Hey, did everyone like the cliffhanger I left it at? Probably not, eh? I bet you all hate me. Well, that's what a suspense story is all about! Being left in suspense, I mean, not hating the author.

Anyway, let's get this show on the road.

---

"Hello?" said Grissom, furrowing the brow. He couldn't place the voice, partially because it was so mutilated with agony and partially because the signal was very crackly.

"Help me..."

Whoever it was, he was hurt. He was choking his words out with extreme difficulty, with a suggestion of blood in the throat. It sounded as though speech was as excruciating as it was difficult.

"Who is this?" asked Grissom.

The person on the other end paused to either vomit or spit out blood; Grissom couldn't tell which. He persevered.

"Who is this?" he asked again.

"It's me, Greg."

"Greg?" Grissom repeated, removing his glasses.

"I need help...now..."

"Greg, what's the matter?"

Greg paused again, once more to expel bodily fluid from the mouth. "I've been attacked..." he choked finally.

"Attacked? How?"

"Jumped me...knife...happened so fast..."

"How badly did he hurt you?" Grissom was getting more and more fearful by the second.

"Bad...think I'm...dying..."

Grissom pressed the phone hard to his ear. This was bad. Very bad. Much worse than he had thought.

"Greg, where are you?" asked Grissom. He went cold when Greg did not reply. "Greg! Where are you?" He barked the words, but out of concern, not anger.

There came a faint spluttering noise. Greg was still alive...but from the sound of it, just barely.

"Greg, for the love of God, please tell me where you are," said Grissom slowly, stressing every syllable.

"Alleyway...near bus stop..."

"What alleyway? Which bus stop?"

Then there was a clattering noise, as though Greg had dropped his cell phone. Grissom shot out of his chair and put one hand on his desk for support. Then there was a loud crunch. He could hear faint speaking on the other end.

"Help!" It was Greg, but there was a different note in his voice. No longer was it the fading, desperate stutter for help. This was a terrified, desperate cry for help. Grissom knew what had happened.

Greg's attacker had returned.

Grissom knew he mustn't speak, or he would alert the attacker. Instead, he blasted out of his office at full speed. He had to go and search for Greg. But he couldn't do it on his own, if the attacker was still there. He'd need some backup.

"Catherine!" Grissom shouted at the CSI who was proceeding down the hallway, on her way out. She turned around to see a panicked Grissom bolting towards her.

A panicked Grissom was not a good sign.

"Gil! What's the matter?" she asked.

"No time to explain," said Grissom breathlessly, catching up to her. "Greg's in trouble. We have to find him fast."

"Trouble? What sort of trouble?" said Catherine, as she ran with Grissom out the doors.

"Hey, Catherine, Gris, what's up?" It was Warrick. He was already in the parking lot. Seeing them in such a state, he had jogged up to them.

"Warrick, good, come with us," said Grissom. "Greg's dying. We have to find him."

"Dying?" repeated Warrick, staying with them as they ran out of the parking lot. "How?"

"He got attacked," said Grissom.

"Same guy who got Archie?" asked Catherine.

"It sounds like it," said Grissom.

"Son of a bitch!" cursed Catherine.

"OK, Greg said he was in an alley near a bus stop," said Grissom. "We'll go to the closest bus stop and search all the alleys near it."

Thirty seconds later, they had reached the closest bus stop to the headquarters. There were six alleyways within eyeshot.

"Warrick, you search those two!" said Grissom, pointing to the far left. "Catherine, the middle two. I'll take those ones. Keep your weapons at the ready. If you hear any gunshots, follow them."

"Got it!" said Catherine, and the three of them went their separate ways.

Grissom ran to the first alley he had selected and pointed his gun down it. He could see no one. As far as he could tell, the alley was completely empty but for a garbage can. Nevertheless, he proceeded down it, searching every nook and cranny.

Five alleys away, Warrick met with the same results. Except his was completely empty; not even a bin. A cat came bolting out of the shadowy corner, but besides that it was deserted.

"Come on, Greg, where are you...?" he snarled, shining his flashlight around.

Catherine, meanwhile, had abandoned the first alley she had searched and had now moved on to the second one. The only thing there was a dumpster.

But there was something else...as she scanned the ground and walls with her light, it became clear that there was blood everywhere. It was splattered all over the place. The sight was so chilling that she began to panic even more.

Then she noticed something. A faint bluish green glow was emanating from under the lid of the dumpster. From inside, Catherine could hear some sounds...like footsteps. But the sound was metallic, like it was coming from a phone.

A cell phone!

"I've found it!" Catherine screamed. "He's here! Greg! It's Catherine! You're going to be alright!"

She held her gun and flashlight in the same hand, and with the other hand flung open the dumpster with zeal.

What she found was not quite what she had expected.

At her discovery, Catherine's eyes welled up with tears. He was gone...

Grissom and Warrick rushed to her side and looked into the dumpster. As they looked upon what Catherine saw as well, their faces fell also.

The dumpster was empty. The only things inside of it were a half crushed cell phone, emitting the strange blue light, and a balled up piece of paper.

"Damn it!" Warrick yelled and stalked off towards the end of the alley.

"He's gone..." said Catherine.

Grissom pulled out his camera (which he kept on him at all times), and photographed the inside of the dumpster. He then took out a pair of latex gloves he had stuffed in his pocket earlier and put them on. He reached into the dumpster and took the crumpled ball of paper.

"What's that?" Catherine asked, as Grissom unfurled it.

Grissom read what was written on the paper, his mouth half open. "A message," he said, and showed it to Catherine.

Scrawled untidily on the page were the words 'Not what you were expecting, is it?'

---

Greg's eyes flickered open, but it made little difference. There was still complete blackness, wherever he looked. It was as though someone had switched off the moon, stars, and every light in the city.

Wherever he was, it was a cramped space. There was a strange, loud noise in the background, like a motor. He turned his head, only to painfully bash the back of it against the corner of something metal. He tried twisting to the side, but extreme pain shot through his chest, reminding him of his wounds.

He felt around with his left arm, the one he was not leaning on, and found a variety of objects. There was what felt like a duffel bag, something round and metal with rubber on the outside (which he was lying on), a plastic container of some sort, and something with a round handle. He held the grasped in his hand and lifted it up. It was very light, and smooth...

Greg realized he was holding the knife that had been used to attack him.

He dropped the knife quickly. It was too creepy to hold; it had been stuck in him several times, earlier. He searched around for anything else that might be stashed wherever he was, and found one other object. It had a square, plastic handle, and was heavier than the knife...

His thumb found a small rubber knob on the top, which he pushed. Instantly, yellowish light filled the space. He was holding a flashlight.

As soon as the light came on, he had deduced where he was. He had been stuffed in the trunk of a car. He was lying on a spare tire. The duffel bag was a First Aid kit, and the plastic container was a gas can.

His shirt had been removed; apparently, it seemed, to allow the abductor to affect First Aid on him. Probably with equipment from that very kit. But why would someone go to the trouble of stabbing him in the arm, then slashing and goring his chest just to treat him and put him in the trunk of a car?

Whoever performed the First Aid wasn't much of a surgeon, though. The tourniquet around his arm was unnecessary and far too tight. The slash had been dressed with a tight bandage round his chest. And the deep stab wound had merely been stuffed with gauze, which had soaked up all the blood.

Then it hit Greg. He had been treated to prevent blood staining the carpet of the trunk. If CSI had found this car, and the trunk was full of Greg's blood, they'd have their guy.

This perp knew how to leave a squeaky clean scene. He was good.

The car hit a bump, which caused Greg to bounce around and hit his head again. He swore with pain, but then saw the bright side. His head now hurt more than any of his other injuries, which probably meant they weren't going to be fatal.

But that still didn't change the fact that he was locked in the trunk of a car belonging to someone who had tried to murder him that very day, and who was most probably driving the car right then. These facts before him, he began to hyperventilate.

Oh God no...I'm going to die, I'm going to die, I'm going to die...

Suddenly the car lurched to a halt, whacking Greg's head once more, and effectively giving him a serious case of headache. He waited with baited breath. What was going on...?

There was a clunk, and a chink of light shone under the door. The door then swung open, to reveal his attacker standing over him, looking down at him with a smug grin upon his face.

Greg recognized him.

"You!" he managed to shout, before he was slugged hard in the face and vision ceased to exist.

---

Back at the scene, Grissom, Catherine, and Warrick were searching for evidence. All idea of going home that night had passed right out of their minds. All that was important now was finding Greg.

Warrick took photos of the spatter. Grissom bagged what evidence they had. Catherine searched the area for any further clues. There had to be some. A crumpled piece of paper and a broken phone weren't much to go on.

"Hey Warrick," said Grissom, holding up the two evidence bags. "Get these to trace. See if you can get any prints off them."

"You got it," replied the investigator. He took the bags and handed his camera over. Without hesitation, he left the dark alley, bound for CSI.

"What have you got, Catherine?" asked Grissom.

"I found a strange leaf next to the dumpster, but nothing else," she replied. She scanned the ground with her flashlight. Finally, the beam fell upon something. "Wait, here's something. Bullet casing."

Grissom bent down and photographed it, then let Catherine scoop it into a paper envelope. "Nine millimeter. See if there are any more around here," he said.

The two of them searched around for any more.

A few minutes later, Grissom had recovered two flattened nine millimeter bullets. And Catherine had found two more casings.

"So, we've got three casings," said Catherine.

"But only two bullets," added Grissom.

"There's a bullet missing. If those were from Greg's gun, maybe he managed to get his attacker."

"Well, they're probably not the attackers. This guy's a signature killer – "

"Don't use that word," said Catherine. It wasn't right; Greg wasn't dead.

"Sorry. He's a signature attacker. He uses a knife. The bullets are from Greg's gun."

"Then some of this spatter," said Catherine, shining her light upon the blood, "must be our attacker's."