Greg opened his locker door and extracted his jacket. He slipped both arms into the sleeves and pulled it on, leaving it unzipped. He straightened out the collar and brushed some dust off the right sleeve, then smoothed out his hair.

It was starting to get really hectic around here. Archie in hospital, death threats, shaky witnesses...it would be a relief to finally put the lid on the God-damn thing.

He shut the locker and picked up his bag, headed for the door. As he did so, it opened and Grissom welcomed himself in. Greg nodded.

"See you, Gris," he said.

"Good work today, Greg," he replied, and they walked past each other.

Throughout his journey to the exit, Greg encountered all the others, either on their way out themselves or headed for the locker room. They said their goodnights and Greg walked out into the fresh open air that was outside the lab.

---

"You failed."

My servant stands behind me. I cannot see his face, for my eyes are closed and I am turned away from him. But I can tell he maintains his grim, undaunted expression. An expression that proclaims no embarrassment or shame.

"I was interrupted," he answers. "He may yet be dead; I slashed his calf before leaving the scene."

"I have a mind to choose someone else," I say. "Someone who will not fail me."

"I will not this time," he says.

"You will persevere?"

"I will. I will not leave until I am sure the next one is dead."

I stand and open my eyes. I turn around and set them upon him, my assassin. He stands there, tall and proud, prepared to do my bidding.

"Very well. I will give you another chance."

He grins. He is pleased. He wants to help me. Good. He can do so. I give him a significant look and say, "Just one more."

With that, I tell him who and where.

"You understand?'

"Perfectly."

"By tonight, what will remain of Greg Sanders?"

He cocks an eyebrow. "A corpse."

---

Greg breathed in the cool outdoor air and began to walk through the parking lot. Being trapped in the lab for the greater part of the day had rather sharpened his appetite for fresh oxygen, so he was feeling a bit better. Of course, a bit of fresh oxygen wasn't enough to put a positive spin on one of his best friends being in hospital...in rough condition.

It helped, though.

Nick's truck pulled up next to Greg just as he was about to leave the parking lot.

"Hey, Greg, d'you need a ride?" he said, rolling down his window.

"Nah, it's OK, thanks, Nick," replied Greg.

"You sure? I don't mind giving you a lift home."

"I'll catch a bus. We live on opposite sides of town, anyway."

"Alright, I'll catch you later."

"Later."

Nick rolled up his window and his black truck pulled out of the parking lot. Greg watched it drive away and meld into the traffic, becoming one with the dark city. Greg blew out some air that rose in a humid mist in front of him before disappearing into the atmosphere. With that, he continued on.

Greg, hands in his pockets, walked down the dirty sidewalk towards the bus stop. It was only a short distance away. He was tired as hell, though...he'd be glad to get home and catch a few Z's. Well-deserved Z's.

A light rain began to fall. A few scattered drops sprinkled down, moistening Greg's spiky hair. Soon it began to become heavier, but not unbearably so. A drop ran down Greg's temple and irritated his cheek. He wiped it off, and seconds later arrived at the bus stop. Taking shelter from the rain, which was still steadily increasing, he checked his watch and the schedule. The next bus arrived in four minutes.

He sat down on the cold metal bench and waited. He exhaled another cloud of frost and leaned his head against the glass back wall. He was tired...

Suddenly something caught his attention that caused him to sit up suddenly, alert as a startled rabbit. A sound had penetrated the din of the city. It was a loud, sharp sound that was enough to startle anyone in his frame of mind.

A gunshot had just been fired.

Greg warily stood up, reaching for his own gun. There was a thin, tiny plume of smoke rising from the mouth of the alleyway directly across from him. The alley was dark. He didn't really want to go into it...

He gripped the handle of his sidearm firmly, and hopped across the street while there was a break in traffic.

"Las Vegas Crime Lab!" he shouted to a few pedestrians who were looking at him, startled at the gun in his hand.

He pulled his flashlight from his belt and switched it on as he approached the alley. Taking a deep breath, Greg turned the corner and shone the beam down it. There was nothing...just a dumpster.

Just a dumpster...or was it?

Greg cautiously held out his pistol before him and advanced into the shadowy alley. He took careful, quiet steps, trying to keep his cover as long as possible.

He reached the dumpster.

Greg made sure his gun was loaded. Steeling himself, he leapt round the side of the dumpster. He aimed the beam of the flashlight into the dim shadow of the corner. There was an intense look in his eye as he examined the area.

It was empty.

A shiver ran down Greg's spine. There was someone here. He knew it. There had to be. And that meant there was only one more place to look...

With the air of a man being led to steps of the guillotine, Greg stepped towards the dumpster. The container seemed to grin at him. It seemed to look at him in a way that tried to coax him into coming closer.

He faced it and placed a hand upon the black plastic lid. Drawing himself up, Greg tightened his grip on it and with all the strength he could muster, flung it open and pointed his gun into the dark abyss. He didn't even think about what he saw.

The figure flying from the darkness didn't let him.

It sprang from the dumpster and crashed full-on into Greg's chest, sending the two of them careening backwards. Greg was smashed into the wall behind him with the attacker's weight compressing him. As he made impact, he fired his gun, but the bullet ricocheted off a wall and fell harmlessly to the ground.

The assailant then took hold of Greg's shoulders and flung him to the ground. Overcome with shock, Greg could hardly defy the strength with which he was felled. The attacker drew out a long bowie and leaped into the air. As Greg hit the ground, however, he had sense enough to point his gun and pull off two shots.

The first bullet hit the wall again, sending off a dazzling display of sparks. The second, however, was more accurate and met its mark. It drilled into the attacker's left shoulder, sending out an explosion of blood that spattered all over Greg's face.

A scream broke from the attacker's masked face as he was shot, but while it was enough to affect extreme pain, it was not a killing blow. Before Greg could shoot again, though, he was pinned down, the attacker crouched upon his chest. Greg pointed his gun at his opponent's head, only to have his arm brought to the hard floor by his foe's foot.

The next few seconds lasted as long as a few seconds normally last. But to Greg, those seconds were a lifetime, and he was not likely to ever forget them.

The arm rose. It looked like the hand of triumph, silhouetted against the cloud-strewn sky. What light was provided by the moon glinted against the long blade. The attacker waited, savouring the moment, then with conviction and purpose thrust the knife downward.

Greg had never felt such pain in his life. The knife stuck into his right arm and hit bone. As Greg screamed, the assailant silenced him with a tight grip on his throat. He then reared up again and struck once more.

This time it slashed across Greg's chest. The wound was not deep, but burned and stung with agony all the same. Greg was beyond screaming now even if he had been able to. He was as helpless as a squirrel below the talons of a hawk.

And then the final hit came.

But this was not meant to inflict pain. This was meant to be the killing blow, the one that put the final nail in Greg's coffin. The knife pierced deep, plunging down into Greg's chest cavity. It severed a rib and God knew what organs. To top it off, the attacker twisted the blade about, opening the wound even wider, before yanking it out and making a great gash down to his abdomen. Blood sprayed up into his face and blossomed from the open wound.

As a final word, the faceless assassin took something from his pocket and dropped it on Greg's chest, before concealing the deadly weapon and disappearing into the city.

Greg remained in the alley, though. He lay, spread-eagled, upon the concrete ground, covered in blood. His pistol was still in his hand, but only held onto by the loose finger round the trigger. His blank eyes stared up at the sky...

But he did not see the clouds overhead. He saw nothing but blackness. Gradually the sound of Las Vegas faded out into silence. Greg could feel life leaving him...

Well, if this is death, it's not so bad...he was beginning to accept it...no, I can't die yet...he didn't want to die; he was too young...but the darkness was so welcoming...it's so peaceful...it would be just like falling asleep...

He was fading...fading...

Suddenly the clamour of the city returned to his ears, flooding his brain. His sight returned to him, though everything was blurred. He knew what to do.

He searched frantically in his breast pocket. He had to get his cell phone. It was his only hope...he could only pray that it hadn't been broken in the fight.

His shaking fingers found it. They felt the smooth, metal surface and pulled the device out. It wasn't broken. He flipped it open and weakly hit '4' on Speed Dial.

It rang once.

Twice.

I Come on, pick up... /I

Three times.

I Please... /I

Four.

"Come on!" he gasped aloud, and the ringing ceased. A voice came through, one that Greg had never been so relieved to hear in his life.

"Grissom."

"Help me...please..."

---

Dun-dun-DUN! What will happen to Greg? Will he survive? Find out next time! By the way, I'd like everyone's opinion on that chapter in especial. How was it? I'll update soon!