It occurred to Blair Sandburg that, for some folks, mistakes could be fatal. Like a car crashing after from some overworked mechanic decided a steering linkage was tight enough or a surgeon that `sort of' remembered which region of the brain controlled his patient's breathing. Or, just say for the sake of argument, an anthropologist-turned-police-observer who, forgetting for a moment the golden rule of staying with one's partner, stepped away to call the university while a half-crazy, half-desperate killer was in need of a hostage.

"Let him go, Tortora," Jim Ellison demanded.

The business end of Jim's semi-automatic looked like a freaking canon. A burly arm squeezed Blair's neck, making it hard to breathe and dragging him several steps backward. Jim smoothly matched step for step, as if he and the killer regularly rehearsed together.

Jim's gaze was focused and hard. Blair squeezed his own eyes closed. Blair trusted Jim with his life - he had no choice - but he so didn't want to see Jim's finger tighten on that trigger.

Actually, when Blair considered his options, getting shot was preferable. The killer's known crimes pulverized Blair's courage. The trail of bodies had caused even Dan Wolf's face to blanch.

Blair had no desire to join their ranks.

God, Blair had laughed when he'd first heard about the case. The cops had dubbed the guy after a kid's toy; The Lego Killer. How bad could it be? Then he'd seen his first crime scene and realized that Lego blocks could be pulled apart as well as reassembled. Blair had stumbled out of the victim's house and chummed the goldfish pond.

"I'm walking away," Tortora barked, droplets of spittle flying over Blair's shoulder, catching the harsh florescent lighting like tiny cascading diamonds. "Or I swear I'll do him now."

Tortora's gun pressed hard against Blair's temple. It felt cold and the small sight on the end of the barrel dug painfully into his skin. This was not going to end well. Blair opened his eyes, locking his gaze on Jim's.

Anything was preferable than spending time alone with this man.

Blair's focus shifted back to Jim's gun.

Blair loathed violence, picking the peaceful road when possible, negotiate, compromise, and look for the common ground. But the last year riding with Jim tested those ideals, sometimes to breaking point. While Naomi had taught him guns were the root of the problem, Blair watched Jim embrace it one hundred percent into his lifestyle.

And practice?

Man, Jim practiced. He'd leave for work early or skip lunch to spend time at the shooting range. Many days he would swing by on the way home. Blair often went along to watch. After all, he was an observer.

"You're not leaving this building with him," Jim declared calmly.

Blair's pulse hammered against the Tortora's forearm. Icy sweat tickled his spine. Suddenly the pressure lifted from Blair's temple and he saw Tortora's gun in his peripheral vision.

Pointed at Jim.

A sixth sense demanded Blair stay perfectly still.

Jim fired.

Without earplugs, at such a close range, it was an explosion. The effect was instantaneous, like flipping off a light switch. The arm around Blair's neck fell away. Tortora's gun, still unfired, dropped to the tile floor with a clatter.

Blair started to turn, still not believing the danger was over, but Jim moved fast. While Simon and Henri closed in, kicked away the killer's gun and checked the body that had gracelessly fallen to the floor, Jim grabbed Blair's shirt front with his left hand and yanked him across the room.

"Jim!" Blair yelped.

"Sorry," Jim muttered, putting away his own gun, his hands visibly shaking as he gingerly checked Blair's neck. "You okay?"

"Yeah... just... shit, Jim." Blair found he was doing a pretty fair job of shaking apart himself.

Police swarmed the area with noisy radios that squawked in surround stereo. Blair felt the room tilt a little. Jim guided him to a conference-type table that held a stand of literature about upcoming training opportunities in microcomputers. Blair leaned on the table's edge, knowing his legs needed a few minutes to catch up. Jim's proximity helped to bolster his strength. Blair hugged his own torso and tried to turn around again.

Jim stopped him. "Don't, Blair."

The voice was Jim's, but the tone was off. Blair looked back. Jim's face was pale.

"God, Jim," Blair whispered. Adrenaline flooded his body, making his teeth knock together as he spoke. "Now I know why you cops practice so much... so you know you'll hit your target, right?"

"Some of them do, Chief," Jim answered with quiet conviction, one hand anchoring Blair to earth. "But I keep going until I'm sure what I don't want to hit is safe."

Blair nodded. Mistakes can be fatal.

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