"Come on, pick up, pick up!" muttered Greg into the receiver as he drove. When no one answered for the third time, he growled in exasperation and threw his phone at the passenger seat. It bounced and landed on the floor. Greg glared at it as he drove, worrying silently that he should have called for medics. But there were cops at the scene; if his friends needed help wouldn't they have called for it by now?

His scanner stayed silent on news about the team and he was hesitant to use it to contact Brass. Maybe he was just overreacting. True, the team might be in a dangerous situation, but with the bomb squad there and no news about an explosion, they must be safe. Even so, Greg drove slightly above the speed limit. He needed to tell them about the latest development in the case, especially since their call in the suburbs appeared to be the work of the Red Can killer, too.

#

As he arrived at the scene, Greg immediately understood why the whole team had been called out. It seemed they'd never finish with so much collecting to do. There were no ambulances and nothing seemed out of place, so Greg got out of the car more slowly. He looked around, taking in all the details he could about the street. Something nagged at him here, too. Something about the street seemed familiar, besides it being a suburb like all the other Red Can scenes. He thought back to the printout that held the key to unlocking the case, then ran through all the previous murders in his mind, starting with the first through to...this one! He started in shock. This was the seventh Red Can case. And what had the psych report said? Eyck had an unhealthy obsession with the number seven. It was a long shot, but Greg made it a point never to ignore his gut, despite Grissom's reservations, and something about this street screamed caution to him.

Greg headed towards the group of CSIs clustered around what was left of the bodies. He could see Catherine was there with Nick and Grissom. Warrick and Sara were further down the street, painstakingly picking up bits of flesh. It looked like the bodies had exploded from the inside out, judging from the bits of shrapnel and detritus littering the street and most of the block of houses.

While walking, he caught something out of the corner of his eye that made his pulse quicken. Now the reason for his disquiet became apparent. It was something he'd noticed only now — all the streets the killer picked had exactly seven houses, and this was no exception.

A young boy, dark skinned and gangly, came out of the central house on the block carrying a red garbage can that was almost larger than him. Crime scene photos from the past six homicides flashed through Greg's mind. He remembered the odd red trash can in the exact middle of the street that none of the home owners claimed to own. But this time something was going to happen, he knew it. All the other times had only been warnings. And Greg knew exactly what would happen if the boy put down the can; the psych eval had confirmed it.

"Hey!" Greg shouted at the boy, switching his direction abruptly and racing towards him.

The CSIs turned in surprise at his voice.

"What's he doing?" asked Nick.

"Get out of here!" shouted Greg at them as he ran. "It's a trap!" He reached out frantically for the small boy just as he put the can down, snatching him up into his arms and running for a few hundred yards.

A roaring sound assaulted his ears and he instinctively ducked his head, covering the small body with his own as a shock wave threw him to the ground. Greg shuddered with memories. He felt the same flash of heat, bitter acrid smell, and jolting contact with the ground as before. Through it all Greg had the presence of mind to clutch desperately at the small body, cradling it under him while the ferocious heat of the fire beat at his back. It screamed at him in agony and tingling black soot clogged his nostrils and eyes. He lay still, unable to move a muscle. Something had hit him in several places and blood seeped out of him at an alarming rate. Whatever it was must still be lodged inside him, because if he so much as moved a hair his wounds stretched open wider. He whimpered in agony.

It must be pieces of the metal can, thought Greg sluggishly. Whatever adrenaline he'd produced had disappeared in the explosion and he was on the verge of total collapse. Hot pavement made impressions in his cheek as he wavered in and out of consciousness, wondering if he was hurting the boy by lying on top of him or if he'd cradled his head enough. The sudden contact with pavement had broken his arm. Greg sighed, and, convinced pain had finally won the battle to lead him into death, succumbed to unconsciousness.