Note: the suspense continues...thanks again for all the reviews! hope this chapter works well! Enjoy!
Chapter Eight
The rain had stopped, the clouds nearly parted as Brass and Grissom rolled into the parking lot in Buena Vista Springs. The rain, though glad it was gone, had most likely washed away their chances of finding any evidence they might have missed in their first process of the scene.
Gil Grissom hated the rain. He hated the fact that it took with it everything connecting him to his CSIs. He hated the empty feeling, the hollowness plaguing the pit of his stomach. He hated the helplessness he felt, the utter loss of hope he was experiencing as he stood in the vacant parking lot. He wanted to know if his guys were okay. He needed to know they were okay, to believe they would find them.
He wasn't sure his whole reasoning behind returning to the scene was grounded in anything concrete. It had been the last place his guys were, the last contact they'd had with the now missing CSIs. He needed to find a connection, something to put his mind at ease, to assure him the guys were still with him. He had no idea what he was looking for. Something. Anything, to lead him to his guys.
If anything happened to them, he'd never be able to live with himself. The guilt, the overwhelming concern, he felt now was enough to drive him over the edge.
So many times he'd chided his CSIs for getting emotionally attached to their cases, for getting too deep. He hadn't even hesitated once to throw Warrick off a case. He knew when emotions were getting the better of his team.
So often he'd prided himself in the fact that he never got emotionally tangled in his cases. He never got attached to the victim or the victim's family. He'd prided himself in his infallible objectivity.
Now, though, it was emotions that drove him. It was what kept him glued to the asphalt, waiting for some sort of a clue, waiting for Cavaliere.
He had a few words he'd like to share with the detective, but more questions than anything.
Who were the primary suspects in the case? Who were they looking for as suspects now?
But, primarily, why hadn't he been on the scene when hell's fury was unleashed, and his guys were in the thick of it?
He shielded his eyes against the glare of headlights as he watched the detective's Ford Taurus pull alongside the Denali. He fought the urge to verbally barrel into the man as he climbed out of his vehicle. Instead he cast a menacing glare in his direction, appeasing himself with the somewhat sheepish look he received from the man. For now, he'd let Jim address the detective. He didn't want to risk the inevitable whiplash effect his words were bound to have on the man. It wouldn't solve anything to be rash. It wouldn't bring Nick and Warrick back.
Instead, he began walking the parking lot, field kit in hand, his eyes scanning the ground as the beam of his Maglite illuminated the ground just in front of him. Maybe something would jump out at him.
His suspicions of the lack of evidence were only affirmed as he traveled the length of the paved lot. Puddles spotted the ground from the recent rains. Any blood evidence that had been there before the rains had been washed away within the first fifteen minutes of the torrent of water. His chances of finding anything now were drastically decreased.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he heard Brass lay into the other detective. "What the hell were you doing letting them come out here alone? You damn well knew your best suspect was out. You know the rules! No CSI comes out unaccompanied."
"Damn it, Jim, don't put this all on me. Your CSIs didn't even tell me they were coming back out here! You know damn well I would have been out here taking a bullet with them if I had known," Cavaliere spoke up, his temper beginning to flare now as he matched Brass's stance. It was a show down of bravados.
"I should have your badge," Brass said.
"Hey guys," Grissom called over his shoulder. He'd found his way to the side of the community center building now. Trees were overgrown, the bare branches of the winter months jabbing out at the CSI supervisor, making his trek into the bush harder than it should have been. "As thrilling as it is for me to listen to this showdown of wits, can we uh get back to finding our guys?"
Throwing a piercing glare at the Latino detective, Brass resigned to following after the criminalist.
The look was almost enough to cause the man to stumble, as Cavaliere picked up the trail of Brass, curious to know what Grissom was so adamant about finding. There was little he hated more than being held in contempt for something for which he wasn't even responsible. The fact that Nick and Warrick had been stupid enough to return to the scene minus his backup was irrational and just plain idiotic. Regardless, if they were hurt, they needed to be found.
Not many in the department knew the background on the Rollin' 60s like he did. Well, there was Vega, but he was on leave for at least three weeks. He knew he'd be needed to fill in the gaps and bring the CSIs home safely.
"What have you got?" Brass asked as they caught up with Grissom in the thick of the brush.
"Careful," Gil shone his light up the steep ravine, "It gets steep down here." The advice was heeded by the detectives, but was of little help as Cavaliere no sooner lost his footing and found himself sliding down the rain soaked hill. It was all Gil could do to stifle the smirk inching across his lips as he watched the man land in the stream running at the bottom of the small ravine.
Throwing out a few choice words, the man slowly picked himself back up and turned to face the men in his company.
"Go to Hell, Gil," he grimaced, a hand supporting his lower back.
Apparently the smirk hadn't gone unnoticed.
"What have you got?" Brass asked, a smile forming in the corner of his own mouth.
"I'm not sure," Grissom shook his head. "My light reflected off something," he said continuing his venture. The brush wasn't as thick, the further into it he got, making his hike a little easier.
"What the…"Brass stammered as his eyes followed Grissom's line of vision.
There, three feet ahead of the men sat their missing Denali. Their eyes were glued to the back doors of the SUV as it sat nose first in the mini-stream at the bottom of the hill.
"Brass, let's get a tow up here," Grissom said not taking his eyes off the vehicle. Brass immediately put in the call as Grissom continued to look the vehicle over. The exterior had been riddled with bullets in the ground war of earlier that evening. Slowly inching his way closer, Gil reached out and opened the back door. It was empty as he'd expected it would be, though the wave of relief that rushed over him may have suggested otherwise. The blood stains he found, however, were enough to make his stomach revolt. Recoiling, as if the vehicle had bitten him, he let the doors slam shut. It had been the last thing he'd wanted to find, evidence that his guys were hurt, injured in the gun fight.
Without a word, or a look at the detectives, who were bound to have witnessed his uncharacteristic reaction, he started to make his way around the front of the SUV.
"What are you thinking?" Brass asked, his loafers squishing in the mud. Had he known he'd be going off roading, he'd have worn better shoes.
He shouldn't have expected a response from the man. They'd worked scenes together frequently. He knew the man processed in silence. It was foolish of him to expect an answer.
He watched now as the man before him began searching the ground, his light now tracking back up the ravine. There were tracks in the mud.
Brass threw a questioning glance toward Cavaliere. It was clear the man was as clueless as he as they embarked on the tedious climb back up the slope.
"Check out the tracks," Grissom said as they returned to higher ground.
"What about them?" Cavalier nearly smirked. The glare from the criminalist brought his attitude back into check.
"The car was pushed down the hill after the rain had started."
"And you know this how?" Cavalier asked, genuinely curios.
"The tracks are deep, there's water pulled in the tread marks. If the ground had been dry when the vehicle was ditched, the tracks…"
"The tracks wouldn't be so deep," Brass chimed in.
Grissom nodded, his attention now drawn to the back of the community center. Walking along the side of the building his eyes fell to the ground. There was something off, something out of place. There was glass along the sidewalk that wrapped around the building's perimeter. Had it been there before?
"Catherine," Grissom said whipping out his phone and dialing his female counterpart back at the lab. "Tell me you collected glass from the scene this afternoon, from the back of the community center. Well, look at the photos, is there anything documented?"
"Sorry, Gil. We didn't find any glass this afternoon. Why? You got something new?" she asked her curiosity peaked.
"I'll let you know," he said ending the call as he crouched to have a closer look at the glass fragments. There wasn't much, just enough to attract his attention. "There was no glass collected from the scene this afternoon," he said to the detective standing beside him. "This is fresh," he cocked his head to the side looking further down the sidewalk as he shone his light allowing the suspected path of glass fragments to reflect the beam. His light then meticulously scaled the wall, stopping abruptly about three feet off the ground. There was a window.
"You think they're in there?" Brass asked. He lowered his voice now, fearing any possible suspects inside would be alerted to their presence.
It wasn't his first time he'd tried reading the man's mind. It seemed to be easier than getting the man to talk.
"The window was broken from the outside," the man nodded as he stood in front of the window noticing the Haeckel marks on the fragmented glass. His voice too was now lower. He seemed to have the same reservations.
A grim expression blanketed the man's face as his eyes fell on a spot on the concrete windowsill. Pulling out a cotton swab, he swabbed the area, his eyes focused tightly on the area of interest.
"Blood," he said, his brow puckered as he cast a wary glance at the detectives standing beside him now.
"I'll call for backup," Brass nodded.
"What's the plan?" Miguel asked pacing the floor. He was scared. He was in deep, too deep. He wanted out.
He felt hostage to his brother, to the gang. For so long it had been his livelihood, his bloodline. Now, it threatened to end him, to bring him crashing down. He wasn't sure what scared him more, his inevitable fate with the law or the man next to him. The crazed look in his brother's eye was new and brought an unbelievable amount of fear with it.
"Give me a minute," Raphael managed to stammer, the Glock hanging limply in his grip by his side. He'd found the gun beside the CSI, discarded and forgotten. He'd run out of bullets, and he needed the insurance. He hadn't hesitated in picking the piece off the ground, relieved to find the magazine half full.
He hadn't expected to bring things this far. When he saw the injured CSIs his first reaction was to end it there, to shoot them, to save himself. It'd been a whim he'd acted upon after holding the gaze of the conscious man on the ground. He'd held his gaze for only a second, but it was enough to break him.
Still, he couldn't risk the men IDing him later. So, he'd taken them, put them in the nearest car and run.
Now the sight of his brother frantically pacing in front of him was enough to make him come unhinged.
"Man, cut it out," he yelled at his younger sibling. "I can't think."
It been dark for nearly an hour as they sat in the abandoned building. It'd made it easy to see the lights of the approaching vehicle as it pulled into the parking lot.
Standing, moving to the nearest boarded window, he looked out between the cracks of plywood. An SUV similar to the one they'd ditched was pulling up.
"¡Maldígalo!"
"What is it?" Miguel asked his voice barely above a whisper as he joined his brother at the window.
"La policia."
He sat silent, watching the men standing in the parking lot. He watched as a second car arrived, and two of the men began exchanging words. Unable to hear what they were saying, he picked back up his pacing of the floor.
They were in hot water. Things were rapidly unraveling and he was quickly losing what little control he felt he had over the situation.
The men in the other room were ticking bombs.
It was a matter of time before everything blew up.
Warrick could hear the brothers arguing, but couldn't make out what they were saying. He really didn't care. He was more worried about finding a way out of the prison he was in. He was more concerned about finding the necessary help for his partner who struggled to hold onto life.
Standing from his place beside Nick, he scanned the room, hoping to find something he could use to pry the boards off the window. The only things left behind from the days of the community center were a metal desk, a few Scotch tape dispensers in the center desk drawer, and a metal folding chair. It wasn't much to work with.
Making his way across the room he took in the window. The boards had been haphazardly nailed into the wall. Lucky for him, they'd been boarded from the inside. With any luck, he could pull the boards from the wall and make his way outside.
What he would do once outside was another story. He'd wrestle with that once he got there.
It would be a slow process. The window, though low enough to the ground, in easy reach for the tall man, would be difficult to clear with only one working arm. It would be hard to get enough leverage to rip the planks from the secured positions. He had to try, though.
The first board had come off relatively easy. The nails had rusted, and from the half-ass job someone had done in nailing the planks to the wall, the board came crashing to the floor.
He stood stock still, silent, expecting a rush from the punks outside. He was sure they'd have heard.
The only thing he heard was the labored breathing of his partner. Throwing a worried glance at the man on the floor, satisfied that he was still with him, he continued his work at the window.
The second piece of wood proved to be somewhat of a challenge. This one was nailed better, the nails were newer. It would take everything he had to clear the window.
Planting his left foot against the wall, he grasped the wood with his right hand. Pulling with every last ounce of strength, he heard the wood splinter as it released its grip on the wall and clattered to the floor in two pieces.
An overwhelming sense of victory was quickly replaced with the more overwhelming sense of defeat. His eyes remained glued to the window, past the boards, to the metal bars just behind the planks.
He was exhausted. His energy wasted. Their one and only escape route was now nothing more than a dead end. Defeated, he returned to his partner's side.
Nick didn't look good. In fact, he looked worse with every passing minute. His skin was ashen colored, his face covered in sweat, masked by the excruciating pain he was in.
"You know," Warrick said his own breathing coming in gasps from his most recent activity. "You really look like shit," he nudged the man beside him.
Nick's eyes fluttered open. That was happening less frequently, and even slower when it did happen.
"Bite me," he whispered.
He was going downhill fast. His chances of survival going down every minute they were held. As long as the kid's had guns, though, there was little he could do without risking his friend's life further. They'd taken enough chances.
He hated himself for bringing Nick into this situation, for bringing him back to the scene. Had they done their job the first time, they'd have Dominguez in custody and Nick wouldn't be fighting for his life. It should be him sitting there, fighting for his life, not his friend, his brother.
It was an all too familiar thing for Nick, and he hated that he was the one who'd put him back in the freakishly familiar situation.
Warrick looked back over at his friend. His eyes were closed, his breathing becoming more staggered.
"Hey man, come on," he nudged him again. "Nick!" he called out hoping to get the man's attention. "Nah, bro don't do this to me," he sat up as panic began to override his emotions. He shook the man now.
There was no response.
Time was running out.
Nick was dying.