Note: so, i guess this is the much anticipated chapter!i do hope it was worth the wait. please any comments on how this goes over...share them! I'd really appreciate some feedback on this! as always...thanks a ton for the reviews from the last chapter. I'm gonna TRY to stick to this schedule of posting...it seems to be working well so far...
well...enjoy!
Chapter Six
"What the hell kept you, man?" Warrick asked his impatience bordering on anger as the police officer finally rolled onto the scene. He'd been standing with Nick nearly ten minutes waiting for the black and white to show up. Lord knew if Brass, or hell even Grissom, found out they had returned to a scene minus the backup of "real cop" there'd be hell to pay from them. Officer Sparks was the cop they received into their company.
Nick laughed to himself at the antsy ness of the man beside him. Usually Warrick was the one taking things in stride. He had to laugh at the irony of the situation.
"Sorry, guys. Traffic was murder," the officer responded a smug look on his face. "So what are we doing out here anyway?" he asked his hand resting on his hip holstered weapon.
"Well, we're doing our jobs. It'd be nice if you could do yours and just stick around a while," Warrick smirked as he and Nick exchanged glances.
"Yeah, man we didn't pull you away from anything too exciting I hope," Nick smiled a little. "I know how you guys like to be in on the action."
"Oh yeah," the uniform smirked, sarcasm thick in his voice, "I was the first on the scene of a double homicide, but I dropped it all to baby sit you guys."
"Keep your pants on Sparky," Warrick shook his head, "we shouldn't be here long."
"So, you wanna tell me why you're on edge?" Nick asked as the CSIs walked away from parking lot.
"Nah," Warrick shook his head. "This case isn't two days old and it's driving me crazy."
"Okay, so we need a gun, right?" Nick nodded a half cocked grin on his face in understanding Warrick's frustration.
"And some bullets to match that gun," the man nodded.
"Okay, so the orange area off the sketch starts about here," Nick said standing about 50 feet from the community center. "This is where the third victim was laying."
"Hey, did you know Ecklie sent in a grant to get the lab a new digital crime scene scanner?" Warrick asked commencing his search of the surround area.
"The man finally broke, huh?" Nick smirked. "You know the time I used it last year, man, that puppy was sweet."
"Yeah, I remember, and after the company refused to give the lab one for free," Warrick laughed as he circled the scene. His search so far seemed to be in vain. "You know the crime lab in New York has one? How is it they get one, yet the second best crime lab in the country can't afford one?"
"Oh, it's not the fact the lab can't afford one, Ecklie just loves bustin' our chops more than actually working to solve crimes. You know that. The man's cheap. He wouldn't even help fund Archie's trip last summer."
"Well, you know Star Trek conventions aren't sanctioned as part of the lab sponsored functions."
The A/V tech was a pretty cool guy, regardless of his taste in television or movies. The man knew what he was doing and could beat either of them in a go of Madden with his hands tied behind his back.
"Hey, are you guys almost done?" Sparks called from the perimeter. "It looks like rain."
"Hey, Sparky!" Warrick called out. "What'd I tell you?" he glared at the uniformed man. "Damn!"
So far, their search had been ineffective. Their first process of the scene had allowed them to gather everything that seemed pertinent to the case. Having collected over fifty shell casings and bullets, they were left with practically nothing to collect now.
"Whoa, watch your step," Nick said holding a hand out to stop Warrick in his tracks.
"What?" he asked looking down. The object of concern was held in the beam of Nick's mini-Maglite. He was about to step on the one thing they'd been looking for.
"A shell casing," Nick grinned crouching to pluck the small metal jacket from the ground. "What do you know? This came from a 44 Magnum."
"A 44 Magnum? They goin' old Western on us?" Warrick asked crouching to supply the man with an empty bindle for the piece of evidence.
The two stood, slowly making their way further from the parking lot, stopping periodically to examine the ground a bit closer. They'd been on the scene for nearly an hour and still hadn't collected their primary reason for returning to the scene. The 44 Magnum was still MIA.
"Maybe it's not here. Maybe the punks took the gun with them," Warrick sighed standing. They were now on the farthest point from the parking lot.
"Hey, bro, check it out," Nick said pointing to the far end of the parking lot, behind Sparks, as they turned to return to their vehicle.
"What?"
"Those guys," he motioned inconspicuously with his head. A group of six or seven African Americans were walking their way. "We better get out of here," he said.
"What?"
"They're 83s, man," Nick explained. The last thing he wanted was the man, his friend, to think he was guilty of racial profiling. It was anything but. "In this neighborhood it's trouble waiting to happen."
"I know you know about this stuff, man, but you can tell just by looking at them?"
"Yeah, check out their clothes. They're all wearing some sort of red."
"Shit," Warrick said looking off in the direction opposite of the impeding gang. "Speaking of trouble," he pointed. A group of 60's was coming their way from the opposite direction. He clearly recognized Raphael Dominguez in the midst of the group. He'd made it back into circulation rather quickly.
"Damn, we're in trouble," Nick said, his jaw clenched. He knew the gang's histories. They'd been in the midst of one of the worst rivalries this side of the Mississippi since the mid 60's. Now, he and Warrick were caught in the middle of a inevitable ground war. He watched as the 83s came up to the parking lot. Were they seriously stupid enough to taunt an armed cop?
Slowly, Nick turned to take in the location of the group of 60s. They were still a small distance off. They'd yet to take notice of them or the 83s, but that was bound to change as Nick took his first steps toward their awaiting vehicle, their awaiting safe haven.
It all happened quicker than he'd anticipated. He'd heard the yelling, the words of warning, and the threats. These threats directed at Officer Sparks.
He then heard the taunting of the 83s as they quickly took notice of the rival gang. The harsh words ran together as racial epithets began ringing through his head. He heard the gunshots.
The gunshots.
"Nick!" Warrick called out, grabbing the man by the arm pulling him toward the ground. Everything was muffled, running together in a blur.
There was a flash to his left, as the storm clouds loomed closer, lightning bringing life to the distant sky.
They were running now to the side of the community center. Hopefully it would provide some sort of haven, some safety away from the war.
Stealing a glance around the corner, Nick noticed the 83s dispersing in the parking lot. Several took refuge behind the law enforcement vehicles that were parked there.
Officer Sparks.
He wasn't where Nick had last seen the man standing.
Nick's eyes scanned the parking lot, as gun fire rapidly filled the late afternoon air. The 60s clearly outnumbered the 83s.
"Shit!" he said, his breathing now coming in deep gulps as adrenaline pumped through his veins. "Sparks is down," he told Warrick who had already drawn his gun, ready to fire if necessary. It was clear these punks weren't afraid to tangle with the law.
Pulling out his phone, Nick quickly pushed the speed dial for PD.
"Patrol, this is Nick Stokes. We have an officer down, repeat an officer down. Need immediate back up…" he was cut off as he was pushed back against the wall of the building, his phone clattering to the ground, forgotten. The pain was almost immediate as he felt the warm rush of blood drain from his face.
"Shit," Warrick said quickly reaching around his partner firing in the direction of the ensuing gunfire. His shots were not in vain as he watched two goons take a bullet each.
Nick had been hit. Damn, Nick had been hit.
Stunned by the sudden pain, Nick raised his hand to feel the cause of concern and sudden rush of anger in his partner. Feeling his neck he found the wound to be little more than a graze. It hurt like hell, but he couldn't leave his partner fighting this war alone.
Things were moving in slow motion. The thundering explosions of gunfire were wreaking havoc on his ears as he pulled out his own gun, ready to pick up the fight. The yell he heard from his partner though, was unmistakable, and pulled his attention from the chaos around him.
Warrick had been hit, and hit hard.
Moving even slower in time, Nick watched as the man beside him collapsed to the ground. The pain resulting from the flesh tearing wound clear on the man's face.
Where was he hit?
He didn't have time to think, to look after his friend, as Hell's fury was unleashed within the small neighborhood of North Vegas.
The war between gangs had now become a war with law enforcement. Unbeknownst to Nick, all the members of the 83 Crips were now laying, if not dead, mortally wounded on the asphalt of the parking lot. The fire he was experiencing now came from the remaining 60s. This group was out for blood. This was no longer a turf war, but a war of wills. It was all out survival of the fittest.
Nick raised his gun, firing several rounds, pleased by the sounds of painful yelps from the enemy. He'd have to remember to thank Grissom for making him retake his firearms qualification last year.
"How'd you shoot?" Warrick asked as they processed a car in a convenient store parking lot. They'd been called that day to the scene of a supposed abduction.
"Rusty. They say I have a flinch."
"You and I need to go practice some, huh?
"Yeah, when do we have the time to do that? If we're not processing a scene or working evidence, we're in court."
"Well, when they take your piece, you'll make time," Warrick had said with a nod.
It was then that Grissom had approached him, reminded him he was in violation just carrying the weapon, never mind the fact that he was in the field. He'd returned to the lab that day and then taken his qualification over the next.
"I take it you qualified at the range," Warrick had said as Nick returned to field work. .
"You take it right."
"What'd you shoot?"
"260 out of 300. 225's passing, which, I believe, was your high score," he joked with his friend.
Warrick!
He quickly stole a glance at the ailing man beside him. He was slowly making an attempt to move past the pain, to back up his partner. Checking his partner's condition had immediately proven to be the wrong choice.
Time stood still. Silence took the place of the deafening, thunderous roar of gunfire. The whistle of flying bullets was suddenly muted. White hot pain enveloped him, taking over every sense he possessed. There was nothing but excruciating pain.
His hands, unable to maintain their grasp on the weapon, dropped the gun to the ground. He was completely defenseless as he clutched his stomach. The pain was overpowering.
He was vaguely aware of the distant sounds of the approaching sirens. The call he'd made to patrol had been processed. The call hadn't gone unheard. Help was coming.
Hoping the encroaching threat of more law enforcement would send the gang running, Nick collapsed to the ground, the pain taking him deeper and deeper into a nearly blissful black abyss of nothingness. He longed to feel the floating sensation, the peaceful floating sensation he knew awaited him in the ensuing darkness.
"¡Vayamos¡Vayamos!" Raphael Dominquez shouted running now toward the fallen CSIs. He'd managed to escape injury amid the violent chaos. "¡Ásgalo¡Ásgalo¡Vayamos!" he said pointing to the nearly unconscious Nick. He quickly grabbed up Warrick who now lay unconscious. "¡Prisa!"
As fast as things had started, they were over. The remaining 60s, Raphael and his brother Miguel, were on the run, running toward the parked Denali in the parking lot.
"Keys!" Raphael demanded as he opened up the driver's side door. His brother was quickly scattering the equipment from the back of the mobile crime lab, the parking lot now littered with the haphazardly discarded technical equipment. Tossing his brother the keys, he climbed in the vehicle in time for the vehicle to peel out.
The unconscious CSIs lay bound in the now empty trunk space of the SUV. Help had come too late.