Disclaimer: I do not own CSI, the TV show. I do own the original characters that appear in this story.

Pairing: Sandle

Rating: T


4:43 am.

Grissom carefully lowered himself to the floor of his office and laid his head in the pool of fake blood.

"Ok, now lay still and don't move," Agent Patrick ordered the supine man, holding out her camera phone, "play dead for me."

"As you wish, Agent Patrick," he said, following her order. He shut his eyes and his pose became stiff and deathlike. The tall, middle aged blonde woman carefully framed the shot with her camera, and then snapped a couple of pictures. She reviewed them meticulously, then snapped the phone shut. "Ok, that does it, Mr. Grissom. You're now officially dead. Good job, by the way. You were very convincing."

Grissom got up from the floor, fake blood dripping down his face. "Well, I suppose a lifetime of looking at death can wear off on you after a while. And please, call me Gil." He put a finger in the blood on his face and sniffed it. "What is this? Corn syrup and red dye?"

She nodded. "It is, indeed, Gil. Looks as good as the real thing, doesn't it? Well, you can go get cleaned up. I'll go email these photos anonymously to the news station. The reporters are all outside, and I've got to make a statement for the cameras shortly. Then Las Vegas will think you're dead, so I think you'd better hang out here until we have Slater in custody. You know what they say…"

"That the only safe man is a dead man?"

"Well, I was going to say safe is better than sorry," she laughed, "but that works too, I guess." She began to leave, but then turned around. "By the way…you can call me Dana."

He watched her retreating figure, then smiled to himself.


4:45 am.

Greg dashed frantically down the hallway, quickly scanning the doors as he ran by. Finally seeing the one he was looking for, he halted in front of the door, marked Security, panting for a moment with his hands resting on his knees. Then, opening the door, he burst into the room.

The gray haired security guard, seated in front of a row of television monitors, fell out of his chair. He struggled to his feet, bleary eyed and obviously woken from his sleep. "Who are you? What do you want?" he asked, his hand hovering over his gun.

"Whoa there," Greg panted, holding up a hand, "I'm a CSI. See," he said, indicating his badge, "it says so right here. I'm a Crime Scene Investigator with the LVPD."

The guard held out his hand. "Lemme see that."

Greg handed it to him. The guard squinted down at it, looking down at it and then back up at Greg. "Well, I guess you are. What are doing here at this time of the night?"

Greg thought for a moment. Who in their right mind is gonna believe my story? He thought about it for a moment, then prayed that he would be believed. "Did you see the news story about the escaped felon who murdered his wife and her kid?" The guard nodded. "Well, he's kidnapped my girlfriend and he's going to kill her soon if I don't find him. I need your help. Please." Greg hoped the raw desperation in his voice would convince this guard to help him.

The guard's eyes narrowed. "That sounds a little farfetched, young fella. How do I know you're telling me the truth? Sounds just a little shady to me. I'm not gonna fall for a prank." He stood up. "I think you should leave."

Greg shut his eyes in disbelief. After everything that had happened, after all that he had been through, he was going to be thwarted now in his attempts to save Sara? Putting his hands in his pockets, he turned around dejectedly. Maybe Brady and Nick have found something by now. He was almost to the door when his hand came in contact with something that he'd forgotten was there. He turned around, and walked back to the guard.

"What do you want now?" The old guard said in annoyance.

"I have proof that I'm telling the truth," Greg said desperately. "I'll show you!"

The guard narrowed his eyes. "Well, let's see it then," he said sarcastically, "I can't wait. This should be good-" He was cut off short by the sight of the shiny object that Greg pulled out of his pocket. His hands slowly rose. "Well, I guess that's pretty conclusive proof," he said ironically, eyeing the gun pointed at his head.

Greg had pocketed the piece, replacing the ammunition clip before leaving the lab…just in case. For the second time in one night, he was threatening someone's life. Strangely, this time he was not trembling. I'm going to need therapy when this is all over, he thought with cynical humor. He gestured towards the security camera monitors. "I need to see the tapes from about 9pm to 12 am. Just the fourth floor. Where are the tapes?"

"There are no tapes. The data from the video feeds is compressed and stored on the hard drive. I can replay it for you from here. Just…don't shoot." The guard leaned over the keyboard and booted up the fourth floor feed from the hard drive to the playback monitor. Greg pulled a copy of Slater's mug shot from his jacket. "This is the guy I need to find," he said, setting it down beside the keyboard.

He spent precious minutes watching the security feed, fast forwarding through the spots without activity, and pausing every time an individual walked by. The process was seemingly endless, and Greg agonized over the time he was losing. He could be killing her now, holding the gun to her head now, and I'm here…so close, but so far…


4:57 am.

"Look here." The guard's voice brought him out of his unbearable thoughts. "That's him right there," he pointed to a figure on the screen, zooming in on the man. "I seen him on the news. And that must be your girl, right there." He indicated an unconscious figure the man was pushing in a wheelchair. "Is your girlfriend's leg broken?"

"Yes," Greg said numbly. "It's them. What room are they going in?"

"Looks like…hmm…436. Guess your story was right after all, young fella," he said, turning around to face Greg. But he was gone.


4:58 am.

As the hotel clerk read off the names, one of the agents, Reubens, quickly looked them up on his laptop, wirelessly connected to the FBI's database. Name after name came up clean, with nothing out of the ordinary. "Nope, this one's clean too." Brady looked agitated. "We're running out of time here. How many more names?"

"Just a dozen or so," the clerk said.

"Let's hurry. This guy's for real," Brady said, looking at his watch. "He'll kill her in an instant if he suspects anything out of the ordinary with the news report, and he may kill her anyway, even if he thinks Grissom's dead. We're out of time."

"Wait," Reubens said, holding up a hand, "I may have something."

"Well, what is it?" Brady asked impatiently.

"That last name…Miguel Fernandez, he reported his wallet stolen yesterday. Are you thinking what I am?"

"Stolen credit cards. It's Slater, without a doubt," Brady said. Addressing the hotel clerk, he asked, "Miguel Fernandez. What room number?"

"436," she replied.

"Guys…"

"What is it, Nick? We've got to move out."

"It's Greg. He's gone."


5:00 am.

"Good morning, you're watching KVBC's morning news report. I'm Kim Capozzo. We have some breaking news. One of the Las Vegas Crime Lab's most prominent CSIs has been found, shot to death in his own office. We're going now to Stacy Escalante, live at the crime lab. Stacy, what can you tell us about this shocking murder?"

"Well, Kim, we've been told that night shift supervisor Gil Grissom was shot and killed in his office earlier this morning. We are told by the FBI agents investigating this case that they do have a suspect, but have not been able to uncover a motive thus far in the investigation. The suspect is another of the crime lab's employees, CSI level 1 Gregory Sanders, who the FBI tell us has not yet been apprehended."

"Stacy, we'll get back to you in a moment, but I've just been told that we have been sent photographs of the crime scene from an anonymous witness. Please be warned, these photographs are fairly graphic." As she spoke, the photos of Grissom flashed across the screen.

Sara's eyes filled with tears as she shook her head in disbelief. She sobbed against the gag that was covering her mouth. She didn't want to believe that Greg could do such a thing, but there was the evidence, displayed so brutally across the television screen.

Slater was watching the screen with satisfaction clearly displayed across his face. He turned to Sara, a smirk on his face. "Well, I guess I misjudged your boyfriend. I didn't think he'd have to balls to kill Grissom."

She glared at him with all of the hate that she could muster through her tears.

"Now, is that any way to be looking at me? It's almost as if you despise me." He walked over to her and put his hand on her cheek. She tried to shrink away from his poisonous touch. "Now that Sanders has done what I needed, I really don't have much use for you. Maybe I'll have a little bit of fun with you before I kill you."

He was leaning down as if to kiss her when the door burst open with an ear shattering boom. Sara could have cried from relief when she saw Greg standing there, holding a gun on Slater. She had never been so glad to see anyone in her life. Her relief was cut short, however, when she felt the cold steel of a gun press against her temple. No…this can't…no… Tears came, and she couldn't stop them.

"Slater," Greg said commandingly, "it's all over for you. You need to put the gun down and let her go." He watched Slater's gun hand carefully for the slightest indication that he might pull the trigger. I need to get that gun off of Sara… His mind was in a whirl, frantically trying to figure out how best to distract the gunman.

"See, you're not the smartest page in the book, Sanders, because I don't think you clearly understand the situation. You put down your gun, or I shoot your girlfriend." He drove the barrel against Sara's temple for emphasis, and she winced in pain.

"You're the one who doesn't understand this situation. The FBI is here, and you have no chance of getting out of here alive unless you put the gun down, Slater." As if on cue, the squad of FBI agents, decked out in combat gear, appeared behind him, guns drawn.

"Sanders, stand down now," Agent Brady hissed from behind him. "Slater, put the gun down."

Determined that he would not be stopped, Greg took several steps into the hotel room, steadily holding the gun on Slater.

"You brought the Feds into this, Sanders? That was your first mistake…and her last."

"Wait!" Greg was desperately trying to keep that trigger finger from moving. "Slater, do you see this gun I'm holding? Recognize it?"

"Sanders, get out of there. Now!" Brady said between clenched teeth. Greg ignored him. Slater squinted at the hand gun, scrutinizing it. "Yeah, that's the gun I sent you to kill Grissom. So?"

"Do you remember how many bullets were in it?" A drop of sweat slowly made its way down Greg's face.

"Yeah. Once again…who cares?"

"Guess what? I still have one bullet left."

Greg's meaning suddenly dawned on Slater, and realized that he had been betrayed. "You little son of a bitch!" he screamed, raising his gun from Sara to point it at Greg.

Greg sent up a quick prayer of thankfulness. That was exactly what he had hoped Slater would do. Praying for a true aim, he took the window of opportunity that presented itself like a shining beacon of hope. He took the chance, and squeezed the trigger. Slater realized what was happening a split second before Greg's bullet hit him in the forehead, and discharged his gun as his reflexes caused him to jerk. He fell back, dead.

Greg stumbled backward. He didn't even realize that he was hit, until his knees gave out suddenly, without any explanation. He looked down slowly and saw the blood, pumping down his shirt, spattering out over the tan and green carpet that had lead them here, staining it crimson. Is that my blood? It can't be all mine. He vaguely heard shouting, but couldn't make out what was being said. It didn't matter, anyway. She's safe. That's the only thing that matters. He heard her screaming against the gag in her mouth.

The last thing he saw was Sara's face, covered by the blood spatter from Slater's head wound. Their eyes connected for a split second. Then everything around him dimmed, and he collapsed to the floor.

TBC.


Yes, I know. I'm evil, leaving it like that. Please review! Everyone's reviews are greatly appreciated. I love you all and thank you for your inspiring reviews!

Jenn Sidle: Well, I've finally answered your question about Sara. I was going to leave it hanging but then I got your review...I just couldn't do that to you! lol.

Lalenna: Yes, I suppose he might get hurt...and he did! I suppose I could have kept him safe, but where's the fun in that?

CSIwannabe: Thank you! I'm very flattered. I'm glad the story keeps your interest!

kegel: Yeah, I do tend to write faster when I get more reviews. Not only do they motive me to write faster, but more often. Sometimes I'll be goofing off on the internet, get a review, and be like, "Hmmm...I want to write some more Sandle fic!" LOL.

NothingButSarah: I know I said I wouldn't kill Greg off, but that doesn't mean I can't put him in danger. Muhaha! I have been updating this story really fast. This is, without a doubt, the fastest I've ever written a fic. Woohoo for Sandle!

mellowyellow36: Yes, I do love some angsty Greg. Actually, I'm pretty much like you. I love Greg all the time. Woohoo for Greg! or "Sex on legs" as I heard him referred to today...LOL.

sciencenerd: The end is near...very near...you won't have to wait very long to see how it finishes! And then there'll be a sequel, if there is enough interest, and maybe even if there isn't.

Unlikely-to-bear-it: If you ever find that fudge, keep it away from me, because I would die from pure happiness and then I couldn't finish the story. LOL.

Surfredia: LOL. I think you've been too much of a help. Pesky lil plot bunny won't leave me alone now!

MaxiePowers: I'm glad you're liking it so far. I didn't mean to get you stuck to your computer screen though...lol.

Lorency: Yes, and I'm glad to say that he finally got his revenge. Nasty Slater is now dead! Ha. That's what he gets for being a bad guy.