a/n: A very Nick-centric chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Hooked

Warrick sighed in relief as he saw Nick's SUV emerge from the garage. It turned down the road, and sped off a little aggressively.

"Whoa, Nick," Warrick said aloud. "Slow down." Brass accelerated to keep up.

"Did something spook him?" Brass asked. Warrick shrugged and pulled out his cell phone.

The SUV sped up some more as it neared the freeway. Warrick dialed Nick's number and waited for him to pick up.

The phone just rang over and over again until it hit Nick's voicemail. Warrick frowned. He tried again.

"Anything?" Brass asked. He was busy driving in the most inconspicuous manner possible. It wasn't working well.

"Nothing." Warrick hung up and called Catherine.

"Willows," she answered.

"Hey, Cath. Have you heard anything from the recorder?" he asked. "Nick's driving a little crazy right now, and he's not answering his cell phone." He hoped it was just him dealing with this whole Nigel Crane thing.

"Hang on." Through the phone, he heard some play back of the audio.

"Greg, take that back a bit," Catherine said, frowning. Greg backed up the audio and adjusted the levels. He wasn't as familiar with this equipment as Archie, but the other techie left to eat or something.

They both stood still and listened. It sounded like Nick opened his car door, got in and shut the door. And then—

"What was that?" Catherine asked. Greg frowned and rewound the tape. He boosted the volume on the element.

Thump! And then a slight groan.

"Was that Nick?" Catherine asked. Greg winced as he heard the thump again.

"It sounds like something got hit," he said. He listened to the noise again. The thump was . . . it wasn't like a piece of wood or anything like that. It was . . .

"His body," Greg whispered. "Is Nick picking up his phone?" Catherine shook her head, and spun around to the tracking equipment, while Greg continued to listen.

"Hey Warrick," she started, "I think we have a problem. Are you still behind Nick?"

There was humming now over the audio feed, faintly in the background. It couldn't be Nick—it would have come up louder.

Warrick pressed on his earpiece, trying to hear it better. There was a voice, someone talking.

". . . and see, Nick. It'll be just the two of us. We'll . . ." The levels were too soft, but Warrick instantly felt sick.

"Crane's driving the car," he said aloud.

Brass floored the gas pedal and picked up his radio.

"Dispatch, we're in pursuit of one commandeered SUV. Suspect is Nigel Crane, holding hostage Officer Nick Stokes of the Crime Lab."

His head. It was throbbing. Nick winced as he opened his eyes. He was lying down on the back seat of his car.

Why am I in the back? He tried to sit up, but failed. And why am I buckled in with my hands tied?

A course but thin rope surrounded his wrists, tightly immobilizing his hands and arms in front of him. That didn't stop him from trying to get free.

"You awake, Nick?"

Oh crap. It came back to him now.

Nigel was waiting in his car. Did he find the recorder? Nick nudged his chest with his arms. The recorder was still in place. However, his gun was gone.

Nick breathed a sigh of relief even so—at least his friends could hear him.

"Nick?"

His heart rate shot up. He was with Nigel Crane.

"Uh, yeah, Nigel," Nick said. He tried to cover up his shaky voice. "Where are we?" He had no idea how long he'd been out.

Nigel pushed his glasses up on his nose and replaced his hands on the stirring wheel. He gripped it tightly, and glanced in the rearview.

"I-15. We're just leaving Vegas. Some of your so-called friends were following for awhile, but I lost them," Crane said proudly. Nick noted how he belittled his friends. Because he wants to be your friend.

Evidently, your only friend. Nick tired not to shudder. He wondered why Warrick and Brass hadn't moved in yet. I still have the tracker on.

"So where are we going?" He held his breath as he waited for the answer.

"Nowhere," Nigel said quickly. "To be honest with you, Nick, I'm not ready to trust you yet."

Nick rolled his eyes, and glanced at his hands.

"Yeah, I got that," he said. Suddenly the SUV swerved, and Nick heard something around them.

Or above them. A helicopter suddenly zoomed by ahead of them. Nick allowed himself to grin as he saw what chopper it was.

LVPD. Brass came through.

Crane swore and jerked the SUV sharply, cutting off another lane of traffic. Nick's body was jostled by the turbulent ride. He groaned as the force of the ride threw his weight against the seat belt.

"Hang on, Nick!" Nigel yelled. He jerked the wheel again, and exited back into the city.

Nick glanced up through the windshield, trying to get his bearings while hanging onto the seat. They were over in the Asian area of town. Little shopping malls lined the streets, video stores, beauty shops, grocery stores—all littered with posters in foreign languages.

Sirens sounded behind them. Nick's heart sped up with hope while Nigel reacted by swerving again. He ran over a curb, right over bushes and into a parking lot. Nick looked up again to see cars in their path.

Nigel just plowed right through them. The impact ratcheted Nick forward and back, and his stomach didn't like that. The sirens were still right behind them.

How is this going to end?

And then everything came to a halt. Nick gasped for breath, for control over the adrenaline surging through his veins. Nigel climbed over the driver's seat and over to Nick.

Get out! With his bound hands, he reached for the seat belt buckle, trying to get away before—

Nigel grabbed Nick by the shirt, and pushed his body towards the door.

"Come on, Nick," Crane said. His voice was rushed, and the stress oozed from it. Nick noticed Crane had a gun again—his spare.

By the time both men hit the parking lot pavement, several police cars surrounded them in a semi-circle. Nick started to struggle. He pulled forward, away from Nigel and towards the police.

And then he felt Nigel's hands dig into his skin. Nick winced at the pressure, only to feel more as Crane wrapped his arm around Nick's throat. He tightened that hold, simultaneously limiting Nick's air supply and forcing him along. Nick noted the feel of the gun to his head.

There was a murmur from the police. Nick tried to pay attention, but he coughed hard against Nigel's hold.

"I want you all to go away. Leave us alone!" Crane yelled. He kept retreating away from them, but Nick wasn't sure where they were headed.

Nick's eyes scanned the police. Each officer had his gun drawn, aimed at him. Probably aimed at Nigel, he thought, but since Nick was being used as a shield, he was just as much the target. His eyes came upon Brass and Warrick. He locked eyes with Warrick.

What do I do?

Nothing. You're not supposed to struggle.

Who ever said that?

Whoever said it had never been held at gunpoint. Nigel's arm hadn't let up against his throat. Nick coughed again and tried to move his head around to get some air.

Something assailed his senses, a smell . . . like old, sour food. Nigel pulled Nick away from the confrontation outside and into a grocery store.

Asian patrons of the store immediately screamed and scattered as they saw Nick's predicament.

"Everyone out!!" Nigel yelled. No one hesitated.

Aisles of food passed by as he dragged Nick to the back of the store. Nick couldn't help but wonder if Nigel had a plan. He suspected he didn't. Nick saw the police start to venture in, cautiously as Nick was forced along with Nigel.

A rush of cool air hit Nick's skin. They were in the meat department. Nick closed his eyes as he saw red meat and blood everywhere. While it was appropriate for the butcher shop area, it aggravated his already queasy stomach and escalated the potential of this nightmare. He didn't even want to go where his imagination was taking him.

Nigel dropped Nick and quickly locked the door that led to the rest of the store. Nick just let himself fall to the dirty floor. He turned on his back and coughed several times, just trying to breathe in and out until he felt normal.

"Sorry about that, Nick," Nigel said. He smoothed a hand over his selective hair growth. "I had to make them back off."

The man started pacing, and Nick just tuned him out for awhile.

And then suddenly he realized Nigel wasn't pacing anymore. Nick looked to see Nigel staring at his chest. Nick looked down and saw it. The mass of the recorder was visible with the shirt resting against him as he lay. Nigel slowly knelt by Nick's side, and pulled back his shirt.

Nick froze.

Nigel's eyes frosted immediately upon seeing the recorder and the wires. He reached forward and grasped them, ripping them harshly from Nick's body. Nick flinched at that, but held back a cry.

"You agreed to this, Nick?" he whispered disbelievingly. "You helped them?" Nick opened his mouth to say whatever it was that would appease Crane, but Nigel cut in.

"I trusted you, Nick. I thought—" He stopped short, glaring at the recorder. Suddenly he threw the device at Nick, barely missing his head.

And suddenly Nick's chest was on fire.

Crane started yelling, and punched him hard, over and over again. Nick held up his hands in a weak defense, but then Nigel was on his feet. He kicked Nick in the side, the legs, the stomach. Each blow was harsh and made Nick's whole body recoil.

Nick never expected this physical fury from Crane. Insanity, yes. He expected the gun to be used, not Nigel's hands and feet.

He didn't know why he was analyzing that while he was being beat up.

"Please," Nick heard himself say. It surprised him, and if he thought about it, he would have realized that he was never one to just sit back and take this. He was strong, athletic and easily a challenge for Nigel.

But something about Crane made Nick's senses go haywire. Fear took over, mainly because Nick knew he didn't have all the cards. Nigel was in control, and that scared him.

When Nigel let up, Nick first tried to catch his breath. He rocked slightly back and forth, trying to roll off the pain. His chest felt like it was on pins and needles, and his stomach churned violently.

Suddenly the nausea increased, and Nick rolled his sore body to the side. He threw up. The force of his revolting stomach made him ache even more.

Acid burned at his throat. Nick spit out the remaining taste from his mouth.

"I mean, how are we supposed to be friends like this?" Crane said. Nick realized he probably had been talking the whole time. He pushed himself off the floor so he was sitting, and leaned his head against a cutting table.

"I don't know," Nick muttered, staring at the floor. "It's hard to be friends when you beat me up."

The following silence was deafening. Nick tensed for another fit of rage, but as he looked at Crane, the man just seemed crushed.

That defeat quickly passed. Crane narrowed his eyes at Nick and started waving his arms—and the gun—heatedly as he spoke.

"I wouldn't have hit you if you hadn't betrayed me!!" Nigel screamed. Nick leaned further against the table, trying to compact his body away from Crane. "You keep running away, after everything I do for you! And then you help the police!"

And all of a sudden, Nick was tired of it. He felt his own temper rise.

"You're full of it, man," Nick said, shaking his head. "Of course I'm going to help the police. I'm one of them!!"

Nigel shook his head vigorously. "No, Nick, you're different. At least I thought so." Nigel's chin quivered. "That's why I did everything for you! Jane, that reporter!!"

"I never asked for that!" Nick shouted. Despite his condition, he felt himself sick of these hypocritical, circular accusations from a nut like Nigel. "Do you think I wanted you to kill anyone?! Jane Galloway and Sam Davis were innocent!"

Nigel seemed stunned by the outburst. "No, they weren't. That reporter was harassing you. I helped you by getting rid of her!"

"No," Nick said, his voice softer. "You just proved how much you don't know me."

Silence made itself known again. Nigel started to pace again, his hands clutching the gun possessively. Nick watched him, his body still tense. He wondered if he'd said too much.

Maybe this is what he needs to hear. I've played up to what he wants to hear before, and it didn't work.

"I . . I-I know you, Nick," Nigel said, wagging a finger at him. "Maybe better than you do. I know that all your friends think you're a . . . a player, but you haven't had a date since I've met you. I know you're smarter than any of them give you credit for. I know you hide in Las Vegas because of your family. You work hard to prove yourself, but none of them see that." He pointed to himself. "I do."

Crane was right, in what he said. The things he mentioned bugged Nick. He hated that everyone assumed he was constantly dating and sleeping around. He hated that he was pegged as the "slower" CSI. He did work hard, to prove himself to them and to his family.

But that didn't matter right now.

"I won't lie to you anymore, Nigel," Nick said. He started to get to his feet, ignoring the itchy finger Crane had on the trigger of the gun. "You're right. But you forgot one thing." He was on his feet now. "Those people you talked about—they are my friends."

Something scrapped just outside the butcher area, and Nick's eyes flew to it as did Crane's. Before Nick could do a thing, Nigel turned and fired three rounds into the door.

"Stay away!!" he yelled. He ran to Nick's side and pushed the gun to his temple. Nick gulped but held still. "Stay out or I'll kill him!"

"Is that how you treat your friends, Nigel?" Nick asked quietly. "Threatening to kill them?"

"Shut up." It was meek but laced with desperation. "You don't know how it is, Nick. You've always been looking out for you, but you never knew what it was like for me!"

He pushed Nick away, tripping him in the process. Nick fell on his side. He grimaced at the familiar and new pains there.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Nick," Nigel said, the normalcy back in his voice. "Just stay still."

He held the gun towards Nick, and started moving around the butcher area. A pile of meat, ground and also uncut, lay on the table. The juices and blood flowed to a catch-area, a detachable pan. Nigel pulled the pan loose and went towards Nick.

Nick watched in horror as Nigel poured some of the blood onto him. He moved away, enough to miss some of the blood, but not all. It soaked through his shirts and onto his skin.

Nick started swiping at the blood frantically, trying to get it off. It freaked him out, but soon he had blood on his hands too. He looked up at Nigel.

The gun was right at his face.

"Now Nick," he said, "I need you to act injured."