Usual disclaimers.

The black SUV stopped on a quiet street. The driver and front passenger exited the vehicle first, and then gave a signal of some sort. The next thing Chase knew, she was being dragged out of the vehicle and shoved forward onto a dry, dying patch of grass.

"Keep moving, and no tricks," her new captor hissed into her ear as he kept shoving her. "Or this little prize'll come in rather handy." Chase drew in a sharp breath as the man quickly revealed the sight of a familiar handgun that rested snugly on his belt.

Shot with my own 'Hector,' the woman thought bitterly. At least Kyle and Ollie will be able to trace it…

The dead grass gave way to a large back stoop, and Chase was pushed inside the building and compelled down a hallway. A tall staircase loomed at the end of the hall, and she tried to resist the unspoken order to climb the stairs.

"Move, bitch," her new captor barked. "Now."

Resignedly, Chase did as she was told. Another long hallway produced a small door on the left, and Chase was hastily shoved into the room. The force of the shove knocked her off-balance, and the investigator fell into a heap on the wooden floor. A muffled cry signaled the pain that was starting to grow on her right hip from falling hard onto it.

"Get up," the man snapped, reaching for her shoulder. Chase shied away, moving ever so slowly away from the hand that meant to grab her. Using her feet, she pushed herself across the floor, wincing as her hands scraped the rough floor underneath her. The abused extremities of her arms were securely bound behind her back, and with every centimeter she moved the pain they suffered intensified.

A glower fell over her new captor's face. "Pick her up," he barked, looking up for a second. Suddenly two large men seized her by the arms and hauled Chase up from the floor, standing her precariously in front of them. "Over there," the leader said, pointing to a large rocking chair. The woman soon found herself sitting in the noted piece of furniture, her upper arms bound to the back slats that made up the chair frame. Her legs were bound to a crossbar that spread and supported the rocking beams underneath, rendering her immobile. "Just in case you got ideas," the leader said, smiling a little.

Chase wanted to shout at the man. She wanted to scream for help or find some way to alert someone to what was happening, but the thick cloth wedged inside her mouth made her as unintelligible as ever. The investigator settled for glaring at the men with her eyes, hoping that her feelings on the subject were made plain by her dark looks.

"All right," the leader of the crew said lightly, as though mocking a small child. "Maybe once you settle in, we'll have us a nice chat."

Jesus Christ, is that what everyone in this scheme wants to do? Talk? Chase rolled her eyes, as though saying she'd heard it all before. the action earned her a strong slap to the face, and as she reeled from the strike a pair of strong fingers held her chin tightly.

"Keep pissin' me off, and you'll suffer for it," her captor promised. "Buyer wants you alive, but that don't mean you have to be in pristine condition."

Worried what that particular statement might mean, Chase sank back into the chair in defeat. The fingers released her jawbone, and a pair of dark eyes took what seemed like a 'final assessment' of his men's handiwork. "Come on," he said finally. "We'll give the lady some time to think. I doubt she'll be going far."

Chase's eyes narrowed again as the small group laughed. She stared down at her feet as the door swung shut, and she heard a lock being thrown into place. Silver bands circled her ankles—a new pair of handcuffs having replaced the ones these men had managed to break off the bed in the house before. Snapped 'em like a twig, she thought harshly, thinking of the cost that had gone into having them customized to prevent such a thing from happening. Then again, bolt cutters do come in handy…

Her ankles felt like chewed leather. Chase's own cuffs—the parts that had encircled her ankles—still remained on her legs, now supporting the newer pair that imprisoned her. "Stupid crackwhores got one thing right," her present captor had commented as his men put them on her while he'd held her jaw tight. "Now even if you manage to get out of that chair, you won't be going far."

The woman heaved a frustrated sigh. I was so close, she thought. Now I've got to try all over again.

Polished jade-like eyes took in the small room. It looked as though it had at one time been some sort of lady's sitting room or a parlor; the furnishings were limited to the rocking chair and a chaise lounge, a small table that served as a sideboard, and a large hanging mirror on one wall. The walls were white with a china-blue trim, and the space had dust thick enough to coat a battleship with.

Chase tried to keep her breathing quiet as she strained her ears to gain any audio cues as to where she was now being held. The sound of birds chirping nearby told her that there was at least a tree or an electrical wire somewhere close—the place wasn't that isolated. The short walk inside had only given her a view of a couple roofs in the distance and lots of fencing. Below her, she could make out the sounds of muted voices floating through the wooden floors, though the conversation still remained a mystery.

Maybe their getting the call from their buyer, she worried. I can't let them complete the deal…

Determined, Chase began pulling on her bonds, hoping that at least one of the henchmen had done a sloppy job in tying the knots. After a few minutes, she cried out in frustration as she realized that the knots were more than solid and tight. Now what? she thought.

-----

Downstairs, Monet paced the bare living room. The snatch hadn't been pretty, and he was trying to figure out what to do with the piles of bloody clothes he and his boys had on them. He'd sent two of his employees in to shower, as the blood spray had gotten over every inch of their upper halves, and two more were taking the car to get professionally detailed.

"What's the story?" Moshu had asked as Monet tossed him the keys.

"Tell 'em there was an accident or something," Monet snapped. "Guy up the road, he knows to keep his mouth shut."

Moshu left, taking one of the other men with him. At least that's taken care of, the man thought. Now about this dame…she better be worth a lot, after what I had to put up with to get her.

Suddenly one of the men came out, toweling off a shock of black hair. "Shower's free, boss," he said. "Look like you could use one."

"Thanks for the commentary," Monet spat. Shrugging, the man continued toweling his hair, settling into an old wooden chair. Monet sighed and headed for the bathroom. "Let me know if that phone rings," he said, catching the man's attention. "If we miss the buyer's call, this'll all have been for nothing."

"No problem, boss," the stocky man said simply. With that, Monet closed the door to the bathroom and started to shower, a change of clothes being brought by one of his other 'boys.'

-----

A door slammed shut, startling Chase out of her fitful doze. "Wakey wakey, bitch," her captor cooed, drawing closer to her. Heaving deep breaths through her nose, she winced as the sticky packing tape was removed from her mouth and the cloth removed.

"Now, you're going to tell me what you were doing at that buy the other day," the man said, his voice full of confidence. Chase panted a little, drinking in the cool air she'd been denied so long.

"No," she breathed.

"No?"

Chase shook her head. "I tell you, you kill me. I can do the math too."

"Well, look at that. A smart broad as well." Chase winced as her face was struck again. "Here's how it works—you tell me what I want to know, and maybe you don't hurt as much when you move on, you understand?"

"You really think it makes a difference?" Chase spat. "Either way, I'm dead, and it more than likely won't be pleasant."

"Makes you think that?"

"Only two reasons a third-party wants to have a chat with someone during a buy, genius," Chase taunted. She was boiling with rage at her treatment over the last few days. "They want information, or they want to stay a step ahead of someone else. Either way, the messenger doesn't fare well."

"Bitch, I've about had enough of your mouth," the man shouted, pulling out Chase's 'Hector' and pointing it right at her. Chase immediately fell silent. She knew what 'Hector' was capable of. "Oh, now you decide to do what you're told?" he mocked, waving the large barrel menacingly towards her.

"Don't," Chase breathed, afraid he might pull the trigger. The thought of being shot to death with her very favorite gun terrified her—especially since she knew what her 'Hector' could do to a person. "Please…you don't want to do that…"

"What does it matter to me?" the man chortled, enjoying the look of fear that Chase knew was plastered all over her face. "Like you said, you're probably dead anyway."

Thinking fast, Chase blurted out, "I-If you shoot me, a-and I die, your…your buyer won't be very happy…"

The two locked gazes for a long moment. Monet was boiling inside as he knew his prisoner was right, and Chase was desperately hoping that her words were true. Finally Monet lowered the gun, settling for a punch to Chase's stomach, making her splutter and cough. "Serves you right, bitch," he snarled, turning on his heel. "Maybe in a bit you'll be more talkative. Like I said, you don't have to be healthy to make my buyer happy—just alive."

"Chase," she coughed loudly.

"What?"

"My name is Chase, not 'bitch'." Monet heard her heaving deep breaths in an attempt to regain the oxygen he'd knocked out of her.

"The fuck I care what your name is? Few more hours and you won't be my problem." Monet stormed out the door, slamming it so hard it shook on its hinges and threw the lock, once again trapping her inside.

It's not like I could break it anyway, Chase mused sadly as she tried in vain to release her bound hands. The knots in the cord were just too tight, and the tape from earlier was holding as fast as ever.

-----

Kyle followed Adam as the lab tech made his way through the maze of hallways that made up the Medical Examiner's offices, not taking his eyes off the man for fear of getting lost. How on earth do they find their way anywhere in this place? he wondered as he tried to keep pace. Soon the pair came up on a large glass-walled room where several large metal tables sat filled to capacity. Two men were standing over one of the bodies—one long and thin and very animated, the other more cautious and reserved.

"Hey Sid, Dr. Hawkes," Adam said meekly.

"Adam? What brings you to see me?" Sid asked, a surprised smile on his face.

"Actually, he did," the tech admitted, motioning towards Kyle. The silent man was carefully looking over the body, making certain not to touch anything that might be important. "This is Kyle Parker."

"One of the private investigators Mac told us about," Hawkes said, watching the sandy-haired man with interest. "Nice to meet you."

"Oh, uh, Kyle here—he's deaf," Adam explained as Kyle continued his 'unofficial' examination of the body in question. "I-I don't think he saw you…"

Hawkes moved closer to the man, tapping him on the shoulder. The shock of being startled from his concentration made Kyle jump backwards a little in surprise, accidentally knocking into the former ME. –Sorry,-- the deaf man signed, taking his closed fist and circling it around his heart once.

"It's okay," Hawkes said slowly, remembering he had to speak clearly.

--"Did I touch anything?"—

Both Sid and Hawkes shook their heads. "You came down to observe?" Sid asked.

--I can't sit upstairs and wait. I'm going insane. Is there anything you can tell me? Something these people might have been able to tell us about where my friend is?-- When all three men in the room looked at Kyle as though he were beamed in from another planet, he copied down his sentiments onto his borrowed notepad. He added in the margin I can read your lips. Just talk clearly and look at me when you talk.

"Well, here's what I can add," Sid began, gearing up. "This man here put up a bit of a fight. Defensive wounds on the hands and the shins—someone kicked him at some point. I found traces of a white powder inside the nasal cavities…"

--Coke?-- Adam translated Kyle's question, and the investigator gave him the thumbs-up sign when Sid continued.

"Possibly." The coroner handed Adam an evidence bindle. "Not my department. But if I were to guess…"

Kyle shrugged. –Good enough for me.—

"There's also evidence of track marks along the arms, but they're fairly old. Nothing new. See the pattern of the bruising along the arms and the legs?"

Both Adam and Kyle leaned in to take a look. "Someone took swings at this guy?"

"Yellow coloration of the bruises says they're at least two days old," Hawkes offered.

--Maybe Chase hit this guy as he was taking her?— Kyle postulated. –I mean, she doesn't just let people take her…--

"Well, no one does," Sid said. "I mean, if that were the case…"

Kyle shook his head and reached for his notebook. No. She wouldn't let someone grab her and not put up a fight—weapons pointed at her or not. She's a fighter in every sense of the word. She'd try to talk them out of it, or fight her way out of it, but she wouldn't just willingly go—not if she thought it was a situation she couldn't control.

Hawkes looked at Kyle questioningly. "This kind of thing has happened before, hasn't it?"

A pair of hands held themselves outward, palms up, wiggling as though they were mimicking a set of balance scales. –Maybe.—

The young doctor let the answer slide for the moment.

"I also found trace on his clothes—sent that up to Lindsay as well as the clothes—and, of course, the COD." Sid extracted a bloodstained bullet out of a small petri dish. ".32 caliber, I'd guess."

Adam took the bullet as well, holding the dish in his gloved hands. "Pretty banged up," he said, "but I think I see striations that are intact."

"And now for victim number two," Sid said, motioning the group towards a second body lying face-up on a metal table. "Meet Edward Proctor, age 24. COD is, like his friend, a gunshot wound, this time to the head." Sid carefully turned up the back of Proctor's head to show Adam and Kyle the wound. "Entered through near the base of the head and came out the right temple."

"How does a shot like that happen?" Adam wondered, perplexed. "I mean, you'd think the vic would be running from the bullet…"

"Don't know," Hawkes. "Unless…"

"What?" Kyle's voice was thick and fuzzy, but his sentiment came through.

"I don't know. Not yet."

The sandy-haired man stared at the wound track, as though getting an idea. Without warning, he quickly fell onto the ground, pointing a pencil upwards towards Adam's head. –Like this,-- he said finally. –Whoever shot this man fell on the floor…maybe in the fight?—

"Could be," Hawkes agreed. "We'll know more during reconstruction, but yeah, that could explain it."

"I also found track marks, powder in the nostrils, all the hallmarks of a user like his friend," Sid added. "Clothes and shoes went up to trace."

"Hopefully Lindsay found something on the clothes," Adam said. "Thanks, Sid."

"Anytime." To Kyle he said, "It was nice meeting you. I hope you find your friend all right."

--Me too,-- Kyle replied. –Thank you, doctor.—

-----

"Ha!" Lindsay cried, her voice full of triumph. "We got him!"

"Oo?" Josh asked.

Lindsay grabbed a printout from the DNA printer and showed it to the agent. "See that?"

"Yes. What ees eet saying, Mlle. Monroe?"

"It's saying we have cause to get a warrant on Duchens," she chortled. "I've gotta call Mac…"

No sooner did Lindsay reach for her phone than the man in question stepped off the elevator, bringing Stella, Danny and Flack in tow. "Mac!" she cried, racing as fast as her swollen torso would allow her. "DNA confirms that our latest vics were in proximity to Caldwell Duchens—Josh and I found hairs on one of the vics' shirt that ties him to the scene in Queens."

"Calling it in now," Flack said, reaching for his phone. "Hopefully this guy's easy to track…"

"What else did you find?" the bubbly CSI asked, looking over the cart full of bagged evidence that Stella had wheeled up.

"Prints, blood, bullets—lots of bullets," Danny said. "I'm beginnin' to really hate ballistics, I gotta say."

"There was also a possible witness," Stella said as Mac headed quickly into his office to take a call. "Young girl, Mac says not more than about nineteen or twenty. Oliver Lawrence is at the hospital with her right now—she just got out of surgery."

"The gairl, she weel be all right?" Josh asked, concerned.

"Oliver said the doctors gave her a clean bill of health, but she's still sedated. He's waiting over there to take her statement."

Josh nodded. "Ce'st bon. Ees there anytheeng else you discovaired?"

"No explosives or traces of 'em, if that's what you're askin'," Danny said, taking a moment to hug Lindsay and run a finger discreetly over her abdomen. "Just a lot of dope."

"Explains one of our theories," Stella mused. "The explosives buy got interrupted by a drug buy, and there was a turf war."

"Weeth Mlle. Davis een the middle," Josh said simply. The Greek woman knew the giant man had a fondness for this young woman that was now missing—his being here to help with the search and the tone of his voice belied it. "Eef the exploseeves dealairs 'ave gotten thair 'ands on 'er…"

"We're running out of time," Stella finished. Quickly she moved the cart of evidence into trace, Danny and Lindsay following behind her. Josh meanwhile, had been watching Mac's expression as the man continued his phone call. Soon the lab supervisor was shouting into the end of the receiver, and Josh managed to pick up parts of the conversation. Whoever was on the other end was seriously angering the lead CSI, and Josh made a mental note to inquire about it later. If this is going to interfere with finding Mlle. Davis, I will try to put a stop to whatever it is, Josh decided. Something tells me there's an internal war here, and I plan to find out.