Set-up

by K Ryn

  "We're three blocks away. Help'll be there in just a few minutes."

  "We're close, Simon. Sandburg's here somewhere. I know he is!"

  "Concentrate, then," Simon suggested. "Now's the time for some of that sensory magic of yours."

  Jim froze, realizing that Simon was right. In his weariness and panic, he'd been running blindly. He forced himself to take several long slow breaths, calming himself before he entered the building. He opened up his senses, his vision adjusting automatically to the dark interior. A vibration from the floor above sent him searching for a way to reach the next level. He moved quickly, pausing briefly on the second floor before continuing upward.

  The third level had been converted to storage. It was filled with crates that were stacked as high as the ceiling in some areas. He wove his way around the piles of packing debris and broken machinery, then paused, trying to reorient himself. A whisper of sound caught his attention and he turned to his left. He concentrated again, straining for a repeat of the tell-tale noise.

  He finally heard it -- the sound of metal tinging softly to the concrete floor. Moving quickly, Jim followed the fading echoes to a closed door that was blocked by a heavy crate. He saw scrape marks on the floor, indicating that the crate had been moved to it's position fairly recently. He paused again, listening intently. His own pulse soared at the faint trace of a familiar vibration.

  Dragging the crate aside, Jim unblocked the door and pulled it open.

  "Blair!"

  He nearly staggered in shock as he caught sight of his Guide's crumpled body on the floor, a short length of metal pipe next to his outstretched hand.

  Blair lay on his side, the long, curly hair spilling across his face. Jim dropped to his knees, horrified by the matted blood that covered the left side of his Guide's head and the soaked, crudely rigged bandage that was wrapped around his left shoulder. Gently brushing aside his hair, Jim sought the carotid artery at the younger man's throat. Blair was so still. What if he'd been wrong?

  "Come on... Come on..."

  He gasped out loud in relief as he felt the slow, but regular throbbing of his Guide's pulse. Gently, he eased his friend to his back, one hand under Blair's neck to support his head.

  "Simon, I've got him," Jim called into the headset. "He's still alive, but we need help in here fast."

  "Where are you?"

  "Third floor, south end of the packing plant... looks like a store room of some kind. I found him shut in here."

  A shudder suddenly rippled through Blair's body and he moaned. Jim was abruptly aware of the feverish heat radiating from the younger man.

  "Easy, Chief."

  Blair moaned again and his eyes blinked open. There was no recognition in the pain-glazed stare that he directed up at Jim.

  "Blair, it's Jim... Just lie still."

  The younger man's head tipped back and he grimaced in pain. His eyes sought Jim's and this time there was a glimmer of awareness in them.

  "That's it... just stay awake... help's on the way..."

  Blair grabbed at Jim's jacket, locking his fingers in the fabric. "They're... after... me..." he whispered deliriously.

  "I know... it's going to be all right... trust me..." Jim gripped his Guide tightly, as he began to shake with chills.

  "Man... it hurts..."

  "Blair... listen to me," Jim said urgently. "Stay awake... Stay with me now..."

  Blair tried to answer him, but it was a struggle just to breathe.

  "Don't you quit on me, Sandburg. You hear me?"

  "Yeah..."

  "I'm getting you out of here now. There's a med team waiting downstairs."

  Carefully, he started to raise Blair off the floor. A groan of pain escaped through his Guide's clenched teeth.

  "Leave him alone!"

  Jim looked up to see Little Boy's huge bulk filling the space, his face dark with anger.

  "I'm not going to hurt him," Jim started to explain, but Little Boy took a threatening step forward.

  "Already hurt," he growled. "Little Boy help. You go away."

  Jim eyed him carefully. This man had saved his friend's life. He didn't want to hurt him, but he wasn't about to let anything stand in the way of getting Blair to medical help. Slowly he moved his right hand toward his gun. Blair's soft words stopped him.

  "It's... all right... he's... a friend..."

  Little Boy's confused gaze shifted to Blair.

  "He won't... hurt... you... or me..."

  "I won't," Jim added softly. "I want to help him. There's a doctor..."

  "No doctors." Little Boy argued, shaking his head in distress. "Doctor's hurt."

  Blair struggled to meet the man's eyes. He could sense the determination in his Sentinel. Jim was in full "protection mode" and that could translate to action faster than Little Boy could blink. "Please... listen to him..."

  "Little Boy help," the giant muttered in confusion.

  "Yes, you did," Jim agreed. "But he needs more help than you can give him. You remember your kitten? Addy told me about it. Remember how sad you were when it died?" He paused and the giant nodded, his face filled with sadness. "I don't want Blair to die. I don't want you to be sad again. Let me take him out of here... so he can get well."

  Little Boy paused, considering Jim's words. "Little Boy doesn't want to be sad," he said abruptly, moving to Blair's side. Between the two of them they lifted the younger man to his feet, supporting him when he sagged in their grasp. Jim tensed as he picked up the sound of creeping footsteps in the outer room.

  "Simon, where are you? We've got company," he whispered into the headset.

  "We're out front. Can you sit tight until we get up there?"

  "I don't think so. We need to move or they'll box us in. Just get up here as fast as you can."

  Jim shifted his hold on Blair, gesturing with a jerk of his head that they should bear to the left as they exited the room. They made it about twenty feet when Blair faltered, his head rolling back onto his shoulders.

  Jim urged Little Boy farther to the left, seeking a spot that would give them some cover. They eased Blair down to the floor, leaning him against a pile of crates.

  Jim heard the footsteps again and focused, trying to place their location. The sounds were muffled, but he finally sorted out two different patterns. He glanced at his suffering partner and made a fast decision.

  "I'm going to try to head them off. You stay here with Blair," he whispered to Little Boy.

  The big man started to nod, then froze, his face contorting with fear at the sight of Jim's gun. With a sudden lurch, Little Boy rose to his feet and bolted away from them into the darkness, slipping from Jim's desperate grasp.

  In dismay, Jim looked at Blair again, reconsidering whether to leave him alone, or wait for Simon. He knew he'd have a better chance of taking the gunmen out if he was moving on his own. As long as he could keep himself between them, his Guide would be all right, he decided.

  "Don't go taking a stroll on me now, Chief," he teased, touching Blair lightly on the arm to get his attention.

  "Not... a... problem..."

  "I'll be right back," Jim assured him, rising to his feet and moving silently toward their pursuers. He focused his senses on his targets, no longer worried about zoning out, no longer having to imagine Blair's presence. His Guide was with him. He was still alive. It was up to the Sentinel to keep it that way.

  Moving like a silent shadow, Jim worked his way through the maze of crates and debris that littered the floor. He heard the clock ticking in his head, reminding him of his Guide's desperate condition, but he forced himself to patience, a panther stalking his prey. He came upon the gunmen moments later and eased behind a crate, waiting for them to move into range. When he judged them to be close enough, he stepped out into the open, gun already raised to fire.

  "Police. Freeze!"

  The men looked up in surprise at the same instant Simon's voice rang in his headset. Jim winced at the explosion of sound in his ears an
d managed to dart back behind the crate just in time to avoid a bullet. He fired and heard a grunt of pain followed by a heavy thud as one assailant fell. He rolled to his right and shot again, dropping the second man to the floor.

  Rising cautiously, he tensed at the sound of running feet. He turned to see Simon and a dozen other officers pounding toward him. As they drew to a stop, he suddenly caught the murmur of a low pitched voice. He turned, listening anxiously.

  "It's good to see that those other clowns didn't fail completely."

  Jim cursed at himself for not anticipating that there might be a third gunman. As he bolted toward the source of the sound, he prayed that his mistake wouldn't cost his Guide his life.

  Blair winced at the gunfire. Fearing for Jim's safety, he tried to move, but his body wouldn't respond. His head pounded and the room spun around him so badly that he could hardly see. He flinched again at the third gunshot and found himself straining to listen in the silence that followed.

  "Jim?"

  He caught a flicker of movement and looked up. The death that he'd fled from earlier materialized out of the darkness.

  "You led us quite a chase, kid."

  The gun in the man's hands held him mesmerized. He shivered again, not with the fever this time, but with the certainty that he was about to die. He swallowed hard, raising his eyes to meet the gaze of his pursuer.

  The man pushed Blair's head backward into the crates with the barrel of his gun, eyeing him closely.

  "It's good to see that those other clowns didn't fail completely. Too bad I can't just let you bleed to death. It would satisfy the terms of the contract and hang Ellison out to dry. But I don't have the time. Delvenko will just have to be satisfied with you dead and Ellison convicted on drug charges."

  Blair stared up at him, his mind reeling in confusion. He knew he should say something. He knew he should try to stall for time, but his throat was too tight to form any words.

  "Nothing personal, kid." The gunman rose to his feet, moving backward a few steps.

  Blair saw the gun start to rise and braced himself for the bullet. Suddenly there was a flash of movement from his left and a huge shape crashed forward, directly into the line of fire. Little Boy screamed in anger and tried to take the gun. There was an explosion of sound as the weapon fired. The big man grunted and staggered, dropping to the floor. Transfixed by what he'd just witnessed, Blair watched in shocked horror as the gunman raised the weapon once more, targeting his chest.

  He winced twice, as two more deafening explosions filled the air. Dazed, he watched the gunman stagger and fall backward. Blair was only vaguely aware of Jim crouching next to him. His eyes were fixed on Simon, who knelt at Little Boy's side.

  "Chief..."

  Jim saw the frozen expression on his friend's pale face and knew something had to be done to reach him quickly. Gently, he cradled Blair's head in his hands, hoping to redirect his attention, but the younger man resisted.

  Simon looked up at them, shaking his head sadly.

  "NO!" The cry erupted out of Blair, suffused with anguish.

  "Look at me, Chief," Jim urged, applying more pressure so that Blair had no choice. "It's over... do you understand me? It's over..."

  Blair's tried to turn his head away, but Jim held him firmly, forcing his Guide to look at him instead. Eyes wide, mouth working to form words that refused to take form, Blair trembled as a sob finally broke free. Shaking convulsively, his eyes fluttered shut and his body sagged in Jim's hold.

  "Get that med staff over here now," Simon ordered as Jim eased Blair to his side, cushioning his head.

  "Blair stay with me... Open your eyes..."

  "No..." Blair whispered, his mind shrieking in exhaustion and denial.

  "Damn it, Sandburg, don't you die on me!" Jim cursed, his own voice filled with a combination of pain and anger.

  Blair tried to hold off the blackness, but it was too strong. He was painfully conscious of his Sentinel's desperate pleas as it swept him away.

  Falling... Falling forever...

  Several hours later, Simon found Jim outside one of the ICU rooms, staring in through the glass. Blair lay pale and motionless on the bed, surrounded by banks of monitors.

  "How's he doing?"

  "He's still critical," Jim responded quietly, his gaze never shifting. "The head injury looked worse than it was. He's got a concussion, but they don't think it's too serious. They got the bullet out of his shoulder pretty quickly, and although he lost a lot of blood, it doesn't look like he'll have any permanent damage."

  Jim paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts before he continued.

  "But the gunshot wound went untreated for too long. He's running a fever from the infection. Right now, they're pumping him full of antibiotics to try to get it under control. They think... If he makes it through the next eight hours, his chances should be pretty good."

  "You need some rest."

  Jim shook his head angrily. "What I need is a way to connect all of this to Delvenko. Did ballistics match any of the guns with the bullet we took from the park?"

  "One of the first guys you took out. Looks like you were right about their being professional talent. Unfortunately he's not going to tell us anything. Neither is his partner."

  "What about the third man?"

  "Still in surgery. He's a match to one of Delvenko's visitors. I hope he makes it, because without him, we've got no case. Those were your bullets they dug out of Blair's shoulder and the John Doe. And there's still the question of the drugs they found at your place."

  "He admitted to Delvenko's involvement. I overheard him tell Sandburg that Delvenko had ordered the hit, and that they'd planted the drugs."

  "That's one more reason to hope that Sandburg pulls through. You need him to corroborate your story."

  "You're wrong Simon," Jim whispered softly. "I just need him. I need him to be bouncing on his toes, pestering me about tests. I need him to be sacked out on the couch with all his papers cluttering up the kitchen table. I need him to be staring at me with that innocent puppy-dog expression on his face and mischief in his eyes. I need..."

  Jim's voice faltered and he stared through the glass, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I need to find a way to make Delvenko pay for this." Jim finally shifted his gaze to his captain. The desperation in his eyes made Simon shudder. "I need your help." "You've got it. Taggert's already checking out the shooters to see what other connections he can find. I'll see what else I can dig up. I still want to know who's involved inside the department. I'll let you know as soon as we've got anything."

  "Thanks, Simon," Jim accepted Simon's assurances with a nod and then turned his attention back to his partner.

  Intensive care was one of the most demanding nursing duties. The emotional stress of caring for critical patients whose chances of survival were often less than one-in-a-thousand was draining. Few nurses stayed with it for long and many of those who did turned cold and officious as a means of dealing with the strain. A precious few, like Sandra Abrahms, had found a way to ride the emotional roller coaster and still maintain their own personal balance.

  With only three patients to attend to, Sandra finished her rounds quickly. It was a matter of pride with her that she did them in person, once each hour. She didn't have to. The banks of monitors in the ICU nursing station tracked and registered more information on each patient than anyone would ever need. But they were just machines. They couldn't look into a patient's eyes, reassure them with a gentle touch, or share a whispered confidence. Sandra firmly believed that her physical presence often made the difference for the struggling minds trapped in the injured or diseased bodies.

  Of course on the bad days, she often wished that she didn't demand it of herself, but she never missed. At the end of one of those days, she took herself home to her apartment, fed her cat and hugged her pillow, crying out her pain and the loss of her patients in the dark. Often, she'd promise herself as she surrendered to sleep, that t
he next day would be her last. That she'd request a new assignment. But when the morning came she would find herself full of hope -- that this would be a good day. And that was why she stayed. On good days, miracles happened.

  She found herself standing outside one of the rooms, gazing in on the two occupants. She glanced at the chart that hung next to the door and allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction. Yes, this had been a good day. "A very good day," she whispered.

  Sandra started as the older man beside the bed raised his head and looked directly at her. She recovered her composure quickly and offered a tentative smile. The older man stared intently -- as if he were looking not at her, but right inside of her -- and then nodded, a small smile of his own softening the grim face. Sandra nodded and stepped back, knowing that the detective's attention would immediately return to his partner.

  ;As she made her way back to the nursing station, she found herself thinking about the unlikely pair. When the younger man had arrived, it was touch and go, with all the signs of a bad day in the making. The extent of his injuries and the complications of the infection had everyone shaking their heads doubtfully. In private of course. Certainly out of sight of the older man who had stationed himself outside of his partner's room and refused to budge.

  She'd dealt with police officers before, so she recognized the dedication of the older man as he waited, his face unreadable as he stared through the glass. He'd been frustrated with their rules that kept him outside in the hall, instead of inside next to his partner's bed. Partners. She still found it difficult to believe. They were as mismatched a pair as she could imagine. On the surface at least. Underneath that...

  Sandra shook her head and pulled out the younger man's chart, scanning it again as she added the newest readings to the record.Blair Sandburg... age 28... occupation, police observer/Anthropologist. Observer/Anthropologist... what was that? She shook her head, wondering whether admitting had gotten it right. One thing was certain; he was a civilian, not a cop. Would that explain the continuous parade of uniformed officers and detectives that had either called or wandered through over the past few hours? Was someone upstairs nervous about a civilian being injured, and they were sending over the troops to make a positive PR impression in case somebody checked?