Note: i had every intention of getting this up last night...had it written out and everything...and then...the upload kept timing out on me...stupid website! anyway...here we are...
sorry I didn't respond to the reviews from last chapter! I totally appreciate everyone of them...it means a lot to know you're enjoying this story! It's a fun one to write!
okay...chapter seven!
Chapter Seven
No fear. It was how they lived. That plus a lot of anger could really carry a person a long way. It'd worked well for the 60s. It worked well for Miguel Dominguez. Until now, anyway.
Now, Miguel was feeling the one emotion of which he'd worked his whole life to be rid. He hated the feeling, the uneasiness of not knowing what came next. He cast an uneasy glance at his brother, hoping the fear he knew was in his stomach didn't register on his face. His brother always had the answers. The look he found on the older man's face, however, was of little comfort.
He'd never seen that look on his face before. It was a look of terror, of uncertainty. The constant nervous glances into the rearview mirror did little to appease the queasy feeling that continued to grow in his stomach. He knew his brother would kill him if he got sick. It was a sign of weakness.
He wasn't weak.
He'd worked for the honor he received within the gang. He was highly thought of among the brotherhood of the 60s. He'd proven himself worthy of wearing the colors, and he wore those colors proudly.
When he'd seen the 83s on their turf, in their neighborhood, he'd felt unbelievable rage. When he'd witnessed the killing of the cop, he'd never been angrier. He'd seen a lot of shit in his life, but to kill a cop…
When the other cops had returned fire, and his brothers had taken bullets, his rage was brought to new heights. His morality, his better judgment had gone out the window. Shooting them was the only thing to do.
Now, though, his mind was running away with him. His gut was telling him it'd been the wrong thing to do. His conscience was taking over and it terrified him.
Casting a quick glance to the back of the SUV he noticed a slight movement from the taller CSI.
"They're waking up," he said softly to his brother, whose attention was focused solely on the task of driving. "What are you gonna do?"
"What am I gonna do?" he asked, anger full in his voice. "No way, bro, we're in this together, and we're gonna figure something out," Raphael shook his head as he threw a glare at his younger brother. "Come on man. You know how it is. Comprende?"
Miguel offered a slow nod of his head, his gaze returning to the passenger side window.
"They're gonna come looking for them... for us," he said slowly. "If that guy dies…"
"Look man…let me think," he raised a hand to wipe at his greased back hair. "We've got to ditch this car," he nodded, slowing the vehicle only slightly as he turned the corner returning to a residential area. "I know what we're gonna do."
Purgatory was very much reality to the CSIs.
Cold, it was the only thing Warrick felt as he slowly came out of the fog surrounding his brain. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out, but for now he really didn't care. The only thing he was concerned about was the overpowering coldness.
Working for a comfortable position was nearly impossible. A sense of dread began creeping over him. The overwhelming sense of helplessness mixed with fear and confusion were enough to cripple him, never mind the stabbing, nearly blinding pain in his left shoulder.
Where was he?
Why was he tied up?
Where was Nick?
Nick.
Moving to a slightly more natural position, he brought Nick into his line of sight. The limp form of his partner pulled at every emotional tie in his being. Anger and the overpowering need for vengeance mixed with every level of concern nearly tore him apart.
He'd seen his partner take one beating after the next. Witnessing the man take, not one, but two bullets was a whole new dimension of purgatory. In fact why not skip purgatory and just send him straight to Hell? The first hit hadn't been bad, a graze. The man hadn't even lost his footing. The second, however, had been gut-wrenching. The sight of his partner collapsing was the last thing he remembered. He only hoped, now, the wound wasn't nearly as serious as it had first appeared.
Thinking a bit more clearly, he slowly took in his surroundings. The Denali. They were in the back of their own car. Damn, these punks were either fearless, or incredibly stupid. And damn Ecklie for insisting the vehicles have nearly blacked out rear windows. Had they not been, he'd been able to look out and hopefully get an idea of their location.
What the hell happened to all their equipment?
Man, Ecklie was gonna be pissed.
The pain in his shoulder was…intense to put it mildly. Really the only thing he could focus on, beside the lifeless form of his partner. The pain only seemed to ease as he saw the slightest movement from Nick.
"Nicky," he managed to choke out. His voice gratefully had gone unheard by the drivers of the vehicle as he managed to keep it at the level of a hoarse whisper. "Hey man, come on."
He watched as Nick's eyes slowly fluttered open, pain quickly masking the man's face. His instincts telling him to curl into a ball, to close in on the source of the pain; he quickly withdrew into himself.
"Stay with me buddy," Warrick urged, his voice cracking with overwhelming concern.
"Damn," Nick whispered, his eyes shut tight.
"Look at me, Nick," he willed his partner to respond, to focus on him.
"Where are we?" the quickly ailing man asked weakly, recoiling at the pain brought on by the act of pushing out the words. Somehow he managed to lock and hold on to his partner's gaze.
"Shh, I don't know, man," he said.
The vehicle was slowing, coming to a stop. He heard the front doors open and shut as the front passengers exited the vehicle. Within seconds the back of the vehicle was filled with the dusky light of early evening, as the back doors were opened revealing their captors.
"Let's go!" Raphael demanded, a 9mm Glock pointed at the CSI. "¡Ahora!"
Slowly, Warrick complied with the demand. The punk was only a kid.
He grimaced, stepping into the growing darkness of the evening, the thunderstorm building above them, the sky ready to dump its contents.
They were back where they started.
They were back at the community center.
"What do you think happened here?" Sara asked, the fear in Grissom's eyes not going unnoticed. She'd really wished she'd missed that frightening look. The man was supposed to be a rock, unshaken when bad things happened. The fact that this seemingly unshakeable man was visibly concerned was very much a scary thing for her to see.
"I don't know," he shook his head scanning the debris of technology scattered around the parking lot. The missing Denali, the shot up squad car, pointed to the one thing he feared would happen, a ground war.
The ambulance had just left with the last victim. They were still waiting for the coroner to arrive so they could begin processing.
One officer killed, two CSIs missing. It was not a good scenario. It could very well be the worst possible scenario, and it scared Grissom to death.
Why had his guys been taken?
"I don't care what you have to do. Just find them!" Catherine was practically screaming into her phone.
Her phone.
"Catherine," Grissom motioned with his hand, "may I use your phone?"
Handing the man her phone, she watched as the man dialed a number seemingly very familiar to his fingers.
"Who are you calling?"
"Nick used his phone to call for back-up," he said listening for the ring tone. "Maybe we can track his cell location," the man shrugged holding the phone inches from his ear quickly making his way to the Denali of which they had used to arrive on the scene. "Archie, I need you to track a cell for me," he said into the phone, now resting between his ear and shoulder as he busied himself digging for…something, he wasn't sure what yet. "Nick's," he replied. "What!"
"What have you got?" Catherine asked causing the man to flinch in surprise. He'd been so focused on the task at hand, he'd not noticed the woman following him back the vehicle.
"The trace is leading him here," Grissom puckered his brow.
"What's Nick's number?" Catherine asked.
Grissom quickly hung up on Archie and dialed the number he knew almost as well as the lab number. Walking slowly, his ear to the phone, he surveyed the area, Catherine a few feet away from him doing the same.
"Grissom!" Greg called from across the yard. He was crouched down on the opposite side of the community center building. Something in the grass had caught his attention. "I've got a phone over here," he called.
Grissom took to jogging to the young CSIs location.
"It's Nick's," he said breathlessly, his shoulder's slumped in defeat. He took the phone, flipping it open to find the CSIs last made call. "His last call was to patrol," the supervisor noted, a glance directed at Catherine. "It was cut off 45 seconds into the call."
"There are shell casings all over the place," Greg said, his forceps gripping a metal casing. "A 9mm, standard issue," he said holding the evidence out for Grissom to inspect.
"Hey, Gil," Catherine said grimly, her eyes cast to the ground. "I've got a gun."
Crouching to investigate, he took the weapon into his hands.
"Magazine's empty," he commented, pulling back the slide to check the chamber. "So is the chamber."
Greg dutifully supplied the man a plastic bag. "I'll get it to Bobby," he nodded collecting the evidence and leaving to join Sara across the lawn.
"It doesn't look good, Gil," Catherine shook her head, her gaze suddenly drawn past the man in front of her.
"What?"
"Check it out," she said pulling on a latex glove. A spot on the exterior of the building had suddenly become the most interesting thing in Buena Vista Springs.
"The wall's chipped," Grissom noted with a grimace of disconcert.
"That's not all," she sighed taking a closer look, a cotton swab finding its way to her hand. "I think I've got some blood here," she stated swabbing the area of interest.
"What the hell happened here?" Grissom asked.
It was dark now.
They weren't in the Denali anymore.
Where were they?
Warrick slowly sat up. His hands were no longer tied. The pain however was still very real.
They'd been brought back to the community center.
Why?
What were they planning?
Looking around, the light was faint; the one window to the outside was boarded up, letting little, if any light inside. The room they were in must have served as an office at one point, when the community center had thrived.
"Nicky, man, wake up," he nudged his partner. He found him lying on the floor next to him. His shirt was soaked in sweat. Rolling the man onto his back, helping him to a sitting position, he lifted his shirt to examine the wound to his abdomen. "Damn, man, they got you good," he said his voice thick with concern. There wasn't much blood seeping from the wound, and the bullet hadn't exited his body.
"I'm okay," Nick choked out, his eyes fluttering open again catching the concerned look of his partner. He hated seeing that look on his friend's face. It was a look he'd seen all too often since last summer.
"Don't talk man," he shook his head, "and try not to move. You could be bleeding internally."
"You're hit," Nick shook his head, noticing the blood stain covering Warrick's shoulder.
"Damn, man, don't talk," he shook his head in response. "I can't tell how bad it is," he continued. The bullet had struck Nick on his left side, just below his ribs.
He had to find a way out. He had to get the man some help.
His phone, he thought patting down his pockets, his field vest. It wasn't there.
Damn.
"Alright, bro. Sit tight. We'll get out of here," he said searching the room. The boarded window was their only chance.
It'd been raining for nearly an hour. They'd managed to clear the scene in time and had returned to the lab before the sky had unleashed its fury. The business of making sense of the evidence now lay before them.
Gill Grissom sat in his office, unwilling, practically unable to move from his chair. His guys were missing. How could he have let this happen?
He'd busted his ass to get his team back together, to get his guys back.
And for what? To have them taken away again?
Not on his watch.
Sitting now, in the quiet of his office he was transfixed by Nick's cell phone. In the three hours they'd been back at the lab, he'd been unable to break the staring contest with the electronic device.
They'd found bullets, shell casings, and blood linking them to eight of the ten victims. They'd found bullets and shell casings linking them to Nick and Warrick. But something was missing. Something was off.
"You okay?" Catherine asked slowly opening the man's office door. "I knocked," she shrugged, "but you didn't hear."
"Sorry," he shook his head, "I was thinking," he motioned the woman to enter. She was followed by Sara and Greg. "So, here's what we've got," she said taking a seat in front of the man's office.
"Five dead members of the 83 Crips," Sara chimed in. "Three dead members of the Rollin 60's, five more wounded and in custody."
"Ballistics is working on every gun we found, ten in all. That's not including Nick's weapon," Greg picked up the progress report. Grissom looked at the young CSI. He'd matured within the last year. He'd become a good CSI, dedicated to the job. He did his job well. When had he changed?
"DNA is working on the blood evidence, as we speak," Catherine shrugged. "It's not a lot. It sure as hell doesn't get us any closer to finding Nick and Warrick."
"Does anyone know about the case they were working?" Grissom asked. He gave no acknowledgeable response, positive or negative, to the reports of his team. He was answered with a collective no. "Who was the detective on the case?"
"Cavaliere," Brass said entering the office. "Did I miss the powwow?"
"I want to talk with him," Grissom shot the detective a look.
"He's on his way in now," Brass nodded.
"Have him meet us at the scene," Grissom stood from his desk.
"Wait. You're going back out there?" Catherine stood, raising a hand, stopping the man in his tracks.
"If my guys are out there, so am I," he nodded grabbing his Forensics ball cap and parka. "Process the evidence. I want answers when I get back," he brushed passed his team.
Just as he reached the door, he was stopped by the sound of Nick's phone ringing on his desk. Catherine silently picked the device up, reading the caller ID.
"It's Nick's mom," she cast a look at her boss.
He didn't want to deal with the Texas judge or his wiferight now. The last time they'd met had been less than pleasant conditions. He didn't want to revisit the same situation.
"Don't answer it," he shook his head. "I'll be back in a couple of hours," he walked away, Brass following quickly in the man's wake.
The graveyard supervisor was on a mission.