"Are you sure you want to do this?" Shawn asked, fishing around in the paper bag on his lap.

Lassiter glared at him for a moment, then turned his attention back to the road. "Yes. And I told you, no eating in here. This is a rental and it needs to stay in perfect condition."

"Now you sound like Gus when I eat powdered donuts in the Blueberry," Shawn groused, slouching back in the passenger seat. He did close the bag, however, seemingly taking the death threat in Lassiter's voice somewhat-seriously for once. "I still think you're making a mistake, Lassieface. Why take a vacation on your own anyway? It's absolutely no fun."

"It's much more enjoyable than having you tag along for the next week," the other man snapped.

The sign for an upcoming exit came into view, and Lassiter flicked on the turn signal. He pulled into the right lane and slowed to make the turn.

"Huh," Shawn said, looking out the window. "Welcome to Mayberry."

Lassiter just grunted. "They have a bus station. That's the only thing that really matters."

"Well, that and the fact that they have food," Shawn pointed. "Let's get lunch first."

"It's only 10:30 in the morning, Spencer."

"True. But that's close enough to 11:00, which is very close to 12:00," Shawn reasoned. "And it's never too early to eat."

Lassiter rolled his eyes. However, the fuel gauge was blinking near empty and he had to admit his own stomach was beginning to beg for nourishment - though he'd never actually admit that to Spencer. "Fine. I'll let you out and go fill up the truck."

"Great!" Shawn was already halfway out the door before Lassiter braked to a halt. "I'll order you something."

"No!" Lassiter cleared his throat. "I'll be by in a few minutes and take care of my own order." The last thing he needed was to let Spencer order his food. There was no telling what the man would order for him - or put in his order once it arrived for that matter.

"Okay, okay." Shawn slammed the door behind him and hurried off.

Lassiter pulled into the gas station beside the diner and switched off the ignition. As he was waiting on the gas tank to finish filling up, he glanced around, his training as a cop causing him to keep a careful eye on his surroundings. As he did so, a figure crossing the road caught his attention.

The man, who was of average height, appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties, was clad in baggy jeans and an old sweatshirt, and didn't appear to have shaved in at least several weeks; his dark beard matched his shaggy haircut. But it wasn't the man's unkempt appearance that drew the detective's attention. It was the suspicious bulge in the kangaroo pocket of the man's sweatshirt.

Lassiter's eyes narrowed as he watched the front door of the diner into which Spencer had disappeared not long before. It could be that the man had a concealed carry permit and just wanted a bite to eat, but something about him didn't sit right with Lassiter. His gut feeling was usually right in cases like this one, so Lassiter quickly shut off the pump, checked the clip of the revolver in his shoulder holster, and headed towards the diner the scraggly character had entered just a moment before.

WMWMWMWMWMWMWMW

The restaurant's interior was small but cheerily decorated. The black and white-tiled floor was shiny and clean, and the tables were all covered by bright red and white-checked cloths. Half a dozen patrons were seated at various tables around the room, while Shawn occupied one of the black stools at the counter. A middle-aged waitress was busily pouring coffee for the seated patrons and the young woman behind the counter was fiddling with the cash register.

As the door opened, Shawn turned to casually take in the newcomer, who had his hand in the pocket of his sweatshirt. The psychic's eyebrow rose slightly, but before he could say anything, the man pulled out a handgun and fired it in the air.

There were screams and a sudden scrambling as the patrons and both waitresses dove under various tables and the counter. Shawn, who had nowhere to duck out of the way, raised his hands as the man turned the gun towards him.

"What are you looking at?" the man snapped.

Before Shawn could respond, the bell to the door jangled and Lassiter rushed in with his own gun drawn. The gunman reacted quickly, yanking Shawn to his feet and ducking behind the psychic.

"One more step and he gets it!" The handgun was at Shawn's head, pressing into his temple.

"Whoa, hey!" Shawn exclaimed in surprise, grabbing at the arm that was around his throat, trying to clear a little space to allow himself to breathe.

Lassiter halted but kept his weapon pointed at the man. "Drop the gun!" he ordered.

"You drop yours!" the young man countered.

"All right; just calm down," Lassiter said, lowering his gun slightly while still keeping a firm grip on it. He glanced at the diner's frightened occupants huddled under the various tables. "Why don't we just let everyone else out and talk about this?"

The man chewed his bottom lip then shook his head. "No. No! I … I … I need leverage for when the cops get here."

"He is a detective," Shawn offered, having finally managed to catch his breath. "So technically the cops are already here."

Lassiter shot Shawn a dark look. "Holding hostages isn't going to do anything for you," he told the gunman. "It'll help your case a lot more if you let them go."

"You sure about that?" The man didn't look convinced.

"He's always sure," Shawn spoke up, nodding along with the detective then making a face when Lassiter glared at him again.

The man's brow furrowed. "You two have a problem I should know about?"

"No," Shawn and Lassiter replied at the same time.

"We don't," Lassiter clarified.

"It really depends on who you ask," Shawn told him. "My dad would say we do, but then he would say I have a problem with -"

"Spencer!"

"Well, I'm sorry, Lassieface, but you know my dad. He would totally agree with - What's your name?" he asked the gunman, shifting slightly to look over his shoulder. "Because I'm partial to Frank, but you know, you look like you could be a John as well."

"What?" The man shot Lassiter a confused look. "My name is Hector."

"Hector?" Shawn repeated. "Wow. I never would have taken you as a Hector. Maybe a -"

Hector tightened his grip around Shawn's neck. "Just shut up a second, would you?"

Just then, sirens reached the ears of those inside the diner. Shawn could feel Hector stiffen against him, and the man's grip on both Shawn and the gun tightened.

"Who called the cops?" he demanded, nearly shouting.

Shawn blinked. "Do you mind not yelling in my ear, dude? And do you really expect that no one would have called the police after hearing a gunshot from in here?" He felt Hector shift as the other man shrugged. "Exactly." Lassiter was glaring at him again, but Shawn ignored the detective and continued. "You do realize that you'll just be in more trouble if you keep this standoff going?"

"No one's going to listen to me otherwise!"

One of the customers under a table shifted, knocking against the furniture and causing the table to rock slightly. Hector jumped at the noise, spinning to aim his gun towards it, and Shawn grabbed at the man's arm as it again began constricting his airway.

Seeing his opening, Lassiter took it.

The echo of the gunshot and Hector's cry of pain reverberated off the walls as the man's gun dropped out of his hand. He loosed his grip on Shawn to grab at his wounded shoulder.

"Spencer, are you all right?" Lassiter demanded, striding over to kick the downed gunman's weapon to the side while keeping his own gun pointed at the man.

"My favorite shirt!"

"Well don't get yourself held hostage and you won't have to worry about that again," Lassiter snapped. "Besides, you've had that shirt for at least four years."

"Apple Jacks are a classic, Lassieface!" Shawn defended his clothing. "Aren't they?" he appealed to the frightened diners who were now getting to their feet.

A few gave him a confused look, but most just ignored him. A moment later, two uniformed officers ran through the door, guns drawn. The new arrivals looked between the man on the floor and Lassiter, attempting to gather what was going on.

"Drop the gun!" the first ordered, aiming his gun at Lassiter.

"I am Head Detective Carlton Lassiter with the Santa Barbara Police Department," Lassiter told them as he lowered his gun to his side.

"You have some identification?" the officer asked. "Slowly!" he added as Lassiter reached into his pocket.

"See?" Shawn said as the man studied Lassiter's credentials. "Now can we go? I really need to try and rinse out this shirt before it's completely lost."

"I think you're already past that point," Lassiter told him. "Besides, you're catching the next bus home, remember?"

"I remember that's what you told me I was doing," Shawn countered. "But I don't recall agreeing to it."

"Thank you, Detective," the officer interrupted. "We'll need to get statements from both of you."

"Of course," Lassiter replied.

"Does this mean I don't have to catch the bus home?" Shawn spoke up. "And can I get someone to wash out my shirt first?"