Disclaimer: I do not own any recognizable items. Not the characters, not the songs, and definitely not the setting. There are spoilers—new and old—so beware if you aren't current on CSI: Miami. Otherwise, happy reading!
Previously: When a hand grabs his hair, Ryan gropes on the floor for the piece of wood he dropped, swinging it up and connecting with—
Air. Nothing but dust-filled, musty-smelling air.
The last few minutes have been nothing but a waste of time spent remembering and feeling something that should never have happened.
Ryan gets to his feet, irritation at himself replacing the fear he felt earlier. No wonder no one likes him, he thinks. He's always so quick to judge without any evidence. He'd felt hurt when, after he had revealed the evidence he had held onto to his colleagues, they had dismissed him as petty and selfish. When has saving the life of a young boy ever been petty or selfish? He dusts off his knees and continues on his way, doing his best to ignore the song still playing.
He resolves to not lose his marbles as he travels the maze, waiting for a knife to be slipped between his ribs or a nice smack from an aluminum baseball bat to crack open his skull. But, he concedes that it's already a little too late to keep all of his sanity. Einstein once said, "A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or the others crazy?" If he has to guess, Ryan thinks he's the crazy one. After all, he's the one who usually has a different opinion than the others, and different is crazy, right?
For some reason that thought reminds him of the odd janitor on Night Shift who can quote Einstein like no other. Once, when Ryan was late to leave after a case—after the Robbery-Homicide that was supposed to disappear—the janitor had stopped him and said, "A table, a chair, a bowl of fruit and a violin; what else does a man need to be happy?" before showing him tattoos of all the things. Ryan didn't think the man was particularly happy, but he had taken the advice to heart and had avoided his colleagues until Eric approached him about his cold behavior.
"Before God we are all equally wise," the man had said the last time Ryan was in the Crime Lab—what he was doing there, hiding outside Horatio's rarely used office, Ryan didn't want to know. He hadn't paid him any attention, racing to get away after another thing in his life had gone wrong, but the words "and equally foolish" followed him anyway. He'd put it out of mind until now and doesn't even know why he remembers it at all. His random thoughts calm him enough to stop jumping at every corner, every imagined shadow, and he settles for just staying upright, energy leaking from him like he's a faucet with a bad drip. Like a foolish man wandering wise hallways.
It takes a long time, the battery on the MP3 player has died and the entire electronic has been discarded, by the time he reaches what must be the end, if the swords crossed over the closed door mean anything. He opens it and enters a room filled with darkness. There is little light flowing over him from the hallway behind. It's as if the chamber in front of him sucks the light away. He takes a few uncertain steps, torch handle raised again. So help the person who runs into him, he thinks. A few more steps bring him to a bend. He thinks there is a shadow hiding around it, he can hear the ragged breathing of someone anticipating smashing in his head. Silently, he counts to three and jumps around the corner, battle cry dying in his throat as he faces more nothingness. This whole setup is almost disappointing, but Ryan isn't stupid enough to wish that he should have more excitement. As it is, he doesn't think his heart can take another near scare.
Ahead of him he sees flickering light. He does not want the sad fact to be that he just walked in a circle and is now back where he started. Although, that would be in keeping with playing a game of a madman. Taking a deep breath—and almost choking on the still-thick air—Ryan bursts from the darkness, as if breaking free from a long submergence in a non-tangible liquid. He stops short, anger twisting his face into an ugly snarl.
In front of him is another circle with candles. It is exactly like the one he left not an hour ago. Except, in the center of this circle is a silver briefcase. The contents stir a morbid curiosity in Ryan that he is unable to easily brush aside—What is in the damn case? White arrows painted on the floor indicate that he should move into the circle. Despite the experience with the electrifying ankle bracelet, Ryan disobeys the instructions and begins moving to the side of the circle, attempting to find another way out.
He stops mid-stride when gunfire sounds and a hail of bullets rains down around him. Ryan freezes as they continue hammering the ground in front of him. The handle, dropped near his feet, explodes as bullets tear into it, showering his feet with chips. He backs up slowly, hissing in pain as one of the bullets—he'd call it stray, but he's sure it's hit its intended target—grazes his cheek, warm blood running down to stain his collar.
The next one will hit something major.
Ryan isn't sure if he imagined the words or not, but there is no mistaking the threat. He steps into the circle and drops to his knees next to the case. Almost immediately the bullets cease, leaving behind an awful silence that seems to suck the air out of his lungs. He takes a small breath, hoping to stave off another coughing fit from breathing in dust kicked up from the volley. He barely succeeds, clearing his throat many times before the tickle disappears. Under the case, discovered only because his OCD pings until he straightens it from its current angled position, are instructions to open the case and inject whatever is inside into a vein.
Mouse, he thinks, this is the thing you have to do.
He shifts, sitting back on his haunches, examining the case carefully because he thinks it might be booby-trapped. Nothing jumps out at him. No wires, no other obvious triggers. The clicks of the briefcase's locks sound incredibly loud to Ryan, especially in the aftermath of the bullets. Nestled in a bed of gray material are a syringe and a vial. Blood drips onto the clear liquid contained in a small, clear bottle. He touches his cheek, wincing as it stings. The graze reminds him that his chest was sliced open to paint the first sign. Ryan checks himself, cursing the unsanitary conditions of this place. Other than several shallow cuts and scratches, the skin seems unbroken, just smeared with dried blood and dust. He decides there is no way he is spending any more time unconscious with a man who has no qualms about hurting him.
The syringe, loaded with whatever sedative meant for him, will make an effective weapon if the bastard who abducted him gets close enough to stab. Gently, Ryan lifts the syringe, unsure if the case is rigged with a pressure plate. When no electricity, or other similarly unpleasant surprise, occurs he picks up the vial. The syringe is warm to the touch, the vial cold. It isn't easy to pull liquid into the syringe because his fingers are shaking. The air around him is cool, but not entirely uncomfortable. He isn't cold. He is scared that the man with the gun will shoot him before he can try to escape.
Ryan shifts, rising from a crouched position, syringe aimed at the sky, squirting briefly to clear air bubbles. In the other hand he holds the open briefcase. He counts to ten, placing the needle against his throat. As soon as he reaches "ten," he throws the briefcase in the direction of where the gunfire had come from and jumps to the other side, exiting the circle. The briefcase clinks as several bullets bite into the metal. Ryan runs without looking back. He is frightened, adrenaline pumps through his veins, keeps him hyperaware of the bullets kicking dirt into the air around him.
He tries to turn a corner, to squeeze between the wall of the maze and the warehouse's wall. He doesn't quite turn enough and becomes pinned between the two metal slabs. The needle stabs into his leg, but his luck isn't too bad as he's able to remove his finger from the plunger before any of the sedative is forced into him. From the depths of the crevice, a hand extends, a 9 millimeter Glock pressing into his forehead. His own gun.
"The syringe," the owner of the hand demands, finger settling on the trigger. Gun trumps needle every time. Ryan fumbles to release his hand so that he can relinquish control of the potential weapon. He finally is able to pull free so that he can move away from the darkened area, jerking the needle out. The syringe is picked out of his hand as the man steps from the crevice. Thin and tall. Blonde curls and red lips. Not what Ryan normally would expect from a kidnapper. The man must have hired muscle hiding somewhere. He does not have much time to reflect on what exactly the man plans on doing to him before the needles plunges into his neck and the cold liquid is released into his blood.
He steps back, sways, and then falls forward into the man's arms. The images before his eyes swim, blurring in and out of focus as he slowly loses consciousness. The last thing he sees is another needle flashing in front of his eyes before an abyss of nothingness swallows him and he slumps to the floor, the man singing a raspy lullaby that holds no comfort for his victim.