A/N: I didn't think I'd get this to you so quickly. It must be all the fluff in my head. ;-) I apologise in advance for the overuse of exclamation marks throughout the chapter's last scene. How else do you convey people's desperation and shouts?

No admittance. Medical staff only, the sign on the door said.

Lifting her gaze from the sign to the hospital administrator, Laura took a deep breath and nodded her head bleakly. "I'm ready," she said in a low voice.

She was ready. This is what Sara wants, she kept telling herself. I must respect her wishes. She needed to see where they did it. How they did it. She needed to see in order to be able to accept what she had to do. What she was doing. For Sara. Tears she had managed to keep at bay up to now resurfaced, streaking her cheeks. She wiped them with the back of her hands and nodded her head at Purcell again. She was ready.

The hospital administrator pulled the door leading to the viewing gallery open and waited until Laura had made her way in to follow. He placed his fingers on her elbow, guiding her toward a seat. Laura stiffened and declined with a brisk shake of her greying curls, preferring instead to stand behind the glass, her gaze immediately drawn to the scene below.

Purcell joined her side. "Generally, Mrs Sidle, as I explained to you earlier we don't allow members of the public in the viewing gallery for obvious reasons but -"

"I appreciate you're breaking the rules, Mr Purcell," Laura cut in, keeping her eyes fixed on the operating room below, "but at this moment in time I need to be here." She paused, considering her words with care. "This is something I need to do...in order to be able to come to terms with my decision." She stopped talking, fresh tears forming in her eyes as she watched the surgeon remove one of the patient's kidneys and delicately place it in a small silver kidney dish, before starting the incision to extract the other one. Medical staff was working quickly and respectfully to keep organs usable, the mood in the room solemn. "Is this how it's going to be for Sara?" she then asked softly.

"Yes, it is," Purcell replied quietly. He cleared his throat. "It's highly unusual for an operation like this to be taking place at this time of night," Purcell said quietly, uncomfortable with the silence and with what he was being made to watch, "but harvesting organs in a lengthy process and OR availability at a premium."

Laura didn't acknowledge his words, fascinated by what was taking place on the operating table. "Is she feeling any pain?"

Frowning, Purcell did a double take at the question. "Hum…no," he said uneasily. "As I explained to you she is…brain dead. This means that there is no brain activity and therefore no feeling of pain. Just like Sara."

"She still looks so very much alive, though, doesn't she?" Laura asked softly and with a wistful smile.

"The ventilator's keeping her alive, Mrs Sidle," Purcell replied a little abruptly, "breathing air into her lungs, keeping the blood circulating. I explained all this; the patient's heart's not capable of beating on its own anymore and of performing this basic function."

Stung by his tone, Laura turned a dark look toward Purcell. "I know all that," she said curtly. "It doesn't make it any easier, though."

Purcell sighed. "I know; I'm sorry. It's just been a very long day."

Purcell's words instead of appeasing Laura seemed to rile her even more. "Do you know what it's like to be told that your daughter, who you've not seen in more than half her life, is as good as dead?" she angrily spat at him.

Purcell shook his head in the negative. "No, I don't. I'm sorry. H-have you…huh…heard from Mr Grissom?" he asked after a moment, hoping to sway the conversation to safer grounds.

Her eyes once more turned toward the operating room below, Laura took a deep, calming breath. "No. Nothing," she replied quietly. "I've been trying his cell but it's disconnected. And you said Mr Grissom knows all about Sara's wishes?"

"Yes. He knows as much as you do."

"And he wasn't willing to accept them?"

"No. Quite the opposite in fact."

"Not even out of love for her?"

Purcell shrugged. "It didn't appear so."

"I wish he was here. I wish I could speak with him but it seems he's left me to do this on my own, too busy chasing the bad guys to be with Sara in her final moments." There was no mistaking the resignation and disappointment in her tone.

"There is still time," Purcell said.

Laura seemed surprised by Purcell's words. "I spoke to a friend of Sara's who came by to visit her," she added. "A law-enforcement colleague of hers – a nice man, he seemed to know her well." She paused, smiling sadly to herself. "He agrees. He thinks that this is what Sara would want me to do – wants me to do. He said that she wouldn't want to live like that for the rest of her life. So why prolong her suffering, huh?"

Purcell gave a gentle, comforting squeeze of Laura's arm. "You're doing the right thing," he said. "It's the right decision."

Laura gave a slow nod of the head as though she was still trying to convince herself, and redirected her gaze to the operating room. "I hope so," she uttered, watching intently. She remained silent for a few minutes before asking, "What are they doing now?"

Purcell who had been scrolling through his missed calls looked up a little sheepishly. "They're…putting the organs in special coolers for storage. They're packed with ice and ready to be transported to wherever they're needed."

"We won't know where the organs are going? Who's going to benefit from them?"

He discreetly slipped his phone back in the inner pocket of his crumpled suit jacket. "I'm afraid not. They are allocated to the OPO, the Organ Procurement Organisation and are distributed to the United Networks for Organ Sharing. All the information is kept strictly confidential." As an afterthought, he added, "There are people – people of all ages, race and genders, who have waited months, some time years for a day like today."

"I've waited almost all my life to see my daughter again."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound callous."

"To you, she's just another patient. A statistic. An organ donor. To me, she's my little girl. She's my Sara and I'm not getting to say goodbye to her."

Purcell smiled a little uneasily. "I've arranged for you to speak to Janet ward-"

"Janet Ward?"

"She's our local organ coordinator. She can explain to you in more details how the whole process works. She will be coming to see you in the morning."

Laura's gaze remained fixed on the still body on the operating table and she watched as the surgeon began sewing it up. "And after, what happens?"

Purcell registered a look of surprise. "After?"

"After this," she said, waving her hand toward the OR.

"After all the viable organs have been harvested, the surgeon will sew her back up, of course."

"But she's still on the ventilator. At what point do I, do you…do they…" she swallowed the knot in her throat, tears streaming down her face, "turn the ventilator off." She broke down into sobs and turned away from the window.

Purcell placed an uncomfortable arm around Laura's shoulders and guided her toward the door. "Why don't we go somewhere more…to my office?"

"No. I'd like to go back to my daughter, please."

"Come on!" Warrick yelled in desperation as he watched from the helicopter the car careen down the ravine. "What are you waiting for? Land this chopper!"

The pilot remained silent and cool, calmly appraising the situation despite the general mayhem all around him. He scanned his gaze over the dark highway, over the mountainous desert terrain surrounding it on both sides as he tried to find the best spot to land in close proximity of the crash site. The scene below was a carnage of wrecked Highway Patrol and police cruisers, their debris strewn randomly all over the place.

He shook his head. "The best I can do," he said through his radio, "is hover over the interstate directly behind the road block and let you jump off." He glanced over his shoulders toward Brass, waiting for his go-ahead.

"Then, do it!" Brass instructed glumly, running his hand over his face and wincing at the sharp pain as he touched his nose.

While the pilot manoeuvred the helicopter round, Warrick followed Brass's cue and removed his headset, setting it down on the seat next to him. He took his small flashlight out of his field kit and frantically looked around for a first-aid kit, an emergency box, anything he could use to help Grissom in the field. To the CSI's relief, the Thunderbird still hadn't exploded and Warrick prayed to God they could get to his friend and mentor, his surrogate father and role model in time and free him before it blew up. He found what he was looking for, slung it over his shoulder and swallowed his fear, burying it deep where it wouldn't resurface, while the helicopter made its approach.

At the pilot's signal, Brass and Warrick each opened a door and jumped out of the chopper a metre or so onto the hard concrete of the interstate. The night was cool and Warrick repressed a shiver, wishing he'd dressed more accordingly. He cowered low and sprinted out of under the chopper's blades toward the crash site.

Gripping the strap of his first-aid kit like a safety buoy, Warrick stopped dead in his tracks near the broken safety barriers where the Thunderbird had left the road. Taking a moment to catch his breath, he switched his flashlight on and swung its beam over the road and roadside, looking for tyre tracks. Bingo. He took a few quick steps in that direction and stood at the top of the steep and rugged slope, eyes narrowed towards the bottom. Brass and a couple of highway patrol guys joined his side.

"What have you got, Rick?" Brass asked breathlessly.

"There, fifty yards or so at the bottom of that escarpment," Warrick shouted back to be heard over the din of the police sirens still blaring. "You can just about make the red hue of a taillight."

Brass scrunched his face toward the darkness. "I see it," he replied loudly after a moment. "Okay," he added turning toward the Highway patrol officers. "We're going to need paramedics and fire department on the scene." Met with the officer's suspicious eyes, Brass reached for his badge. "Captain Brass, LVPD. This is CSI Brown. We were on our way to Reno when you spotted our suspects' getaway car," he shouted. "They're armed and dangerous and holding one of our guy's prisoner and until we find their dead bodies we're going to proceed with caution."

Warrick didn't wait for Brass to finish his briefing to begin scrambling down the rugged embankment. Time was in short supply. Holding his flashlight in his mouth and with no thoughts to protocol or his safety he was part running, part jumping, part sliding down on his backside over the loose rocky terrain, using his bare hands to cushion his descent.

"Warrick!" he heard Brass shout. "What are you doing, goddamn it? You can't go down there blind! We don't know if McKay or Wallis are injured. They could be lying in wait at the bottom."

Warrick stopped long enough to catch his breath. He took the flashlight out of his mouth and turned a frantic face up toward Brass. "What do you suggest I do, huh? Wait until the fire department gets here?" He looked down at his bleeding hands and turned back toward the wrecked Ford. "We can't leave Grissom in there!" His eyes widened and he paused. "What the hell! Brass!" he yelled frantically as small flames started to emerge from the front of the car. "The car's on fire. Get one of the Highway Patrol's fire extinguishers from their car! Quick!" Propelled by desperation, his excruciating need to get Grissom out of the wreck alive and pure adrenaline, Warrick resumed his frantic scrambling of the hillside to the sound of Brass yelling out his orders.

"Hang on, Rick," he then heard, "We're coming down with you."

The closer Warrick got to the wreckage of the mangled car, the stronger his feeling of doom and helplessness became. There was an eerie silence to the scene, except for the quiet crackling of the small flames burning under the Thunderbird's open hood and Warrick's ragged breathing. His left ankle throbbing painfully where he had twisted it on his way down, he swiftly surveyed the scene. The car was totalled, lying crumpled at a funny angle. The roof had caved in, obliterating the inside of the car, presumably smashing out both windshields and restricting access to the trunk. The pungent smell of gasoline concerned him but so far, the fire seemed contained to the front of the car.

"Grissom! Grissom! I'm here," he called breathlessly. "Hang in there, buddy; I'm going to get you out!" Warrick dropped the first aid-kit on the ground and tried opening the trunk. It was locked and despite the CSI's best effort, wouldn't budge. "It's okay, Griss. I'm going to get the keys from the ignition."

The driver's side door was bent shut out of shape. There was no way he could open it and the hole where the window had once been was no more. Warrick shone his light in looking for McKay or Wallis's bodies but he couldn't see either. His first thought was that they must have been thrown out when the car had rolled down the ravine. He managed to twist his arm through a small gap toward where he believed the ignition barrel was but the car steering column had twisted in such a way that he couldn't reach the keys.

"Damn!" he cursed, banging an angry fist against the car door. He stole a wary glance toward the engine but the flames were still contained to that area. Taking a deep breath, he hobbled quickly to the passenger side and found the door open. He crouched down on the ground, reaching in, twisting himself inside the mangled wreck when he suddenly felt intense heat burn his arm. He screamed out in pain, pulling his arm out in a sharp pull and watched as flames crept inside the cabin, burning and melting everything in their wake.

Grissom's time was running out.

Limping, he ran back to the rear of the car, picking up a small rock on the way which he intended to use to bust the lock and open the trunk. "Griss! I'm going to try to smash this thing open, all right? Hang in there; I'm coming for you." He began to smash the rock directly onto the lock but the rock was made of sand and it disintegrated in his bloodied hands.

Warrick let out a long frustrated growl and scanned his gaze over the ground for another rock, a bigger rock or anything that he could use to get Grissom out. He found nothing and for want of something better, tried forcing the trunk open with his bare hands.

"Warrick!" Brass screamed as he finally got to the crash site after his slow and pained scramble down to the Thunderbird. He was out of breath and looking weary and weak. A couple of highway patrolmen who arrived with him headed straight for the front of the car, spraying the engine bay with foam. "Have you found Grissom?"

"I don't understand," Warrick said despondently, giving up his futile attempts at clawing at the trunk. "The car's empty, Jim. Empty. There's no sign of either McKay or Wallis."

"Assuming they were both in the car to begin with," the police captain replied, clasping the CSI on the shoulder comfortingly. He did a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn but the beam of his flashlight didn't light up further than a few yards all around them.

"What about the trunk, Rick?" he asked quietly. "Have you checked?"

Tears were burning in the CSI's eyes. "I can't get the freaking thing open." He gave an angry kick of the car's back tyre. "And Griss isn't responding."

"He might not be in there at all, Warrick."

Warrick didn't bother Brass with a reply. It was wishful thinking and they both knew it.

Brass sighed. "You!" he shouted frantically to a third highway patrolman, standing watching idly from the side. "Use your radio. We need a crowbar, a tyre iron, a battering ram, anything that can be used to force this goddamn trunk open." The detective looked down towards Warrick's arm, catching a glimpse of his singed clothing and flesh. His noticed the bleeding hands and the ripped clothes from where he had slid down the ravine. "We look like a right old pair," he quipped in a small amused snort, hoping a little humour could dispel the CSI's desolation. It didn't.

"Sir?" one of the highway patrolmen called loudly. "We got the fire under control."

Brass gave a curt nod of the head in response.

All of a sudden, Warrick heard a low, short groan of pain, his ears pricking up at the sound. "Did you hear that?" he asked Brass turning his head and his light toward the vast expanse of darkness.

Brass whipped his head round toward Warrick. "No. What was it?"

Warrick didn't respond and just scanned his light over the area to their left. The moaning came louder this time and he swung his light further back. "There! Did you hear it?"

Brass shook his head. "Did it come from the trunk?"

"I don't think so. It came from over there," Warrick said, pointing and taking a few steps in that direction.

"Grissom?" Brass called, following Warrick. "It's Brass. Is that you buddy?" They heard no response. "Did it sound like Grissom?" he then asked Warrick who just lifted a shoulder in reply. "We're not even sure Grissom was in the trunk, at all," Brass rattled on. "He could have been at the rear of the car and thrown out."

Both men had already reached for their service weapons nevertheless, their senses on high alert. Brass motioned to a couple of officers standing watching nearby to spread out and carry out a slow search of the surrounding area.

"Griss?" Warrick called loudly. "Grissom, talk to us, man."

They heard another low moan coming from the left-hand side.

"Over here!" one of the officers shouted. "He's over here!"

Warrick and Brass covered the short distance in a flash and crouched down near the injured man. "It's not him!" Warrick yelled in frustration. "It's not him!"

"Help me turn him over," Brass instructed Warrick. Then turning toward an officer he said, "You, go and get the first-aid kit."

"It's on the ground at the back of the Thunderbird," Warrick added in a yell as the patrolman ran back toward the Ford.

Brass and Warrick quickly turned the injured man over, causing the man to growl in agony but they already knew it was Martin Wallis. His face was covered in blood and bruised and battered, and both legs looked to be broken. He was still conscious but barely and badly gasping for every breath he took.

"Someone, get the goddamn trunk open!" the captain yelled at the officers standing nearby. "This is not our guy. He's one of the suspects."

"Wallis," Warrick was saying, crouching low over the injured man, "listen to me, man. It's the end of the road for you. Tell me where Grissom is. Is he in the trunk of the car?"

Marty's head rolled to the side and he made a grunting sound, blood seeping out of the corner of his mouth.

"Wallis," Warrick called again anxiously. He shook Wallis alert, causing the injured man to open his eyes a crack and cry out in agony. "Is Grissom in the trunk?"

Wallis's eyes seemed to widen, his mouth curling upward into a small chilling smile. He tried to speak but no sound came out.

"What was that?" Warrick asked, leaning his ear closer to Wallis's mouth. All he made out was a gurgling sound and he tilted Wallis's head to the side allowing the blood pooling inside his mouth to trickle out and not choke him.

"Shit!" Brass cursed. "He's dying. Wallis, we need to know. Was Grissom in the car?" He paused. "What about McKay? Was she in the car with you?"

The officer returned with the first-aid kit but it was too late. As though lifted by his last breath, Wallis opened his eyes, staring unblinkingly into Warrick's narrowed ones. "Let the bastard rot in hell," he mumbled in one final gasp, closing his eyes as his head rolled to the side.

"Son of a bitch!" Warrick shouted in frustration. Getting to his feet, he dropped Wallis's body to the ground and only just stopped himself from giving it an angry kick.

"Sir!" came a frantic voice.

Both Brass and Warrick whipped their heads round toward the Thunderbird.

"We got the trunk open!"

Tbc.