It was dark and stuffy and Calleigh couldn't move. Her arms were bound behind her back, the restraints so tight they cut into her skin. Her ankles were tied together and there was a gag over her mouth. Her arms were going numb. She moved her fingers to keep the blood flowing. Something rough grazed her cheek. It felt like carpeting.

She began to move. No, she realized, whatever she was in was moving. She could smell exhaust fumes and suddenly knew she was in the trunk of a car.

After a while, the car stopped. The lid lifted and she was blinded by the light. When her vision cleared, she noticed it was already late in the afternoon. She wondered how long she'd been unconscious for.

Her abductor lifted her out of the trunk. He looked vaguely familiar but Calleigh couldn't place him. It took her a moment to recognize where he'd brought her. She started struggling but it was no use. He took her around to the back of the house, setting her down briefly while he broke a window. Inside the house, he dumped her on the floor then returned to the car.

Calleigh slowly inched her way to the phone. She hoped she could bump the table enough for it to fall off. Then, somehow, she would find a way to dial 911.

Before she was anywhere near the phone, her abductor returned and hoisted her up. She let out a muffled cry. This wasn't happening. Not to her. It couldn't be happening.

He untied her wrists and ankles and she fell to her knees as feeling returned. He jerked her back to her feet and shoved her forward. She stumbled, her legs shaky.

Her one hope was that Horatio would come home soon.

* * *

Horatio sat at his desk and tried to make sense of the budget report. It was no use; he couldn't concentrate. Horatio looked at the phone and willed it to ring. When it didn't, he stood up and headed for the ballistics lab, just in case her arrival had escaped his notice. He ran into Delko on the way, who handed him a folder.

"I was just looking for you. This is the latest list of parolees."

Horatio was in the habit of keeping track of paroles and escapes so that he could never be caught unawares. While he readily admitted that some parolees genuinely managed to turn their lives around, he knew there were a couple that would turn into recurring problems.

"Thanks," he said. "Have you seen Calleigh around?"

"No. If I do, I'll tell her you're looking for her."

Horatio nodded and turned back to his office. He flipped the folder open and scanned the list of names. One name in particular stood out from the rest: Carlo dos Santos, an arms dealer. Horatio's testimony had helped put him behind bars. The look in his eyes as he'd been led away had given Horatio chills. Dos Santos was pure evil; he didn't care how many deaths his sales had caused, all he cared about was money and power. Horatio was surprised that he'd been released and made a mental note to follow up with his parole officer. He had no doubt that Dos Santos had every intention of returning to the arms trade.

* * *

It hurt to breathe.

Calleigh tried to open her eyes, but that demanded strength she currently did not have. She was vaguely aware of someone moving around, and a mocking voice saying something she couldn't quite hear.

This is what dying feels like, she thought.

Something burned in the lower part of her abdomen. It was hot and she was so thirsty and that voice was just going on and on and . . . where was Horatio? She imagined him holding her hand, stroking her forehead, telling her not to worry. Her lips formed his name, but there was no sound.

The blood was sticky on her hands; it's sick, coppery smell filling her nostrils, choking her. She realized the moisture on her cheeks was tears.

There was a buzzing noise, growing louder and louder and it was hot, so hot, and then there was merciful blackness.

* * *

When Speed offered to go past Calleigh's place after work, it was on the tip of Horatio's tongue to say he'd go. Instead, he said, "That's a good idea," and decided he'd call her later.

He stopped for milk and bread on the way home and took his time in the shop. Then he reluctantly returned to his empty house.

He unlocked his front door and immediately sensed something different. Cautiously making his way further into the house, he stopped in the living room. Two delicate feet hung over the edge of his couch, the pale pink nail polish and gold ankle chain identifying them as Calleigh's. Hope flared in his chest. Maybe Speed was right, he thought. Maybe she just needed time and now she was ready to talk.

Then he smelled the blood.

He walked around and froze in horror. She lay on her back, the hilt of a sword protruding from her stomach, pinning her to the couch. Her eyes were closed. One of her hands was wrapped around the hilt, the other dangled over the side, her fingers just brushing the carpet. His first thought was that she was dead; no one could survive that.

When he could function again, he felt for a pulse. It was weak, but there, and Horatio wept in relief. He didn't dare remove the sword, not wanting to cause further damage. He sat on the edge of the coffee table and dialed 911.

Scared he'd dreamed it the first time, he checked her pulse again. Her skin was cold to the touch but she was breathing. There was still hope.

Oh, God, please don't let her die, he prayed.

Where was the ambulance? It felt like hours since he'd called. Calleigh was dying and they were taking their sweet time and oh God, Calleigh was dying . . .

Horatio sank to his knees, the full horror of the situation finally beginning to sink in. She was so pale and there was so much blood and he didn't know how long she'd been like this and oh God no . . .

He lost her pulse.

Still holding her hand, he pressed his fingers first to her jugular then her carotid and—thank you, God—there was a pulse. He kept his hand there, holding onto the tiny thread of hope.

"Calleigh Duquesne, don't you dare die," he said in a low voice.

His only response was the faint beat beneath his fingertips.