Author's Note: OK, well, my fears still haven't been put to rest regarding the finale, but it's good to see there are folks to commiserate with. So I just joined the tech crew for a show here at the U and it will make me VERY busy this week, which means updates may be scarcer, but I'll try to keep on schedule. Also, I'm at the same place writing wise as I was on Thursday, but hopefully there won't be much of a delay there. If I find myself far behind, I'll space my updates (sorry folks!) but I assure you that everything will get written and posted, and the longest I'll make you wait for a chapter is 48 hours. I have a clear view of what I'm doing, I just need to untangle the spiderwebs in my head and also find the time between Marisol (the play I'm in), Touch (the play I'm crewing), my classes and failing English to write it down (yes, I do believe I have a 2.0 in English, but that's just TMI).

Arabic Lesson of the Day: "Sharmoota" is an insult used against women, and most closely corresponds with the English "whore" or "bitch." "Ukthi" is "my sister" and "Akhi" (used previously, in "War Zone" if I recall right) is "my brother." OK, there you go.

"I guess this is what you call a crisis, an emotional meeting between two minds. No one wins except the people on the outside. But we both know where this is heading, we both know how this will end. In bitter tears, forgotten years, and centuries of regret."

Steven Salisbury, "Crisis" from the album Letters From Alfred Brown, go to MySpace-Dot-Com/StevenSalisbury to hear the song.

Warrick was sitting outside the interrogation rooms, breathing into his cupped hands. His head hurt, and he felt sea sick. He wished he could sober up faster. He was no use to the team drunk and he despised that fact. He wanted to be in there, with those suspects, collecting evidence like Sara and Catherine. He wanted to be doing something, anything other than sitting there like a useless idiot.

"Relax," came a voice from beside him. "Cath and Sara are good at what they do, they'll compare the evidence and come up with something, and they wouldn't have done it any faster with you on it with them. I mean, come on, 'Rick, let's face it, the women are the ones who really keep this world turning, aren't they? Us men are just along for the ride, hoping to God to learn something from their brilliance."

"Since when did you become a feminist, Nick?" Warrick sighed.

"Since you started having schizophrenic delusions," Nick returned. "You don't look too good, buddy."

"I'm drunk," Warrick said with an angry laugh. "And I'm useless. I failed you, Nick. You and Greg both, and all because I just couldn't handle it." He looked up at his hallucination. "I'm sorry I didn't… do anything. To help you."

"You called Sofia," Nick pointed out. "In fact, if you hadn't gone to that bar, then Catherine would have never gone to pick you up, and those punks would have never attacked her. So in a way, Warrick, you played the most important role in this. You found the suspects."

"So what are you really?" Warrick asked. "The embodiment of my sense of reason?"

"Nah," Nick said with a grin. "Nah, Warrick, your reason abandoned you ages ago, on about your third shot I'd say. No, I'm just something you thought up to keep yourself company. I'm an embodiment of denial, because you just want to think that I took the night off, that I'm really playing hookie or in bed with the flu or sleeping with the finest chick, and that's why I'm not with you right now. I look like this…" He gestured at his healthy body and his vibrant eyes. "Because you don't want to see me looking like this." His image changed, and a wound materialized in the middle of his forehead, a black dot growing and pouring out crimson as it dripped down the bridge of his nose and a drop of it clung desperately to the end of it before Nick wiped it away like a bead of sweat.

Warrick looked away from him sharply, clenching his jaw so tight he thought it would never open again. He spoke through gritted teeth. "Stop it."

"No," Nick said, causing Warrick to turn to this talking corpse, stunned.

"What?"

"Because you need to see me like this, Warrick," he replied, the blood still gushing from his wound. "You need to think about what you'll do if this is what I look like the next time you see me. So you don't cry, or vomit, or break down. So you can keep up the pretense that you're a tough guy. Leave the crying to Catherine and Sara, you know. You can take out your frustrations later, by beating the shit out of a punching bag, or going to a firing range. You ever wonder why women are less violent than men? It's because they express themselves. We don't. Our emotions are channeled through our violence. Because that's just how we are. So while we're beating up our pillows, or heaven forbid someone who doesn't deserve it, the women go about cleaning up after us, making sure our worlds keep spinning. Have you called Tina yet?"

"You know damn well I haven't," Warrick snapped.

The blood began to drip into Nick's eyes and he wiped it away, smearing it all over his jeans with his hands as though he didn't care about the stains it left behind. "Or what if it wasn't just me," Nick said. "What if it was Greg, too? Or… or instead. What if instead of my face, you stared into his dead eyes? You couldn't handle that either."

"You won't get shot," Warrick whispered, his voice quaking. "You're too smart to get your ass shot. You'll get out of this, Nick. You and Greg both."

"And if we don't?"

Warrick didn't answer.

Nick sighed and the wound in his head healed miraculously. "You're going to have to face it sometime, Warrick. Because I may only be a figment of your imagination, but I can tell you this. People have died tonight. And even when this night ends, it's still going to be far from over. You know that."

Warrick rubbed his eyes with his hand. "Go away, Nick," he said. "Please."

"Talking to yourself again?"

Warrick looked up at Catherine who was standing in front of him with arms folded, her gaze hardened by a long night's work. He looked to his side and saw that his delusion had vanished again, back into the depths of his imagination, and he was glad for it. He turned once more to Catherine and shrugged.

"I'm tired, Catherine," he said.

"Someone should take you home," she whispered.

"I'd rather stay here," he replied.

"There's nothing you can do here," Catherine told him.

"I know," Warrick said. "And I hate that." He looked at her hands. "What have you got there?"

Catherine looked down at the files she held. "The results for the DNA and fingerprint comparison with our suspects."

"And?"

She smiled sadly. "It's a match. The semen in her stomach belonged to Derrick Letman. We found hairs from Jason Baker, and the prints on the purse matched Trevor Savage."

"Wasn't there a third… I mean, a fourth attacker?" Warrick asked, trying to sift through the shifting fogs in his head.

"Yeah, and none of the boys are talking," Catherine said. "They claim there was no forth participant, just the three of them. Hell, Savage is bragging that he did the whole thing by himself. It's disgusting."

"But it was Letman's semen in her stomach?" Warrick asked. "Sounds to me like he was the brains behind this operation."

But Catherine was shaking his head. "No, I think it's Savage. He's got a complex or something, a, uh, a very negative image of Arabs. Even Letman claims it was Savage's idea, Letman just took the lead."

"And what's Baker saying?" Warrick asked.

"Aw, he's claiming he never touched her," Catherine said. "Of course it's only convenient for him that all we found was a hair. As of yet, his lawyer who also happens to be his father claims we can't charge him with more than an accessory."

"Great," Warrick said. "And now what are we going to do with all this information? We call, they say they're going to kill somebody."

Catherine sighed. "I don't know, Warrick, but we did what they told us to do. Grissom's gotten a hold of Nick on his cell phone once or twice, Brass told me, so maybe—"

"Grissom talked to Nick?" Warrick felt immediately sober. "What? When? Why didn't he tell me?"

"You were drunk," Catherine said with a shrug. "And he was… busy."

"I told him to call me with updates," Warrick said.

"Your phone was stolen!" Catherine exclaimed, throwing her arms in the air. "I mean… What the hell, Warrick! Did you even know that Derrick Letman was the one who stole your phone?"

Warrick's head began to throb as he buried his face in his hands. He didn't want to talk to Catherine anymore. "So… what, are you going to call Nick and pray that he can relay the information? How the fuck is he going to do that, Catherine, without getting himself shot?"

Catherine looked away from Warrick, examining an ant as it crawled across the floor. She wondered where the other ants were. Where there's one ant, there's a whole colony following the scent trail it left behind. She seemed to recall that lesson from her childhood, but could easily remember hearing Grissom repeating the information in her ear at some point in their career together. Grissom… He hadn't left the scene at all, always by the van, with the negotiators, by the phones… He probably wanted to be the first to know if/when Nick or Greg got shot, so he could tell his team, so the bad news could come from a friend instead of a callous FBI agent.

As if she summoned him with her thoughts, her phone sang out loudly from her pocket and she quickly reached down to answer when she stopped suddenly. She had noticed the subtle difference in Warrick's composure. He was making absolutely no noise, and she couldn't see his face, but she saw his back move up and down in staccato motions as he soundlessly and secretly dealt with his demons.

She held the ringing phone as it vibrated in her hand, staring at her friend, drunk with helpless fear as he tried to drown it with the whiskey and tequila which mingled on his breath. She reached out a gentle hand and rested it on his back, which only seemed to worsen matters as he let out the smallest, breathless gasp that betrayed his true emotions. She glanced at her phone again which continued to vie for her attention like a whining child calling for its mother. With a sad smile at Warrick, she held the phone up to her ear.

Her voice sounded softly over the wire. "Willows."

"Four shots have been fired in the past five minutes," Grissom was saying quickly. "Tell me you have something we can use."

"Four shots?!" Catherine exclaimed in disbelief. "But Grissom, what good will the evidence—"

"Tell me that you have something Catherine, I don't have time for incredulity!" Grissom barked.

Catherine swallowed and for the first time realized that her throat was dry and constricted. "Uh… you heard that I pulled in—"

"Don't tell me what I already know, Catherine, tell me the new information you have for me," Grissom interrupted. "Can you tie any of them to the murder? Any of them at all?"

"Yes," Catherine said firmly. "Yes, all three, all fucking three of them were there, but Grissom, we're still short one attacker!"

"It doesn't matter," Grissom said. "I'm calling them."

"But they said if you called again—"

"They just fired four shots in the span of five minutes, Catherine, at this point I don't think he's playing games anymore." Grissom sounded like he was beginning to panic. How peculiarly un-Grissom like.

Catherine suddenly heard a faint bang on the other end of the phone. She held her breath. "Grissom, was that—"

"No," Grissom sighed, sounding agitated. "Steve dropped his headset."

In the background, Catherine heard someone chirp, "Sorry!"

She rolled her eyes and willed her body to relax. "Shit, Grissom, I'm going to be jumping at banging sounds for the rest of my fucking life—" BANG! "What the fuck was that?!"

At first, Grissom didn't reply right away, but then, "That… was… a gunshot."

Simon jumped to his feet the minute Ali shot the third person in five minutes. He had been an older man, in his mid to late forties probably, with graying hair. His wife, or the person Simon had assumed was his wife, was sobbing quietly to herself.

"That's enough, man," Simon said sternly through gritted teeth. "Stop killing these people! You want a killer? Then shoot me, alright, but no one else in this room has ever taken another person's life."

Nick saw Greg tense involuntarily at this statement, then focused on Simon again. He hoped Greg kept his contradictory thoughts to himself. Nick knew exactly what the lieutenant was doing: being a hero. And if anyone in the room was capable of it, it was him. A marine. A man who knew what he was doing in a time of crisis. Not Greg, and definitely not Nick.

Ali pointed his gun at Simon calmly. "You're asking to be next, my friend," he said coldly.

Nick felt someone squeezing his hand and looked down to see a desperate Claire, her eyes squeezed shut tight, the ice completely melted on a forehead drenched in sweat and cold water. When she opened her blue eyes again, they were terrified. Nick forced a smile and stroked the hair plastered to her forehead away from her eyes.

"You'll be OK, Mrs. Berkowitz," he whispered.

"Call me Claire."

"These people are not your enemy," Simon continued. "Why do you insist on picking fights with folks who got no beef with you?"

"You think because you are an amputee you can gain sympathy from me?" Ali spat. "You are a puppet of American propaganda, a walking, breathing instrument of manipulation and control."

"I am a proud member of the US Marine Corps," Simon whispered, his voice low and angry. "And while I may not agree with a lot of things that I've done for its government, I have never once lost faith in America. Because overall, we are a damn good country, and we have our flaws like any other, but we've come so far in the measly two-hundred years we've been in existence, and dammit, I'm proud of that fact. I love my country just as much as you love Palestine, and I am willing to die for it, just like you. Do I think we're perfect? Not by a long shot, but we know how to come together in a crisis, and we know how to stand up for ourselves, and we sure as hell know the definition of 'family' and we're willing to fight for it. I am nobody's tool but my own, and I'm trained in nearly every form of combat you could name. If there weren't civilians at risk, you better believe I would have your ass in a sling by now. And if you think this is the first time I have put my life on the line for my comrades, you are mistaken, my friend. So do you really think I'm afraid of you?"

Ali clutched his gun firmly.

"Habibi, please," Amira begged in a soothing voice. "These people—"

"You shut your mouth, sharmoota!" Ali barked.

"No one talks to my wife that way," Kareem growled, standing by Amira's side.

Ali called to his men, and two of them pointed their guns at Kareem and Amira. "You traitors," he whispered. "Traitors to your faith and to your own family."

Tears were streaking down Amira's face as she clutched at her heart. "Please," she begged with Ali. "Please, I have already lost a sister and my best friend tonight, can't you understand that, Ali? She was all I had left, our parents are dead, and now she is too. I was grieving already before you and Hassan and your brainwashed followers barged into our place of peace and started massacring my friends. And so…" She fell to her knees, staring up at Ali with glowing brown eyes, magnified behind her tears. "I offer myself to you, and to Allah, as a sacrifice for peace."

Ali looked at Simon, and then at Amira. He barked another order to his men and three guns were aimed at Simon before Ali aimed his gun instead at Amira, his eyes narrow slits in his stony face. "Remember, Amira, that I have no qualms in killing you," he said evenly.

"I know that," Amira said bravely. "I am not asking you to shoot me." She looked past him, her eyes resting on Hassan. "I am asking him to shoot me."

Ali frowned and glanced over his shoulder. He said something to Hassan in Arabic, and Hassan simply shrugged in reply. He turned back to Amira, shaking his head at her.

"You are a silly, silly girl, Amira Osman," he said quietly.

"You can kill me without question," Amira said softly. "Can you say the same about your brother? Is he devoted to the cause like you are?"

"How dare you make such accusations against your own kin," Ali hissed.

"He would never kill a woman," Amira said. "Least of all his own sister-in-law."

Slowly, Hassan reached up and took off his mask as he looked at Amira with pleading eyes. He said something to her soothingly in Arabic, called her "Ukhti."

She smiled at him and shook her head. "So you finally show yourself, my brother," she whispered. "Your true colors are revealed."

Ali cocked his gun. "I will silence you at last," he said. Amira steeled herself for what was to come and closed her eyes, the tears rolling silently down her cheeks.

"I trust in Allah," she whispered, "and Allah will take care of me."

"WAIT!"

The call had come from across the stage, from Noah, who looked desperate to do something, anything, to stop Ali from firing. Ali looked up suddenly and Amira's head spun around on her neck.

"Yes, Mr. Berkowitz?" Ali asked patiently.

Noah's jaw trembled as he wrung his clammy hands. "I… I… I did it. I killed Farah Ibrahim."