Seized
Summary: Don Flack is first to a murder scene and awaits the NYPD to join him. But as he waits, someone grabs him.
A/N: Diving into the CSI: NY pool again. Hope this is as good as the last.

The radio was humming in his car as Don Flack slid in, holding a cup of coffee in his hand. He listened to the woman on the other line, who was saying something about a body in Queens being discovered. When he heard the address, he looked at the street sign and noticed he was only a block or two from the crime. Don placed his coffee in the cup holder and started his car, revving it for a moment before turning on his siren and speeding off.

Don came around the turn in a few moments, stopping when his headlights caught the body in the alley. From the looks of it, the assailant had made their exit, so he grabbed his gun, placed it in his holster, and opened the door. He came upon the body, standing next to it. It was a man, about twenty, with a pool of blood spreading out around him. Don bent down and scanned for the wound; there was a puncture wound on the man's upper left biceps, and another on his lower right side. Don brought his fingers to the man's neck and waited, searching for a pulse.

While he waited, feeling for the pulse, behind him a pair of hand grabbed him; one clamping over his mouth, and another over his left elbow, across his abdomen, and grasping his inner right elbow. Don felt a rag between his mouth and the hand, which was damp with some liquid. Furiously, as the assailant began to drag Don backwards, the cop kicked his legs and let out a few muffled cries of help. He fought as hard as he could, but the man was too strong. Soon the liquid's fumes filled Don's lungs and he fainted, going limp. The assailant continued to drag the cop off, who was now helpless.

Don was thrown into the back of a black car; his arms were pulled behind his back and duct taped together at the wrists. His ankles were taped in the same manner. A piece of tape was stretched across his mouth, then ran around the back of his head a few times for good measure. Once he was secured, the door was slammed shut, the assailant hopped into the driver's seat, and the black car sped off.

----------

Danny, followed by Lindsay, ducked under the yellow crime tape and walked upon the body. He looked at the body for a moment, scanning for possible wounds that might of killed the man. The blood pool was large, so he knew the man was dead. Danny pointed a finger at a puncture wound. "Possible bullet hole on the left biceps." His finger moved down. "Another possible on the lower right side."

Lindsay bent down and snapped a couple of pictures of the wounds. She lifted his hand, examining it. "Looks like he fought against the attacker. Blood under his nails."

Danny wasn't paying much attention. His eyes were on the ground where there were drag marks in the dirt. Then he turned his attention to the car positioned within the crime scene. For a moment he stared at it before walking up to it. Lindsay looked up at him.

"Danny?"

He kept walking to the car. The door was open, so he strolled around it and looked inside. There was a cup of coffee, still steaming slightly, in the cup holder and a radio on the dashboard. The car looked oddly familiar. "Did anyone say who's car this was?" he called. Lindsay shook her head no. So Danny slid into the car and leaned over the arm rest. He opened the glove compartment, pulling out the registration. His eyes ran over the slip of paper, then froze when he read the name.

Lindsay looked over at him and noticed he had grown paler. "What is it?"

The blond man looked up at her. "This is Flack's car."

"What?"

"Where's Flack?"

"He never appeared at the scene, Danny."

Danny cursed lowly, pulling out his phone and quickly dialing the number.

----------

Mac sauntered down the hall towards his office when the phone on his belt loop rang out. The black-haired man ignored it for a moment since he was at his door. After walking in and setting his things down, he pulled the phone from his loop and flipped it open. "Taylor."

"Mac, it's Danny. We've got a problem here."

Mac noticed how distraught his colleague was. "What is it, Danny?"

"At our scene, there is a car here sitting within the crime tape."

"And…?"

"It's registered to Donald Flack Jr.. There is no Don Flack here."

Mac stopped for a moment. "What?"

"Please tell me you know where Don is."

"Unfortunately, I don't. I'll check around for him. Don't panic, Danny. He'll turn up; he always does."

Danny was quiet on the other end. Then, shakily, he said, "Okay… I'll look around here."

The other end of the line cut off, and Mac looked at his phone for a moment longer. With a little hesitation, he closed the phone in his fist.

----------

Slowly, Don woke from his slumber and took a look around. The room was eerily dark and silent. He turned his head, searching for any type of light. On the other side of the room, a small ray of light escaped through the bottom of what looked like a door frame. He blinked, then began to work his arms to try to free them. It was no use, so he laid still.

Okay, so I'm in a dark room, hands and feet tied and mouth taped shut, he thought, groaning. He threw his head back onto what felt like a pillow and waited for his eyes to adjust. Anyone could somewhat see in the dark if they focus. So he waited, staring at the ceiling. Soon his eyes adjusted, but that didn't give him much help. He could, however, see the four corners of the room. It was a meekly blank room, empty except for the bed he was laying on now. Don wiggled, trying to get himself to a sitting position. As he did so, he felt that the kidnapper hadn't taken his cell phone or knife. If only he could reach his front pockets. His gun was missing though.

After a while of wiggling, Don was sitting up with his legs thrown over the edge of the bed, feet planted flat on the floor. He felt his phone slipping out of his pocket; the frame was sticking out of the top of his jeans pocket. Don squirmed, moving his hips around, trying to free the phone. As he worked, his tongue worked in his mouth, gathering saliva. There was an old trick his father taught him; it wouldn't get the tape all the way off of his mouth, but if he licked his lips and blew out of his mouth, it would make a bubble in the tape, allowing him to talk. The phone slipped free from his pocket, laying on his lap.

Good, he thought happily. He licked his lips slowly, pushing the tape from his mouth. Then, he blew. The tape pulled from the edges of his mouth. "Yes," he whispered; it was muffled but still a distinct 'yes'.

Don wiggled so the phone fell on the bed beside his hips. He moved his hands and grabbed it between his finger tips. "Thank god," Don murmured.

Just as he grabbed the phone, it began to vibrate, then rang softly. His fingers opened it, then felt and pressed what he hoped was the speaker button. Luckily it was.

"Hello? Flack?"

Don knew that voice; he almost yelled out in joy. It was Mac Taylor.

"Don, can you hear me?"

"Yes," he called, trying to make his words understandable.

"Don?"

"Mac, please say you can hear me."

"Don, I hear something, but I can't understand. I'm going to track your location and try to find you."

A bang from across the room made Don jump. His head jerked towards the door where someone stood. The light was flicked on, and Don closed his eyes at the sudden light. He heard the footsteps, getting louder, and he cracked open an eye. He couldn't see much; it was way too bright and he had to close his eyes again. Mac hollered about something on the phone before it was cut off with a snap. Don forced his eyes open, seeing his phone broken in half between two large hands.

"You little bitch." The phone was dropped, and as Don raised his head up, one of the hands was brought across the side of his face in a fist, knocking him onto the floor. He laid there on his stomach, moaning for a moment.

"What do you want?" he asked hoarsely.

"So you can talk too?" The man was irritated. A hand grasped a fistful of hair on the back of Don's head, bringing his head up sharply. Don let out a pained yell. A knife flicked out, and the tape was cut open, cutting a line down the cop's cheek. The rest of the tape was ripped from his head, pulling skin and hair from the back of his head. Don was thrown back to the floor, face pressed on the ground. He panted softly.

He heard a rip, probably of cloth or some fabric. His head was brought up the same as before, and the fabric was forced into his mouth. Again, his mouth was taped shut. Don groaned, squirming again. The movement earned a kick in the side.

"Lay still, cop." This was a different voice. It was softer, younger than the first.

"We should of taken the phone from him in the first place. Why didn't you check him?" That was the first guy.

"Don't blame me. This was your idea, not mine. I never wanted to involve a pig."

"He saw us, I know it."

Don, hearing this, shook his head no furiously. Another kick was delivered.

The younger guy spoke. "See? That was a 'no' from him. He never saw us."

"That meant nothing. Just trying to find someway out." The first guy, who had spoken, laughed. "But it ain't workin', is it?"

"Just leave him be, man."

"Shut up. Go check him for any weapons or anything."

Someone approached him, and Don tensed up. The other person walked out of the room, leaving him and one guy alone.

"I never wanted this, man." It was the young guy. Don still couldn't see him, but he nodded and moaned. The boy's hands searched his pockets quickly, finding the knife in his front pocket. He took it out, probably looked at it for a moment, then slid it into Don's shoe. Don made a noise in question.

The boy grabbed Don's upper arms, hoisting him up and back onto the bed. He was placed back into a sitting position and was looking into the boy's face. The boy was white, probably seventeen at the most, innocent eyes and a worried look on his face. He had deep brown hair, cut short, and big green eyes.

The boy stood up, looking down at him for a moment, then walked out of the room, closing the door behind him; he left the light on. Don began to scream, but it came out a soft whine.