A/N: Many, many thanks for your patience and kind thoughts. Fortunately my 'all-day-sickness' is starting to get back under control now that I'm 12 weeks along. ASAP, another chapter will be posted and I sincerly hope they'll meet your satisfaction. For now, enjoy.

It was one of the biggest drug busts in the history of New York City. When SWAT and the DEA descended upon a non-descript warehouse in one of the slightly busier and rougher areas of the industry sector, they hit the proverbial drug goldmine. They hit hard, they hit fast, and they were amply rewarded as a result.

Several hundred keys of cocaine were found, some yet to be cut and some already cut and ready for distribution. Over a dozen people were arrested in conjunction with the drug bust and it was expected that several more dozen would soon follow once the authorities had a chance to talk with the arrested.

Thanks to the tip they had received and the subsequent scouting of the area, the authorities were able to do the bust with an absolute minimum of casualties. In fact, with the exception of one minor, very little thing, the bust was considered huge but perfectly routine.

While the prisoners were being escorted to a holding van, SWAT was maintaining a lookout in case one of the dealers had slipped through their web. In the shadow of the setting sun, one of the officers had spotted what looked like a flash on glass and had automatically trained his binoculars towards the flash, located on a distant rooftop. For a brief moment the officer swore he saw someone in dark clothing with binoculars watching the bust with what looked like a smirk or a satisfied grin, but he wasn't sure. He turned to tap his fellow officer and let him know and when he looked back, the watcher was gone. He made a note of it and he and a few other officers check the location out, but they found nothing. The incident was noted but not followed up on due to lack of anything solid.

If there was one thing Mac Taylor hated more than anything, it was when things didn't add up. Everything had a connection and all those connections went somewhere, so when certain connections didn't add up or were missing, he became more determined to find that connection.

Such as was the case of Artie.

Mac was surprised to learn that Flack knew very little about Artie. He didn't know her real name, where she lived, if she had a job, or how she got around the city. He didn't know too much about her background, except that she had once mentioned hating the cold. Her clothes were never fancy or expensive, just loose, comfortable, easy to get, the kind of clothes that caused her to blend in with the hundreds of other people on the streets. He knew she loved Greek pizza, having seen her devour several slices at a dinner once, a place he knew she frequented once in a while. She had fast reflexes, as evident by the way she played basketball, a sharp mouth, and a habit of showing up and disappearing just as fast. She also had a habit of appearing with bruises or cuts that she would brush off with a wisecrack. Nobody could ever figure out where or how she got her injuries and those who did, weren't talking.

Out of curiosity, Mac checked the package of Godiva cocaine she'd given him for additional fingerprints. Negative. The only prints on the package belonged to various known drug dealers, including one who had been found looking like he'd gone ten rounds with a gorilla and lost. Who the 'gorilla' had been, the guy wasn't saying, no matter what anyone said or offered him. The guy was either absolutely terrified of the 'gorilla' or too badly humiliated to identify his attacker.

So prints were out.

Social Insurance Number? That was a no-go because the Center didn't have Artie's number, never mind her real name.

Tax records? Same problem as the Social Insurance Number.

Hospital records for anyone matching Artie's description? Sure, plenty of times, but never as a patient. She was always escorting, visiting, or dropping off.

Out of curiosity and as a second to last resort, Mac checked Missing Persons, not just in New York but also across the States. It took a few days but he got the same results he'd been getting for the last several weeks in regards to Artie; absolutely nothing. Artie was not a missing person.

That 'nothing' basically equaled what Mac was getting from the streets when he asked around in an attempt to find what the computers weren't telling him; diddlysquat. If anyone knew anything about Artie, about her background, any little tidbit that might give him some idea of her background or habits, their lips were sealed tighter than Extra-Strength Superglue. As a matter of fact, some of his contacts had actually warned him to leave Artie alone, saying that some things were best left alone and Artie was one of them. People tended to disappear when they dug too deeply in to her background and besides, who was to say it was only humans that went bump in the night? When Mac tried to probe that statement he was told, rather cryptically, that not all nightmares and horror stories were just products of an over-active imagination.

Mac's last resort was to check her DNA and try and get her prints but that meant getting them in the first place and that might be tricky. His main problem was he had no real valid reason for checking either, other than plain old curiosity and in the eyes of the law, unless Artie was actually being investigated, curiosity wasn't good enough for a DNA and fingerprint check.

As it was, late one night, after a particularly long and frustrating day at the labs, Mac found himself wandering the streets, having decided to take the long way home that night. He was so lost in thought, his mind working its way through various cases that were on his desk, that he was almost halfway home before he even realized it. Then he heard it; a child-like voice coming from what looked like a very dark alleyway.

"Help me! Make it stop!" the voice called.

His senses on Red Alert and his radar up, Mac got out his pocket flashlight and shined the light into the alleyway. Unfortunately his little flashlight had nothing on the large torchlight flashlight he usually used and as it was, the dim light barely even penetrated the unusual darkness of the alleyway.

"Hello?" he called, concern in his voice.

The voice came again.

"Help me, please!"

"Where are you?" he called, stepping further and further in to the alleyway, even as he reached for his gun and removed it from its usual resting place at his hip.

"I'm over here! Please, make it stop! It's hurting me!"

Mac moved further in to the alleyway, placing his steps cautiously, suspecting a trap but not seeing anything or anyone.

"I'm Detective Mac Taylor, NYPD! Come out and let me see your hands!" he demanded.

That was when he smelled it; a heavy, foul odor, unlike anything he'd ever smelled before, and it was right behind him. He attempted to spin around but before he could do so, something wrapped itself around his neck and it was hot, so hot, and slimy. As the something started tightening around his neck, Mac instinctively dropped his gun and flashlight and started clawing at the thing around his neck, trying to see his attacker and trying to free himself before he was strangled to death.

Suddenly his attacker jerked and Mac found himself being flung. Stars exploded in his head as he made contact with a building's very unforgiving concrete wall and he slumped to the ground. His vision blurred by pain and lack of oxygen, he looked up, holding his head, and for a moment, just a moment, he swore he saw glowing red eyes, eyes that definitely did not look human. But that couldn't be right, his scientific mind argued. There was no such thing. Then, before his mind could continue the argument, the darkness came and he slumped to the ground, unconscious.