Sara, Nick, and Warrick made their way back to Greg's office, and took out their flashlights and forceps. This didn't seem to be any use; any fingerprint on the doorknob was covered or smudged by one of their's; any hair had probably been trampled on so many times that the DNA tag had fallen off. They didn't know how much more time had passed, but Sara was getting tired of dead ends. She threw down her forceps in frustration.

"Forget this," she said. "We've looked so many times, how likely is it that we'll find anything new? We should just screw this and go look for a new Lab boy with spiky blonde hair who likes Marilyn Manson and surfing and cars. I'm sure there are many out there. He'll probably by long dead by the time we can reach him anyway!"

"Sara!" said Nick. She often got overemotional, but this case was certainly different. Therefore, she was bound to get ever more emotional. "Relax. We'll find him."

Sara stared down at the floor, and recovered her forceps, but did not pick her head back up. She paused, still looking at the floor. She snagged a small, black plastic tube from the rug, and looked at it in the light. "Nick," she said, "I think I got something."

"Looks like...the antennae of a cell phone," said Warrick, examining it carefully. "You break yours, Sar? Nicky?"

They both checked their pockets, but sure enough their phones were completely intact. Warrick got up and shuffled through the papers strewn all over Greg's desk until he found the silver cell phone that rang when he had called it earlier. But that antennae was also whole. Sara phoned her boss.

"Grissom."

"Yeah, is your cell phone broken?"

There was a pause.

"No. What -?"

Sara hung up in excitement and held back the urge to jump for joy. It didn't belong to anyone else who had been in the room, and it didn't belong to the victim; it must be the kidnaper's...and it must have fingerprints on it. All the other evidence was insufficient if they could just get a match off this. Sara bagged it and ran off to fume it.

For five minutes that felt like hours, the three of them stared and watched as a thumb print slowly appeared along the black cord. "Gotcha," muttered Sara, dusting it, lifting it, and running it through the CSI database. "You little shit, if you're one of us, you mistakenly left your guilty, sweat-ridden fingerprints behind. Oh, I'll find you. You'll regret the day you ever-"

"Uh, Sara," said Nick, tapping her on the shoulder, "a, you're talking to yourself again, and b, we got a match."

Sara jumped, excited. She smiled mischievously, looking at the face of the suspect. "It's definitely the guy on the camera," she said printing out his picture. "I recognize the stupid haircut. Roger Mason, Carson City Crime Lab."

"Carson City?" said Warrick. "That's a long way out."

"Yeah," said Nick. "But we have to go."

Without another look back, they exchanged a final glance at each other and piled into the car.

"Hang in there, Greg. We're coming to bring you home."

Greg expected to hear the blast of the gunpowder any minute now. He could feel the cold barrel against the back of his neck. The rain mingled with his sweat, as they ran down in beads along his face. This was the end. But there was only silence. No one had spoken, not a sound had been made, since Greg made his final request from Roger.

"...all right then, Gregory," he said at last. "I must admit, those many hours we spent together in the car has made me quite fond of you. So before you die, I might as well tell you a bedtime story. I was hired to kidnap a CSI from the number one crime lab in the country. Any CSI would do. I figured a woman might be easier to manipulate, but when none were available, I tried for anyone I could get."

While he spoke, he walked around to face Greg, but still kept him covered at every angle. He smiled.

"It's pretty unsuspecting when a professional from a big city crime lab comes in asking for help in a case. But still, why hurt my reputation by using my real name, just in case I got caught?" He laughed. "Don't feel too hard, boy. Even an experienced supervisor would be fooled. Great plan, eh?"

Greg opened his mouth to ask another question, but Roger seemed to read his mind.

"Why did I do it? Davy here calls me up one day and offers me half a lifetime of paychecks to drive a scientist down a deserted interstate and leave him there. Who am I to refuse?"

"That's enough, Roger," said David. "Don't be an idiot."

"It's not like he'll be alive long enough to tell anyone else."

"You should still shut up," said David, lighting up a second cigarette. "What if someone hears you?"

Even though he couldn't see, Greg had a sneaking suspicion that Roger had just rolled his eyes. "Jeez, lighten up. I don't even know what your plan is."

"You must have some idea," David said.

"Nope."

"Oh, come on!" David was positively hysterical. "Some CSI you are!"

"Tell me, then."

"I am planning to degrade the Las Vegas Crime Lab by killing one of the CSIs and watching as they sadly can't solve the case. Then, my crew will step in and solve it with absolute ease."

"Aha!" said Roger, pointing at David with his free hand. "Now who's the idiot, telling their plan out loud?"

Greg was compelled to laugh at this conversation. They were supposed to be trying to kill him, but they were arguing like siblings. In fact, thought Greg, if he wasn't mistaken, they were siblings. But they were acting like twelve years old and wanted the last piece of birthday cake.

"Oh, shut up for once!" said David, starting up a third cigarette and tossing down the old one. "You always have to have the last word."

There was a period of silence. It was rather awkward, standing here. If only Roger would lower his gun for a second...but this guy seemed to have him covered even when he was embarrassed.

"So..." said Greg slowly. "...wouldn't you go to jail once your team solves my murder?" It put a lump in his throat to say the words "my murder". It made it seem like he was dead already. He practically was – there was no means of escape.

"Who says I'm going to kill you?" asked David. "Not a very observant rookie, are you? You wouldn't have made it three days at my vicinity."

"Wait, you're not going to kill him?" asked Roger, who clearly knew no more than Greg did. "Just how many people are you dragging into..." His words slowed and he did not finish his sentence. As David took a another calm puff of nicotine and tobacco, he began stuttering. "N-no. You're not expecting me to take the fall for this?" Greg couldn't tell, but was sure David gave him a "no shit" look. "I have no means for killing this kid! What good is your money if I'm stuck sitting in jail for twenty-five years!" And to the relief of the hostage, with these last words, Roger tossed his gun into the dirt by Greg's feet.

If he had been thinking, he would have grabbed the weapon off the ground. But all he wanted to do was go home and go to bed. He made a break for it, running towards the dark road. He splashed through numerous puddles, but he was as soaked as he was ever going to get, and a few more splashes made no difference. As he reached the pavement, he slowed to a regular pace, smiling at his kidnappers' stupidity. Just as the thought of being back at the lab popped into his head, he came crashing down, having tripped over a stone.

"Ow..." he said, lifting his head a few inches off the ground. "That was stupid."

Bang! A gunshot echoed across the empty road. Greg flattened himself against the pavement. He lay still for a few minutes, and then lifted his torso off the ground, sitting on his knees and putting his hands to his head. That was close.

Greg gasped as a sudden cold hand grabbed the back of his shirt, pulled him to his feet, and dragged him into the abyss. He was tugged back to the cars, where Roger stood open-mouthed in the same exact spot he was in when Greg had run away. David let go of Greg's collar, but with such force that he stumbled forward a few inches before Dave took his place besides his own car.

Then, with a shock, he pulled out a second pistol and held one at Greg and the other at Roger. Holding the two weapons out, David looked like a cowboy from an old western movie.

"Look," said David, temporarily withdrawing his weapon from Greg to push his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, "I'm tired of this. The job should be done by now, but it's not, is it, Roger?"

Roger looked desperately, wide-eyed, at Greg. The look in his face made Greg almost ready to believe he was truly sorry for what he had put him through. But then David threw one of the guns at Roger and he caught it.

"So, here's how it goes," David said. "You shoot him, or I shoot you. Get it?"

The sympathy left Roger's eyes as he turned on Greg. "I'm sorry, Greggo," he said, but he was smiling. "We had our fun. But this is the way it has to be, I guess."