Note: thanks again for all the great reviews! and here's the next chapter!
Chapter Ten
Panic never really came easy to the six foot two CSI. He was usually the exemplar of poise and rigor. But, now Warrick Brown was feeling something all too familiar in the depths of his bowels. It was a feeling he'd hope to never have felt again. Something he never wanted to experience again, since the Hell that was last summer.
It was the only time he could really remember ever being this scared, this incapable of keeping the dark thoughts from running rampant inside his head.
The A/V Lab was dark, the lights turned down. He guessed it made viewing media easier when the lights were down. But the media he was viewing now was straight from the dark, twisted mind of a sadistic psychopath. It made the lab TOO dark.
Every two minutes. That's how often he clicked the mouse, bringing the gut wrenching view of his partner back onto the monitor.
Now, he watched curiously as the man buried somewhere yet to be discovered pulled out and began chewing a piece of bubble gum.
"What are you doing, Nicky?"
It's not like he could hear him. It's not that he even expected a response.
He watched, his curiosity slowly turning to fear, as his friend took the gum and used it to plug his ears.
"What are you doing, Nicky?"
He watched with full on horror as his friend brought his gun to his chin, cocked, ready to fire.
"Don't do it, Nicky?"
He jumped back, his chair falling over, as the screen suddenly went black.
"You son of bitch!"
There was nothing.
The screen was dark.
Then? Then sweet relief.
The monitor lit back up, this time an eerie green hue.
"You're still alive."
That was just it. Nick never gave up. He expected him to always be there. He had to be there. He needed him to be there.
"Damn it, man. Don't punk out on me!" Warrick said panic rising in his voice. "Come on, bro. Talk to me. Open your eyes!"
Nick was losing blood.
Ignoring the pain in his own shoulder, Warrick sprang into action. Quickly removing Nick's shirt, he ripped the material in half. It was dark in the room, but the wound to Nick's abdomen was clearly visible. The penetration wound caused by the bullet was ugly. It had to be at least the size of a quarter in diameter.
He watched silently, time creeping by, as Nick's chest rose and fell. His breathing becoming more labored, more shallow with each passing second.
"Sorry, man. I know you like this shirt and all, but you'll thank me later," he looked at the failing man. He hoped to God he knew what he was doing. Damn, if having a nurse as a wife was of any consolation, his medical knowledge was quickly flying out the barred window.
Throwing up a quick prayer, he knotted the two halves of the torn shirt together. Bringing the nearly unconscious form of Nick forward, he wrapped the material around his partner's torso.
"This is gonna hurt something fierce," he said pulling the strips of clothing tight and knotting it over the wound and applying pressure with his hands.
Nick let out a cry of pain, his eyes shooting open, his arms wrapping around his midsection.
"Hey!" Warrick called out slapping his friend on the face getting him to focus. "Hey, man, look at me. We're getting out of here together," he nodded, his eyes full of determination. "Look at me, Nicky."
Nick slowly willed his eyes to focus on the man in front of him. He was cold. Unbelievably cold.
"You with me, man?" Warrick tried again.
"Yeah," Nick nodded, his voice coming as a hoarse whisper.
"Alright," he sighed, leaning back against the wall.
"Cold," Nick muttered beside him, his eyes closed again.
Warrick sat up, unbuttoning his shirt, only slightly relieved that Tina had insisted he wear a tee shirt underneath. Sometimes the woman could be a little more than overbearing, but this time it just may prove worth wile and even life saving.
"Here," he said wrapping his shirt around Nick's shoulders. "Doesn't look as good on you, but it'll keep you warm."
It'd been quiet outside their room. Too quiet.
"So, I was kinda thinkin' about some vacation days after this," Warrick said leaning his head against the wall. It was a waiting game now.
"Sounds good," Nick smiled weakly.
"Yeah."
The night air was heavy with moisture. It was only a matter of time before the clouds above unleashed their second dose of fury. Rain was unwelcome here.
Grissom surveyed the scene in disbelief. How had things come to this?
He watched now as Brass headed straight to the first suspect. He was a kid, a teenager, probably still in high school. The fear in the kid's eyes went deep. It cut the man to the core.
"Where are they?" Brass demanded; the kid backed up against the squad car, his hands cuffed behind his back. The detective's face was merely inches from the kids. "I'm gonna be all over you kid. Get him out of here."
Grissom watched now as Brass returned to the safety shield of the Denali. The man was burning, yet worn down and it showed in the most peculiar way. Never had Grissom seen the man so driven, so emotionally worn.
"We've got to get in there, Jim," he said. It was a dumb comment, one that really shouldn't have been stated.
"Damn it, Gil. We go rushing in there, and our guys are sure as dead. If SWAT says hold, we hold," the detective cast a glare at the man. "What's your status?" the detective spat into his hand held radio.
"No shot," came the voice over. "Repeat, no shot. We hold."
Waiting could possibly be the worst thing about this situation.
His patience was running thin. The story appeared to be the same as he cast his eyes toward his team. Worried looksmixed with fear blanketed the faces of his CSIs. He'd seen those looks before. He hated those looks. It meant things weren't as they should be. It meant he was powerless. It meant his fate, and the fate of everyone involved was in the hands of someone else. And that was a scary thing to realize.
A choice. It was what everything came down to. Sometimes it was right, sometimes it wasn't. He knew this had been one of the wrong choices, but now he had to live with it.
He had no choice.
No fear. It was how he lived his life. He wouldn't go down without a fight. He wouldn't go down like his brother had.
His brother. Cobarde. The damn coward.
So many things were happening. Things were going so fast, he couldn't think.
One thing he was sure of. He was tired of waiting things out. He wasn't going to break like his brother. He wasn't going to show weakness. He'd made a name for himself as the 60s kingpin. He was strong.
He needed a way out, and the front door was the only way he knew. The cops outside didn't seem to be in any rush to get things moving. They sat back, their guns trained on the building. If they weren't going to do anything, he would. He'd make a real name for himself yet.
Rushing down the hall, he came to the closed door.
It was a choice. One made on the spur of the moment. Shoot a cop or take a bullet. He'd made a choice. He was living with it now, working through it.
He was making another choice now. There was no turning back.
"You!" he stormed into the room, his gun pointing straight at Warrick. There was a look in his eye. Determination. Fear. Anger. Fear. Desperation. It was all muddled together, incomprehensible. "Get up!" he demanded of the cop.
There was no movement from the CSI.
"You want another bullet? Or maybe your friend does," he trained the gun on the other man. "Then get up! ¡Se mueve!"
He couldn't keep his hand from shaking. But, the cop stood.
"Let's go!" he motioned to the door. "¡Ahora!" He wasn't moving fast enough.
Grabbing the man by the neck, he pushed him into the hall. The cop had maybe an inch on him, but he had all the power, the 9mm to the cop's back proved it.
"We're going outside. We're getting a car, and you're driving me out of here."
The situation had become volatile. Things quickly erupted, chaos ensuing.
There was gunfire. Four shots, then silence.
There was shouting. The kids were yelling at each other.
Warrick sat up straight, his ears trained on the rising storm. He couldn't make sense of the sounds. Everything was jumbled together. Nothing added up.
Two more gunshots.
Then nothing.
It was deadly quiet.
What the hell was going on?
The question had no sooner run through his head, when the door to the room swung open. His eyes went immediately to the barrel of the gun. His gun. The punk had his gun.
Things were rapidly deteriorating. He had no choice but to do what the kid wanted.
His head was in a fog, his legs heavy. Things were moving in a perpetual state of slow motion.
The feel of the gun on his back jolted him to a scary reality, speeding things up to an unnatural pace. He was abandoning Nick. Did he have a choice? The squeeze of the man's grip around his neck told him no. He'd made the only choice he could.
The lights outside were painfully bright. Squeezing his eyes shut against the glare, he felt nearly overpowering nausea ensue. The pain behind his eyes, mixed with that in his shoulder was enough to cripple him.
The kid was screaming, yelling at the people in front of him.
Opening his eyes, Warrick was met with the sight of familiar faces.
Grissom.
Catherine.
Sara and Greg.
Brass.
Cavaliere.
They were all there, watching with horror as he was held, a human shield, by a desperate kid.
It was a hell of a time to try to make sense of everything, but it was all he could do. He was powerless in the hands of this kid and he hated it. He felt the cold metal of the gun's barrel dig into his temple as he was pushed forward down the sidewalk.
He'd heard four shots, then two more, right? That was six bullets. He'd shot at least three earlier. It was only a ten round magazine.
It was a choice.
The looks in the eyes of the people he cared about drowned everything away. The thought of his friend slipping away took over his senses.
It was a choice.
It had to be made.
This damn game, this battle of wills, had gone on long enough.
Willing everything within him to work, he reared back. He was met with the sickening sound of bones cracking and the kid gasping for air as his elbow made contact with his captor's ribs. It was music to his ears.
Everything seemed to have happened instantaneously. Control of the situation seemed unobtainable. The thunderous noise of gunfire. The deafening sounds of silence. The uncertainty of the situation. The fate of two of their own hanging by a string. It was more than she could register. Her senses were on overload.
Slowly, the door of the community center opened, the lights of the many squad cars maneuvered to catch the most recent activity. It was more than she could handle.
Catherine was filled with horror as she was greeted with the new scenario. She could feel the tension emanating from Sara and Greg as she saw their bodies tense.
"Find a shot," she heard Brass say into the radio.
Was he serious?
Warrick exited the community center.
"Stand down! Stand down!" Brass revised his order.
Warrick was quickly followed by a kid she assumed to be the second suspect. He was being used as a human shield. The crazed look in the eyes of the kid behind him, the shouting, the weapon, they were three things adding up to a very hazardous and potentially deadly situation.
As quickly as things had transpired, though, they were over. Warrick was on the ground, on his hands and knees, gasping for air, his chest wracked with hacking coughs. The gun was discarded.
The suspect was on the ground rolling in pain, his own breath failing him. SWAT was moving in to subdue him.
She was rendered immobile.
Was she in shock?
There was a flurry of activity around here. Sara was still beside her. Greg was still there. She wanted to run to Warrick, to know he was okay. She couldn't get her feet to move. As much as she wanted to, though, she couldn't make herself move.
She could only watch.