2.
Afterwards Warrick couldn't remember what it was exactly that set them off. He wasn't even sure he'd actually seen anything—it was Nicky who raised the alarm. One minute they were nearly keeling over with exhaustion, the next, they were sprinting across the parking lot for all they were worth.
"Freeze!" Nick shouted at the top of his lungs, brandishing his weapon.
But the perps had scampered off into the shadows before they even got a whiff of them. There were two of them—huge, bulking bastards. And that was as far as Warrick got in his observation of them.
Greg's limp body was just about to roll off the hood when Nick caught up to him, hauling him to his feet before Warrick could stop him. "Greg, man! You okay? What happened?"
Warrick winced. Nick was his best friend and his heart was in the right place—but you weren't supposed to move an assault victim till you were sure there were no neck injuries. And the way this poor kid looked, a neck brace was the least he was going to need. One eye was already swollen shut and his head lolled around like he was barely conscious. No way he was up to answering questions.
"Put him down," he'd been about to say, when Greg surprised him by opening his mouth and slurring, "Catherine…"
"What about—?"
And then Warrick saw her—a pale figure crumpled about two feet from the car. From her car. "Holy shit."
He was at her side in two seconds flat, heart threatening to explode. Unwanted images of a long ago dead Holly Gribbs flared through his mind—but bad as the whole Holly Gribbs situation had been, this was much worse. Holly Gribbs was a rookie—sweet, innocent, someone he was supposed to protect… but he didn't know her. Catherine was his friend. She'd saved his ass more times than he cared to remember. She had a kid, for God's sake. A nine-year-old who had just lost her father a few months back. She couldn't afford to lose anyone else.
Fuck it, Cath—don't do this to me. Not this, not you, his subconscious begged, fingers fumbling for a pulse. Shoes gone, clothes torn, face smeared with blood—the only recognizable thing about her were the strawberry blonde tendrils spread on the ground.
"She shot?" Nick's panicked voice sprang up at his side.
"I dunno, man. There's so much blood." At least she was breathing on her own. Realizing Nick had pulled out his cell phone and was calling for help, he ripped off his jacket and threw it over her, not caring if evidence got destroyed. Damned if he was leaving her there, vulnerable and exposed like some faceless victim for the world to see. She was Catherine Willows, fellow CSI and partner—she deserved some dignity, goddamn it.
Sirens wailing in the background,Warrick suddenly found himself so angry he threw a punch at the nearest lamp post and spit out every curse he could think of. This was no way for their 28-hour shift to end. Those bastards were going to pay for what they'd done to her and Greg.
