"No sympathy for the devil; keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride...and if it occasionally gets a little heavier than what you had in mind, well...maybe chalk it off to forced conscious expansion: Tune in, freak out, get beaten." - Hunter S. Thompson

Sirens. Sirens begin as a soft whine and steadily grow into a chorus of noise, joined together with a cello's baritone strings leaching out from speakers somewhere in the background. To Danny Reagan, the approaching sirens are the sound of reassurance. Of safety. Help. The kind he usually rejects and shakes off like a bad date.

His adrenaline is waning.

Danny feels it seep out of him and the sluggish, lethargic cadence of reality rushes in, extinguishing the body's natural response to stressors, and drowning his senses until they feel muddled and dense. Warm, sticky wetness makes its way over his skull and cheekbone toward the skin between his nose and his mouth. He wants to swipe at the copper smell—blood—but that would require movement. His pulse throbs loudly in his ears, momentarily drowning out any and all sound of his surroundings and a heady rush assails him until all he can register is the thick fog of white noise. He can't even form a coherent thought; just props himself up onto his elbows and lays for a silent moment, taking one cautious breath after another.

It's like being underwater, kicking and thrashing his way to the surface but being dragged down further and further, until all he can hear is the thundering of his own heartbeat. Pain bolts out to his left side, its intensity stealing what little breath he has in his lungs, and he crumples, ignoring the cold shock of the cement floor of the basement.

Finally—after what seems an eternity—the rioting nerves and the wooziness lifts enough for Danny to come back to full awareness. He is finally alert enough to put together the scenario, but his body feels like a giant bag of bruised potatoes. It stings and burns in ceaseless waves.

Stifled shrieks pierce through his skull—female, hysterical sobbing, not the archetypal melodramatic fits he's seen on the many domestic calls when he was a patrol officer, but the genuine kind with true terror behind it.

Ashley.

She is still in the little closet sized room, muzzled, shackled and bloody, shivering in her thin nightgown. Danny swings his dizzy gaze around, can't entirely be sure where Wilder has crept off to, if he remains in the basement ready for round two with whatever hand tool he has accessible, or if he has evaded capture yet again.

Danny pushes himself past the pounding head and bones grinding in his ribcage and up onto his hands and knees and begins to crawl—at least what he assumes is a crawl is probably more likely a pathetic commando style shimmy over the ground—toward the girl who is nearly in full-blown hyperventilation mode.

"It's okay," he murmurs, unsure if she can hear his whisper thin voice. The sirens are deafening now, and despite his location Danny hears a multitude of brakes screech and suddenly the wailing stops and doors open and slam shut. Crappy insulation job.

Danny closes his eyes in profound relief, allows his forehead to drift to his hands, and he realizes that it would feel pretty damn good to lie there on the ground and drift off into oblivion. His entire body hurts so much and sleep pulls at him. It should alarm him, but he is so tired…he is familiar enough with head injuries to know he probably should try to stay awake, hell, the city pays a ridiculous amount of money to train their sworn officers in first aid and the basics of medical intervention since they are often the first people to rush into an emergency than anyone else.

Danny. Danny, wake up.

He isn't sure if he is dreaming, or if the jostling of his shoulder is real. Fingers press into his neck and pause for a moment. He can hear police-issued boots thud next to his ear, bodies hover, movement. Crackling of radios, muddled voices of dispatchers. He hears his name filter through, but he can't be sure if he is the topic of conversation or if the voices are talking about the other handful of Reagans in the criminal justice field. Dad? Erin? Jamie?

He tries to turn over. Blood has dribbled into his nostril, clogging one side and making it difficult to breathe. It's hard enough already, his ribs burn with every inhalation. He should wake up, will his eyelids to move, but he really wants to stay asleep. Hands grab, press into his temples, something stiff and plastic snakes around his neck.

Danny.

His limbs flail and then are pinned down. He tries to tell them to let go. Tries to push the bodies away.

Danny, it's okay.

He hears a low moan. It sounds grumbling and whiny. It takes a moment for him to comprehend that this is his voice.

He feels a firm knuckle push into his chest—sternum rub—and he gasps, eyes shoot open. Ribs. The bones grind together and he grimaces to the faces surrounding him, the only one he recognizes is Baez. Her dark eyes are wide with worry. EMT insignias grace the black uniforms above him next to his partner.

"Stop," he mutters. "Ashley…"

Maria nods, understanding. "She's just fine, Danny. On her way to the hospital."

"Detective Reagan," one of the medics says, authority in his voice. "Do you remember what happened?"

A penlight is shone into his eyes, momentarily blinding him. He swats it away but the action ends up more like a half-hearted nudge. "Wilder…"

"Units are searching for him right now," Baez responds, eyes rolling in mild exasperation. "They just alerted the cavalry; K9, tactical, ESU, you name it."

The medic persists. "Detective? Can you tell me anything about the attack?"

"Attack," Danny whispers, hand moving toward his aching skull. It's pushed down. "Wilder. He hit me with a hammer. Cheap shot."

"Where? In the head?" the concern in the medic's voice amps up with this news.

"Yeah."

"Anything else?"

"My ribs and arm with a wrench." The traumatized tissues of his face are ballooning rapidly, and one of his eyes is closed slightly. He peers around the swelling and latches onto the fuzzy image of his partner. She squeezes his shoulder gently just as the team lifts him up and sets him onto a gurney.

"I'll be right behind the ambulance. And I'll call Linda for you, okay Danny?"

He would nod but it's impossible with this thing around his neck. "And Dad…"

"Of course."