Author's Note: I've been really stressing over the season finale next week (eek!) and I am so worried, my friends make fun of me because I keep bringing it up in irrelevant conversation. Anyways, about this chapter: It's a little short, and I'm sorry but the next one's even shorter, but I promise we're nearing the good stuff. I apologize for the racial slurs. I hate them as much as the next person. I've run into my second rut in writing this story, but no fear because I tend to be quite good at extricating myself from these things. Also, I absolutely adore Merchant of Venice and I just had to write a paper all about Shylock. It's one of my favorite Shakespeare plays, well, that and Much Ado About Nothing so I couldn't get away without quoting it at least once (I end up quoting it twice in this chapter). The joys of being an English/Drama double major is you get to read a lot of Shakespeare.

And a thank you to Kegel, for being the only person commiserated with me and who didn't tell me to shut up when I rambled about how worried I was (am!) about the season finale.

And a shout-out to PisceanPal23 for having read a book that is on my list of resources/inspirations for this story (Elie Weisel's "Night"). Bravo!

"Every murder is an abominable act, but the act before us is more abominable sevenfold, because not only has the accused not expressed regret or sorrow, but he also seeks to show that he is at peace with himself over the act that he perpetrated. He who so calmly cuts short another's life, only proves the depth of wretchedness to which his values have fallen, and thus he does not merit any regard whatsoever, except pity, because he has lost his humanity."

Judge presiding over the trial of Yigal Amir, responsible for the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin

When the phone went dead, Sara's heart plummeted from her throat into the pit of her stomach and she was gripped with violent nausea. She folded her arms around her stomach, trying to quell the pains, but she felt like someone was putting a noose around her neck and was about to kick the chair out from under her.

A hand discreetly slipped its way into hers, and they interlaced fingers. She looked up to see Grissom fixing her with one of his hard stares. She wanted to cry. She wanted to talk to Nick. She wanted to know if Greg was alright, if Greg had heard what she'd wanted to tell him. She wanted to call back, she wanted to grab a gun and burst into the room and shoot everyone with a weapon and pull her boys close and never let them out of her sight ever again.

Her boys… Sara wasn't a possessive person, and Nick and Greg could always hold their own in any situation, but being a woman in a man's world, she often did consider any man she got close to, whether romantically or otherwise, to be in her charge. When they earned her fondness, she would joke with them. When fondness grew to respect, she would stand up for them. And when respect grew to love, she would go through hell and high water to keep them safe.

And it wasn't just Nick and Greg, but all her friends, her boys, that she would move mountains for. And Catherine, too. She laughed quietly to herself. In her mind, she had lumped Catherine into the category of "her boys." Because while Catherine had clear feminine characteristics, she could definitely give even the ballsiest man a run for his money.

"It's good to see you smile again," Grissom said quietly.

Sara blinked at him. She had forgotten where she was for a moment. "I was thinking about Catherine," she told him.

"Well, I can understand why she would make you laugh…" Grissom said sarcastically with a confused frown.

Sara shook her head. "Never mind," she told him.

"Look," Brass said from behind them both. "Greg just had to hang up the phone, Sara, we haven't heard any more gunshots, he and Nick are probably both fine." He looked down at his phone and opened it, turning away from Grissom and Sara. "Brass… What? Slow down, Sophia, you're not making any sense now… Three suspects? Catherine and Warrick, wait, what?... They did what to Catherine?! Son of a bitch… OK. Yeah. I get it, I'll be right over, and I'm bringing Sara with me."

He hung up and Sara blinked at him. "We have suspects?"

He smirked back at her, feeling hopeful for the first time all night. "We have suspects." He looked at Grissom. "You coming?"

Grissom looked at the phones and Agent Ripley, who was arguing with Steve and shook his head. "I'm going to stay here," he said, "and see if anything happens."

Brass looked at his watch. "Well…" he said. "It's 3:20. It'll take us half an hour to get to the lab. So call us, if you hear anything."

Grissom nodded. "I'll keep you posted."

"So let me get this straight," Sofia said, leaning back in her chair. "You three were out at three in the morning to beat up people who refused to buy you booze?"

"Hey, I'm not talkin' 'til I get a lawyer up in here, yo," said the kid, folding his arms.

"Derrick, answer the damn question," his father snapped. He then addressed Sofia. "I'm sorry he's being so insolent, he's not always like this." He looked back to his son. "I can't believe you were trying to get beer, you're sixteen!"

He rolled his eyes. "OK, fine, I was trying to score some, whatever."

"Judging by the marijuana we found on your person, you scored a lot more than just beer," Sofia said. "That's a class E felony, and a five thousand dollar fine, or up to four years in prison."

"And we'll pay it," Derrick's father said quickly. "We know he broke the law, but her doesn't need any jail time—"

"And he and his friends assaulted an officer," Sofia added.

Derrick's father sighed. "We'll pay the fine," he said. "Whatever it takes. I can afford it." The boy scoffed.

Sofia narrowed his eyes at him as Catherine stepped into the room, holding a swab. Sofia glanced at her, then back at the boy. "We're going to need your finger prints and a sample of your DNA."

"What is this for?" his father demanded, suddenly on the defensive. "We admitted to it, we said we'd cooperate and pay the fine, what do you need his DNA for?"

"Your son is a suspect in an ongoing murder investigation," Sofia explained.

The father leaned back in his chair, suddenly cold. "OK," he said. "Now, I do want a lawyer."

Brass watched Jason Baker intently. The boy looked stubborn as he sat with his father, who was also his lawyer, and neither one wanted to cooperate.

"My son was operating under the leadership of Derrick Letman," the father was saying. "He was pressured into joining them and forced to smoke marijuana, which is why you'll find it in his system."

"Even for a lawyer," Brass said, "you have to realize I wouldn't believe that story."

The door opened and Brass looked over his shoulder to see Sara standing there, a vacant expression on her features as she flipped the finger printing cards in her hands. Brass smiled at her, but she didn't return it. When he turned back to the lawyer and his son, his face was stern again. "We'll need your fingerprints and DNA," he said.

"On a possession charge?!" The lawyer was outraged. "No, and the marijuana wasn't even on Jason."

"Based on your son's shoes, and the shoes of his two friends, you're all suspects in a homicide investigation," Brass explained. "Now, open wide for the nice lady."
Jason's mouth remained stoutly shut, but he was eying Sara with curiosity and something else in his eye that Brass didn't quite like. His jaw clenched as he spoke evenly. "Mr. Baker, I assume you taught your son that the proper way to look at a lady is to look her in the eyes, and not anywhere south of there."

Sara was startled by this and she looked at Brass, her eyes as smooth as glass. She then looked back at the boy, completely unfazed.

Jason cracked an amused and twisted smile as he shrugged. "Well what can I say, when I'm sitting down and she's standing up, our eyes aren't exactly level with each other, are they Captain Brass?"

"See, Mr. Baker," Brass said to his father, "that doesn't sound like the words of a peer-pressured patsy to me."

"Well what do you expect, he's still high," Mr. Baker replied angrily.

"Not that I have much experience in the matter, but that kind of attitude doesn't strike me as one under the influence of Mary Jane," Brass said, folding his arms.

The father was not amused. "Can we please do this in the morning, when he's sober again?"

"No." It was the first time Sara had spoken, and the singular word carried so much authority, even Brass wouldn't have dared question it.

"I urge you to give her your DNA now, Jason," Brass said to the kid. He looked at his father. "You don't want to violate a court order."

Jason looked at his father, who nodded and Jason opened his mouth, giving Sara a suggestive wink, which she dutifully ignored. She swabbed his mouth and then pushed a fingerprint card over to him and began to ink his fingers. She looked up from her task only once, and that was to look at Brass, whose eyes she could feel on her like her own clothes. Their gaze had met for a moment or so, until Sara had finally looked away again and continued in printing the suspect.

He was concerned for her. She had barely said two sentences since talking to Greg on the phone, and now simply being in her presence was like visiting Antarctica in the winter, frozen and surreal, and devoid of the sun. The silent ride back to the lab had been bad enough, but even now her presence was imposing, and it unnerved him gravely.

She knew that he was worried, but she also knew he had no reason to be. She had simply stopped talking because she had run out of things to say. The only thing that mattered was solving the case so she could save the people inside that community center, whether that included Nick and Greg or not.

She had finally done what Grissom had wanted of her all along. She had shed her emotional involvement like an unneeded coat and prepared herself to face the cold winter alone. Now she just needed to get it done.

And even though this was probably for the better, this fact scared Sara more than anything else.

Sofia entered the last interrogation room to see the kid sitting in a chair. He seemed disappointed somewhat, his iPod plugged into his ears and his eyes looked far away. She slowly took her seat and looked at him for a long time.

"Where're your parents?"

"They don't care," he said, trying to sound calm. "I tried to tell you that when you called them. You left a message on the machine, I'm guessing? I can tell you where they are, where they are right now. They're on a cruise in Barbados. Would you believe they didn't even tell me they were leaving? I came home from baseball practice today and all I got was a note on the fridge. 'Bye Trevor, going to Barbados, see you in two weeks after the cruise!' Is that anyway to say goodbye to your son?"

Sofia cocked an eyebrow. "Are you trying to say that neglect drove you to drugs?"

The kid shrugged, looking dejected. "People have turned to them for less, haven't they?"

Sofia slid a photograph of Farah Ibrahim across the table. "Did it drive you to murder?"

The kid jumped out of his chair and backed up against the wall. "Jesus, ma'am!" he exclaimed. "Don't show me that shit, that shit is gross!"

Sofia pulled the photos back and glanced down at them. "Does it startle you, seeing a dead body?"

The kid blinked at her before he started chortling lightly. The quiet chuckles turned into loud laughter until he was nearly doubled over with fits over something he apparently found to be very hilarious. When he finally calmed down he straightened and shook his head at Sofia, a small smile on his features. "I don't care about dead bodies," he said. "I just don't like seeing sand monkeys like that, dead or alive."

Sofia focused on keeping her breaths even and regular as she looked at the photos, then up at the kid in front of her. "Mr. Savage, I think you're going to want a lawyer."

Greg dug deep in the ice chest and pulled out a soda, not caring particularly about the brand of it. He just needed something to wash the metallic taste out of his mouth. No matter what he did, he couldn't seem to rid himself of the blood that seemed to linger on his taste buds. It opened with a hiss and he held the can to his lips. It was cold and he relished it momentarily before gulping down the insides. Afterwards, he held the can against his now swollen cheek where Ali had pistol whipped him earlier. He smiled at the welcome numbness it brought before leaning against the wall and sliding down.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" came a voice from beside him. "I didn't even realize I was thirsty until I gulped down a soda myself."

Greg turned to see Amira Osman smiling broadly at him. "Yeah," he said. "It's refreshing."

"Hassan always has to be taking care of someone," Amira explained quietly. "He is hospitable by nature." Greg looked at her questioningly and she suddenly seemed to remember something. "He, uh… He is my brother in law. Hassan." She nodded at Mask and Greg's jaw dropped.

"He's Farah's husband?!" Greg hissed, as though he'd just heard the juiciest piece of gossip in the world. Amira closed her eyes and nodded. "Wow…" He looked at Amira. "So… Why is he doing this? He has kids, doesn't he? Why does he have to risk his life… for this?"

A soft smile tugged at the corner of Amira's mouth. "If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. The villainy you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction."

Greg let out a low sigh. "That sounds so familiar. If only I read more books."

"Or watched more plays," Amira said.

Greg looked at her and smirked. "Shylock," he said. "Merchant of Venice?"

"You are clever after all," Amira laughed.

"You ever doubted it?" Greg jested, but then rolled his eyes. "Nah, actually, I think Griss— my supervisor once spouted it to me. You know, he would like you. Quoting Shakespeare like you do."

Amira sighed. "Well, you know, Shylock was a Jew. One might call my quoting of him… ironic, in some respects. Considering our situation."

"Yeah, I didn't know that," Greg admitted. "See, Grissom would have known. He's a walking encyclopedia. Knows everything there is to know about everything." Greg quavered slightly as he hesitated, and when he spoke again, he sounded mournful. "For instance… he would… He would know what to do right now. He would handle it well. Better than I am, anyway."

Amira smiled warmly at him. "You are doing very well indeed, Mr. Sanders," she assured him.

"He wouldn't shoot you, would he?" Greg asked, suddenly changing the subject. "Mas—I mean, Hassan. Hassan wouldn't shoot you, right, because you're Farah's sister. You share half her genes. You're the aunt of his children. He wouldn't shoot you." By the end of this, Greg sounded as though he had convinced himself of this.

But Amira folded her arms and shook her head. "I don't know anymore, to be honest. He's gone cold and when I try to touch him, he turns my fingers to ice. He is not the man I knew before my sister died… But I also know that he is tired of death. He has seen it his whole life. I don't doubt that he is willing to die tonight."

"He's not a terrorist," Greg whispered.

"You don't think so?" Amira asked, curious.

"No, I don't," Greg replied. "A terrorist… Well, I mean, there are all kinds of them, aren't there? Like suicide bombers and such… they do things because they're told to by men in higher positions than they are, brainwashers, and they do it for the greater good, or what they think is the greater good, because they think they'll get their seventy-two virgins and severely damage what they think is the enemy. They do it out of hate, or out of duty, or out of blind loyalty. And then there's the ones like Ali, who cause terror to get their point across, to be specific. They tend to talk more, as opposed to just rushing in and blowing things up. They want people to know who they are and what they're doing. But they also do it out of hate, and duty. They do it because they feel it needs to be done, because they crave vengeance on the entities they think are trying to destroy or undermine them. Either way, all of them have one thing in common and that is that they hate their targets so much they are willing to die if they take out a good number of innocents with them. Your brother-in-law isn't like that. He has a family. He has children. He needs to care for people…" Greg licked his chapped lips. "No. No, I think you're wrong, I think he doesn't want to die tonight. I just think he wants his wife back."

Greg tensed as Ali strode forward and up onto the stage. He looked around him with contempt carved into his stony features. He grabbed a nearby hostage, someone Greg didn't know, a young man who was clutching a Star of David in his hands desperately.

A girl reached out to him and cried out, "Kyle, no!"

But Ali did not heed her cries as he threw the boy down, took out his gun, and without another word bored a hole through his skull.

Everyone looked up at the noise the gun had made, but no one seemed to do more than start a little at the loud sound. They had been desensitized to the noise as the hours progressed, and had even learned to block out the occasional sobbing or screams of denial from the other hostages who may have known whoever had been sacrificed for the cause.

In this instance, the mourner was a young twenty-something thing who found herself wracked with grief at the sight of her friend's brains all over the floor. She looked up at Ali, with fury burning her fair features. He looked down at her nonchalantly, as though he was barely worth the minute attention he was showing her. She glared at him before spitting on his shoes.

"I thought Islam preached peace," she hissed at him, the tears streaking down his face. "I thought that murder wasn't one of the five pillars of Islam! The profession of faith, ritual prayer, charity, fasting and the pilgrimage don't seem to leave room for slaughtering innocents! What about the Zakat? What about mercy? Where are these teachings in you're radical beliefs?!"

He looked down at his shoes, the white frothy saliva trickling down the cool leather, then up at her face before turning away from her again. He stopped when she threw her shoe at his back, but he didn't turn around.

"You're all the same," she sobbed. "I thought that you could be different, but you're all the same! Empty inside! Tearing everyone else to shreds because you can no longer feel anything at all! You… You brown piece of shit!"

He went frigid at that phrase and looked down at his feet. Greg wished he could see his eyes when he spoke. "Mislike me not for my complexion," he whispered. "The shadowed livery of the burnished sun, to whom I am a neighbor and near bred. Bring me the fairest creature northward born, where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles, and let us make incision for your love, to prove whose blood is reddest."

She quaked on the spot with rage and grief as she stared at him in disbelief, but he did not turn to face her again. Instead, he simply walked away towards the microphone and lifted it to his lips again as he addressed his attentive audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said calmly. "Murderer," he added. "I appeal to your own survival instincts. It is now 4:00AM. You just witnessed the fifth hourly death, and now, I am too tired of this. I'm sorry, but impatience is a terrible flaw, and I cannot wait until eleven o'clock for the man I want to admit his crime. So I propose this last chance, for all of you. Either the man I want confesses now, or—" Ali drew his gun, aimed it at the sobbing girl, and fired three shots into her body before it fell to the floor. "I'll be killing someone every five minutes."