2010-05-14: Flashpoint



Guest Starring:


Date: May 14, 2010


"No, I want you to set a fire so goddamn big, the gods'll notice us again, that's what I'm sayin'. I want all of you boys to be able to look me straight in the eye one more time and say: ARE WE HAVING FUN OR WHAT?" — The Crow


A Warehouse

It's a sunny Friday mid-day in the Meat Packing District of New York City. Along the Hudson River it's particularly sunny pretty, even for an industrial warehouse area. The large grey warehouse doesn't look like much on the outside. In fact, it blends with every other warehouse in the district— grey, boxy, and cement like. In fact, there is nothing particularly unique about it save for the name, 'O'Toole's Hardware,' in red block lettering. But then they all have unique names.

This particular warehouse has seen a lot of activity today. Boats travel down the river, transporting various hardware. At least that's what the crates say across them— all with different labels. Some say things like 'monkey wrenches' others say things like 'hammers,' yet every crate is the exact same size.

The warehouse itself is located right along the river— easier for shipping, and at the corner of two semi-major roads. All-in-all it's a prime location for shipping, and tucked back enough behind other warehouses that not too many people see the comings and goings of the workers.

Whistling away, Aedan stands outside the warehouse, squinting up towards the sun. It's peaceful enough. The blue sky holds with it promise of a profitable day; if only every day could be that way. His grey beanie is snugged tightly around his head, even though it's a particularly sunny day and he's otherwise dressed in a white muscle shirt, faded blue jeans, and a pair of work gloves; he wouldn't leave his boys to do the hauling and moving alone. He leans against a stack of crates situated outside the house— there's five or so in a row right outside the door.

Two of his comrades stand on either side of the door. They seem innocent enough as each puffs on a cigarette. "Aed, another job done without any attention, eh?"

Aedan just smirks and shakes his head before turning on his heel to enter the warehouse and ensure its organization. "Ye should quit smokin'. One of these days it'll kill ye…" he quips before disappearing into the entrance way.

The door to the warehouse itself consists of four pieces. In essence it's a double door that opens downwards as well creating a large window in either side of the door. The builders had put it in as a kind of ventilation system so dust and the like wouldn't kill the air quality of the building.

Tommy, one of the fellows waiting outside, crosses his arms and peers at Joey with disgust. "You think they managed to get that other shrink?" Joey just shrugs; he's a man of few words.

It's not much of a quiet day anymore when a slew of three NYPD squad cars — along with a dark blue car — approach, leaving the more common thoroughfare for the street along the Hudson where they skid to a sudden and purposeful stop outside the warehouse.

They mean business. The barrage of cops that follow are equipped with a warrant and seem to be well-aware they're about to go tromping into a potential hot zone — they're all on guard and the few that aren't in uniform have bulletproof vests. A pair of officers immediately approach the men hanging around the door of the warehouse. "NYPD — stay where you are! We have a warrant to search this premises— "

One man maneuvers a large German Shepherd on a short leash out of the back of a squad car.

Shortly after rolling to a stop behind the others, stepping out of the dark car is a blonde-haired woman. Working jointly with the Narcotics Division and another of the NYPD's specialized unit for organized crime is Detective Maggie Powers. It's her business as much as anyone's, as she sees it: as the gang purportedly peddling these drugs are responsible for some homicides that fall under the precinct's scope. Someone above her must have agreed, because here she is, with zero question of her purpose today: a dark blue bulletproof vest stands out over a much more primary blue t-shirt. POLICE, it declares, in its unmistakable white lettering. For now, she's on watch, hand raised to block the sun as she looks to the activity at the warehouse across the glinting roof of her car.

"Fuuuuuuck," Tommy murmurs as he gets down behind some of the crates followed by Joey (the man of few— or no?— words). Without thinking about the consequences or orders, he opens fire. His semi automatic weapon is fired several times almost as warning shots— enough to get the attention of those inside. Perhaps the NYPD should've been even more prepared because in short order this pair is accompanied by two more lackeys, all with firearms of their own, and there's certainly more inside, and on the boat.

Joey then chooses to fire on the dog's handler— not the dog, never the dog, he has a sweet spot for animals. His gun makes that all too familiar, BANG, BANG.

Fortunately for Aedan, the warehouse has a back entrance underneath the building— certainly not something in the building specifications if the police bothered to look; an addition made by the building's previous owners, who also aren't above board. He comes up through a trap door at the back (much too difficult to load drugs into and transport things, but a good escape route nonetheless) before sauntering back onto the boat and dragging a tall hooded gentleman off, "C'mere doc! Ye 're gonna be more use than Aye thout."

Detective Powers is among those who ducked down behind their vehicle at the first sign of gunfire, but she's also among those who are the first to do something about it. Her service revolver is at the ready in seconds and, straight over the roof of the barricade that is her car, she fires a mid-range shot at the man, Tommy, as he fires at one of her colleagues. She immediately ducks back down and starts jogging, lowly, behind as much cover as she can get, along the row of vehicles.

Meanwhile, there is an instant array of shouts erupting from the police; warnings, orders, and in at least one instance, cursing, and in another, pain — the police dog's handler. Maggie was fast, but sadly not faster than a speeding bullet. He goes down against the door of a squad car and the well-trained beast he suddenly no longer handles barks ferociously — WOOF! — over and over again.

It's only a matter of seconds before the police presence has organized and gotten behind cover. For the first at the door, it's the opposite side of the crates from Joey and Tommy, where they'll return fire if they can; for the others, it's their vehicles. Everything is abuzz as more backup is called in.

Getting pushed and pulled along a path that he cannot see has proven…difficult, to say the least, for Dr. Fred Stone. "What do you want with me?" He asks in a calm voice. "I've tried to tell you all, you should just tell me! I'd be more than happy to help if you just give me a chance!" He pauses for an instant, for he has heard the gunfire and the barking dog. "Who're you fighting?" It's a simple question, but he wants to know. He's gathering already that they may want him to be in the fire fight on their side. Maybe. "Well, looks like my work here is about to begin, isn't it? Let's get this party started!"

Tommy actually cheers as the cop goes down. He got one! But he too, falls forward— a bullet into his own shoulder. He groans as he collapses to the ground, groping at his wound in surmounting pain.

This pisses Joey off who sends several shots towards Maggie. His eyes narrow before he gets down behind the crate again, knowing full well it's unlikely his buddy and partner-in-crime will make it out of this.

Another one of the men, Reggie, peeks through the door of the warehouse— through the window like frame before opening fire on another one of the cop cars— he aims at another one of Maggie's cohorts while his comrade, Gertie levels her gun at the cops.

Meanwhile Fred is shoved into the 'back door' and guided up into the warehouse. "Ye gist git to sit there and look pretty, doc," Aedan winks— not that Fred can see. While some Irishmen may be ducking their way out of the warehouse, Aedan isn't like his comrades, he intends to get as many of them out without arrest as possible. "They gist be police, Doc. 'N 'm bettin' a 'ostage 'r two will be 'f some value 't 'em."

He pushes Fred forward to the open-windowed-doors as he pulls the hood off Fred's head and holds his own semi-automatic weapon to the doctor's head. "Aye've a 'ostage!" Maybe this tactic will work. "'N 'there's m'ore where 'e came from." Begging the question: where did Fred come from?

The shot from Tommy hits Maggie's car — close, but no cigar. The officers behind the crates exchange gunfire with the Irish gangsters and so do those out by the vehicles, but only when they're fired on first. The shout of hostage! from inside the building has a new buzz of updates being radioed. One of the more superior officers, a tall middle-aged cop, shouts, "Show us your hostages!" If it's a legit threat, they might need SWAT up in here.

A ready grip on her weapon with both hands, Maggie casts sharp glances over her shoulder to check on the warehouse's the gunmen over and between vehicles as she swiftly but cautiously skirts her way toward the end of the line, behind her comrades. Hard-set determination has taken over the detective's features; most of the officers are coordinating as a team, but she's more or less independent—

— Until she comes upon the officer who had been the driver of the car carrying the dog and his cop. It's the first in the row, the closest to the warehouse door. He's trying to inch around the car to get to his fallen comrade — if he's not dead he needs immediate help since he's not moving — until Maggie grabs his shoulder and pulls him back. "I'll cover you," she commands calmly and rises up with her elbows upon the trunk of the police car to fire at the gangsters. Meanwhile, with the detective's (hopeful) protection, the officer crawls around to grab for the dog handler.

Fred doesn't make a move with the gun pointed at his head. He's a smart cookie for a reason and he's not about to be turned back into cookie dough. "Look," he murmurs, "I'm cool…I'm down with playing the hostage here. Honestly. But I suggest you gimme a gun if they start to come closer. I'm not saying give me a gun now. 'Cause…well, let's face it, you're not stupid. You're not gonna give me a gun if you think I'm going to use it on you or any of your guys. And I don't blame you for not trusting me. You kidnapped me." He pauses for a moment. "But…I will help you if you want me to, and if you give me a gun. Just a handgun sorta thing. Something I can hide in my jacket or something."

Out of nowhere the situation escalates. "SHUT UP!" Who he's telling to shut up is unclear, but it's evident that Aedan is losing his patience at the situation as he presses the gun firmer to Fred's skull— the cool metal pressing hard into the shrink's skin. Aedan's jaw tightens as does his grip on Fred's arm.

Several more of his goons continue to fire at the police until they're barked at to cease. "We 'ave plenty m'ore where this one came from— " the rest of whom are of no actual value to the boss. Aedan won't hurt Fred, not actually; Roberto would have his head for that, especially when he's requested this particular gentleman for his own ends. Or to make the other therapists talk. His face is likely recognizable to the cops based on the sketch they made of him weeks before following the shooting in Battery Park, Aedan is certainly a person of interest.

On the other side of the building several of Aedan's men are trying to save as much product as possible, but most of it ends up in the Hudson River rather than the boat, crates labelled 'Monkey Wrenches' float at the top of the water. But then, do monkey wrenches float?

Maggie ceases fire herself and ducks down by the rear tire of the car as the officer pulls the fallen cop out of the line of fire. The police dog follows. The guy who was shot (probably not the only one, but the worst) doesn't look good; he was hit somewhere outside of the protection of his body armor. He bleeds from his collar over his uniform.

Tightening her jaw as she frowns, Maggie gives the more living cop a squeeze on his shoulder while he checks the other man's vitals. It's a cue before— "I'm checking around back." And she's off.

Breaking into a fast run, Maggie cuts across the open space, taking a risk now that the gunshots have — for the time being — stopped. She stops hard at the edge of the warehouse with her back to a stack of crates, weapon at the ready, checking to see if there are any eyes on her before she attempts to skirt along the concrete outer wall to the back. It is, more than anything, recon — to have something productive to tell backup when they get here.

But you know, she could sure use a partner right about now…

Fred takes a deep breath in as the gun is pressed much more hard against his head. "Look…maybe let me talk to them…show them I'm alright. They'll want to know." He says softly. "You already know that I'm on your side here. That I want to help you. Just…listen to what I have to say. That's all I ask. I don't want you or any of your men to get hurt…or more hurt. Please…"

And a partner Maggie has, even if she doesn't want him. "So… what's the plan?" Sam asks with a smug half-smile as he cases the back, after Maggie, gun in hand. He's been in worse scrapes before.

There are a number of thugs back here too who immediately open fire. Sam ducks behind a large orange dumpster and peeks around it, aiming to fire back at the thugs, but they're hiding behind a stack of crates. So his shots come out pretty much empty.

Meanwhile another one of Aedan's hired guns steps to the door with another hostage. This one looks significantly more freaked than Fred. In fact, the blonde woman emits a very loud shriek. This satisfies Aedan and he grins broadly with a couple of large dimples appearing on his face. "Back off or the blonde gits it!" Interesting that he's not going to kill his first exposed hostage first, but then maybe he didn't think this through earlier?

Aedan furrows his eyebrows at Fred, "Talk. The gun stays to your head. But. TALK."

As soon as she hears someone coming up behind her, Maggie swings around, aiming her gun at the source of the noise. "Sam?!" It comes out as a hiss of surprise, but it should come as no surprise that Maggie sounds especially unwelcoming of this partner. She doesn't even have time to react more than that before she ducks down for cover next to the orange dumpster under fire from the thugs, finding herself nestled between the building and her fellow detective — and former fiance. "I was going to get a look out back — see what they're doing with their shipment." But for now her plan is simple: "Stay down!"

Clearing his throat, Fred calls out to the police, "I'm alright! So…so is the other hostage in here with me! They haven't treated us badly! We're all in good health. Please stop shooting them! I don't know how much longer we'll be alright. Just…please…let them do what they want, and they won't hurt us! They've promised us that they won't hurt us! They just…I don't know what they want! But please…don't provoke them. Please."

Sam doesn't take orders well. And he's wearing a vest. Fluidly, he peers around the dumpster and fires a few shots, mostly to allay any of the assailants' bullets. Shots are fired in return to which he curses under his breath and ducks behind the garbage bin again. "Necessary force," he murmurs before peeking around the corner again. It's three on two. Three perps, two cops. "There's three of them as near as I can tell— " he's interrupted again by the sound of gunfire and then a pause as one of the assailants reloads— the others covering.

At the front of the building Aedan grins sadistically. "S'right. We won't 'urt 'em. We git out, nobody gits hurt." Seriously. ALL of them getting out? Unlikely…

Maggie, maneuvering into a crouch beside Sam, gun at the ready, angled toward the pavement, turns her head toward the shouting inside the warehouse. It's a little muffled from here, a little distant, but she hears the voice of the hostage. "Backup will be here soon!" she insists and tries to get a glimpse around the corner, at the crates, but has considerable trouble getting a good look without A) sticking her neck out over the dumpster, or B) having to climb over Sam. Option A is more probable but she stays where she is.

At the front of the warehouse, the tall officer who has taken charge holds his hands up, but it's not quite a surrender — he's still armed. It's a standstill until backup arrives. At least, a standstill is what they hope for; that way, they can stall.

Fred looks at Aedan. "They've heard me. But…they're gonna bring in backup, most likely. Is there another way for us to get out? A back door? A secret passageway? Some way for us to get out where they won't detect us at all?" He asks slowly, keeping his eyes forward, gazing outside to watch the reactions of the officers.

"We can— " he Irishman begins, but is very quickly interrupted. Seconds after the standstill a very loud— streak of colour blurs through the sky and then Aedan is gone, even from holding Fred.


Moments later the same weird streak of colour flies through the air and Fred is gone in a single flash. Ironically, the gang members seem as confused by this as the police likely are. Where did they go? Assuming something bad has happened to Aedan and his hostage, Aedan's lackey yells at the cops, "BRING 'IM BACK OR THE GIRL GITS IT!"

Sam hisses back, "We just need to hold our position." The agreement is there as he clings tighter to the dumpster and attempting to peek around it.

A bunch of the gang members are still shuttling the crates through the next to impossible back entrance— onto the boat as quickly as possible (and losing another crate or two on the way). Yet a particular gang member feels brave and darts towards the cops, firing as he moves. A second one darts off down the road, a crate in his arms, chances are he won't get anywhere fast.

The disappearing act out front is missed by the likes of Maggie, but she can hear the aftermath, and she can't help but shoot a concerned look the way she came. It's short-lived, interrupted by her own attention to what else is going on around her — namely, the gang members who suddenly take action. The shots fired at her and Sam, sounding a lot more close than they were, have her springing powerfully to her feet — but still keeping low in her corner — as she prepares to return fire, knowing Sam will probably be thinking the same thing.

Straddled somewhere between boat and land, Roscoe's been overseeing the movement of the product with a dedication mostly unhindered by whatever shit is going on up front. But a timer's been set on his flashy silver watch, and as he twists his wrist to glance at it, the counter's reached as far as he's willing to take.

"Alright!" He commands, hopping to the steady side and snatching up the collar of the first Irishman moving past, "Get yer ass onboard and get this shit outta here." To the sound of cut-off protests, he tugs out a handgun from where it hides behind him and under his jacket; the hammer cocking makes most of them pay attention. The roar of, "Leave the rest and move!" demands instant obedience. Anyone with any doubts has only to watch him level the weapon slowly and confidently to the side— he fires unhesitatingly on the man turned thief.

Lifting his hands behind him to replace the firearm — despite the now loud firing from nearby — he plants a foot on the edge of the boat to see it off. If they don't all fit then they can run.

Man-turned-thief takes a bullet to his shoulder, and stumbles to the ground not far from where the detectives lurk. "Shit— " Sam mutters as he peeks around the corner to see the body and the boat. And… Roscoe. Sam peeks back around the corner and blinks a few times. "The shooter is down," he says quickly as he pushes Maggie to the other side of the garbage. "Stay on that side— OR… maybe go back to the cars and get more backup— "

In short order SWAT will get here and then the gang members will be long gone.

In the meantime men are trying to hop onboard the boat— as many as will fit, save for the two out front who are in a standoff with police.

"I SWEAR IF YOU DON'T RETURN AEDAN I WILL SHOOT HER!!" In fact, for good measure and dramatic effect he does. A gun fires and the blonde screams in pain as she struggles to double over with it against the hold of the thug.

"G— Sam!" Maggie is shoved into back into the dumpster with a harmless but nevertheless rude clang and thump. After shooting Sam a quick, unimpressed glance, the detective regains her balance and, once again keeping low in order to use the trash bin for cover even as she gets further away from it, she jogs along the side of the warehouse, hurried by the recent memory of a woman's scream. Her boots come to a halt at the corner while she checks out the situation at the front; then she's running back to the nearest car and coming to a halt as she skids into a crouch back at that rear tire.

The cops aren't letting the shooting of the female hostage lightly. Everyone has inched a little closer. "Put her down slowly and drop your weapons!" The foremost Narcotics officer is yelling.

Maggie doesn't stay put for long. Assessing the situation, she makes her way behind the cover of the squad cars to reach the shouting officer. There, she stands tall next to him and faces the remaining three gangsters. "You're outnumbered!" she shouts, her hands raised, one still holding her revolver, but canted to one side, to the sky, not at anyone (unless they can fly). "Your boss left you." She can assume that much. "No one else has to get hurt."

Sirens screech into being and the rumble of a fleet of vehicles can be heard approaching the corner.

The boat's been given about as much time as it's going to get. Anyone not on is abandoned as it revs to life and angles away, some pre-planned escape route. Left to shore, Roscoe works quickly. Hefting up one of the left-over crates, he ducks into the back of the warehouse, fishing into his pockets and once onto a shelf that he passes by before he's up front, spotting the gangmembers trapped between hostages and an array of cops — soon to be more. Assessing where he can stand without being seen by those in the stand-off, he sets the crate down and wedges between two spots a cheap foil-wrapped ping-pong ball.

"Shove the baggage outta here, you coward, and scram." It's all the warning the hostage-holder's going to get as Roscoe bends to hover a lighter under the bottom of the ping-pong ball. At first there's nothing… then a tiny wisp — a hint — of smoke.

The instant Roscoe spots it, he gives the crate-ball combo a swift kick to the outside of the warehouse doorway. The thick resulting cloud threatens to envelop anyone who doesn't immediately get away from it. Under cover of which, Roscoe adds a parting touch: he flicks a match into the crate. Of highly flammable drugs.

Maintaining his position, Sam watches Maggie exit. Just as well. He can't have her seeing things she ought not know about. He does, however back up as the crate— and subsequently the building goes up in flames. He takes several slow steps backwards before darting to the front to check on the situation there.

Within instants, the building is being lit. The git holding the girl hasn't let go, but once again there's a streak of colour and she's gone. Vanished. Out of thin air. Leaving the remaining thugs trapped with no leverage, no exit, and a number of cops to either shoot or arrest them.

Two out of three drop their weapons. The third, silent Joey, clings to his and once again opens fire on the police officers. It seems both him and Tommy are going to be gunned down today.

Maggie's sharp watch of the gangsters has her brows coming together darkly for another reason: the cloud of smoke from inside wafting dangerously every which way. And where there's smoke… "Get back!" she shouts as the building is already going up in flames. There's no telling if something in there, obviously flammable, might cause it to explode outward at any time. Her yell of warning happens to be dual purpose as gunfire erupts from the heretofore silent gangster over there.

Before she can fully take her own advice, the detective is hit midway through whirling back to dive for cover.

With a shout and grunt of surprise and pain, Maggie is nose to the pavement. She lies for a few moments, probably not long enough. The wind is knocked out of her — she's down, but not for the count. One palm presses into the pavement, the other over her bulletproof vest near right shoulder. She pushes just enough to get on her hands and knees and crawl behind the cover of a police car, looking around the back bumper at the burning warehouse.

The cavalry takes this time to arrive: a swarm of cruisers and a big, boxy SWAT van, and ambulance. And now they need a firetruck.

Ducks seem in a row, with cops about to settle in on the thugs with the law in front and a blazing fire to their backs as all the drugs that couldn't be salvaged goes up in a fast-burning haze. There's briefly only activity in the front where gunfire picks up despite the other kind going on but then — in the midst of sirens, more sirens, and shouting policemen — a masked sound of glass shattering as a form barrels from one of the multi-paned boarded windows near the back and side of the building. Fire blooms right behind.

Hitting the ground in a roll, Roscoe takes to his feet and his first full breath since the toxic smoke started inside. Pushing off from the concrete with one hand, the other hesitates just so to press against a spot below his ribs before single-mindedness takes over for the full-out sprint down a side alley almost too narrow to even be considered that.

And sure enough the building explodes in a vast array of colours and fire. Those fortunate (or smart) enough to duck behind something are relatively safe from the debris that flies everywhere, effectively imploding on the remaining gang members— so much for having people to question or arrest.

The paramedics can't get close to the thugs-turned-victims now as they're consumed by the fire that first needs to be taken under control.

The sound of sirens echo down the street, signalling that a truck is on its way, but by the time it gets here it may be too late for the thugs.

The fire has essentially eaten the evidence and now the last of the witnesses.

So much for no one else getting hurt! The side of the building, bursting, as it is, with flames and shattering glass, happens to be where Maggie — from the ground, behind a car — is focusing. Everyone at the warehouse didn't go up in flames, because that is a figure making their escape down that narrow crevice of an alley. It's probable that no one else even saw it— a fact she immediately recognizes. Just as immediately, she does something about it.

Swiping her gun from the pavement from when she hit the ground and doing a quick check on the safety — off — Maggie shoves her probably bruised self all the way up and takes off again, this time in a more powerful, long-strided run, weaving between the mass amount of police vehicles for the alley in pursuit of the figure.

So much for no one else getting hurt! The side of the building, bursting, as it is, with flames and shattering glass, happens to be where Maggie — from the ground, behind a car — is focusing. Everyone at the warehouse didn't go up in flames, because that is a figure making their escape down that narrow crevice of an alley. It's probable that no one else even saw it— a fact she immediately recognizes. Just as immediately, she does something about it.

Swiping her gun from the pavement from when she hit the ground and doing a quick check on the safety — off — Maggie shoves her probably bruised self all the way up and takes off again, this time in a more powerful, long-strided run, weaving between the mass amount of police vehicles for the alley in pursuit of the figure.

Thump, thump, thum—th-thump. The rhythmic beat of footsteps is loud against the pavement, off the skinny walls, and though he doesn't look back, it's fair to say that Roscoe becomes acutely aware of his pursuer. A few turn-offs might have distracted other suspects, but this one turns sharp corners here and there as though he's got the city memorized.

Memorized until— a dead-end. Or is it? There's not even a single hitch in the running pace to suggest that Roscoe is concerned that he's running straight towards a pile of junk and a fence. In fact, he begins to pick up speed.

Maggie is in hot pursuit of Roscoe, and Sam is in hot pursuit of Maggie. "POWERS!" He calls after her before he begins to take off in a run of his own sprinting as fast as he can, thankful that he does this every morning before work. He's a bit of distance behind Maggie, trying to catch up to her. "POWERS!!" he calls again as he bolts. "Shit," he whispers to himself.

Maggie doesn't seem to notice that there's anything familiar about the man up ahead as she pursues him with a fast and dogged run; too much adrenaline, too many sharp corners. Then again, if she did, it wouldn't stop her. What is familiar is the voice shouting behind her, but Sam's urgency is put on the backburner while her own urgency is running front and center. Looking back to see what the problem is risks slowing her down from catching this problem. And if she can just clear some more distance, it looks like she's about to get the suspect cornered. Too out of breath to issue a shouted order to stop just yet, she raises her gun mid-stride, prepared.

Maggie shouldn't count her Roscoe until she's got him in handcuffs. A long forward stretch gets him the first step onto one of the crooked alley trash-cans. The second is up to a level of boxes even as the trash-can wavers and is kicked away by the move. Then a hand reaches to the top of the fence, gloves against cold metal, and he tucks his legs up and to the side for a vault across.

There's a second of open air. Then he hits the other side with a stutter in his stride but otherwise an unhindered continuance of his escape that, abruptly, takes a direction Maggie can no longer see from hers. Rolling to a noisy stop, the trash-can has one reveal of its own to make; in the sideways leap over the fence, something cylindrical and orange has escaped — presumably from Roscoe's pocket as he twisted.

"POWERS! DON'T SHOOT!!!" Sam barks as he speeds up, trying to catch his partner, his own adrenaline pulling him through as he closes the distance between them. He's going to pay for this chase later, and he knows it, but losing his asset AND letting Maggie shoot her partner would be two very very bad ideas.

Maggie all but trips over the trash can and crashes into the fence in her momentum. With the easiest route over the fence kicked back, she's well aware that she'd probably lose him by the time she managed to throw herself onto the other side — a fact which causes her to release one hand from her gun and slam it onto the fence's metal criss-crosses. Only then does she turn, stern-faced, to see what Sam's problem is. "I wasn't going to," she informs him truthfully, her voice breathy from running (and being shot). Quizzical, she adds: "You're the one who shoots first and asks questions later."

She looks over her shoulder before reluctantly holstering her gun at her hip. The orange cylinder that fell was flagged in Maggie's mind; she crouches to swoop it from the pavement now, though she's looking at Sam instead of the left-behind object. As she stands up straight, she nods her head back, chin up at him, a reserved form of concern in her gaze. "Are you okay?" There was the whole exploding building and he was over there…

When Maggie stops, Sam stops and begins gasping for breath before groping for his chest and crumpling to the ground. That could've been really bad. He almost looks relieved as he bends down to the ground, doubling over to catch his breath. "I'm good," he sputters breathily with an almost smug smile. He'd been behind one of the cars when the building went up in flames. "Whew… that sucker could run, eh?" His lips quirk into a toothy smile. "Whoo," he breathes again, still breathing heavily to catch his breath.

"Yeah, I'm good… I… just… need to breathe…" He grins at Maggie again, likely the first time he's actually genuinely smiled at her; ironic considering a suspect got away, countless others have died a hostage was shot, and both hostages have vanished. "How bout you? You okay, Powers?"

"Getting out of shape, Wright?" Maggie's smile is less genuine, but stops just short of being wry. She pauses on a ragged breath to let all of her running around catch up to her a moment, slowing down her breathing and easing away from the fence. "I got shot — but my vest took it. So… yeah — I'm fine…" she answers. The little orange cylinder in Maggie's hand rattles with pills falling over one another behind plastic. It's a bottle of prescription — she turns it over to read the label — pain meds for one Carl Saquine. "I'd be better if I'd caught up with this guy, why did you want me to stop?"

"Didn't think it wise you take him yourself is all. He jumped out of a window— not everyone uses thought when they act, this guy probably one of them." Fortunately for Sam he can think on his feet. "Just wanted to catch up and not let you take him on your own. That's all." He swallows. "We should get back to the warehouse. There'll be a lot of clean up and paperwork to be done." He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his eyes. He motions for Maggie to follow him back towards the warehouse.

Maggie glances at Sam sidelong somewhat sharply, unsure whether or not she should thank him; in the end, she stops just short of saying anything at all and picks up the cue to follow him, striding back through that narrow maze to the warehouse where the flashing lights and burning fire are waiting.

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