A/N: I took this down because there was a vast number of mistakes and I wanted to reword things a little. I'm reposting this, and chapter one, and the next chapter should be up in the next few days. I actually forgot about this fic for about six months. Hopefully a new chapter and a reworked begining will make up for that. Once again, the idea was basically a mix of "Kiss Kiss, Bye Bye", the time travel episode of "Boy Meets World" where the closet is a time portal, and "Chicago". Dunno why, it just came to me. Thanks again to Eleen for the original concept of "Greg should go back in time". Read and review? Enjoy!

P.S.- If you can review in Rat Pack Lingo, you'll get a present.

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI or any of the characters.

Prologue

"Let her go, Rickard!" He threatened as he whipped his gun out of the back of his suspenders.

His eyes widened as he stared at the gun in surprise. Gone was his regulation 9 mil Beretta that he was given the day after he passed his final proficiency test to be put into the field. Held tightly in his grip was a Walther P38 pistol, straight out of the thirties. He wasn't overly fond of using guns, but in his mind, the Walther was better than the Beretta any day. Little good it would probably do against the Bayard semi automatic that was up against his friend's temple, but it was all he had; and in situations like this, he knew that he couldn't be fussy.

"I don't think so." The round man chuckled, wrapping his arm tighter around his prisoner's torso. She choked and spluttered from the lack of air.

He watched helplessly as she struggled in Rickard's grip. Her skin was quickly turning from it's natural pinkish tone to a sickening puce color. The doll's eyes no longer glistened like the desert sands; all hope had been washed away from them which left her looking doggish and beat. Her ankles were losing support, emitting tiny cracking noises as they kept turning over on her silver heels. When he first saw her, he thought they were shimmering with all of the glamour and light she showed the audience when she was on stage, a pair of Hindi diamonds on show for all to see.

However, during this whole ordeal, they seem to have dimmed to the point of no return. Their scuffed appearance matched his attitude and overall judgment of the situation at hand- Bombsville.

Taking a deep breath, he tightened his hold on the pistol and took a few short steps forward.

"Come any closer and the broad gets it." Rickard snapped, cocking back the hammer of his Bayard. "We've had enough big casino's for one night, don't you think? It'd be a shame if I had to send your little twirl to the grave. She's such a pretty thing. A rare find."

He gulped. He wasn't an 18 karat idiot. Before he ended up back in the beginning years of Vegas he could tell anyone who asked that in mafia slang the term "Big Casino" meant death.

It was apparent now, that he cared for the doll. Rickard see the sudden change in his young friend's exterior. He was frightened for the chick and would probably to anything to save her.

Oh well. Mercy wasn't really Johnny Rickard's style- or his boss'.

"Look her in the eye, Sanders." Rickard smirked, placing his finger over the trigger. "I want you to watch her brains decorate the ground. Then when I'm done with her, it'll be your turn."

With a nod of Rickard's head, men appeared from out of nowhere, surrounding the three of them. Gun barrels were pointed at him from every angle. One wrong move, and all hope of saving her was gone. One bad step, and bullets would begin to fly. One false turn, and they would both be done for.

And heaven knows that the last thing Greg wanted to do, was condemn her to death.