"Carter! I need you here…now!"

Fusco adjusts his stance again as he straight arms his hold on the Glock. His elbow keeps trying to sag, his bad knee starting to quiver from being locked too long in one position...and his mind a proverbial hamster on a wheel, racing in circles in an attempt to formulate an option that won't result in bodies on the ground.

"Fusco…? What's the problem?" Carter's concern bleeds over the phone, overriding the background babble of the busy precinct.

"Well, our mutual friend is about to assassinate someone! Commit out and out murder right in front of me. And I don't want to risk my ass trying to make an arrest. He's not listening to me so you need to come out here and put a lid on him!"

"Where are you?"

"East 27th , next to 145. There's a parking ramp. Leads down and to the back. But watch your step…I don't know exactly what happened, but the Professor's iceman…? Looks like he's about boil over!"

"I'm on my way!"

He drops the phone into his pocket and sighs his relief that he can again use both hands on the pistol. Damn gun is heavy when you don't teacup it...

But that's the least of his problems right now. The big one, all six feet and over, is standing not more than a couple of yards away with a strangle hold on a twenty-something year old hood rat. Not only is he exerting increasing pressure on that scrawny neck, but with the other hand he's massaging his victim's temple with a Walther, and all the while whispering into the kid's ear.

Fusco can't hear what's being said, but whatever it is, the young scumbag is blanching and starting to shake…presumably in fear. And oh yeah, does he know how that feels! He's been on the receiving end of that soft murmur in the past, that lethal whisper in the ear calmly explaining how cooperation is not a choice but a mandate.

"No, Lionel. He's in the trunk." Fusco can still smell the marsh air in the memory that evokes.

He tries once more, forcing his voice into a calm he's far from feeling. "Hey, Kemo Sabe. You don't want to do this. Let's just take it down a notch and you can tell me what that low-life did to set you off…"

Reese looks at him. Which is a positive thing, right? Since Mr. Happy has completely ignored his presence up to now. But the ice in that blue stare can freeze the balls off a brass monkey.

He needs a different approach.

"Hey! You want I should call Finch? Maybe he can, I donno…help?"
Intervene, talk you down, keep you from blowing the head off that kid, and then maybe me…

This time he gets a reaction, though not the one he'd hoped for. Reese lowers his gun, but tightens his hold on the dirty neck in his grasp, to the point the younger male is now starting to kick violently, breath coming in wheezing gasps. The ex-op, towering over the kid and outweighing his catch by close to a hundred pounds, has no trouble holding onto the wiggling refuse of humanity. It's rather like watching a world class fisherman handling a mullet. With the same disdain.

"None of your business, Fusco. Whatever I do to him, he's got it coming."

The words are softly spoken, an ironclad vow with each syllable dripping menace. What the h-e-double hockey sticks happened? Did the scrawny bastard attack Wonder Boy? Bad choice, but one that would probably only have gotten the kid thrashed. This situation seems beyond that…

"Look, I can't just walk outta here. You know that. Aren't you the one that keeps reminding me to "serve and protect"? Ya know…'be a cop'…?"

The street rat, apparently growing a pair during this exchange and probably thinking the chubby cop will snatch him away from the jaws of this wolf, takes advantage of his captor's distraction. He increases his wiggles and succeeds in slipping his greasy head out of the loosened clasp.

But it doesn't get him far as the ex-agent calmly and without seeming to expend any effort, grabs the kid by his filthy hair and effectively holds him at arm's length. The young thug erupts in an explosion of expletives, wind milling his arms and kicking, trying to dislodge the taller man's grip.

What a potty mouth! Some of those four letters strung together even Fusco hasn't heard. He turns his attention from Reese to the scrap of howling fury tightly secured once again in a choke hold.

"You kiss your girl with that mouth?" he asks the young thug. "You mooks need to learn to express yourselves better." He's rewarded with a wad of spittle projected in his direction but fortunately the kid is too far away to make contact. The punk does however get justifiably penalized with a tightening of an already unyielding grasp, as he gasps and claws at his captors arm.

Fusco snorts at the sight. What a mope! He'd like to just walk away. Not like the world would miss this screaming piece of garbage…and this scrap is one from the bottom of the heap.

But if there's one thing he's learned in all his years as a cop, it's this: life is a series of decisions , each attached to a consequence. And psychobabble aside, there are no right choices, only those that you're willing to live with…or change.

And he doesn't want to live with the consequences of letting someone assassinate another human right in front of him! Not anymore. When all is said and done, he took an oath. He's still a member of the NYPD…

He keeps his weapon trained on Reese. Doesn't really know why, because it's obvious the gesture is being totally disregarded by the taller man, but it's rather like muscle memory - a cop reflex. He wishes now that he'd just ignored the sight of his nemesis strong arming the smaller male and pulling him into that underground garage entrance. Could have just concluded the two had a meeting, or business, or maybe …something more personal.

But no, his curiosity got the better of him and he'd followed the two males into the murky shade, coming up on the pair just in time to hear the former agent attempt to extract the name of the thug's associates under the threat of a painful death. It was obvious the younger man was more bravado than brave, frightened enough for two, and practically ready to vomit up his fear.

Fusco doubts accomplices even exist, because if they did, this low-life would have given up his felon-in-arms in a heartbeat! In the kid's place he knew he probably would have…Mr. Deadly can be awesomely scary when he puts on that killer face. Like now.

"Leave, Fusco. You don't want to be involved in this."

The words are calmly spoken but the sharp-knifed lethality in the ex-ops voice and eyes is very clear; if he stays it's going to come down to this: he'll have to shoot Reese, or he watches the ex-op commit cold blooded murder...an assassination, just like he told Carter.

And should he allow the latter to occur, then he has two more choices: he tries to arrest Reese and gets his butt kicked from here into next week, or walks away and…becomes the person he is trying hard not to be anymore. There's no win-win in any of this.

"Fusco…!"

Thank God! There's Carter! He doesn't take his eyes off his target, not so much afraid of getting jumped but more concerned about the helpless human dangling in Wonder Boys grip. But the ex-op seems to know exactly how much pressure it takes to keep the kid truly uncomfortable, but alive. Probably has a CIA degree in that kind of action. Top of his class.

Fusco senses rather than sees his partner come up behind him. Reese is still staring at him, not having moved an inch during the entire exchange, but must have let up on the kid's windpipe given that the idiot seems to be breathing easier.

"Put your weapon away, Fusco" Carter says calmly, swiftly assessing the situation. "It's not doing any good anyway."

"Yeah, well. Couldn't just let him snuff the kid, now could I?" the portly cop retorts, holstering the Glock while pretending not to see the quick up and down of his nemesis' eyebrow. No doubt Reese is remembering those times when the cop stood by and let some low-life beat the tar out of him.

But that's all in the past he reminds himself. Before he came back over to the legit side, started wearing the white hat again. Surely Mr. Sunshine wouldn't hold those little transgressions against him forever?

He glances into those steely eyes. Yeah. He probably would. He slowly backs away and allows Carter to take center stage.

To be continued…