1Disclaimer: If I owned anything but my ideas, I wouldn't have to worry about taking out student loans every semester. So, please, no one sue me for borrowing someone else's characters and returning them safely before their curfew.

Special Thanks: To lj user"imaginaryfields" for her beta. It made this story just that much better.

Special Request: Please, please, please leave a comment telling my what you thought, even if you hated it. Also, if there is something that you would like to see happen, write that down, too, as I may make your wish come true. :o)

BLOODY HELL

Prologue

Sandy Lewis drove herself into work after making sure she had feed her cat and left a note for her boyfriend. Traffic on the strip was no worse than it was every other Wednesday. She thought about how she wished the tourist season would end before she caught herself, remembering that in Las Vegas, Nevada, it was always tourism season.

Arriving at work fifteen minutes early, Sandy pulled her maroon Honda Civic into a parking space in the rear of the dispatch office which was Adjoined to the Las Vegas Police Department's headquarters. This was where she spent eleven P.M. until eight A.M. every Monday through Friday.

The cheerful woman glided through the double doors, taking a moment to greet her co-workers as she walked down the long hallway to the locker room. Storing her purse and lunch sack in a metal cubicle, she made her way to the call center.

"Good news, it's a slow night!" called out one of the girls as Sandy entered.

"Don't jinx it," she said. "There's no such thing in Vegas. Having said that, my shift is gonna get a ten car pile-up with fatalities on I-15."

Taking a seat in front of her station, Sandy heard another dispatcher reply, "So what? At least it won't be on my shift."

Comments like this grated on the dispatcher's nerves. A ten-year veteran dispatcher of 911 call centers, three of which were in Vegas, Sandy still could not understand how some of her co-workers had no regard for the lives that they were tasked to help. Many would crack jokes about callers who would do nothing but scream over the phone while others tried to determine who had gotten the best...uh, worst...call that day.

But Sandy Lewis was different. It was the main reason why she had been hired for the job. She loved people. She loved helping. Sandy cherished every interaction she had with a caller; she stayed on lines and talked people through first aid and CPR. She crooned to crying children while they were waiting for an ambulance to arrive to save Mommy. She had even helped deliver six babies. No one would think it by looking at the 5'3", mousy brown-haired woman, but she was the best damned dispatcher in Clark County.

Plopping down in front of her station, Sandy said a quick little prayer. Please protect the citizens of Las Vegas tonight. It was a little something she did before putting her headset on every night. Not always a spiritual person by nature, Sandy wasn't sure if he request to God ever did any good, but she figured that it couldn't hurt, either.

The first few hours of her shift were rather routine; traffic accidents, a B&E, and a loose dog that had attacked someone's cat. Around two o'clock, that all changed.

"911, what is your emergency?" Sandy said into the phone.

"Ohmygod...I think...I...he's not...help..." The caller was a young female. Sandy gauged her to be no more than 20 years old.

"What isn't he? Is he not breathing?"

"No...blood..." The caller was choking on her own words. "Please..."

"Where are you calling from?" Sandy asked, knowing that she at least needed to get some information from the caller. "Are you at home?"

"No," the girl whispered. "Rampart, 716. Hurry..."

Before Sandy could say anything more, the caller hung up. So much for my uneventful evening, she thought. Only in Vegas.

A few keystrokes later and Sandy was able to confirm that the call had indeed come from the Rampart Hotel. She was unable to figure out what room, but it was a start.

"I need any ALS emergency near the Rampart to report for a possible 421. Caller unclear. Room 716," Sandy chirped into her earpiece.

"This is 46," a male voice responded. "I'm two blocks away. Sanchez and I will take it."

"Thanks, Hank," Sandy responded. "Caller was unclear about possible injury. I asked if the victim was breathing and all she said was 'no' and 'blood.'"

"OK, I'll report back as soon as I've got something. Out."

Sandy leaned back in her chair and sighed. She hated these kinds of calls. She knew that she was sending two paramedics on a goose chase. Both men would arrive at the Rampart Hotel with little more than the idea that someone might possibly be bleeding to death in room 716. They'd have to haul half of the ambulance up to the room just to make sure that they had the right equipment at their disposal.

But this is why I'm a dispatcher and they're paramedics, she silently reminded herself. Guys like Hank and Mario didn't mind running into the battlefield with blindfolds on. They loved the thrill, even got off on it. But Sandy would take her boring old computer station over excitement in the field any day.

Sitting back for a moment, Sandy couldn't help but wonder what the medics would find as she logged the call into the system

The flashing lights of the Rampart Hotel greeted the two tired paramedics. "Geez, we haven't been here in a while," Mario Sanchez said, hopping out of the back of the rig.

Hank Peddigrew grabbed a large duffel bag and shoved it into the waiting arms of his partner. "Nothing's changed since last time. Just remember that we're here to possibly save a life, not hit the blackjack tables." Grabbing another bag, he slammed the back doors of the ambulance shut and started making his way to the entrance.

"Yea, yea. I just hope this isn't a crank call." Mario ran a hand over his recently buzzed scalp. The last two calls that he and Hank had responded to were UTLs, "unable to locate." In other words, prank calls made to the emergency dispatch center. But what those little bastards don't understand, he thought, is that we can get their name, address, and phone number from their call and then the cops can charge their asses for making a false police report. All of a sudden, Mario felt happy again.

The two men approached the front desk, receiving stares all the while from hotel patrons. "Can I help you gentlemen?" the desk clerk asked, somewhat alarmed.

"We received a call ten minutes ago that there may be someone in distress in room 716. We need to get up there immediately," Hank told the women. She seemed to lose all color after hearing "distress."

"We didn't receive any calls like that down here, sir. If you'd like to wait a minute, I can check for you..."

Mario stepped out from behind Hank and slapped his open palm on the counter loudly. "Ma'am, we don't have time to wait. 911 dispatch got a call and we need to respond." The desk clerk started to shake, her nerves wracked by the situation. "Now you can either get someone who can escort us, quickly, to room 716, or we can run off, find it on our own, break the door down, then explain to your supervisor that you refused to help us." Mario smiled sweetly at the trembling clerk who reached for her walkie-talkie, calling for a guard to come at once.

A few minutes later, Carl Jones, the head of Rampart's night shift security, was escorting them to an emergency elevator. Hank looked over at Mario and grinned. "You always did have a way with the ladies." Chuckling quietly, the paramedics followed the beefy security chief to the destination.

But it didn't look like they would be needing Carl to open the room for them. Room 716's door was wide open. Glancing quickly at the lock before entering, Hank saw that it was intact, which he had learned from a past girlfriend was indicative of no forced entry. Who ever had left this door open had come from the inside of the room and, most likely, had a key card.

The hotel room was a three-room suite, including a living area, full-service kitchenette, and master bedroom with an adjoining bathroom. There was no activity in either of the first two rooms. "Action must be in the bedroom," Mario observed. Hank nodded in agreement.

The security guard stepped forward. Carl cleared his weapon from its holster and motioned to the paramedics. "You two aren't carrying, so let me clear it first."

He was running out of the suite before he had even set foot in the bedroom. Hank and Mario could hear the poor man vomiting in the hallway. As the stepped closer to the bedroom's entrance, the smell of copper overpowered their nostrils. Slowly, each man peeked his head around the door frame to look inside the room.

Dropping their gear at their feet, Hank Peddigrew and Mario Sanchez took in what could definitely be called "a sight to be seen." Stepping back into the living area, Mario took a couple deep breaths while Hank removed his cell phone from his belt.

"Sandy? It's Hank...I wish it was a prank. We need homicide...and make sure they send Gil Grissom's team. This vic is gonna need the best of the best."