New York City Crime Lab – New York City, New York – June 27th, 2013
Mac Taylor was at work about 20 minutes before the rest of his team. It had always been so. Today he had a reason to be early though. He sighed and held a hand to his head as he closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He was in his office.
His left arm had several cleaned cuts running diagonally and he had a busted lip. Those injuries were paired with bruised knuckles and wrists as well as more cuts on his right arm. There was even one that ran down the right side of his neck. He felt like he had been hit by his own truck, a Chevy Avalanche. He knew the team would ask. "Shit," Mac muttered quietly. He opened his eyes to look down at his desk to where his cellphone lay silently. He could call Stella and tell her he wasn't going to be here and leave right now.
Like that would ever happen. That wasn't Mac. He was too stubborn to do that.
He finally took his hand away from his forehead and let his arm fall somewhat carelessly to his side. All he did was wince at the sting from his shoulder; he'd just remembered the cut on his shoulder. He closed his eyes again, regretting the events of last night.
He should've just turned around and walked away when he had the chance, or better yet, not even have left his apartment. Why'd you do it, Taylor? Why, why, why? If he was honest with himself, it wasn't his fault. They would've killed him if he didn't fight back.
It still meant that he'd fought with them.
Sinclair and Gerrard were going to be all over that, Mac just knew it.
Mac grunted slightly, what had happened last night? Now he frowned a bit. He'd been getting gas at the gas station several blocks from his apartment building and out of the blue he had a gun to his head. He'd struggled with them, they'd hurt him, he'd gotten away.
He felt they weren't finished yet, but he still had no idea what to do about it. What had they wanted? What did they want with me?