Chapter 14

Jim Brass stood, looking into the little gray room with nothing but a table, a chair, and an occupant. An occupant that he found himself hating with every fiber of his being. He could happily give up his badge at this point to just kill him. But he couldn't do that. Even though this man deserved the slowest most horrible death, which in his opinion would still fall short of what he deserved, it was wrong. They had a judicial system for a reason, and it was because of this very reason. If they let people just kill other people because they believed it was deserved--even if it was--then the world would be chaotic at best.

The man within sat quietly, looking completely serene, and was currently examining his nails, buffing and digging dirt out from under them. The very atmosphere he gave off of careless relaxation as if he were on vacation was making everyone mad. Those that would either be conducting or watching the interrogations had to listen to the recorded phone calls as well as watch all the video tapes involving Greg. It had left them with a bubbling rage even if they were not even the remotest of acquaintances, of which all those conducting the interviews were just that, complete strangers.

They weren't allowing for any loop holes that this guy's lawyer, whom was among the best around, could use. The entire lab, regulars and guests were possessed by a strange fervor. Every sliver of evidence was triple processed, by three different people and a lawyer that could testify that no evidence was tampered with or modified in any way. Never in their lives had they processed a crime and crime scene so tightly and water proof that no lawyer could poke holes in their findings.

They had decided to leave the man in the room for a long while, try to get him irritated, impatient, easy to slip up. But it didn't seem to be working. The man was just simply content admiring his nails in that room for the past hour as was unheard of. Eventually they just gave up on waiting, it wasn't going to work on this guy, so they began. One of the interrogators walked calmly into the room a file that he placed on the corner of the table, unopened. The man sitting handcuffed watched him intently but showed no signs of concern, worry, or even eagerness to start a conversation.

"Well, James Modoc, it seems you've finally been caught." the man leaned back in his chair leisurely.

"I suppose. A small interruption in my schedule." the interrogator quirked an eyebrow.

"You know. Not many people consider life in jail, possibly the needle, a small interruption of any schedule."

"I'm not many people. I'm just one simple man." he smiled.

"Interesting, for such a simple man, you've got a life filled with complexities. Complexities, that seem to have caused a great deal of harm to Greg Sanders." he opened the file for the first time and displayed the vivid photographs that had been takes at an opportune time of Greg's visible injuries, which were far too numerous. The man eyed them at a leisurely pace, not rushing over them, like one whom was looking at a picture of a rather boring landscape, and not graphic images of a man having been beaten nearly to death. Brass found himself having to take deep breaths.

"There is nothing complex about these." James stated coolly.

"How do you figure that James?"

"Well, it's simple. If you have an obstacle in the way, you remove it, if you need information, you get it, the means that you get it are simple, any way you can. Simple." he pushed the photos back towards the file and leaned back again in his chair with a casual sigh. The interrogator sauntered to lean against the wall, contemplating the next step.

"So why did you do this to Sanders?"

"Do what?"

"Okay, I'll say it in small words for a simpleton like yourself. Why did you attack Greg Sanders, nearly beating him to death?"

"I couldn't possibly have done this, I'm just a simpleton." the interrogator felt like slamming his head on a table.

"Any simpleton could beat a man to near death, it takes intelligence to get away with it, something you obviously aren't." There it was a small flash of anger. It quickly disappeared. The interrogator smiled, this was the opening, the profiler in him saw it clear as day.

"Seems like you're the failure of a long family history. Let's see, both parents are well known geniuses, then there seems to be a couple of generations beyond that, with lots of geniuses, and then you show up. The family simpleton, it's a wonder they didn't dump a familial disgrace such as yourself in the nearest dumpster. Where you belong." all this was said in a cool collected tone, as a matter of fact. Throughout the entirety of the speech Modoc had slowly lost the mask he'd worn, the expression of rage ever present, his jawing twitching, veins popping out. By the end his face was nearly purple and he was shaking with rage. Neither were paying attention to the lawyer that was advising him not to say anything.

What happened next was a shock to everyone. One moment Modoc had been sitting in the chair, and the next he was almost literally flying over the table, a gun appearing from nowhere in his hand, lunging at the CSI that had been interrogating. The lawyer gave a cowardly squeal and ran out of the room. He brought the gun down on the CSI's head with full force.

He recoiled, slamming into the wall, unable to recover before blow after blow slammed into his head. It didn't take long for the him to crumple to the floor, head lolling as he fought to remain conscious. The suspect quickly found the key and had one cuff off before he heard the shouts of the approaching cavalry. He hauled the CSI up swiftly, holding him as a shield, arms pinned to the left side of his chest. His head lolled to his chest limply, weaving slightly in small circles, quickly losing ground at remaining consciousness.

The others froze before them, their weapons trained on the pair standing in the doorway. He shoved the gun under his hostage's chin forcefully, bringing his head up so everyone could see the blood trailing from it more clearly. He gave a weak groan but did nothing to struggle. The others tightened their grips on their guns, a nerve struck.

"GET BACK!"

"Let him go!"

"GET BACK OR I'LL SHOOT!"

"Let him go, there's no way out, just let him go!" he cocked back the hammer threateningly.

"I'LL SHOOT HIM, GET BACK!" both parties backed away tensely, neither lowering their weapons. The door banged shut suddenly, shutting them out. Modoc slung the hostage across the room, slamming him against the wall. The fight for consciousness quickly lost when his head bounced off the wall, sinking heavily to the floor, his head repeating the action on the floor. He jammed a chair under the doorknob hastily, reverting to a panicked pace about the room.

This wasn't supposed to happen. He hadn't meant to attack the agent, put he'd pressed a sensitive nerve, and hard. How had they even found him. He'd been careful, he was always careful, they couldn't have found him. So how did they? The only thought that came to mind was being betrayed, but who would do that? There was no reason to betray him, everyone that worked for him knew that he took care of his own. He must have let something slip, that was the only way.

Time ticked by slowly and his blood cooled He shot a vicious glare at his hostage before walking to the file fallen to the floor. He flipped through it, glancing at the photos and documents indifferently. It was interesting, the perspective they had on these past events. It was amusing. His thoughts were broken by a shaky groan. He looked up to find the CSI conscious, desperately attempting to sit up and failing miserably. The room was spinning crazily and his head hurt like nothing he'd ever known before. Grinning like a maniac that he was he loomed over the dazed CSI. Deftly he cuffed him, making sure that they were cruelly tight around his wrists. He grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked him to sit up swiftly, the only thing keeping him from swaying back to the floor was Modoc's tight grip.

"What's your name CSI?" his glazed eyes narrowed, confusion apparent.

"Wha?" he slurred. He never had a chance, not having seen it coming. Modoc yanked his arms above his head and landed a vicious well aimed kick to his chest. He would have wheezed painfully if he could breath at all. He desperately tried to curl into a protective ball but with amazing power, Modoc swung him away from the wall so he was stretched to his full length, completely exposed, arms held out by a tight fist around the cuff chain links. He couldn't hold back a pained groan once he could draw a ragged, painful breath.

"What's your name CSI?"

"S-Siler" he gasped not wanting to repeat the performance. The suspect smiled wider.

"See that wasn't so hard. Now, you must be a good profiler, because unfortunately for you, you knew which button to push with me, and I really don't like people pushing my buttons. Let this be a lesson to you." the fear that flashed through Siler's eyes was priceless to Modoc.

The kicks were fierce, swift, and perfectly aimed to cause the most pain and damage. The cries of pain echoed through the room. He raged against him oblivious to the shrill rings of the phone in Siler's pocket, he just continued to vicious beating.

It felt like an eternity to Siler, before the man ran out of breath, the kicks slowing to a stop, his arms dropped hard to the floor. His moans didn't register to be coming from him as he sluggishly attempted to curl into a ball. He didn't register the phone being removed from his pocket, or the conversation now taking place between his captor, and the horde of CSI just outside the door. He couldn't seem to suck in enough air. It took all of his strength and focus just to breath. It didn't take him long to fall into oblivion.

Modoc stood over the CSI, unconscious before him. The conversation on the phone had not gone well at all. Of course they'd called frantically to get him distracted from beating the man to death, but it hadn't worked. He'd ignored the phone in a blind rage until he was too out of breath to continue. By that time the man had been a bloody mess, unable to hold consciousness for more than a minute. He was now wondering what to do next. They had been honest when saying there was no way out, but he had to find a way. He wasn't finished yet. He had to get out of here.

The CSI groan, curling a bit tighter but didn't regain consciousness. Modoc sneered at him. It was his fault that they were in the predicament in the first place. He began to pace again as he thought through his options. Somehow he had to get out of this mess. He certainly didn't have a chance while he was in the interrogation room. He needed to change locations without getting shot. He wondered whether he knew this building well enough to travel through it, with his back to the wall carrying Siler as a shield. He realized that he had no choice.

Cautiously he removed the chair, shifting Siler so he was fully in front now, a dead weight in his arms. He kept the gun pressed against his chin, very visible to all before them. They were all tense as he eased out of the interrogation room, keeping his back against the wall, and his shield covering his body in front, preventing all possible shots. The crowd shifted with him, not backing away, but keeping their distance, unwilling to back down, but not willing to provoke either. A few people tried to get on the side of him but he would bristle and get aggressive, slamming the gun against the man in his arms in threat. The blow brought Siler into a state of semi-consciousness.

With glassy eyes he sluggishly looked about the room. People were watching him closely, though he couldn't understand why. Something was different. He was moving, but he wasn't moving his body. Awareness became more acute and he realized he was being carried, a massive arm over his chest, his hands now behind his back. He felt immensely heavy and his entire body was engulfed in pain. He blinked several times trying to clear his head, then he tried to shake out the cobwebs but that sent the room into back flips and the nausea came like an explosion. He swallowed convulsively, not wanting to puke in front of everyone. He focused on just being able to take a breath, desperately trying to ignore the intense pain it cause.

Everyone kept their focus on Modoc and Siler. The hostile was clearly wound too tight and was just getting tighter by the minutes and he slowly scooted along the wall, keeping them at a good distance away, guarding against the getting a clear shot at him without having to hit his hostage. Earlier they'd considered trying a drop shot but that was easily rejected seeing that the hostage wasn't holding himself up.

They were forced to wait, the problem was no opportunities to put an end to this appeared. Siler was rasping painfully, with a wetness to each rasp, for every much too small breath. He was looking green, swallowing back the bile threatening to rise. His condition deteriorating fast. Vastly disoriented he was toiling to attain what was happening around and to him.

Modoc ducked into an empty hallway, never letting his sight off of the guns pointed at him, keeping track of everything around him. His hostage was conscious but that didn't make much difference. He was still having to drag the man. In hindsight he figured he should have waited until he was safely out of here before beating the guy senseless, then he wouldn't have to be carrying him. He was surprised when Siler started to squirm and struggle against him.

He tightened his grip across his chest, pleased to feel a rib give way with an audible crack. The CSI around him flinched automatically at the sound. Siler whimpered but continued to struggle in disoriented panic. Modoc pressed harder but he continued to struggle. Irritated, he slammed the butt of the gun hard into Siler's shoulder. He groaned as sagged limply against him, the struggles ceasing immediately. He ducked into another empty hallway.

Warrick trudged down the hall, ready for some peace and quiet. He scrubbed his hand vigorously over his face, brushing away at the tiredness. He tried to think of how long this had been going on, but he couldn't think of when it all began, it felt like an eternity. He was exhausted, but he was glad. Greg did seem to be getting better. He had talk to the doctors and they'd said that excluding the septicemia which was still a major problem, Greg had improved and they were considering approving the transfer to get him back to Las Vegas by the end of the week. He'd taken the back way to avoid traffic, parking in the back lot, avoiding annoying crowds and the sympathetic looks from those that knew what was going on.

He'd just rounded the corner into a new hallway when he suddenly saw a man with a hostage coming his way, a gun to the hostage's head. The man wasn't aware of his presence yet, his gaze toward the many guns trained on him from the other end of the hall. He picked up his pace silently as he reached for his gun. The man glanced his way at the same moment. Before he could react, the man dove through the door just to his right. Archie's lab.

The shots were deafening.

A/N: Did I shoot Archie? Did the shots miss? Was it Siler being eliminated for a fresh hostage? You just have to WAIT! MWUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!