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PART TWO

Hold Out - Part Three

By

SunnyD

~~~~~ Hutch ~~~~~

   I froze in the doorway for a minute, unable to tear my eyes away from my partner's motionless body, but equally unable to move. He was sprawled face down on the floor, right hand flung out from his body and fresh blood oozing through my tablecloth bandage. The silver pitcher lay about five feet from his fingers, a black streak and trickles of water marking its collision with the wall. I sucked in a slow, calming breath and crouched down beside him.

   "That must've been some throw, partner." I muttered the words more to myself than to Starsky, who appeared to be out cold. At the sound of my voice, however, his forehead creased and his fingers twitched.

   I gently gathered him into my arms. It was odd to be treating Starsky, one of the toughest people I know, like fine china, but his white face and ragged breathing reminded me things had changed. As I struggled to pull his dead weight into my lap, he began to come around.

   "Hutsh?" My name was mostly breath and few consonants, but that hand, the one that had reached for me earlier, crept up to touch my face.

   "Yeah, I'm right here."

   "Hutsh?" Groggy, his eyes still closed and his body limp.

   "I'm right here," I muttered. I moved his hand from my face and folded his arm across his chest, lacing my fingers around it. "Right here. I'm right here."

   Starsky finally looked up at me, his eyes glassy and unfocused. "I thought they killed you."

   I laughed, but for a moment I had to look away from the naked love and relief in his gaze. Even now, he was worried about me and not himself. Swallowing grief until my throat ached, I smiled down at him. "Is that what you're doing on the floor? Huh?"

   I turned toward the couch, silently asking myself how I was going to get him back onto it without hurting him further. When I unconsciously loosened my hold, his left arm slithered out of my grasp and thumped to the floor, but Starsky didn't seem to notice. His answering chuckle was thin and raspy, more like wheezing than laughter.

   "I thought I'd tunnel out. Go for help."

   I stared at that arm, his words fading into the background. Snagging his sleeve, I tugged it up until I could curl my fingers around his wrist, then slid my hand up his forearm. It was limp, pliant, the skin cool and clammy to my touch. Starsky's head lolled against my chest, and his eyelids drooped until only a hint of blue peeked through.

   "How's your arm, huh?"

   I probed and squeezed my way up to his elbow, gently at first, then harder. Starsky sprawled bonelessly against me, oblivious to what I was doing.

   "It's fine. Hey, didja get the bad guy? Hm?"

   "I think we still got 'em with us," I answered, distracted by the results of my less-than-expert examination.

   "Oh, terrific."

   I struggled to concentrate, my thoughts blotted out by a fresh flood of worry. Starsky wasn't complaining about pain, wasn't even reacting to my touch. Loss of circulation. Nerve damage. Paralysis. Ugly words that flitted through my head, made all the more serious because we were talking about my lefty partner's gun hand.

   "You sure your arm's all right? Huh?"

   "Couldn't be better. I told you, Gene Autry gets it there all the time."

   The arm slipped out of my grasp and hit the floor again, but Starsky spoke without even a pause or a grimace. I continued my exploration, probing and prodding along his side from waist to ribs.

   "How do I look?"

   It's a joke between Starsky and me, a running gag that dates back to the first time he got into a fistfight with a fleeing suspect--and lost. The guy, 250 pounds and roughly the size of King Kong, jumped him as he came around a corner, catching him completely off guard. By the time I came along, hauled him off my partner, and cuffed him, Starsky had a hell of a black eye, a bloody nose, and a loose tooth. His first words to me, after growling some inventive obscenities and spitting blood?

   Yeah, you guessed it.

   "You look terrific...terrific," I told him, then and now.

   "I bet I do." Dry sarcasm in his voice, despite the weakness.

   I looked down at him, helplessness pressing down on me until I could barely breathe. I shook off the numbness. "You want me to sit you up?"

   Starsky's mouth twitched and a faint sparkle lit up his eyes. "Think you can?"

   "I can try, you big lug. C'mon."

   I grasped him under the arms and gritted my teeth, trying to lift slowly and carefully.

   "I'll try to help." In spite of good intentions, his body remained a dead weight.

   "Move your legs a little for me if you can," I suggested, my voice tight from the strain.

   Starsky's muscular and solid as they come. It was no small task, fighting gravity and his weight to haul him upright. Finally I had him vertical against the couch, his head sagging drunkenly and his eyes closed. I was both grateful and frightened that he never made even the slightest squeak of pain.

   "Okay, now, just hold it right there...hold it right there."

   It was painfully obvious that he could topple over at any moment. I propped him up with one hand while I shifted position, getting on my knees so I could settle him a little more comfortably and securely.

   "Yeah. What do want me to do now? Huh?" He was like an oversized rag doll, allowing me to manipulate him without complaint. Even the hand that had searched for me so determinedly remained still.

   "I'll let you know, okay? Right now I think we've got 'em on the run."

   I covered him again with the tablecloths and coat, then tucked a couple pillows behind his head to keep it from tipping backward. "There you go."

   He looked awful. His normally tan skin tone had gone positively gray, and I could see he was fighting hard just to stay conscious. I tugged the coat up a little higher, tucking him in like a small child. "Just stay right there, and you take it easy."

   His eyes cracked open briefly before sliding shut. "I ain't goin' nowhere."

   I scooped up my watch and got to my feet, panting--not only with the effort it had taken to move him, but with the fear, heartache, and anger I couldn't let Starsky see. I glanced at the time before slipping the watch into my pocket. 11:50. Ten minutes to go, and that was assuming Vic didn't decide to show up early. I took a few steps and braced my hand against the wall, my legs weak and wobbly. Tears filled the back of my throat and burned my eyes. I screwed up my face and willed them away, a talent my father taught me many years ago.

   Theresa came through the door, sparing a glance for Starsky before raising her eyebrows at me. "How is he?"

   I grabbed her arm, drawing her further into the room and away from my partner. I kept my voice to a whisper, not wanting to alarm him. "He can't feel a thing. How 'bout the gun?"

   "Oh, the old man says there is a--well, there's sort of a gun."

   My frustration with the gunmen and my worry for Starsky obliterated any patience I had left. Still, I realized that going off on Theresa would alienate my only ally. I gripped her arms and forced myself to stay calm.

   "What do you mean, 'sort of a gun'?"

   "Well, the part where you put the bullets...?"

   "The clip?"

   A quick nod. "...is in the back of the cash register. And the gun is under the bar near the cash register. But I don't know if it's going to do any good, he hasn't used it in years, he hasn't cleaned it in years."

   She looked at me, wide-eyed, cheeks flushed, and I wondered how it was possible that Iceman hadn't figured out she was up to something. I could only pray that my buddy, Joey, would keep him sufficiently distracted.

   "There's no way to find that until we try it, huh? If we work together, I think I can get the clip. But you're gonna have to get the gun and bring it back here. You understand? Can you do it?"

   She licked her lips. "Yeah, I think I can. Yeah."

   I stared at her, trying to judge if she was leveling with me. If she really could deliver, or if she'd panic at the first glimpse of trouble. The men sitting out in the restaurant might have their quirks, but they were pros. If Theresa fumbled the ball, if she crumbled under pressure, we were as good as dead.

   My eyes automatically turned to Starsky. He sat just as I'd positioned him, eyes glazed and breathing labored. I could see he was only halfway there, his tether to what was going on around him stretched thin. Normally determined to be included in any strategy, he hadn't even attempted to overhear our conversation. His apathy, even more than his appearance, told me just how fast he was sinking.

   Could Theresa pull it off? Dear God, what choice did I have but to let her try? It certainly wouldn't be the first time Starsky and I beat overwhelming odds.

   I pressed my thumb and forefinger to my temples, then ran my hand down my face. Time for another brilliant plan.

~~~~~ Starsky ~~~~~

   I thought I was dead.

   The pain had disappeared--to tell you the truth, I wasn't feelin' much of anything. Everything was pitch black, but it was kinda peaceful that way, and I sure didn't want to move or do anything to wake up the little guy who'd been drilling a hole in my back.

   A voice brought me the rest of the way back--a voice, and those hands. I couldn't understand the words, but they didn't really matter. The last thing I could remember--besides feeling like my insides had been twisted into knots--was the sound of gunfire. The quiet voice and the gentle touch of those hands told me that my partner was still with me.

   "Hutch." It came out all mushy and blurred.

   I tried to reach for him, but my arms weren't cooperating too well and my eyelids felt like they were stuck shut. With a lot of hard work, I got one hand up to touch his face. His cheek was warm, and he needed a shave--little details that reassured me I wasn't dreamin'.

   "Yeah, I'm right here."

   "Hutch." I wanted to say something, to let him know how glad I was to know he wasn't dead. Unfortunately, my mouth wasn't cooperatin' any better than my arms or my eyelids.

   "I'm right here." Fingers curled carefully around my wrist, and my arm was tugged down to my chest. "Right here. I'm right here."

   I knew then that he must be pretty worried about me. Normally, Hutch isn't one to talk unless he's got something to say. One of the things I like about our friendship is that we can spend long stretches of time together in complete silence. I mean, yeah, I can run off at the mouth sometimes. But there's also plenty of times I like a little peace and quiet, and so does Hutch. So if he starts stuttering or babbling, I know he's on edge.

   Concentrating hard, I pried open my eyes. I squinted up at the pale blob that was supposed to be Hutch's face, and it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever not seen.

   "I thought they killed you."

   He laughed. It was great to hear, even though I didn't really understand what was so funny. Sure, I've occasionally been known to tell him I'm gonna kill him. But that's just a figure of speech, ya know?

   He grinned at me. "Is that what you're doing on the floor. Huh?"

   For the first time, it hit me. I wasn't layin' on the couch, I was down on the floor.

   Maybe I was a little punchy by that point, because all of a sudden the whole situation struck me as funny. I mean, there I am, swearing to Hutch that I can heave that little pitcher against the wall, laughin' at him for even doubting me, and what do I do? Toss myself onto the floor along with the pitcher. And if that ain't pathetic enough, I don't even realize I'm gettin' friendly with this ugly carpet until Hutch spells it out for me. I started to snicker.

   "I thought I'd tunnel out. Go for help."

   Man, I was tired. A little voice in my head reminded me I was layin' on top of Hutch and should probably try to move, but I couldn't scrape up the energy. I just lay there like a big baby in his lap and tried to keep from nodding off.

   "How's your arm, huh?"

   Why was he worried about me--he was the one facing down those two hired guns. I thought again about the shots I'd heard and what they might mean. Just the fact that it took me so long goes to show how loopy I was. There had definitely been gunfire, but Hutch was here with me. Could that mean...?

   "It's fine. Hey, didja get the bad guy? Hm?"

   Hutch wasn't even looking at me; he seemed real preoccupied about something. "I think we still got 'em with us."

   "Oh, terrific."

   So we were back to square one. For some strange reason my brain wandered off on a completely different track. I started thinkin' about all the westerns I've watched on the late, late show. Those cowboys could be fulla holes, bleeding all over the place, and they'd still get the cattle rustlers in the end. Me, I might not be able to pick myself up off the floor, but at least the pain had backed off. So maybe I wasn't doin' too bad.

   "You sure your arm's all right? Huh?"

   Did I ever mention what a worrier Hutch is? Sometimes, when I'm sick or hurting, he gets down right fussy over me. It'd be annoying, 'cept I understand just how special that treatment is. See, Hutch didn't grow up with a whole lot of TLC. Don't get me wrong, his parents are basically good people, and I'm sure they loved him in their own way. It's just that their way didn't include much hugging or touching. And if there's one thing I've learned during my years as a cop, it's that all the love in the world don't mean nothin' if you can't show the person.

   So--considerin' Hutch didn't exactly have great role models--I figure I'm pretty damn lucky to be on the receiving end of that much caring and affection. Most of the time I'm grateful to have someone wanting to take care of me. And the rest of the time I just grit my teeth and try not to pull my gun.

   "Couldn't be better. I told you, Gene Autry gets it there all the time." I thought of the perfect way to lighten Hutch up. "How do I look?"

   It's a joke between us. Goes all the way back to a time when I got the hell beat outta me by a guy twice my size. Hutch got a big laugh from me asking him how I looked.

   "You look terrific...terrific."

   Hutch's voice yanked me back from the daydream I didn't know I was having. For just a second I felt all mixed up, like I wasn't sure where--or when--I was. Then it all clicked back into place.

   "I bet I do."

   "You want me to sit you up?"

   Tired as I felt, I had to smile a little. I was spread over Hutch like a blanket--a very wet, very heavy blanket. Getting me vertical seemed like a pretty big job, and I wasn't exactly feeling ambitious. "Think you can?"

   "I can try, you big lug. C'mon."

   Hutch started to lift, and I could tell how careful he was being. I could also feel his arms quivering from the effort.

   "I'll try to help."

   And I did. But nothin' much happened. My arms felt like noodles and my eyes kept wanting to slide shut. The more Hutch hauled me up, the more blood rushed outta my head and I felt real woozy.

   "Move your legs a little for me if you can," he grunted. His breath was coming in short, hard puffs.

   I gave it my best shot, but it was all I could do not to black out. When I cracked my eyes open, it was like lookin' through a negative from one of the photos I like to take. I gritted my teeth and shut them.

   "Okay now, just hold it right there...hold it right there." Hutch's voice--calm, reassuring--anchored me.

   "Yeah. What do want me to do now? Huh?"

   "I'll let you know. Right now I think we've got 'em on the run."

   Hutch's voice sounded like he was standing at the end of a long tunnel, hollow and far away. I sank back against the couch, letting him tug and move me into a more comfortable position. I wanted to sleep, and I wanted it with the desperation of a junkie after a fix. I needed the relief, ached to let go just for a little while. But a corner of my mind recognized the danger and a nagging little voice wouldn't let me give up.

   Did I ever mention the nagging little voice in my head sounds just like Hutch?

   "There you go." I felt him fussing with the tablecloth he'd thrown over me and at least three wisecracks danced around in my brain, but I couldn't catch 'em. It felt too good just to sit there and breathe.

   "Just stay right there, and you take it easy."

   "I ain't goin' nowhere."

   I sensed Hutch move away from me and Theresa come into the room. A tiny corner of my mind wondered where he was going and what we were gonna do about Mutt and Jeff in the next room. The rest of me was just too tired to care. Hutch'd fill me in when he had the details worked out. Until then I figured it wouldn't hurt to get some rest.

   I listened to the murmur of Hutch's voice without trying to process the words, telling myself the game wasn't over. The home team was down a few points--okay, so the visitors were kicking the crap outta us. We still had an inning or two left, and our star player was up to bat.

   Hazy memories of baseball, beer, and a hot summer days followed me down into the dark.

~~~~~ Hutch ~~~~~

   I walked out of the office with both hands raised like a good little hostage. My mind worked frantically on the problem of getting into that cash register without Iceman and Joey knowing what I was up to. Theresa perched on a barstool and I stood beside her, so close and yet so far from where I needed to be.

   "Hey, Cop!" I looked over to see Iceman gesture with his gun. "Get back to your seat."

   I hesitated, my brain racing. If I went back to my seat now, I'd never get back to the register in time. It was six minutes to midnight. Monty and his goons would arrive soon.

   And then it clicked. One of those brainstorms Starsky ribs me about. If I'd been working with my partner, I would've been certain I could pull it off. We're nearly psychic at times--Starsky can sense where I'm headed without me spelling it out for him. But Theresa... If she didn't pick up on what I was trying to do, my plan would never work.

   I slowly reached across the bar for a glass.

   "Don't push me." The flat, cold voice let me know Iceman was deadly serious.

   I showed him the glass and pasted on a smile. "I just want a beer. My mouth is dry."

   Joey, lounging with his feet on the table, got a big kick out of that. "I'll bet it is!" he hooted.

   I reached across the polished surface a second time and carefully filled the glass from the tap. As I straightened and took a sip of the beer, I stared at Theresa.

   Her eyes widened but she kept a stone face. "You want a beer, you pay for it." She tipped her chin up and gave me a steely glare worthy of an Oscar.

   I could've kissed her.

   Ignoring Joey's jeers, I smiled at her with exaggerated politeness. "How much?"

   "Fifty cents."

   I walked around the bar to the cash register, set my glass on top, pulled a single from my pocket, and showed it to Iceman. Punching the button to open the money drawer, I slipped the bill inside. The clip was there, just as the old man had told Theresa. Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades and down my back, and my heart thudded against my ribs. As casually as possible I slid the clip up my sleeve, grabbed two quarters, and shut the drawer.

   I waved the quarters in Iceman's direction as I rounded the bar. I knew I was walking a thin line with my sarcasm, but it was all I could do to keep my temper in check. When both Iceman and Joey merely watched me without comment, I put the next part of my plan into play.

   "My partner's getting the chills. I'd appreciate it if you'd get him something warm to drink," I told Theresa.

   "There's some soup already made out in the kitchen."

   I couldn't resist a little more sarcasm. I looked at Iceman. "I'll pay for it."

   She glanced over at him for permission. "Okay?"

   "Okay, but make it fast."

   I walked over and took a seat at "my" table. Nonchalantly sipping my beer, pretending to be the picture of calm, when inside my guts were churning and my nerves were jangling. The ball was in Theresa's court now. There wasn't really a thing I could do to help her.

   "I bet the piggy put in a buck in the till and pulled out a tenspot, huh?"

   Joey's voice, sneering at my back. Oh, how I wanted to walk over and teach that slimeball a lesson. Instead, I clamped my mouth shut and stared at the red-and-white checked tablecloth. I thought about Starsky, back when we finally caught up with Crazy George Prudholm. How the desire, the need, to pull the trigger was so strong I could see his whole body shaking. I figured if my partner could control himself under those circumstances, then I could now.

   Starsky's temper is legendary around Metro but personally, I don't really think his reputation as a hothead is deserved. Starsky has an incredible amount of patience under most circumstances. We've got two or three regular customers at the station--old folks with too much time on their hands and no one to spend it with. They like to come down and swear out complaints. Sometimes it's a purse that's been snatched, sometimes vandalism--once it was even a peeping Tom. Of course, Starsky and I know none of it really happened. They're stories invented by lonely people who just want someone to talk to. More specifically, who want to talk to Starsky. Especially Hazel Wilmington.

   The kitchen door swung open and Theresa emerged, carrying a tray with a bowl on it. She crossed the room and reached over the bar, her movements calm and unhurried. She'd just straightened up with a napkin and--I assumed--the gun in her hand, when Joey got up and approached her. My heart gave a lurch and stopped beating.

   "Hey. Hey! What do you got there?" He peered over her shoulder. "Theresa. I'm ashamed of you."

   I tensed, watching helplessly as Theresa set the tray on top of the napkin and turned to face Joey, her eyes huge and innocent.

   "Why? What's the matter?"

   Joey put on an exaggerated pout. "It smells so good. Why didn't you bring me some, huh?"

   Theresa started toward the office, her rigid back a not-so-subtle slap in the face. "There's some more in the kitchen. You want some, you gotta get it yourself."

   I let out a long, slow breath of air, feeling like the guy who narrowly missed the plane that just crashed. I expected Theresa's rejection to set off Joey's temper, but it never happened. He just smirked and sauntered back over to his table, as if he'd just told the funniest joke in the world.

   I sipped my beer, watched the office doorway, and thought about how people can surprise you. I never would've thought Theresa had it in her--I'd've sworn she'd fold under pressure. Thank God I'm not always the best judge of character.

   Behind me, Iceman and Joey were getting ready for the big moment.

   "Three minutes to twelve." Iceman's voice was soft, calm.

   "Yeah, well, this time I won't miss."

   "I think you'd better get in here."

   Though I'd been expecting her to call for me, my chest still tightened and my heart sped up. I scrambled to my feet and was around the table before Iceman's voice pulled me up short.

   "Hold it, Cop. I want you where I can see you."

   The camel's back broke. I'd swallowed my anger and frustration one too many times, and I damn well couldn't eat another bite. "I'm going back there and you're not gonna stop me."

   No sign of anger, just that cool stare and a gun pointed at my chest. Iceman deliberately pulled back the hammer.

   It was a bluff and I knew it. There was no way they'd do anything to jeopardize the hit. Not now. "What are you gonna do now, blow me away? There's not gonna be time to pick up the pieces before Vic Monty gets in here."

   When Iceman continued to stare me down, I gave him the finger. No, not that one. I gave him my dad's finger. Dad never spanked us when my sister and I were kids. He didn't have to. He could be one scary guy when he was mad. If he glared at you, you knew you were in trouble. But if he held up his index finger… Well, I never waited around to find out what happened next. That finger was a warning, and I was smart enough to take it.

   I'm sure I didn't have nearly as powerful an effect on Iceman, but he did let me go without any more arguments. I stalked into the office, Theresa on my heels. As soon as we were inside, she pulled out the gun.

   "Oh, beautiful." I took it from her and eased the clip out of my sleeve. It might have been old and in need of a good cleaning, but the weight of that gun felt wonderful in my hands. I crouched down beside Starsky, still propped against the couch with his head sagging onto his shoulder.

   "Hey, buddy, look what I got. Huh?" I could barely contain the excitement in my voice as I loaded the clip.

   Starsky slit his eyes open. "Last go around, huh?" He chuffed a breathy little laugh.

   I chambered a round. "Yeah. From what I understand, this thing is liable to go off in my face as anything."

   "Well. You always did want an excuse to get your teeth capped."

   Like I said before, he can make me laugh when I'd swear it was impossible. I laid my hand carefully on his shoulder and chuckled, a few of the knots in my back loosening a bit. My friend. He refuses to throw in the towel, even when the odds are looking grim. I just hoped I wouldn't let him down. Despite the joke, it was obvious he was weakening fast.

   I leaned in closer, hoping to return the gift he'd given me. "You know something?"

   "What?"

   "You look terrible."

   One corner of his mouth twitched. "Hey. Don't let me fool you. I played Camille in high school."

   I smiled, but it felt brittle. "Yeah."

   Time for business. I stood and moved back over to where Theresa was waiting. "Now there's one more thing I want you to do. When I walk out of this room, those guys watch me like a hawk."

   "What can I do?"

   Was this really the same woman who had been nearly hysterical after Starsky was shot? Who'd defended Iceman and Joey as the avengers of her brother's death? It was hard to reconcile that person with the one who stood so calmly and resolutely in front of me now.

   "Well, I can't walk out with a gun in my hand. And I can't get a clear shot at them because there are two people sitting at this table, so what I want you to do is to give me a couple of seconds to get into position."

   She was nodding before I finished speaking. "You want me to create a diversion."

   "Yeah, drop a glass, throw a tray--anything."

   Theresa bobbed her head and slipped out of the office. I stood there, momentarily paralyzed by the implications of what we were about to do. Starsky was right when he called it our "last go around." These were all or nothing stakes. It's one thing to risk your own life, but I was gambling on the lives of every man and woman in the restaurant as well. Including Starsky's.

   "Hey, Hutch. Hey."

   Weak. Breathless. But it brought me back as effectively as if he'd screamed. I turned and dropped back down beside him.

   "Yeah."

   "C'mere."

   I rested my arm on his shoulder and leaned in close, not only to comfort him, but to hear better. "Yeah?"

   Starsky wouldn't look me in the eye as he struggled to speak, and I could tell he was fighting his own emotions. "I was just kidding about the teeth."

   Have you ever had someone try to strangle you? Just wrap their fingers around your throat and squeeze? Starsky's words choked the air from my lungs just like that, so it was impossible for me to answer. I rested my forehead against his and tightened my fingers on his shoulder.

   I felt the brush of Starsky's eyelashes against my cheek, heard him swallow hard. "See ya."

   After a final pat, I forced myself to stand up. To move away from him without looking back.

   Last go around.

   God help us all.

~~~~~ Starsky ~~~~~

   "You're up next, Blondie."

   I guess I must've tried to sit up. Next thing I knew I had a knife stickin' all the way through my back into my chest and I was gulping air like it was thick as molasses. Sweat was dripping down my face, and for a few minutes I was awful close to puking all over myself. Finally, everything settled down a bit and I remembered where I was--an Italian restaurant, not a baseball field. And I gotta tell you, I was never so damned happy to be shot and held hostage. Ironic, huh?

   I looked around, but Hutch and Theresa were nowhere in sight. I wasn't sure how long I'd been sleeping, and I couldn't lift my arm high enough to see my watch. My eyes felt like somebody'd poured sand in them, and everything swam in and out of focus. For just a minute I panicked, thinkin' maybe it was all over. That while I was passed out and dreaming those two hired guns had whacked Monty and everyone else and then cleared out, figuring I'd bleed to death. I tried to tell myself I was just being silly, but I'd never felt so alone and helpless.

   Before I could really get worked up, Hutch and Theresa burst into the room. They had their heads close together, talking about something, but I was too tired and sore to try and guess what it was. I listened to the sound of their voices, pathetically glad that I wasn't alone anymore and that Hutch hadn't picked up any extra holes.

   "Hey, buddy. Look what I got. Huh?"

   I opened my eyes, which had somehow slipped shut when I wasn't payin' attention. Not a good sign. Hutch seemed excited, so I concentrated on what he was showing me. A gun--not his Python and not my Beretta. But even though I didn't recognize the piece, I could pretty much guess what he planned to do with it.

   "Last go around, huh?" I snorted--that gun looked like a peashooter compared to Hutch's cannon.

   "Yeah. From what I understand this thing is as liable to go off in my face as anything."

   Suddenly, without any warning, I was hit with a picture from my dream--Joey leveling the gun at Hutch's head, winking at me.

   How many times could Hutch go up against these guys and still walk away? I shoved down my fear and did what I always do when I can't handle my feelings. I made a joke.

   "Well. You always did want an excuse to get your teeth capped."

   Hutch laughed, just like I knew he would. He leaned in closer, like he was taking a good look at me. "You know something?"

   "What?"

   "You look terrible."

   I understood what he was trying to do--keep my spirits up and make me smile. But there was a lot I thought I should say, stuff I wanted to talk about, which wasn't very funny. In the end I copped out and gave him the kind of answer I knew he expected.

   "Hey. Don't let me fool you. I played Camille in high school."

   Hutch smiled at me, but he had to work at it. "Yeah." Another touch to my shoulder and he went back into a huddle with Theresa.

   I stared at them, kicking myself. "Last go around," I'd said, and we both knew how true that was. It had to be nearly midnight; Monty would be walkin' through the front door in a matter of minutes. One way or another, this nightmare was gonna end, and odds were definitely against the home team.

   Hutch was walking into the middle of a war zone with a possibly useless gun and no back-up. So what do I tell him? That he's a good cop and the best friend anyone could ever ask for? That in spite of the battles we lose, the times it feels like we're just spinnin' our wheels, I wouldn't trade a day of our partnership? That knowin' him has made me a better person?

   Nah, I just make a lame joke about capped teeth.

   I never got to say goodbye to my pop. One minute he was kissing me, Nicky, and Ma before heading out the door to work. Next he was dead on a street corner, leaking more blood than I ever would've thought one body could hold. I know he knew I loved him--he was my pop. But to this day it still bugs the hell outta me that I never got to say it one more time.

   I'd be damned if I'd let that happen to me again.

   "Hey, Hutch. Hey." With all the breath it took to squeeze out the words, it should've been a shout, not a whisper.

   "Yeah."

   "C'mere."

   His hand on my shoulder, solid, real. The only warm spot on my otherwise freezing body. "Yeah?"

   All the words I meant to say dried up and stuck together in a huge lump somewhere between my heart and my mouth. I couldn't even look Hutch in the face, just stared at a spot on the wall and told myself I wasn't gonna embarrass myself by gettin' soapy. What eventually came out wasn't exactly what I'd planned.

   "I was only kidding about the teeth."

   Hutch leaned his head against mine, and the fingers on my shoulder shook. It was enough. And it was time for him to go.

   I swallowed hard against the lump. "See ya."

   He stood up and kind of squared his shoulders, reminding me again of my dream. I watched him walk back into the restaurant, wishing I could be sure.

   Praying I'd be right.

~~~~~ Hutch ~~~~~

   One minute to twelve.

   I walked into the dining room, hands raised and movements slow and easy. Hell, I knew the drill by now. This time, though, I had a little twist prepared for the dynamic duo. I just hoped my past cooperation would lull them into dropping their guard. An almost eerie feeling of calm settled over me, the gun a comforting weight tucked into my waistband. Time to put an end to this nightmare. Time to do something.

   Theresa stood near the bar, two large metal trays in her hands. I could feel her eyes on me, but I carefully avoided making contact. I was pleased to note that although I had Iceman's complete attention, Joey was woolgathering, his eyes on the floor. I eased a hand to the small of my back and curled my fingers around the grip. Just like shaking hands.

   All my senses shifted into overdrive. Smell--garlic, herbs, and spices from the kitchen, fear sweat from my fellow hostages. Hearing--the monotonous tap of a nervous foot, the rumble of thunder. Touch--smooth metal under my fingertips, the tickle of sweat down my back. And sight--a drop of tomato sauce on Iceman's collar, the reflected headlights of an approaching car.

   Theresa hurled both trays to the floor, and the next thirty seconds passed in a blur. I automatically dropped into a shooting stance as Joey's gun came up, a current of air brushing my cheek as the bullet whizzed by my left ear. Squeezing off a round that caught Joey square in the chest, I dropped and rolled just in time to dodge Iceman's shot. I came up firing, nailing him in the shoulder, and he staggered, his weapon skittering out of his hand.

   You could've heard a pin drop in the silence that followed. Keeping my eyes and my gun trained on Iceman, I crossed the room and crouched down beside Joey, crumpled and motionless on the floor. My fingers searched unsuccessfully for a pulse. The old man's gun had done its job.

   I scooped the two guns off the floor, dropped them onto the table and wrapped them up in the cloth. Iceman remained frozen, bright red sparkling between his fingers where his hand clutched the wounded shoulder. I looked over at Theresa, still crouched behind the bar.

   "Theresa! Call an emergency operator. Get the police, an ambulance, and a coroner's wagon down here."

   She nodded and went for the phone, glancing uneasily at Iceman while she dialed. I could see she was shaken, but in control. With Iceman hurt and unarmed, I decided it was time to check on Starsky.

   It wasn't until I stepped into the office that it all hit me. How Joey's bullet could've buried itself in my skull instead of the wall. How a wild shot, from one of their guns or my own, could've taken the life of Sammy, Red, or the older couple. How it was over, really over, and Starsky was still breathing. Pale, weak, sick as I'd ever seen him, but breathing. If he could just hold out a little longer...

   I crouched down beside him. "It's all over, partner."

   The corners of his mouth turned up and when I began to stand, he motioned me closer. He mumbled something, but the words were so slurred I couldn't make them out.

   "What's that?"

   He sucked in a breath of air and tried again. "I'm hungry."

   Another wave of relief nearly knocked me over. I chuckled and patted his shoulder, blinking back the tears that blurred my vision. I knew he wouldn't be able to eat even if food was handed to him on a silver platter. But the fact that he could joke about it reassured me immensely.

   I walked out front to wait for back-up and the ambulance. Everyone remained in the exact same places--still terrified, I guess. They looked at me like I was a cross between John Wayne and Al Capone. I flashed a reassuring smile as I retrieved my jacket and fished my handcuffs out of the pocket.

   "Everything's under control now, folks. Just sit tight. We'll need to take statements from all of you."

   I pulled Iceman to his feet and cuffed him, not bothering to be gentle with his injured shoulder. He grunted as I snapped them into place, but kept his expression blank.

   "How's your partner?"

   I shoved him back down into the chair. "Not good." I tipped my head at Joey. "But he's in better shape than yours."

   I walked away, not wanting to hear anything else he might have to say. The faint wail of a siren sounded like music to my ears. Theresa came out of the kitchen, the old man and the football player in tow.

   "Help is on the way. Is there anything else you need me to do?"

   "I need to get back to my partner. Keep an eye on our friend"-- I hooked a thumb at Iceman--"and send the paramedics to the office when they get here."

   The linebacker folded his arms and glared at Iceman. "I'll watch him. It'll be my pleasure."

   I turned back toward the office, but stopped. "Theresa?"

   She raised her eyebrows and kind of snapped to attention, no doubt expecting another order.

   I smiled at her, and it struck me that it was the first time I'd done so since the whole mess had begun. "You did good."

   She blushed, sneaking a peek at her boyfriend before answering. "Thanks. You didn't do so bad yourself. I suppose I'll have to deliver on that promise I made." When I frowned, she just laughed. "Ask your partner."

   By the time I got back to Starsky, I guess the adrenaline rush from the good news had worn off. He'd started listing to the right, his eyes drooping shut, and the little bit of blue I could see looked bleary and glazed. I sat down beside him so he could lean against me.

   "Ambulance is on the way, Starsk."

   "Tired." His head sagged against my shoulder and his eyelids slipped all the way shut.

   I didn't like the effort it was taking him just to breathe, or the lethargic way he answered me. "I know you are, but you've got to stay with me. I need to you to hold out a little longer."

   He made a face, but cracked open one eye. "...bad guys?"

   I couldn't understand the first part of his question, but I got the gist of it. "Iceman took a slug to the shoulder. I've got him cuffed, and Theresa's friend is keeping an eye on him. Joey's dead."

   "Hazards...the job." Starsky shivered, and I tugged the coats up to his chin.

   The sirens were closer now. Moments later the hiss of rain and the rumble of passing cars got louder, telling me someone had opened the front door. I heard a confused jumble of voices barking orders followed by rapid footsteps. I carefully stood, keeping a steadying hand on my partner so he wouldn't fall over. Starsky didn't seem to notice.

   Two white-coated paramedics came through the doorway, their arms loaded with equipment. The first, a tall blonde who looked to be in her twenties, dropped down beside Starsky and began examining him. Her partner, an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and a nametag that read "Jack," took me by the arm and drew me aside.

   "Connie's going to get your friend's vital signs. Can you tell me what happened?"

   I watched the blonde take Starsky's pulse and blood pressure with gentle hands. "He was shot, twice. One grazed the side of his head and the other's still in his back."

   "How long ago?"

   I ran my hand through my hair and cupped the back of my neck, feeling completely disoriented. Had it really been less than an hour? It felt like a lifetime.

   "About an hour, I guess. I tried to keep pressure on it, but he's lost an awful lot of blood."

   Jack nodded and turned to Connie, but I stopped him with a hand on his arm.

   "At first he was in a lot of pain, but now..." I swallowed, my throat like sandpaper. "He can't seem to feel much of anything on his left side."

   Connie looked up at us, and I could see concern in her dark eyes. "He's in hypovolemic shock, Jack. BP's 80 over 50, pulse 130 and thready, respiration 35 and shallow."

   Jack frowned and moved to the other side of Starsky. Connie helped him shift my partner forward so they could look at the bullet wound in his back. They inspected my makeshift bandage, but didn't remove it. Starsky moaned a little at their poking and prodding, but he was too weak to really protest.

   After repositioning Starsky against the couch, Jack sat back on his heels and looked at Connie. "Bleeding seems to have slowed. I think we'd best leave those cloths in place or we risk starting it up again. Let's get him stable enough to transport as soon as possible. Start an IV of saline, wide open. I'll contact Memorial and let them know we're on our way."

   "Detective Hutchinson?"

   I reluctantly tore my eyes away from my partner to focus on the uniformed cop who stood uncertainly in the doorway to the office. Evidently the Academy was now recruiting from grade schools--the kid looked about twelve. "Yeah. Give me a minute."

   "We have your gunman in custody but..."

   "In a minute!" I didn't mean to bite his head off, but the look on Jack's face and the way he'd turned around while speaking into the phone had me on edge.

   Junior's eyes went wide and he backed out of the office like his ass was on fire. I closed my eyes, pressed thumb and fingers against the pounding at my temples, and took a long, slow breath. When I opened them, Jack was standing beside me with a tight smile on his face.

   "Connie's getting the gurney. We'll be taking your partner to Memorial Hospital; you can meet us there."

   "I want to know how he is. Straight."

   Jack chewed on his lower lip. "Straight? He's in shock. As you yourself said, he's lost a lot of blood waiting around for help."

   Did they give all medical personnel a class on how to talk without saying anything?

   "All right, he's in shock. But once you get some blood into him and they take out the bullet, he'll be all right, won't he?"

   Connie pushed a gurney through the door and positioned it near Starsky, looking at Jack expectantly. He held up a finger in response, then turned back to me.

   "Look, you wanted it straight, right? I don't like his current condition. His blood pressure is too low and his pulse is too high. That means serious trauma to the body, and it doesn't help that he's probably been shocky for the past hour without treatment. I'll feel a lot better when we get him to the ER."

   I opened my mouth to press for a more concrete answer, but he raised a hand to shush me. "That being said, he's young and strong, and obviously a helluva fighter. If I were a betting man, I'd put my money on him making a full recovery."

   "Jack."

   The urgency in Connie's voice reached us both. I stepped back and watched them bundle Starsky onto the gurney, while I clenched hands that wanted desperately to help. As they were buckling the restraining strap, Starsky's eyes fluttered and his fingers moved restlessly. Recalling the way that hand had latched onto me earlier, I knew what he was searching for. I sidestepped Jack and laid my hand gently on Starsky's head.

   "Easy, buddy. They're taking you to the hospital now. I'll be right behind you."

   He didn't bother opening his eyes--couldn't, maybe--but his mouth curved. "Jus' like always."

   I briefly tightened my fingers in the dark curls before stepping back. "Take good care of him." My voice came out rough and low.

   Jack gave me an encouraging smile. "See you at Memorial."

   I followed them as far as the front door, then watched through the window as they loaded the gurney into the ambulance. The activity around me was nothing more than an annoying buzz, eclipsed by flashing red lights blurred by a steady curtain of rain.

   "Detective?"

   Junior was back, looking like a rabbit about to become roadkill. For the first time, I noticed that a second set of paramedics were treating Iceman's shoulder, Theresa and the old man were answering questions for another cop--probably Junior's partner, and Sammy, Red, and the others were talking quietly and sipping drinks at the bar. Dan Rossi, the coroner, walked slowly around Joey's sprawled body, snapping pictures. Crisis over--calm, efficient police work was being done. It would all be routine, except...

   "Detective?"

   I shook myself out of whatever pit I'd fallen into and faced the kid. "Yeah."

   "Just a few questions, please?"

   I love being a cop. But sometimes I really, really hate my job. I sighed and rolled my shoulders in a useless attempt to ease the aching muscles.

   "Go ahead, but make it quick. I've got somewhere else I need to be."

PART FOUR