A/N

I'm without the internet again. I think it shall return by late today or Thursday. Thanks for all the feedback, I can read it at work, just can't use the computer here long enough to respond. Felt you guys would prefer updates to me responding, which I'll do a collective bit later.-Kristen

"Goddamn roadblocks!" Jim cursed, rubber peeling on asphalt with maneuvers from academy days as he jolted the SUV beyond safety standards.

He mumbled an apology as the female CSIs gripped the 'Oh Shit' handles as they tried to avoid the parade of press vans, patrol cars and the heavy presence of the SWAT team. Jim knew as soon as they arrived that they would be relegated to 'outside observers' though their people were involved.

Catherine rode shotgun, body tense, taking the curves as they rode in silence. Her mind worked overtime trying to memorize facts of a case she really didn't know much about. She had made the dreaded call to Warrick, whose silence was worse than his typical temper. He was meeting them when he got done with his witness. Thank goodness there wasn't someone to pass that task to, or the man would be rolling faster than the Captain's lead foot to the pedal.

Sara was strangely passive as Catherine turned to look at her in the backseat, undoubtedly running scenarios in her head, all of them of the worst possible outcome. The three of them had been working the case, with the two 'cowboys' on the front line. Catherine had a sneaking suspicion that perhaps the wrong members had been assigned to this case.

Gil Grissom needed to throw caution to the wind, even if he had no clue that he was doing it. The Graveyard Team back together except some of the members were still MIA and the rest were still too shell-shocked to deal with it properly. No time for second-guessing or for taking to task all of their collective inability to ever really talk anymore. The current crisis was the result of their dysfunctional family.

The three of them felt like benchwarmers relegated to the sidelines, a formal courtesy granted to even allow them so near the proceedings and tactical operations. Conrad Ecklie of all people had just pulled in solo, his ragged appearance an indication of how harrowing the situation had to be. For once his 'political muscle' was a Godsend as the two lowly criminalists and detective were allowed near the 'inner sanctum' of the front
lines of an all out war.

The newly christened power broker of the lab led the parting of the Red Sea as they stood motionless but for silent looks of confusion. A major operation was on its way, the preparation for some sort of assault, and they were no closer to finding answers than they were in at the Lab.

Sara took the necessary steps forward boring in on the joint conversations between the head of the civilian nerd squad and the elite assault force. Even the normally smug and gloating assistant director was engaged in hostile negations over information. Sara bit her lip, knowing that the balding asshole was on their side for once.

Crisis always brought out the semi-human side of Conrad Ecklie. He turned to face the obvious barrage of questions.

"Look, we have been granted the privilege to be this close."

"What the Hell is going on?" Catherine demanded.

Conrad Ecklie sighed heavily. "The hospital is experiencing some sort of compromise in its security protocols."

"What the Hell does that mean?' Sara interrupted before any sort of briefing.

The older man eyed her coolly, but granted room for some frustration. "I don't know. As far as I can tell at least two levels of the facility is experiencing severe security fluctuations and loss of communications. They are assuming the worst and are prepared to enter at full force to regain any loss of control."

"What about civilians? What are the procedures set up for that type of operation?" Jim interceded before the situation could be made worse with the swirling of emotions. He gave each criminalist an expression of needed patience in a time like this.

A gruff SWAT officer whose head was engulfed mostly by a helmet and face obscured by a small microphone piece took a single moment to address the frantic group.

"We are T-minus eight minutes from entering the first level of the lobby and proceeding to the second floor of the facility. Once each floor is secured and the prisoners are detained and lockdown procedures are fully operational, then we will proceed to the next for the same objectives."

Several large groups of men, clad in body armor, shields, helmets and weapons, approached the building. It was like the frontal assault of some war, years of training all prepared to be unleashed onto a single outcome.

Containment and security of a facility with dangerous and unpredictable offenders.

"What will you guys use if resistance is encountered?" Brass asked as radios chirped and news crews were cordoned off to a safe distance.

"Out goal is the minimal loss of life," the Commander responded. "We will use intimidation, tear gas, then excessive force if needed to make sure the staff members of the building are safely secured."

"I don't think most of them will put up much resistance when a whole tactical team comes in," Catherine remarked.

"Have you handled a lot of prison riots in your life, Ma'am?" Mr. Gruff asked.

"No, and this isn't a riot, or a prison. It's a private mental ward for convicted felons," the Lead CSI countered.

The overbearing Commander motioned his hand for another officer, who began corralling the criminalists back towards a more secured location behind a van.

"We'll be entering in five minutes. We have instructed the rest of the Team about your people. They will be on the look out. Main priority is to maintain order," the Commander offered.

Conrad Ecklie stepped in front, his face of genuine understanding. "We know you guys have a tough job ahead, we just want to make sure our people are safe."

"So do I, Mr. Ecklie," the SWAT officer replied before he marched off to begin the operation.

The Assistant Director wandered over towards his employees. "Care for anyone to brief me on the case that Grissom and Stokes were working on in there?"

Sara folded her arms. "I will, but it looks like we have company."

The four turned around to see the Sheriff with the political grease ball Harris speak animatedly with each other, two doctors in white lab coats frantic on their heels. The group of bureaucrats traded ass kissing and political sound bites with each other in an attempt to reach an agreement on how to address the crisis with the media.

Even Conrad Ecklie looked perturbed at the presence of so many spin-doctors. The Sheriff waved the director over, Catherine and Sara hot on his heels.

The Sheriff nodded at Ecklie and ignored the rest of his team as he made introductions. "Conrad Ecklie, these are Dr's Rhodes and Stanfield. They are two of the staff members here and the most familiar with what might be transpiring."

Introductions were made all around and Sara had to keep quiet as she stared at the geeky Dr. Stanfield as he began to address the huddled group.

He was sick and tired of the flashing red light, darkness, and of the non-stop rambling of his escort. Grissom felt at the end of his rope, his normal air of detachment harder to keep in place. Too much of everything, all of it out of control, all like sand through his hands. He was inside a glass building suspended over a freeway, his silent screams unheard as cars plowed into each other, over and over again. Clueless drivers unable to control speeding vehicles. Every collision worse than the last one, and a chain reaction with no stopping in sight.

He balanced as best he could in the wheelchair as Crane pushed him along, the man's last words like a broken record in his head. Grissom tried to really look around, through Nick's eyes, at this would be-asylum. Cataloging the macabre atmosphere, catacomb-like walls and the way the prison seemed to close in on its occupants. Dismissing the angry swells of red, the hospital swallowed them whole.

Grissom sighed during the tedious trip back to wherever the inmate was taking him. So many things tore away his self-imposed walls. He didn't even have it in him to ask any more questions of the other man. The grim reality of his earlier advice, the cruel irony of it all left him feeling exposed---just too shocked to really react.

The supervisor supposed that Crane's rally of the 'troops' left the corridors deserted for now, having not run into any more trouble thus far. Soon his chariot slowed and the inmate parked the chair next to a door and Crane stared at him ominously as he fiddled with a small set of keys.

"Now which one was it," he fussed, letting each one jingle as he took his time looking at them.

Grissom resisted any baited outburst, studying the closed door. A damned storage closet. The bastard had locked Nick inside knowing exactly what he was doing. The inmates here were allowed access to television and newspapers. The guy probably had every article clipped and saved under his bedroll from last May.

Crane shined the light on the lock as Grissom climbed out of his seat with difficulty, still clad by the straitjacket, ready for any surprises. For all he knew Crane had planned on throwing him inside as part of some twisted game. The inmate turned the key, pulled open the door, and cast his beam of light inside the cramped room. Grissom froze for the briefest moment as he spotted Nick curled on his side as close to the entrance to the
hallway as possible.

"Nick," the supervisor whispered as he struggled to balance in the fucking straitjacket.

Right then something sort of 'popped' inside, like a balloon. Instead of a slow whimper of escaped air, it was the steam of a steel kettle ready to explode. Grissom whirled around so unbelievably fast, that it actually startled that smug expression off of Crane's face. With agility unfathomable, Grissom stood up with a reddened face.

"Get me out of this thing right now."

If the two men could joust with their eyes, then no doubt they would. Crane's obstinate refusal to answer the demand in contest with the raging volcano of the older man, as Grissom teetered on the edge. Move too much and Crane won---move too slow, and then he played the jester to his mad court.

Nick's rapid gulps of air filled the hollows of the closet. Grissom's ligaments popped as his shoulders adjusted against the taut fabric.

"Admit it," Crane beckoned. Nostrils flared. "You don't know what it is to be a friend."

The supervisor blinked, his voice rust. "I never said that I was ever a good friend to Nick. Why don't you demonstrate how much better you are? Undo these straps."

It was obvious the little man was slightly taken aback but he recovered. His eyes drifted down to the slimy floor, the object of their discussion too lost in something else to notice them. Crane's face twitched with too many thoughts.

"Show him who the better friend is," Grissom challenged.

Haughty chest, bravado, and a satisfied grunt. Crane gestured for the older man to turn around, impatient at the slowness. The straps were loosened, the feeling in his arms and hands shot through him with the sensation of pinpricks followed by pain of awakening nerves. The discomfort was nothing but the dulled reflexes were annoying. Grissom ignored them all as he got to his knees, one numb hand resting on his CSI's shoulder.

"Go play doctor." Nigel leered.

Nick's nails were split. Unseen scratch marks along an old wooden surface, the familiar feeling of mashed cuticles a not so distant memory. The bleeding from ripped stitches a sick syrupy feeling that congealed along the hairs of his aching arm. If he arched his back at just the right angle and curled his body, then he could pretend that there wasn't the false feeling of a hole in his gut as well. He still felt the imagined skewer protrude from his stab wound.

It was okay that he was surrounded by total darkness; his eyes were not open, clenched shut like the rest of him. Time another anomaly, another dealer of death. Nick heard the distant echo of a Johnny Cash song vibrate through the cement walls.

"I'm stuck in Folsom prison," Nick sang, his voice stolen with a gasp by another flare of agony. He gave up on it after that.

Breathe deep, breathe slow...

Nick did the opposite, holding his air as long as possible, fists balled so tight his knuckles had to be stark white. Air. He had oxygen; he wasn't trying to breathe it so often this time around. He had gone through the taxonomy of Owls, and almost finished the family branches of Eagles. Nick felt the moisture along his eyelids and stuffed his palm between his teeth to gnaw on again.

Wasn't like he had a bullet to bite down on.

His mind struggled with the next family of birds.

Hawks.

Family Accipitridae -Red-Tailed Hawk-Buteo jamaicensis. The red-tailed hawk is readily identified by the chestnut red on the dorsal side of the tail and a broad band of dark streaking across its white belly.

No need to talk when his mind could just recall lines from textbooks. He was so preoccupied with the next subfamily that his shoulder jerked suddenly from the touch of an intrusive hand. Instinctively he twisted away, only causing a loud pant, his left foot kicked out in reaction. Soon his hand gripped the wrist of the stranger, fingers dug deep in defense.

"Nick, it's okay."

Hearing Grissom's voice he nearly melted into the ground with relief. "Get me up," he pleaded his voice raw from strain.

"Not yet, Nick." Grissom commanded softly. He snapped his fingers, as he glared at Crane. "Shine that light down here so I can get a better look."

Grissom tried to pry the younger man's fingers from his arm. "Nick, please let go, that kind of hurts."

Nick released his strangle hold, and let his head drop back towards the grimy floor, nostrils filling with muck. He allowed a strangled cry to escape, not caring about embarrassment and eyed the open doorway. "Just help me out," his raspy voice begged before struggling to move on hands and knees.

Grissom easily overpowered Nick as he gently kept him still by gripping his shoulders. He wasn't prepared for Nick's sudden lurch forward as a result. Nick fought his restraint with surprising strength. He lashed out with his left arm, almost knocking the supervisor off balance from his crouched position.

Grissom realized his mistake and quickly switched gears. He held onto the agitated man as he struggled towards the open door, and gave him just enough support to guide him right towards the entrance. Crane scooted away as both men fumbled to the exit.

"You're not in the storage room anymore, Nick, but you need to lay still for a few minutes," Grissom instructed, his hands under each armpit as he led Nick to his much sought out escape.

Nick sputtered for air, all his weight along his elbows and knees, before he simply crumpled back down. He could see the darkened hallway, every fucking splash of red light, but the air was fresher, the feeling of entrapment abated somewhat. He laughed a cracked unnatural noise, wiping at his eyes and allowing his body to sag along the ground.

Crane stared at him with the most unreadable expression, almost pensive, at a slight distance. The prisoner's posture was less relaxed as he scanned the halls for any unwanted visitors. He moved the flashlight back towards the two CSIs wordlessly as the older supervisor kneeled down to begin his inspection. Nick buried his face along his uninjured left arm, shutting out the odd glare from the man's thick eyeglasses.

Grissom gestured for more light and the suddenly silent Crane moved closer, casting the illumination over Nick's body. Grissom saw the blood stain on the back of Nick's shirt; not a large one, but that wasn't necessarily significant. Grimacing, the supervisor carefully pulled up the sweat-drenched cotton garment to reveal a small hole in the right quadrant.

Grissom didn't dare touch the wound, knowing the excruciating amount of pain it would cause.

"Nick, did Ivan stab you anywhere else?" Grissom asked, hoping the CSI could hold together enough to answer him.

Nick lifted his head, moaning from anything that stretched his back muscles. "N-no, he just g-got me once."

'Sometimes that's all it takes,' the supervisor mused. He slid his finger along Nick's carotid, feeling the racing pulse beneath. Without the second hand of a watch, he could tell it was around 120 beats, and knew it would climb higher as the pain mounted.

"Does holding your breath help ease the pain?" Grissom inquired, his brain calculating responses.

"Hmmm, kind of," Nick rasped as he attempted to curl back up.

"Don't move, Nick. Keep flat on your stomach for now." Grissom gently laid his hand on the injured man's shoulder. "You've got to remain still to keep from aggravating the wound."

The other criminalist groaned in reply, his suffering an almost unbearable thing to watch. Grissom opened his mouth, but no words of comfort seemed adequate. He kept his hand along the shoulder as his source of compassion. The only solace he could offer was the cold facts that the both of them could cling to.

"It feels bad because basically a hole has been punched through the muscle. There's a small hematoma around the wound," Grissom explained seeing the ugly purple tinge around the stabbed area.

"Feels...f-feels like it went through my gut," Nick stuttered through clenched teeth. Rolling slightly to his side despite the maddening rip it sent along his flank. Talking somewhat face-to-face had more dignity.

Nick swallowed harshly. "How bad?"

Grissom took in Nick's pallor, harsh respiratory rate, and severe pain for what it was. He could tell the way Nick faced him, the young man knew it too. Grissom mulled over his answer, but knew honesty was what the other man really ever wanted. "I'm not a doctor and I don't how deeply he stuck you. Do you know what he used?" he stalled.

Nick's whole body trembled, sweat rolled down his forehead. He felt his legs pull forward in order to arch his back out more. He let out a long exhalation, the agony blurring his vision. "A damn …gold pen," he blurted out before wrapping his arms around his middle.

Grissom stared at the hole, imagining the metal pen jabbed inside, tearing and destroying everything in its path, damaging internal organs. Without real tests there was no way to tell for sure, but Grissom had a good theory. The supervisor noticed the fresh blood along Nick's arm and looked for something to staunch it.

"You ripped open your stitches," he commented.

Nick cradled the injured limb. "If my hunch is right," he gasped, sucking in a breath, "then this is of little consequence." Nick pounded on the ground with his right fist not caring about the flare up of boiling agony from his arm.

After several long seconds, the Texan let out a sob, and let his body go limp, too exhausted and consumed by the agony. He longed for numbness, for anything to make it all go away.

Grissom looked around the hallway franticly, his mind conjuring up scenarios. He locked eyes on the wheelchair and then pitted Crane with his stare. "We need to get him to the infirmary now," he growled.

Crane looked down at the damaged criminalist and shook his head. "Nick can ride it out, he--"

Grissom stood abruptly and hobbled over much faster than the stalker expected. Crane kept his neutral expression in the face of fierce emotion. "Facades or not, I know you care about what happens to Nick."

The geeky man simply looked away. Grissom jerked on the inmate's collar, earning an undignified expression, his smugness ever apparent. The man was still playing games. The supervisor didn't mind tipping his hand. "Without medical treatment, he won't last much longer."

Crane started to get agitated. "No, we stay here. Just fix him up or something."

Grissom was losing patience. "There's nothing I can do."

The inmate yanked out of the other man's grip, his loss of control obvious as he fiddled with his glasses in nervousness, and began to slightly pace. "No, no. Just stop the bleeding, bandage him up, or something."

Grissom stood there as the man began to irritably gesture with his hands in denial.

"SWAT will be storming soon, and we can't be caught in the hallways. It'll be too dangerous and then we'll get separated and, and---" Nigel began to breathe heavy, his agitation causing him to mumble incoherently under his breath.

"Listen to me!" Grissom demanded.

Crane froze in his tracks as he crossed his arms defiantly.

The supervisor inched closer, took a look behind him and lowered his voice. "I think his kidney is damaged, and if it is, then he can't wait for SWAT or anyone."

The man began to dismiss him, but Grissom held his attention. "I can't put pressure on the wound, not when he's bleeding internally." He worked his jaw testing treacherous waters. "You want to watch him die."

Silence. Darkness then the sting of the red light.

The inmate stared at Nick huddled along the floor, Crane's face stony and unreadable. Dark eyes gazed through plastic lens. "You're not being a real friend," he accused.

Grissom raised an eyebrow at the veiled dare. He wandered over by Nick and sat along the floor next to him. He took the man's clammy hand into his own and squeezed it. "Nick."

The man grunted, followed by a wheeze. He managed to channel his pain into a firm but weakening grip. He opened his eyes as his boss leaned down so the wounded man didn't have to move.

"Nick, I think you have a renal injury and I think it's serious. If you don't get proper medical attention I don't think you'll make it until the prison gets back under control." Grissom spoke very clearly.

Nick wet parched lips, his voice harder to hear from the stress. "Figured as much." He swallowed. "At least you were frank with me." He laughed somewhat hollowly. "Too bad now's the time you chose to do so."

As if on cue, Crane sauntered over next to both criminalists, a sort of glee in his eyes, always the manipulator. "I've got a wheelchair, Nick. We're going to take you to the infirmary."

Nick closed his eyes tightly in response, "I- I don't know--"

"Quit whining, Nick. They grow them tough in Texas don't they?" Nigel sneered, fully in control again.

Crane began to haul up the CSI without so much as a warning. Grissom intervened to make sure the man wasn't rough. Nigel smiled coolly at the older man as each one of them began to drape an arm under each shoulder, Grissom having more difficulty with his bum knee.

Nick howled in pain as he was maneuvered somewhat upright, the supervisor trying to keep him arched at an angle to keep from pulling at his back muscles too badly. With his body slung between him there were precious few steps towards the waiting wheelchair. The younger man's panting and cries of torture were loud and heartbreaking. Grissom and Crane swiveled him into the seat. Nick was unable to lean backwards and ended up in a terribly awkward position.

Crane snatched the handlebars away from the other man as Nick tried to ball up on one side, unable to maintain any pressure along his back and dangerously close to falling out. Crane somewhat gently 'eased' him into the left side and glided the chair away from the storage closet he had deposited him in.

Nigel leaned over to Nick's ear, his voice still loud enough for both men to hear. "We'll get you all fixed, Nick, so we can talk again. But I still have one more surprise along the way."