What do they want with her?

Goren could not get his head around it; who would want to hurt Eames? He had called the NYU hospital to see if Dr. Littman was in, but they said he had gone out on a house call around seven that morning and that he had not returned. Livingston was at the crime lab pushing for progress, but Tyler had called Goren to say that they were still processing Eames' apartment. The hair with the note matched Eames, only verifying the truth. Tyler also said if they found anything that he would call the detective personally. The CSU seemed as if he could understand Goren's pain.

Goren tried to recall everything about Littman that Eames had told him. He was studying to be a doctor, he was a tranquil person who rarely became angered, and he was humble and modest. Yet something must have happened last night to derail that calm personality and unleash the beast within. Eames could take care of herself. If someone tried to attack her, she could scare them off in a heartbeat. She could have easily overtaken Littman if he attacked her. Unless she was drugged. That would give the doctor an advantage over her.

He looked across from him to find an empty chair. There was no one he could bounce his ideas off of, which only deepened the void inside him. Livingston was not even trying to assess his personal conflicts raging inside him, but then again hardly anyone did, except Eames.

Slamming his hands into the desk, Goren rose and left the squad room, taking the stairs down to the bottom floor and heading outside. He pushed the doors open with such force people around him were afraid the door would snap off its hinges. Once outside, he walked to a newspaper stand and purchased a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. He returned to the steps of One Police Plaza and lit himself a cigarette, inhaling the smoke and releasing it through his nostrils like a bull. He put the matchbook and pack of cigarettes into his coat pocket for a later time. It did not calm him, only presented him with a moment to think.

Littman had appeared to be such a nice character, from what Eames had told him. Whether or not being a doctor had any say in their relationship was uncertain, but Goren could remember two times his partner had come almost skipping into work, the smile on her face bright. It was smiles like those which would lighten up his day from the start, even if they had mounds of paperwork to sort through. It was something about her character that made her Eames, along with her infamous bad-cop routine, quick cynicism, and touch exterior.

His cell phone vibrated at his side, and he picked it up, taking another puff of smoke before placing it to his ear. "Goren."

"Hello, detective," said a raspy male voice. Goren furrowed his brow, confused as to who this person was.

"Who's this?" he asked. Heavy breathing resonated on the other line, and he gripped the phone tightly in his hand.

"Did you get my note?" The voice was laughing as it spoke. Not physical laughter, but the tone of the voice was. Goren crushed the half-smoked cigarette in his fist and let the hot flakes of it float to the sidewalk, forgetting that there was an astray three feet from him.

"What do you want?" demanded Goren. His words almost choked in his throat, but he managed to force them past his vocal chords.

"She's very pretty. Beautiful face, incredible body—I especially like the way she cuts glances at people when she's irritated. Course, I'd hate to have to ruin that for her."

Goren clenched his hand into a tight fist, his small nails digging into his palm. "Don't you touch a single hair on her head," he warned. A hollow chuckle emitted from his phone.

"It's a bit too late for that, isn't it? Make sure you check your mail, detective. She'll have a present waiting for you." The other line disconnected, leaving a piercing dial tone ringing in Goren's ears. He gritted his teeth as he lowered the phone and slammed it shut. No one messed with Eames, no one.

Spinning on his heels, Goren trekked back up the stairs to the doors, replacing his phone at his side. As he released his fingers it vibrated again, and he hastily took it and flipped it open. The screen told him he had a text message. Hoping it was from Tyler or Deakins, he quickly went to read it, but his hopes were replaced with fury when he read the message:

Her hair is very soft, you know; smells nice, too.

Goren felt a growl in his throat as he pushed open the doors of One Police Plaza, people avoiding him from all directions, and he turned to the stairs, marching up taking three at the time. He reached the eleventh floor fairly quickly, and he went straight to Deakins' office, not bothering to knock or be polite as he slammed the door behind him. Deakins was reading over paperwork when Goren entered.

"Goren! What the hell's wrong with you?" insisted Deakins.

Goren was pacing wildly, his hands flying about. "They're going to hurt her, they're going to hurt her and I don't know why!" he yelled.

Deakins rose up slowly, taking off his glasses and folding them before he placed them on his desk. Goren ignored him, his anger mounting inside him.

"Goren, calm down," requested Deakins softly. He motioned to a chair, but Goren did not accept. "How do you know they're going to hurt her?"

"They called me, sir. They said they'd call me, they said it in the note—"

"When?"

"Just now, while I was outside, having a smoke—they're going to hurt her, sir, and there's nothing I can do about it!"

Goren slammed his fists into Deakins' desk, rattling the windows and the framed plaques on the wall. People outside the office jumped in surprise when the heard the miniature sonic boom exploded in their captain's office. Deakins, unfazed by his detective's actions, folded his arms.

"What did they say?" he asked. Goren had returned to his pacing, hands flying around him once more.

"I…God!" Goren could not speak, which was a rarity indeed. His mind was now racing faster than it ever had, the exact opposite of before, but without any calming effect from Eames it was only destined to speed up.

Deakins approached him, placing his hand on his shoulder. "Where was Livingston in all of this?"

"At the crime lab," answered Goren. It was more of an exhale rather than a response, Goren feeling physically drained suddenly. He walked to a chair and sat down, his elbows on his knees and his head hanging. Deakins picked up his phone and dialed the crime lab, barking orders that Livingston was to report to him right away. Goren heard no noise. Instead all the outside sounds were buzzing like interference in his ears.

---

Eames somehow went to sleep again while leaning against the wall, her mouth still gagged with tape and her hands still behind her in her own handcuffs. It was not a peaceful sleep. It was a sleep composed of little rest and lots of thinking about nothing. Yet it was a deep enough sleep for her not to hear the men leave and return an hour later with a video camera and some tapes, along with other things they had purchased for later use.

Her eyes opened at the sound of a phone ringing, but she made no sound and did not move. She heard footsteps walking across the room, followed by someone picking up the phone.

"Hello?" It was a voice she automatically paired with Stover, but she made no notion that she was awake, listening.

"Oh, Mike, hey…Yeah, yeah he did…Yes, we did that too…Of course not! We were—okay, okay, I gotcha…ya did? Awesome, man!—Now? Okay, sure. And y'all come 'round when…okay, great. Yeah, see ya 'round." The phone fell back on the receiver, and Eames heard footsteps again.

"Guys, get it ready," ordered Stover. Chairs scooted across the floor, and four pairs of feet began shuffling on the hardwood floor. A rough hand grabbed Eames' arm and yanked her up, forcing her onto her feet. Her head snapped around to find Moss' grip above her elbow.

"Resistance is futile, miss," he said.

What the hell is this, Star Wars? Sheesh.

Moss forced her to walk towards the center of the vacant room, still bound and gagged, where she heard someone in the shadows constructing something.

If they think I'm going to beg for my life or for a ransom, they're highly mistaken.

Moss did not sit her in a chair, nor did he throw her on the ground. He let her go and left her standing in the middle of the room, traveling to a darkened corner and rummaging through a bag. Someone approached her from behind and seized her by the shoulders, their head hovering at her shoulder like Goren would do.

"Miss, ya ready?" asked Rush. Eames ignored him, her focus on the wall in front of her. The hands let go, and Stover walked beside her, he and Rush circling her hungrily. She watched them in turn as they revolved around her, her legs ready to jump away when they were ready to strike.

Herbert appeared rather suddenly in front of her, catching her off guard, and that was when the first blow struck her from behind. It was not a fist, but some kind of pipe, and it hit the back of her knee. She grunted as she fell to one knee, and Stover and Rush began delivering punches and kicks to her small body. She managed to kick Stover off her and roll onto her back, but Herbert was waiting for her with a short piece of rebar in hand. He brought it down on her stomach, and she curled up in pain. But they did not stop, with Stover and Rush punching and kicking and Moss and Herbert holding a pipe and a piece of rebar and beating her. None of the blow were directed to her face, but it did not matter where they were falling, just the fact that they were.

Rush grabbed her and forced her on her side, and Moss slammed his pipe into shoulder blade. She screamed behind the tape, her eyes wide and filling with tears from pain. She was becoming angry, her sudden tears drying up, but she could not defend herself with her hands tied behind her. None of them cared that she was helpless, a feeling she hated to admit even having. It was not a fair fight.

She was forced to her feet, where she made herself stand tall, and she glared into Stover's eyes as he punched her in the stomach. Two sets of arms kept her standing as Stover continued to punch her unforgivably, and all she could do was grit her teeth and take it, eyes closed to block the pain.

Suddenly the punching stopped, but she did not open her eyes. She felt the metal around her wrists being removed, and she realized that she was free, but had no answer as to why. The tape came off her mouth, stinging but not worth crying over, and she lifted her head weakly to face Stover's crooked smile.

"Your turn, wench," he taunted.

Eames' eyes narrowed as the arms released her, and finding unknown strength inside herself she quickly jabbed Stover in the face. Herbert grabbed her from behind, but a smart elbow to his nose made him let go. Rush swung a pipe towards her, and she instinctively raised her arms. It collided with her forearm and she screamed out, her entire right arm numb, and the pipe jabbed her in the chest. She collapsed to the floor, Moss' strong arms delivering punches to all of her body except her head, and she was beginning to feel drained.

As she tried to stand Herbert's foot caught her in the stomach and she fell back to the floor. Every time she attempted to stand someone kicked her, and after a long few minutes of being kicked she rolled over onto her back, completely breathless and in sheer pain. She did not resist when someone picked her up and restrained her again, slapping tape to her mouth and dragged her back to the corner she had been in before. She was tossed into the corner, where she lay limp on the floor.

Why?

---

"Where the hell have you been?" Deakins and Goren were in his office, Livingston standing smugly before them, his hands in his pockets.

"I was overseeing evidence, sir," said Livingston coolly. "As the leader of this investigation—"

"I never crowned you the head of this investigation!" barked Deakins. He was angered beyond any anger he had ever experienced before. He was considering throwing the FBI poster boy off this case and personally joining Goren in finding Eames, but he knew he could not do such a thing, as desirable as it was.

"IAB wants the FBI on this case," argued Livingston.

"I'm not a damn idiot, Livingston. Just because you're FBI doesn't make you the head of this investigation. You are here on privilege, not for anything else. Do you understand?"

Livingston nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Right," said Deakins. "Now, you go help Goren find Eames. Out, both of you."

As the detective and special agent were exiting his office another detective raced in, a package in his hand.

"Sir!" The young detective spun about, his actions pointing that he did not know who to address, Deakins or Goren. Deakins placed a hand on his shoulder, and the man stopped and faced him.

"What is it, Argo?" asked the captain.

The young detective gave him the package. "It's about Detective Eames, sir."