Note: okay...nothing really to say about the story itself...but...as I was watching CBS tonight...the great shows of NCIS and then Love Monkey...I was presented the teaser for this weeks CSI episode...and I have to say...the new look for George Eads is really growing on me! I mean...come on, the man is hot regardless the hair style...but this new look...the "new clothes" the new hair...i'm growing rather fond of it i have to say...
granted i'm more into the mussed hair look anyway...but...dang...the man's hot!
okay...now chapter 11...oh...and THANKS FOR ALL THE REVIEWS! WONDERFUL!
okay...later!
Chapter Eleven
He watched.
The chaos before him slowly unfolded, taking the haphazard form of the resultant confusion and panic.
Warrick was coming out of the building, a gun held to his head. The frantic, nearly crazed look in the eyes of the kid holding his CSI hostage was enough to make Grissom's hair stand on end. Fear wasn't something he felt anymore. He'd gone beyond fear. He'd gone miles beyond to overwhelming terror.
The blood on the CSI's shirt was the second thing he noticed. It was clear he'd been injured in his left shoulder. How bad, Grissom could only guess.
He was frozen, unable to move.
So, he watched.
It was all over almost as quickly as it had all started.
There was shouting.
"Move in! Move in!" Brass was yelling.
Was he yelling at him?
"Stay down! Stay on the ground!" SWAT had moved in, and now had the suspect in custody.
Their voices were muffled, fogged by a cloud of obscurity and confusion.
Warrick was hunkered on the ground, his body wracked with hacking coughs. His chest heaved in an attempt to welcome the cold night air.
Grissom's feet were moving before his brain picked up on the activity. He was beside the man before he could even process what had just transpired.
"Nick," Warrick shook his head, his voice raspy, weak from the sudden rush of available air to his lungs. "Go get Nick. I'm okay."
The building was dark as he rushed in the front door. The warnings shouted by Jim Brass went unheeded as he rushed into the black unknown. He could feel the presence of the almost gruff man closing in on him and moving in front of him, his gun drawn.
The darkness was thick, the air heavy and cold. There was an unsettling calm within the narrow walls of the hallway as Grissom followed closely behind the detective, his flashlight illuminating the passage.
There was only one door on the left. It was a large room, empty except for a lone chair. The window nearest the door had been broken out, the wood split in an attempt to clear the barrier away. The ghosts of the suspects, the echoes of gunfire resonated within the walls sending a chill up the senior CSI's spine.
There was no sign of Nick.
Continuing down the hall, there was one more door on the right side of the passage. Oficina was painted in square letters on the solid metal mass. Grasping the door knob, Grissom's heart sank as the knob resisted the turning motion. It was locked. They couldn't get inside.
"Damn it!"
"You're kidding me. It's locked?" Brass asked incredulously.
"SWAT!" Grissom yelled down the hall toward the open door. "WE NEED A BATTERING RAM! LET'S GET THIS DOOR OPEN! COME ON!"
It felt as though minutes had passed before SWAT responded, running down the hall, battering ram in hand. With one smooth motion, the doorframe was splintered, as the ram was forced into the metal form of the door. The door swung lopsided on its hinge, revealing the nearly empty room.
The sight before him caused Grissom's breath to catch in his throat.
Nick sat on the floor; his body slumped slightly to the side, his back was to the wall. His eyes were closed, a makeshift bandage tied roughly around his midsection. His breathing…was he still breathing?
Rushing forward, Grissom knelt beside the lifeless form of the Texan. He found the man's pulse, weak but present. His breathing ragged and shallow, it was clear an extraordinary effort was necessary with each intake of air.
"MEDIC! I NEED A MEDIC IN HERE!" Grissom called out, his gaze cast momentarily to the detective in the doorway.
"MEDIC!" Brass repeated the urgent call down the hall.
"Hang on, Nick," Grissom urged, his attention returning to the ailing CSI, his voice low, almost a whisper. He bent now over the man, his hand feverishly working to remove the knotted shirt to look at the wound.
It didn't look good. It fact, it was horrifying. Blood saturated the once orange shirt as Grissom discarded the material and used his hands to apply pressure to the wound.
It seemed eternity had passed before the paramedics on the scene breezed into the room.
"Sir, we need you to step aside," medic one said trying to ease him away. His face was a blur as Grissom looked up, unable to focus his attention.
"Gil, let them do their work," Brass interjected softly, an understanding hand on his friend's shoulder.
Reluctantly he released the pressure and step back. The medics slipped in, continuing the application of pressure. He could only watch, the words of the medical team becoming muffled in the confusion. Nothing was making sense to him anymore.
All of a sudden the air inside that room was suffocating.
He watched dumbfounded as Nick's limp form was lifted onto the awaiting gurney and wheeled down the hall. Dazed, disoriented, he followed the team back into the cold night air.
Warrick, where was Warrick?
Silently, he let his eyes scan the scene before him. The ambulance, its red lights flashing was pulling away now; its siren sounded miles away.
It was déjà vu all over again.
"Gil?"
Was someone calling for him?
Where was the rest of his team?
"Gil?" Brass repeated, a hand returning to the man's shoulder. "You okay?"
He nodded his head in response, in was a reflex more than an honest answer. His eyes then fell to his blood covered hands.
Nick's blood.
Nick's life.
How could things have possibly gotten this bad?
Slow. Then fast. That's how things were moving.
Catherine suddenly found herself helping Warrick to his feet, his coughing fit slowly subsiding. She couldn't remember actually moving from her frozen position, but was glad to find something to do.
Silently she slid in under the man's right arm, her arms supporting him around his waist. The ambulance was less than 20 feet away. She was relieved to see Sara quickly join in the effort to support the man nearly half a foot taller than she.
Slowly the three made their way to the awaiting ambulance, the medic quickly intercepting and taking over the support.
"Warrick, what happened?" Catherine asked her mind running wild with questions, possible scenarios, and concern for the man before her. "Where's Nick?"
"Inside. They left him inside," he shook his head, his hand rubbing at his neck. "He's hurt pretty bad."
"What about you?" she asked her eyes falling to his left shoulder. Blood was oozing from the bullet wound, soaking his already wet tee shirt.
"I'm fine," he shook his head, his eyes glancing to his shoulder.
"Like hell," Catherine smirked.
"We need to get this shirt off," the medic interjected working a pair of scissors to slit the shirt.
"Hey man, that's a good shirt," Warrick sat up, his eyes becoming droopy.
Leave it to Warrick Brown to be concerned about his clothes in the middle of a bad situation. Catherine had to smile.
"Hey, hey!" Catherine said placing a hand on his face noticing the man's deteriorating condition. "Warrick, look at me!" He was hot, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead.
"Let's lay him down," the paramedic said to his partner easing the CSI back onto the gurney. "Ma'am we need to get him to the hospital," the medic continued catching Catherine's concerned gaze.
She nodded slowly, stepping back only slightly.
"Cath, Nick, is he okay?" she heard Warrick's voice. It was weak, hoarse.
"They're bringing him out now," she nodded placing a hand on his forehead, nearly flinching at the heat radiating from his skin.
"Good," he nodded, his eyes closed.
She was scared, worried for her friend.
When she had seen Warrick collapse on the sidewalk, fighting for his breath, she felt her heart wrench. Her stomach knotted, her face twisted in concern and fear of the situation.
There was no hesitancy in her steps as she'd rushed over to help the man she'd worked with for so many years. Her emotions bordered between motherly concern and something not quite discernable.
But, now as she slowly stepped out of the back of the ambulance, watching silently as it drove away, its lights flashing, its sirens whirring, she felt her emotions battling within her. The only thing she hated more than the helpless feeing in the pit of his stomach was the look she saw in Warrick's eyes. His eyes were vacant, miles away from the vibrant, carefree man she was accustomed to seeing.
And that scared the hell out of her.
"Has anyone called Tina?" Sara asked. She'd nearly forgotten Sara was beside her.
"I'll do it," she closed her eyes, turning her gaze to the approaching medics as they worked on Nick. "I'll call her."
She was used chaos. Her entire life had been chaos.
So why was this so different? Why was this so different than any other time in her screwed up life?
Nick and Warrick were involved, that's why things were different. Things were always different with Nick was involved. And now that Warrick was hurting, was in danger, well that pissed her off twice as much.
When she'd seen Warrick coming out, the gun to his head, she'd felt something rise within her. A rage she hadn't felt since…well, since last summer.
It wasn't often she felt a rage so overwhelming, so blinding. She could only think of maybe one other time in recent past she'd felt such a blinding rage.
A child lost in the shuffle of social services. A mother working to provide all she could for her sons. A guardian too preoccupied with her own life to notice the fragile lives of her three nephews.
"His ribs are poking through is skin. He starved to death, didn't he?" she'd asked Dr. Robbins as she got the post-autopsy report.
"C.O.D is renal failure due to starvation. His intestinal tract was virtually empty, except for these brown flecks I found."
They'd determined them to be lead based paint chips.
"This took weeks," Sara shook her head, her eyes glued to the small victim.
"I have to admit this does seem especially cruel and unusual."
"When kids are involved, it usually is."
She still struggled to get the faces of the victim's two brothers out of her mind. The fear in their eyes, the tears streaming down their faces was nearly unbearable. It made her heart rip in half.
Now, the rage she had felt then found its way back into her gut as she watched Warrick in the ambulance, fading. He was fading.
And Nick.
She found the rage within her changing to a new feeling. It was a feeling she'd felt more recently, a feeling that was all too familiar when Nick was in her eyes. It was a feeling she wished to never feel again when her friends were involved.
All consuming fear. Concern was mixed in there somewhere, she knew it was there, but the fear was so overpowering.
It was all she could do to make it to the grass in time, her stomach staging a full on revolt, purging itself of all its contents.
The look she got from Catherine didn't go unnoticed, just ignored.
She felt better, at least physically.
Emotionally, well that was another story.
She watched as Nick was loaded into the back of the ambulance and taken away.
She had to be strong.
Things would be okay.
They always were.
She had to believe they would be again.
The helpless feeling he was feeling seemed to be running throughout the entire team. He'd watched helplessly as the suspect was apprehended and taken away. He'd watched helplessly as Grissom ran to Warrick and then into the darkness of the community center. He'd watched helplessly as Catherine and then Sara ran to Warrick. He'd watched helplessly as Warrick was taken to an ambulance and driven to the hospital.
He hated feeling helpless.
He wanted to help. Yet, he couldn't make himself move. It was as if his sneakers had fused to the asphalt, keeping him glued to the pavement, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans.
He heard Brass calling for a battering ram, then for paramedics. They'd found Nick. It didn't sound good.
Willing his feet to move, he made his way into the building. He found Brass, his eyes meeting the detective's, finding a look that sent chills up and down his spine twice then one more time for charm. He shuddered, hoping to cast off the grim feeling that seemed to descend on him as he walked down the hall. His thin long sleeved shirt again served as a reminder that it was cold. The cold inside, however, was a different cold than outside. It was an eerie cold, a cold he only felt at crime scenes.
The place was filthy. It reeked of…was that urine, sweat and…?
…blood.
It came to him, unexpectedly causing yet another round of chills to descend then climb again his spine.
He found Grissom at the end of the hall, standing just outside the open door of another dark room. His hands were covered in blood.
Nick's blood.
His hand's were covered in Nick's blood, he realized as he watched, his mouth agape, his eyes wide in horror as the paramedics wheeled Nick past him.
It was last summer all over again, only…could it really be worse than last summer?
Maybe it could be. At least then he'd found a way to make himself useful. He'd been the one to retrieve the fire extinguisher. He'd been the one to give the short blasts of CO2 into the Plexiglas cage. He'd been the one to kill the ants.
Tonight, he could only watch.
Tonight, he was completely useless.
And it was killing him.