Another real quick post and run, I will try and get R2R out next chapter. This chapter is too all my wonderful readers/reviewers. The story is starting to come to a close now. :D

Chapter Nineteen: Betrayal

It was dark by the time they got back, Randolph pulled up the mountainside as far as the roads would allow, pulling to the bottom of the trail that led up to the camp. The area was poorly lit, the first few rims of lights above the hill, being blocked mainly by all the trees. The snow provided a little light, but not enough to really see by. All of them were tired by the day's events, and even though it was shortly past seven, it felt much later. And it was for this reason that none of them saw the car that pulled in after them, moving slowly, without its lights on.

Sara and Greg followed Randolph up the hill at a slower rate, but soon found themselves all traveling at a different speeds, without a word said between them. Greg kept his eyes trained ahead of him, as he took carefully placed steps up the side, the trail already covered in a thin sheet of ice, making it a difficult walk up. Above him, he could see Randolph come to a stop, turning back towards them, as if he was waiting for them.

Gunfire suddenly erupted past him, dropping Greg to his knees as the unforgettable sound rushed past him. It took him a moment to realize that the firing was not aimed at him, but past him, and Greg found himself watching in shock as Randolph fell face first into the snow.

He sat numbed until Sara's voice brought him back to his senses; she was able to manage a short scream before it was muffled. Pushing himself to his feet, Greg wasted no time in getting to her side, unsurprised to find someone wrestling her to the ground, a cloth pressed against her mouth and nose.

Tackling the unknown assailant from behind, Greg was able to knock the person free of Sara, allowing her to scramble away, coughing violently as she did so. He didn't have any time to check on her however, as the assailant turned his attention on him, throwing him off easily.

Greg found himself pressed on his back into the snow, a pair of hands wrapping around his neck, squeezing painfully tight, cutting of his air. At first, Greg latched onto the other person's wrists, trying to throw them off, but with little luck, and each passing moment it became harder to do anything, with the lack of air. Kicking out with his legs, and reaching up further with his arms, Greg was finally able to push the attacker off just enough to get free of his hold, taking in a broken breath as he tried to get back to his feet.

It wasn't enough to get him up however, as Greg found himself knocked back down, the hands starting to wrap back around his throat. This time he was quicker, grabbing a hold of the assailant's wrists as he threw all his weight forward, knocking him completely off. Now free, Greg scrambled to his feet, slipping several times as he tried to turn himself around in a feeble attempt to spot their attacker, but whoever it was, they were wearing dark clothing, and a mask, making them hard to see.

Greg was knocked down from behind, his hands breaking his fall, but a blow to the back of his head dropped him the rest of the way. Shaking his head to clear, he was surprised a second blow didn't come, that was until he heard Sara cry out, realizing she had stopped the expected strike.

Turning around, Greg was able to see Sara fall backwards, landing in the snow and not moving. He called out her name, but didn't get a chance to wait for a response as he was attacked again, this time Greg was ready for it. He ducked under the first swing, grabbing the person by the legs, dropping them flat in the snow, already moving to hold his hands down, but the tables were turned as the assailant swung his legs around, effectively hitting him in the head.

He could see stars then, as his vision wavered. It gave his attacker enough time to take control of the situation, and Greg grimaced as his broken hand was grabbed roughly, and twisted painfully behind his back. He cried out at the pressure, reaching up with his free hand to maintain a hold on the other person, his fingers grasping the hood that covered his face, and pulling it off in one swift movement.

Greg shook his head lightly in denial, his breath little more than a short gasp as he saw who it was. His struggles were cut off however as a gun came to rest on the back of his neck, pressing against his bare skin forcefully.

"That," the other man said, "was a mistake."

Closing his eyes, Greg tried to calm his short, rapid breaths, still processing everything that was happening. It didn't seem real, but the cold metal pressed against his skin said otherwise.

"Let him go," another rough voice enticed Greg to open his eyes once again. Randolph stood not to far away, bent over slightly, but holding his own gun with both hands, level with their attacker.

"I've come too far to do that," the other man argued; his voice was shallow, withdrawn even, not angry or frantic as Greg expected him to be.

Randolph blinked, watching him for a moment, still holding his gun tightly. It was evident that he was in pain, his face tight. Greg could tell that even in the dim lighting. "You were behind all of this? Why? You're a CSI Tom, you know better than this," Randolph started, his voice still heavy.

"Don't you dare start berating me, just because you carry a badge," Tom warned him, twisting Greg's hand as his grip tightened as if to make his point clear. Greg grimaced again, gritting his teeth against the pain as the bones moved against each other, still not having healed.

Tom shook his head slowly, "I've carried a gun longer than you have, this is my life, and it's what's been my life ever since I was young. I was so close to being promoted to a detective rank, you have no idea how close. Then they get a new head in the department, and do you know what they did? They choose a low life newbie over me. I've worked for that position for years and they took it away from me, not only that, I feel down to the bottom line again, working easy cases. Cases that would never get me noticed, and I knew right then and there I'd never have a chance to work a career case, one that would boost me to the top."

In the time Tom was ranting, Randolph had lowered his gun, only to realize what he was doing and raise it back up during this last pause. He was tempted to say something, but didn't have the chance as Tom started back up again.

"I knew I wouldn't have a chance unless I created the opportunity. Something that seemed easy, but in turn would make the headlines. I worked on this for so long now, and when I was signed on to help run this convention, I knew it was the perfect opportunity."

Randolph took a step forward, then another, hoping that Tom wouldn't notice, too occupied in his ranting, but he was wrong, coming to a stop as Tom twisted Greg's hand once more, causing another pained cry from the young man.

"He's not part of this," Randolph told him quietly, "Just let him go."

Tom laughed softly, "But he is a part of this, he's the final piece in my plan, the scapegoat, the one to blame. Everything would have worked out better, if I had more time. But they were moving me off the case tomorrow, handing it over to someone with more, experience. I had it all worked out, a couple's twisted definition of fun, copycatting the murders of an old killer who got away. Then, when I was onto them, he would freak out, kill the girl in the same manner, then himself. It was perfect, no witnesses. But plans change."

He drew a deep breath, glancing around, as if contempt before facing the other detective. Randolph had not moved from his spot, but his breathing was coming in faster and deeper breaths. Greg could only guess that he had been hit quite badly, possibly fatally if he didn't get help soon.

"You see, with time being pressed, I had to act tonight. So the story would now be that Greg here, killed you when you interfered in his plans. Then he would kill the girl, then finally himself. I slipped up though, didn't think about them fighting back, but everything will work out."

Greg could do little more than listen during all this time, so it was a surprise to feel himself being pulled up, nearly dragged into a standing position, the barrel of the gun still pressed tightly against the back of his neck.

"We're going to go for a walk now," Tom said; he still had a forceful grip on his broken hand, and he gave it a small squeeze as a reminder. Greg bit his lip as he stumbled backwards as Tom pulled on the hood of his coat. "It would be wise not to follow; I will kill him if you do."

Randolph didn't make a move, the last thing Greg saw on his face was regret, before being forced to turn around, now leading the way through the darkness, his heart already racing as old fears came back to haunt him.

Randolph watched them leave, wanting to follow, but remembering the warning that was last said, and at that moment, he couldn't move. Both from the pain he was in, but more from the shock. In everything, Tom was the last person he expected, and now, he wasn't sure what to do. Even if he could catch up with them, risking a shot was too dangerous, there was no sure way to tell who was who, and not only that, Tom was making certain to keep Greg as close as possible, knowing that was his only protection against gunfire.

Cursing lightly, Randolph stumbled over to where Sara lay, dropping to one knee as he felt for her pulse, slight worried he wouldn't be able to get back to his feet. He was grateful to find a pulse, but worried just the same, for in the dim lighting he could see that a great deal of blood had coated her face, a large gash covering her forehead. Pressing a hand against the cut, Randolph used his other free hand to cover his own wounds, grimacing at the contact. The question now lie in not what to do, but in what could be done.

TBC