back there." A couple of days ago, Lassiter's arrestee had committed biowarfare: urinating on himself and soaking the seat beneath him. He'd eaten asparagus for lunch.

Lassiter smirked. "I know."

He climbed into the car, reaching his long arm back to open the door behind his own seat. Then he turned forward and picked up the coffee that had long since gone cold, chugging it.

Shawn trudged around to the other side and grudgingly got in, pulling the door shut. He slid all the way across the bench to sit on the non-contaminated side. Although the seat had been cleaned, the stench still lingered. Lassiter yanked his own door shut, buckled up, and started the engine. He reversed smoothly out of the lot.

"Do you want to stop for tacos?" Shawn piped up.

"No."

"There's a three-for-one deal at—"

"No."

"Tch!" Shawn leaned around the passenger seat and peered out the windshield. "You should take a right up ahead."

"I know the way, Spencer," Lassiter growled. He scrubbed a hand down his face, blinking hard.

"You good, Lassifrass?"

"It's been a long day. Let's have some peace and quiet for once. Is that too much to ask?"

Shawn raised his eyebrows. "No," he replied slowly, leaning back into an upright position. He watched out the window as they sped past patches of lights, streetlamps and neon storefront signs. They passed the taco place, and Shawn turned to watch it fade into the distance with a little sadness. His belly protested, but his mouth didn't.

He turned forward again, and noticed that Lassiter's hands were wringing the steering wheel, the plastic and foam creaking under his white-knuckle grip. His jaw worked back and forth as he ground his teeth. Shawn didn't need an advanced psychology degree to see that something was off. Lassiter seemed a little tweaky.

The detective blew through a stop sign.

Shawn cringed. "Uh, Lassie," he said, pitching his voice normally. "I think you missed a turn."

The seatbelt caught him hard across the chest as Lassiter suddenly stomped on the brake. Shawn gaped at him in alarm, and immediately reached for the door handle to let himself out, unbuckling with his other hand. The buckle came loose. The door did not open. His pulse quickened as he realized the child safety lock was on—to prevent criminals (and innocents like himself) from escaping. Seething, Lassiter had wordlessly thrown the car into reverse, turning his torso to look out the rear window. He backed up through the intersection, luckily devoid of traffic, and took a left turn. He was supposed to have made a right.

Anger and irrationality were never a good combo. Coupling these with an armed and drugged driver who downright detested Shawn made for a very dangerous situation. Somehow or another, Lassiter had been exposed to liftoff. A lot, probably, given his complete disregard of traffic law.

Shawn surreptitiously tried the window-down button. No luck. If he wanted out, he would either have to climb into the front passenger seat and make a break for it, or someone would have to open his door from the outside. His mind raced as he tried to monitor Lassiter's state, keep track of their location, and formulate an escape plan.

He spotted an opportunity ahead.

"Ooh," he cried. "McDonald's! Dude, you can just drop me off there. No need to take me all the way to my apartment."

Lassiter didn't seem to hear him, muttering under his breath as he took another mysterious turn.

Shawn scooted to the middle of the bench, holding onto the passenger chair for balance, and for extra speed if he spotted the chance to leap through the passenger door to safety.

"That's fine," he said anxiously. "McDonald's isn't my favorite anyway. Actually, can I borrow your phone? I'll order a pizza. If we're lucky, we'll get to my apartment at the same time as the delivery driver. Lassie. Can I borrow your phone for a minute? Mine's broken."

Lassiter made another turn, bringing them in a circle around the block. He repeated the maneuver, then drove down the street to the next block and circled it, performing pointless square loop-de-loops as he grumbled arguments to himself about when to file papers.

On the fifth loop, when Lassiter had decided on having Dobson file the papers, Shawn dared to tap him on the shoulder. Lassiter finally reacted to him—slamming his elbow back and catching Shawn in the chin. He recoiled, more surprised than hurt.

"Hey!" he yelped.

"Fuck!" Lassiter snarled, slamming his fist against the steering wheel even as he made another turn. The car veered over the double yellow lines, and he drove several yards on the wrong side before noticing oncoming headlights and swerving back.

"Sorry!" Shawn said loudly, heart thudding in his chest. "Can I get out? I'll just get out. Can you just open the door? I'll get out." He jiggled the door handle to demonstrate it was locked.

Lassiter only sped up, reaching 70 mph in a 45 zone.

Shawn buckled himself up again, squeezing his knees to stop his hands from shaking. Lassiter circled around each block on the right-hand side before driving down to the next stop sign. He slowed to the speed limit again, and Shawn quietly let him make the loops. As long as Lassiter remained calm, high as he was, they ought to be okay.

He recalled the files on liftoff and tried to calculate when the detective would regain his senses. Shawn struggled to figure out when Lassiter had been exposed, when exactly his symptoms had started. It was all the more difficult because Shawn found that he couldn't differentiate Lassiter's regular irritability toward him and the onset of his drugged aggression. Nevertheless, given that each of the victims had needed hours to fully come down, Shawn could safely surmise that Lassiter would be under the influence for at least the rest of the night.

Shawn snapped out his thoughts as Lassiter abandoned his pattern, suddenly pulling into the parking lot of an A-American Self Storage.[2] Being nearly two in the morning, they were the only ones there.

"Great," Shawn said, unbuckling. "Perfect. Thank you. This is a great place to let me out, and I'll get back to my apartment from here."

Lassiter turned off the car and climbed out, pocketed his keys, then opened the passenger door on his side. Shawn slid over the bench and out into the lot, quickly putting several paces between them as he pretended to stretch his legs.

"So I'll see you tom—" His voice trailed off as turned and saw that Lassiter was pointing his Glock straight at Shawn's head. He slowly raised his hands. "Um, Lassie?"

"I know what you are," Lassiter growled.

Under the floodlights, Shawn could see that his eyes were bloodshot. Lassiter ground his teeth in a way that would hurt under normal circumstances. Shawn said nothing and remained still.

"I know what you are," Lassiter said again, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "And I know what you aren't!"

"Okay," Shawn replied quietly, hardly over a whisper.

"Walk," Lassiter hissed, jerking the gun toward the gated entrance of the storage units before aiming it back.

"Okay," Shawn said again, swallowing hard. His palms itched as he sidestepped the detective, trying to obey while keeping an eye on him. When Lassiter barked at him to turn around and walk, he had no choice but to trust that Lassiter wasn't going to fill his ass with lead. Not yet, at least.

Shawn looked around, trying to spot the office. Would there be a security guard on duty? Would they notice what was happening to him? He did see an office, toward the right end of the parking lot. The windows were dark. His stomach sank.

Arriving at the gate, Shawn slowed and turned to look over his shoulder at Lassiter. He stomped forward and practically body slammed Shawn into the metal links. Shawn grunted but didn't complain, curling his fingers into the wide gaps to steady himself. Lassiter pressed the gun against the nape of Shawn's neck. The younger man could hear him rooting around for his keycard, which didn't take long enough for Shawn to work up the reckless courage to try Jackie Chan's disarming move from Rush Hour.

Shawn stumbled forward as the magnetic lock disengaged and the gate swung inward. Lassiter grabbed him by the back of the shirt to keep him within reach as he kicked the door shut behind them, then gave him a shove forward.

"Walk," he commanded.

Shawn walked, chewing his lower lip anxiously as he debated whether he should try to get Lassiter to do a villain monologue to buy himself some time. Lassiter wasn't the type to publicly divulge all his dastardly plans. But to be fair, he wasn't exactly the type to abduct his coworkers at gunpoint, either.

It was a large facility, with several rows of metal longhouse units on either side of them. Lassiter pressed Shawn forward, into the heart of the grid.

To Shawn's surprise, Lassiter launched, unprovoked, into an unhinged rant: "You're a damned liar, Spencer. A goddamned liar and a fake. I don't know how you've been pulling it off, but I'm going to get to the bottom of this once and for all. You've probably got your hands into all kinds of businesses. I've seen your resume. Plenty of those jobs were fronts, weren't they? The real question is whether you're a flunkey or a leader. I can't tell if you're as stupid as you seem or if you're so good at pretending to be stupid that you even have me fooled.

"And I know you're involved in this liftoff crap, Spencer. How convenient you knew exactly where the operation was run, only for them to figure out ahead of time that the police were coming. You planned all this, didn't you? You're the type of guy who likes to play both fucking sides, aren't you, Spencer? You told us where the runners were, then told the runners we knew. So you'd be paid by the SPBD, and you'd get a cut of the liftoff profits. I can see right through you, Spencer. This is how you've always worked, isn't it, from the very beginning? You'd find out about a crime, blackmail the criminals into cutting you in, and then betray them to the cops. That's what you did tonight.

"You knew I was getting close to cracking the case on my own, so you stepped in to take all the credit with your little bullshit vision, have the SBPD scurry around like decapitated chickens while you made sure the evidence disappears. And now you're trying to frame real cops for your own criminal activities, make the SBPD look incompetent. What's your endgame, Spencer? Impact the precinct numbers and state funding so more criminal bastards like you run free? Turn left."

Shawn paused at the intersection and then turned left. The wheels of his mind turned sluggishly as he tried to follow Lassiter's insane logic as well as seek an opportunity to escape. "Um," he grimaced, "are you sure I'm capable of masterminding all that? I don't even know how taxes work. Gus does mine for me."

Out of the corner of his eye, Shawn spotted the shadow of Lassiter's arm cock back. He was going to strike him with the butt of the gun. Shawn whipped around and lashed out with one arm to knock the gun away, following through with a kick that caught the detective in the knee. A shot rang out, bullet striking metal. Lassiter grunted as his leg buckled. Both men stumbled, Lassiter into the wall and Shawn almost to his knees.

Gaping for only a split second at the realization that Lassiter really could have killed him, Shawn made a break for it. He shouldered Lassiter hard, pushing him to the pavement, and sprinted for his life, zigzagging and bouncing off the walls until he could make another turn. He ducked behind a unit and quickly toed off his shoes, holding his breath to listen for Lassiter's feet pounding in pursuit. The detective's steps slowed briefly, then went in another direction, away from Shawn.

Blinking away tears of relief, Shawn picked up his KangaROOS and padded toward the parking lot, ears pricked for Lassiter. The gate came into view, Lassiter's car still the only one in the lot. Shawn was home free.

He slowed as he neared the final row of units, swiveling his head to listen for signs of the detective. Sensing none, Shawn tiptoed forward, peeking around the corner. He didn't see anything. The swish of clothing behind him was the only warning he got. Before he could even turn, Lassiter, also shoeless, lunged and tackled Shawn to the ground.

Shawn struggled, all elbows and knees, as Lassiter tried to immobilize his arms behind his back. When Shawn refused to submit, Lassiter snaked his arm around the younger man's throat and flexed, cutting off his air. Gurgling past his tongue, Shawn clawed desperately at Lassiter's sleeve, then reached back to try and gouge his eyes. His nails raked down the detective's face, but did little to deter his grip. In a last-ditch effort, Shawn violently arched his back and twisted his face to one side, trying to writhe out of the headlock. Unsuccessfully.

His vision strobed, ears ringing with a strange static before he lost consciousness.

Notes:

[1] The Curvature Distribution Center location in Santa Barbara is actually a corporate office, but for the purpose of this fanfic, it is a service location that closes around 8PM.

[2] A-American Self-Storage is an indoor warehouse for climate-controlled storage. For the purpose of this fanfic, it's one of those cheaper outdoor facilities with several rows of units built on a grid system.