It was all too much...all the noise, the sheer amount of flashing lights. Exactly how many camera crews needed to vie for precious position? A very edgy controlled mob, the fresh scent of blood and gore with sensational headlines in their enrapt eyes. Walkie-talkies, chirping on and off, never at the same time. Every little squawk of white noise another layer of air pollution. Skittish rabbits scurrying around with the War Hawks, big bad elite forces chomping at the bit to get a piece of the action.
Sara must have worn away a spot in the asphalt, warned away too many times to let the professionals handle things. Jim Brass never mouthed a word; his eyes spoke for him. Catherine gave up on trying to reason with her, settled for trying to smooth talk Conrad Ecklie into sharing with them anything he knew and goading him into letting them have more 'direct' access to the operation.
The shrieking of a car horn nearly made her jump out of her skin. A familiar Denali cut in and out and parked at a designated space. A very agitated Warrick Brown nearly got into a scuffle with security verifying his credentials and their 'list' of approved personnel. Seething and brushing past some of the security people none too politely, he hurried over.
Sara was on her last nerve, and trying to calm down; Warrick wasn't something she could handle right now. The speeding locomotive couldn't read her mind and made a beeline at her direction, but thank goodness for a very tactful boss. Catherine intercepted the steamroller of raw energy and pulled the man aside. Sara went back to gawking at the command area, sending looks of death at Conrad Ecklie, even if the guy had nothing to do with the crisis.
Jim Brass's badge gained him a bit more access and he tried to share his scant intel with her. His strides and brief stop attracted enough attention and like a flock, the rest of the original graveyard shift hung on to any new morsel of information. Sara was happy that Greg had been spared this added turmoil away at his conference. Of course being hundreds of miles away must have been torture; but then again, he didn't need to witness this three-ring circus.
Bring in the clowns, Sara thought, before paying attention to the gruff man before them all.
"They're entering the third level, and most of that area is fairly under control. Many prisoners were in their bunks and the cells contained. Most areas have been secured, but there are a number of loose inmates. Guards cordoned off areas, keeping them in sections of the level and seemed to keep any riots from breaking out."
Catherine tossed some of her hair back, hand grinding into her tense neck. "Any word where our guys are?"
Warrick bore into the man with his gaze, hands on hips ready for any type of confrontation. "Aren't they on another level?" He turned to Sara. "Suspects are on the fourth one, right?"
Sara cleared her throat. "Yeah. General population is on the third. How'd you know?"
Warrick crossed his arms. "Had Hodges read Nick's field report to me over the phone."
"Okay. So we know they're clearing the third floor, it sounds like that level is not the war zone they feared."
The Captain glanced back. "There's resistance from the small groups of inmates that are stirring things up. But tear gas and a row of body armored SWAT is defusing those trouble spots."
"And the fourth floor?" Warrick asked, cutting to the chase. "If Grissom was trying to get dental impressions from the four suspects, then he and probably Nick are on that floor, right?"
Jim seemed deflated, eyes wavering not to make contact. "That one they're going to scout out first. No plans to enter until the third is totally secured and any injured brought out safely."
"Place is bound to have tighter security, Jim. It houses the more dangerous felons. I'm sure they're with some guards or found a safe place to sit things out," Catherine speculated.
"Sure hope so. We only have garbled reports and incomplete information. Computers and some communication are all on the fritz including the programs that run power," Jim explained.
Sara fiddled with the fabric of her shirtsleeve, mind zoning in and out about something she felt was vital to pay attention to. Her mind was too focused on dissecting a puzzle, her eyes drifting to the dog and pony show of the political bozos from the Sheriff's royal court, looking oh so serious and concerned and chatting away with some of the hospital staff. Her muscles tensed whenever she studied the two doctors, the last people to see her two friends.
Dr Rhodes paced around, cell phone glued to one ear, shouting and gesturing. His little kingdom was falling apart. His protégé, the Class-A-Geek, Stanfield, erred on the side of caution. Aloof and alone from the group, eyes off in space only to drift back towards the building. The man was twitchy, almost annoyed by the paparazzi and police. He oozed irritation at a plan that had backfired or gone awry.
Hand sunk in pockets, not a sign of anger or outrage from a place of study slowly imploding. No concern or sadness even...just cold, emotionless acceptance of a mad experiment gone wrong, simply waiting to pick up the pieces.
Sara felt her temperature rise, her lips thinned from her running emotions. Sara opened her mouth to express her need to get them focused on the people responsible for this. Soon she realized that she had really zapped out of reality, silencing the chaos around her. Her face furrowed, she had missed most of an important phone call. Jim's voice frantic, with clipped responses. The rest of the team ready to wrestle the phone from his grasp.
"I'll sure try, Gil. Christ. Okay, I'll pull in every favor, threaten who needs to be...we'll try. Look, everyone else wants to talk to you." Jim looked at anxious eyes, but frowned when it seemed the call had ended.
"What's going on, Jim?" Catherine was the first to the punch.
Sara didn't press for answers; the older man's eyes were haunted. She silently looked past him, at the building, at the madhouse, and then at the physician who watched his sand castles get swept away by the ocean's waves.
"That was, Gris, right?" Warrick asked.
Sara didn't need to hear the response; she knew in her gut something very wrong had happened. The whole case was nothing but a Pandora's Box that had been opened, its demons spilled forth. The case, its criminalists, all just walking contradictions.
"Yeah," Brass replied. "I gotta go talk to Ecklie."
Sara watched the Captain try to slip away, urgent as he whirled around sort of shell-shocked.
"Hey!" Warrick stepped forward; his fingers slipped off the fabric of Jim's overcoat. "If you spoke with Grissom, then what's wrong?"
Sara felt her stomach twist; Catherine gazed at the building, her body shuddered. Warrick's face crumpled, his jaw tense as he shook his head. "It's Nick. Isn't it?"
"Yeah. I don't know anything else, but I have to go talk to Ecklie." Jim took a deep breath. "I'll be back."
Sara watched him make his way over to the inner circle of chaos, bully his way towards Ecklie and give the man an earful. She stood there as the two men traded a heated exchange, followed by almost desperate pleas.
Conrad Ecklie looked shaken, upset, annoyed, but he was moving and he was yelling. At SWAT, at the Sheriff, at them all.
Warrick cussed and began his unhelpful pacing, asking Catherine more questions, losing his good sense to the scene that seemed to suck sanity away. The entire time she was strangely quiet, compartmentalizing everything, analysis on overdrive. Before long Brass had made his way back from his powwow.
Somewhat breathless he pulled out his cell phone. "They're sending in another small team to make their way onto the fourth floor, while the main operation on the third goes on."
Catherine was nodding head relieved. "How'd you pull that off?"
Jim looked at her with all seriousness. "Made a deal with the Devil."
There was silence and Sara was pulled out of her thoughts when a hand touched her shoulder. "You've been acting quiet, Sara. What's on your mind, girl?"
Sara looked up at worried green eyes and noticed the inquisitive expressions of her teammates. She wet her lips and turned back towards the building. "I think its time we reel in the mad scientist responsible for all of this."
Grissom could hear the blood pump in tandem with his breathing, rapid and way too harsh. The sound of Jim Brass' voice music to his ears. Help was coming. A team headed their way, dispatched through that battleground in the stairwell. He reined in his thundering heart; a hopeful thought that perhaps Franco was still alive and intact to save. That he hadn't been hauled off to be torn part by another horde. The guard would be the first pulled out of this Hellhole. Nick would be relieved.
He looked over at the two nurses, getting their patient ready for immediate transport. Portable oxygen tank rested against the patient's legs. Both nurses made sure that each vital plastic tube remained untangled. Angelo changed out the IV bag with fresh fluids. The Foley filled with red liquid, not dark red, more of an evil pink. A hue worse, and Nick wouldn't need to go anywhere at all.
Grissom never moved from his spot, another barrier thwarting the ever-alert Nigel Crane. He'd follow Nick out the door when the SWAT team entered, hand over the duties of guardianship, but not yet. The nurses would ground his CSI; as much as he wanted to be closer, his responsibly lay with his current job now.
"Not fair. I helped, I helped." Crane's non-stop babble, a seething look directed at him every few seconds, another more needy one at the bed hidden behind the partition.
"I need his clothes," Grissom instructed, face straight ahead.
"Baggin' them now," Angelo responded, picking up the bloody remains of Nick's shirt and jeans. "Got his boots as well; they're still salvageable," the nurse commented.
"Good," he replied quietly.
Nigel was like some animal, sniffing around for an advantage, knowing that soon the pound would be here to haul him away and throw him back in his cage. It was the least controlled he'd seen the man and it worried him.
Before he considered option plans, Angelo stood beside him, air of gruffness about him. The man was as chill as one could get, and that made Crane back off, edgy at the eyes that just dared the inmate into sedating him. Angelo glanced at the older man signaling him he'd take care of the janitor if Crane tried to cause trouble before the rescue arrived, a team of people Grissom had hoped would be here by now. Unfortunately, it had been nearly fifteen minutes since the call from Brass and no sign of SWAT.
Grissom risked another look behind him only to see tough-as-nails Louretta pushing Nick's bangs glued by sweat, off of his forehead. The nurse murmured softly over his CSI's ear, and held onto his hand so gently, one finger against the pulse at Nick's wrist.
His throat was suddenly dry, along with his voice. As he found it, struggling to ask another dreaded question, his words were drowned out by the loud crunch of wood and metal.
Grissom whirled his head around at the second 'thwack', the door bursting open, three men clad in protective gear spilled into the infirmary within seconds, their orders clear and concise.
"Everyone! Your hands in the air where we can see them!"
Everyone complied, as three men out of some sort of action television show burst forth, guns, helmets, and face shields, all in tactical positions within the room.
"In the air!"
The staff complied, Grissom lifted his arms, Crane did as well, though he began backing away at frantic speed, his mouth going a mile a minute, making each member of SWAT slightly twitchy, gaining full their attention.
"I saved them! I did! Ask Nick!" the inmate bellowed, two officers cornering him.
Another man advanced rapidly towards the supervisor, weapon pointed ahead, eyes darting from the CSI, to both nurses. "Clear here!" he shouted to his comrade and stepped closer. "You have identification?"
Obviously the criminalist wasn't in prison garb, but procedures needed to be followed, despite Crane's shrieking voice of protest.
"I'm Gil Grissom with the Vegas Crime lab; I'm reaching for my wallet. We have a critically injured member of my team that needs immediate medical attention."
The elite officer cautiously accepted the driver's license, even though Grissom knew it was just a procedure. There was a reason why they had been ordered here. After a pause he nodded.
Grissom tried to ignore the ruckus behind him. Two men rushed the inmate, throwing him to the floor, securing his hands with a sort of twist tie, the man screaming the entire time.
"Nooooo! Nick! Leave me alone, I saved them. Got them here. I need to talk to him!"
Both officers had the smaller man pinned to the floor, one communicating in his two-way radio about their status, the large Goliath of a man in front of Grissom, had already cleared the two nurses.
"This is Bravo Team, we have secured the friendlies, readying for evac."
Grissom waited impatiently for the relay of information to be completed. "Is the floor secured? Can we leave now?"
The burly man halted questions with his hand. "We have a single path back down the stairs; the whole wing is not verified. We're here to get you out and then we'll re-group to recover and contain this level."
"Fine," Grissom replied gruffly, meeting the rolling bed that Angelo and Louretta were pushing towards them.
The spitfire of a nurse bullied her way over. "Where are the EMTs?"
"Medical personnel are awaiting outside, we're here to escort you out," the commander communicated.
Louretta wasted no time. "Then let's get going. Out of my way, we can't wait for you to get your act together." She rolled the stretcher past the bewildered officer, Grissom hot on her heels.
The rush to get out the door was halted by the officers; a few more members out in the halls had kept them from exiting the room. Grissom grabbed a hold of the bedrail with one hand and snaked his other through to rest on his CSI's shoulder.
The Leader took point. "You do exactly as I say, remain right behind me. Don't touch or say anything."
Grissom nodded, the caregivers on each side of the bed, ready to move. The other two officers had restrained the inmate and shoved him forward, obviously not sure where to deposit him, pushing him along on their trek.
After way too much time they barreled down the hallway, the officers with night vision goggles appearing from nowhere now firmly attached. The thunder of their charge down the hall, loud and deafening to his ears. Grissom didn't know how he kept up, his poor mangled knee a distant memory, the pain ignored. Their warpath down hallways kept any inmate away, hidden among the confines of the now totally dark building.
Grissom didn't look forward to their romp down four flights of stairs, thanking the heavens that Nick was hopped up on a heavy amount of morphine so he wouldn't feel every bump, jerk and twist of the journey. Even one of the SWAT members grabbed a hold of the bed, maneuvering it to soften the abusive jaunt through the cramped stairwell not set up for such desperate measures. Then again any reaction other then the deadly silence of the ill man and the frantic expression of the nurse would have been much more eagerly accepted.
Grissom did whatever he could to maintain human contact, his other hand securing the sheets over Nick's still form.
Political posturing was not her forte; then again all Sara needed to do was voice her 'strong' suspicions to Conrad Ecklie and by some miracle the man had somehow wrangled the two physicians into going downtown. The haughty staff members voiced this substantial opinions, a lot of hot air and mock disgust, though Dr. Stanfield 's protests grew silent at a sight that made all of them scramble.
After half an hour, the squad sent in to secure the missing criminalists was coming out of the building with their objectives. The geeky researcher, who had not realized the seventies were decades past, fell suddenly silent when the EMTs swarmed the huddled group that exited the hospital.
It was impossible to get too close, but the spectacle garnered all sorts of attention. Gil Grissom followed the blurry motion of police and medical workers towards a waiting ambulance that had been summoned once communication had been established and the Vegas Crime Lab staff had been located.
Sara pushed past people, a force to be reckoned with when need be, her co-workers close behind, but she called out to her boss and friend, then covered her mouth quickly.
Grissom looked a wreck; haggard, in pain, cuts and a bruise marred his face. Dark blue eyes filled with something so foreign…it was fear, absolute terror, and something else. His steadfast objectivity was totally absent. Sara caught a fleeting glance at the whirlwind of the stretcher, Nick a blurry motion before being loaded up quickly and taken away. Snippets of information in between the buzz of way too many people.
She latched on to the more terrifying parts; sky high blood pressure, rapid pulse, severe blood loss, and the absolute need to get to an ER.
Sara Sidle felt no satisfaction at the successful rescue, no solace that the possible perpetrators had been hauled off for questioning. No mere words from the man she sought reassurance from. Instead, Sara and the others were left in the dust and melee of a situation totally out of their hands. Before they could determine who would drive, the walking paradox of Nigel Crane had been brought over towards one of the vans to be secured until the rest of the prison was under lock down.
The Graveyard shift collectively froze as the man huffed and taunted to the world his instrumental services in rescuing the two criminalists. His eyes met those of the nerd squad, and he grinned in triumph.
"Nick knows! He knows whom he can count on. Who stood by him, who saved him." Crane lunged at the dust kicked up by the now absent ambulance, its sirens blared in the distance. "Nick! Nick!" he bellowed.
The man was shoved to the ground, squirming and fighting as two strong sets of hands pinned him there.
"Can we get this guy to shut up?" the burly Captain who had led the raid requested, peeved at having to deal with the mentally disturbed man.
Sara stared at Crane, his glasses ready to fall off his face, eyes that strained to see the last remnants of the rescue. "He needed me. Nick counted on me, and I delivered. He owes me, owes me everything."
Catherine put a hand on the female CSI's shoulder and guided her away from the insane babble. Warrick had already stormed away, sickened by the mantra, ready to release his frustrations on the man who had terrorized his best friend for weeks and in the silent months that had followed. Then somehow wreaked havoc upon his friend once again.
They divided up into two vehicles, all four of them hushed by the lunacy of the situation, still clueless as to what had transpired inside the Institute, a couple of them almost wishing they didn't know.
A/N: Will TRY to post from now every two days. I want to have this done before the season ender.