Disclaimer: We own nothing related to CSI.

A/N: The following contains graphic descriptions of torture. Please read with caution.

Chapter Two

Jacob McIntyre relished moments of serendipity. Perhaps it was the reward for his patience and planning. The thought put a smile on his face as he drove toward Grissom's townhouse. Despite the struggle in the parking lot, things were running smoothly. He took advantage of Grissom's planned getaway, captured his prey and now the games would truly begin.

Using the automatic garage door opener from Grissom's Mercedes, McIntyre pulled the van in and closed the door behind him. After getting out and stretching, he opened the back of the van and grabbed Grissom's house keys from the unconscious man's pockets. Grissom could stay put while McIntyre prepared the townhouse. The heat of the day would make the garage brutal. McIntyre could have left the back door to the van open for some ventilation, but was in no mood to provide Grissom any respite.

And a little sweat wouldn't kill the guy. Not yet, anyway.

He emptied the van of the tools, items and bags he needed. After placing a small rectangular object close to Grissom's head, he slammed the door to the back of the van shut and went inside the townhouse, carrying the tote full of goodies with him. McIntyre had taken more than a year to deliberate and execute his plan. His notions of revenge evolved to become an elaborate scheme that would prove to harm Grissom physically, mentally, emotionally and possibly lead Grissom to become stripped of his sanity, livelihood and, if McIntyre played his cards right, perhaps his life.

Now that he reached a point of no return, McIntyre felt inspired not only by what could happen to Grissom but by the vision of Dale, the woman he lost 18 years ago at the hands of Gil Grissom.

Starting this Thursday morning, Gil Grissom would finally pay for his transgressions.

When he woke up, Grissom felt his clothes were soaked to the bone. The first thing he consciously remembered doing was putting his right hand to his head, and while the pain from his fingers to the top of his head caused him to scream in agony, but his parched mouth wouldn't let him utter a sound. Instead, labored hisses escaped from his throat. He could see his right hand was swollen and painful to bend and his own blood covered his upper body. As he felt to top of his skull, he could make out a long laceration, which were still bleeding somewhat. He put his left hand to the back of his head and groaned when he noticed a laceration bleeding there as well.

After several minutes he decided to try to sit in an upright position, still unaware where he was or how much time had passed. Wave after wave of nausea hit Grissom as he felt pain shoot throughout his back and torso. Soon he was covered in his own vomit. It took several tries before he was able to sit up. The stale air in the van provoked a coughing fit and dry heaves that left Grissom pained and weak.

Lying back down on the metal floor of the van, Grissom tried to recall what happened: A Caucasian male attacked him in the garage at Buffalo Bill's Resort and Casino in Primm. He was subdued, knocked unconscious and perhaps left for dead in this van. But he wasn't bound. That was a good, wasn't it?

Grissom needed to get out of van. He got on his battered hands and knees, and took a deep breath as every movement caused more pain. He needed a moment so he opened and closed his eyes while hunched down on his hands and knees. He could feel and see beads of sweat combined with blood dripping off his head. The heat was stifling, and if anything, he needed to get out of the van to breathe. He crawled to the door and opened it. He was surprised to find it he was indoors, but more surprised when he saw a shelf in the background with very familiar looking knick-knacks.

He gingerly exited the van and turned towards his front door. Before he could take a step, a masked man, who he assumed to be his assailant came from behind the van and stopped in front of him. Grissom looked startled, and it took McIntyre only a few seconds to subdue the injured man. He grabbed Grissom, threw him to the floor and straddled him.

"Baby monitors... they're not just for worried parents anymore, that's fer sure," McIntyre said with a laugh. "I've been waiting quite a few hours for you to stir, Grissom. But I heard you get up a minute ago. You've been out for a while. Left me plenty of time to prepare for what's next."

McIntyre got up and lifted off his ski mask to wipe the sweat off his brow. He knew Grissom would not be able to turn and see his face. "Phew. It is fucking hot in here, eh? You hot, Grissom?" McIntyre said, punctuating his question with a kick to the ribs.

Grissom coughed and tried to get out some words, but his voice was non-existent from being in the stifling van for eight hours. McIntyre stooped down, grabbed Grissom by the arms, dragged him up and slammed him against the van. Dazed, Grissom turned to face his captor, but instead saw the barrel of a .38.

"Strip, ya fucking bastard."

Without much choice, Grissom complied. Taking off his bloody polo proved tough to pull over his abused head, the pain almost unmanageable and when he took a few seconds too long, McIntyre punched him hard in the chest, then grabbed the shirt and ripped it off Grissom's body. Grissom lost his footing and fell hard on the garage floor. He managed to wobble into a semi-standing position and immediately toed off his shoes, knowing he would have to remove his pants. He did so as quickly as possible, but when he stopped, McIntyre removed the belt from Grissom's pants and swiftly swung the belt buckle across Grissom's calf.

His torso. His back. His arms. His legs, again. The attacker managed a skillful lick across his tortured right hand. The pain caused Grissom to fall again.

"I said strip, ya fucking bastard!" McIntyre screamed into the almost unconscious victim's ear.

Grissom slowly got his bearings and stood, cringing because he knew a belt lashing could come at any moment. Without dignity, he took off his boxers. Grissom stood before his attacker both literally and figuratively stripped. He didn't have time to cover himself with his hands as his attacker grabbed them and placed handcuffs on his wrists. Grissom left out a hoarse scream when the cuff was closed on his right wrist.

"Now, we're going to go inside," McIntyre said as used the belt to pelt Grissom's back and move him forward.

Grissom knew his captor had a great advantage over him for more than one reason. He possessed weapons. The man held all the cards, while Grissom was hurt, stripped and handcuffed.

But more importantly, he knew Grissom, while Grissom had no idea who he was.

Once inside the townhouse, Grissom silently processed his surroundings, a sickening feeling came over him when he realized he was in his own home. Things weren't exactly as he'd left them that morning. The last thing he remembered doing before he left in a rush was emptying the dishwasher. And he didn't even finish that task; some clean items in the machine would have to wait till he returned from his marathon to be put away.

He wondered now if he would ever get that opportunity.

While there were no sweeping changes, some things disturbed Grissom, most especially a steel-framed chair in the middle of the room directly in front of the television and an exposed outlet on the wall nearest the chair. Plastic sheeting also covered large portions of Grissom's living room area, including under the steel-framed chair.

McIntyre, who was still wore his black ski mask, stopped Grissom in front of the chair. "I made this myself with you in mind, there, Grissom," he said of the chair. McIntyre had joined together 11 pre-cut pieces of metal to fashion the chair frame. He then took a rebar and laid it horizontally from the posts that made the back and seat of the chair to support Grissom's weight. "Take a seat, there," McIntyre said to Grissom as he pushed him upon the seat of the chair.

McIntyre took a roll of duct tape off the table, and tightly taped Grissom's ankles to the chair legs. He taped Grissom's torso to the chair, wrapping the tape three times and then uncuffed Grissom's hands and bound his left wrist to the arm rest of the chair.

"I betcha need a drink, there, eh, Grissom?" McIntyre said, voice laced with sarcasm. He left for the kitchen and return with a bottle of water. He opened it in front of Grissom and poured half of it onto Grissom's head, making the injured man scream in pain as cold water hit the laceration on his head. McIntyre then thrust the bottle in Grissom's face. "Drink it now, because in 10 seconds I take it away."

Grissom drank the fluid greedily, his grip compromised by the fact his fingers couldn't quite wrap around the bottle because of the three broken fingers on that hand. He'd almost swallowed every drop of the liquid before McIntyre snatched the bottle out of his hand. He then duct taped Grissom's right wrist to the chair.

"Who are you?" Grissom wasted no time once he found his voice again. "What do you want from me?"

McIntyre said nothing and smiled as he smacked Grissom so hard across his face that the chair tipped slightly on one side. Then he stood next to Grissom hitting him hard across the cheek before Grissom had time react. He crept next to his captive's right ear and spoke in a rough whisper, "Don't'cha be thinking I'm the one to be answerin' questions here, Grissom. You understand?"

Grissom didn't move or say a word. He could tell this would be a game of control and he couldn't give it all up at once. Instead, his attention focused on the exposed wall outlet. A silver wire snaked out of the socket and connected to some sort of control box, which had four sets of electrodes snaking out of it. Grissom could only imagine what his captor had in store for him.

"Comfy chair there, eh Grissom?" McIntyre said as he fiddled with the tape on Grissom's right wrist. "Say what you will about FBI techniques, or the KGB, or Chinese water torture..." McIntyre checked the tightness of Grissom's bonds before continuing and had him extend out his fingers, rather than making a fist on his right hand. It was an action that made Grissom flinch. "... but for me... I'm more fond of what our neighbors to the south can accomplish in the way of glorious torture. And make no mistake there, I am here to torture you."

McIntyre continued to keep a hold on Grissom's right hand. "When I say 'the south' I don't exactly mean the guerrillas of Central America. I mean, fer sure, those boys did some things that were rather ruthless. Even some things that were a little primitive."

McIntyre retrieved a pair of pliers from his back pocket, took hold of Grissom's index finger and pulled off the fingernail. The sound of the nail ripping from Grissom's digit was drowned by his scream. Without fanfare, McIntyre repeated the same action on Grissom's middle finger. The vomit streaming from Grissom's mouth dribbled down his bare chest. After a minute of excruciating pain, McIntyre placed the pliers on the tip of Grissom's pinkie. His body instinctively tensed and his breathing became labored.

"You see that there, Grissom?" McIntyre asked with a laugh. "I didn't do anything but place the pliers on your fingertip and your mind told your body to prepare for the pain. And all from a simple torture technique."

A quick clamp of the pliers and a pull, and Grissom's pinkie nail was gone. Blood dripped from Grissom's hand and sweat and tears fell from his face. McIntyre took a step back, put the pliers back into his pocket and crossed his hands in front of his chest.

"Now, if I was to ask you for information there, Grissom, I'd betcha'd be thinking about giving it if I took those pliers out of my pocket."

"Yes," Grissom said, his face contorted in pain, "What do you want me to tell you?"

McIntyre shrugged his shoulders and chuckled. "Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. No sir. I know everything I need to know about you."

McIntyre walked behind the chair. Grissom attempted to turn his head in either direction to see what his captor was doing, but McIntyre turned around to view the opposite wall as he stood directly behind the chair. What Grissom couldn't see was McIntyre had lifted up his mask to let his face breathe and was fiddling with the control box connected to the wires coming out of the wall outlet.

Satisfied with his efforts, McIntyre pulled down his mask and walked back in the line of Grissom's sight with the box and its electrodes. He set the box at Grissom's feet, then went to the kitchen to retrieve his laptop and a folding table. He set up the table in front of Grissom, plugged in the laptop to a working plug, placed it on the table and turned it on. He picked up the control box off the floor and placed it on the table.

"Do you know about the techniques they used in South America? Chile and Argentina? They have some interesting techniques, that's fer sure. That's where I got the idea about this chair," McIntyre said as he patted the chair. "In the late 1970s, government regimes in both those countries had several different devices they used on political prisoners, like the parilla."

"The barbecue?"

"Impressive, there Grissom. What they would do is put the prisoners in the device, which was usually a bed frame instead of a chair, but for our purposes, a chair is more effective. Then they would...," McIntyre continued as he placed several plastic electrodes on the right and left side of the chest and one of his bare thighs and held the last one in his hand, "... apply electrodes to sensitive areas of the body, including..." McIntyre applied the last electrode, "... the genitals."

Grissom's body instinctively attempted to back away from the man as he applied the gel covered electrode to his penis, but the chair prevented his movement.

McIntyre then turned his attention to the 17-inch screen of the laptop, and opened up the appropriate document, which flashed graphic photos of crime victims, alive and dead.

Photos Grissom recognized.

Every 10 seconds a new photo flashed. Grissom mentally catalogued what he saw — some were from his time as a coroner in Los Angeles, others were from his time in Minnesota and some from cases in Vegas. "These are crime scene photos... where did you..."

With a click of a button, Grissom's mind froze while he felt he was set on fire. The savage tingling from the voltage made his body spasm in tightness. Every muscle in his chest, leg and genitals screamed in agony.

McIntyre sent an electrical charge through the device that lasted 5 seconds, but the effects on the already severely injured man were fascinating him. With the device he could manipulate the force of the charge and its timing.

"SHUT YOUR MOUTH, YA BASTARD!" McIntyre screamed. "KEEP YOUR EYES OPEN AND DON'T TAKE YOUR EYES OFF THE SCREEN!"

Grissom could only comply. The photos become increasingly more graphic, and he noticed the victims were now exclusively children. The broken, battered bodies of innocent children. Grissom attempted to swallow, but was unable because of the effects from his earlier mild electrocution. The images started moving across the screen at a faster rate. His head began to spin as each photo came into his sights.

And then... the fire in his chest and genitals, again.

The pattern continued. Photos flashed before Grissom's eyes of what appeared to be screen shots of kiddie porn and women being raped and beaten.

And then... fire ignited through out his body.

Grissom didn't know how much longer he could stand this.

TBC

A/N: Thank you for the reviews. One reviewer mentioned she was surprised Chauncey and I wrote a story of this nature. Trust me. It surprised the hell out of us too. But we do hope it keeps your interest. Take care.