Disclaimer: While MS-13 is a real gang, the characters and actions depicted here are fictional. As to our boys: if we owned them, there would be hella more shirtless crime solving.

SPOILERS/Timeline: Takes place during season 6 between 'A Bullet Runs Through It' and 'Daddy's Little Girl'

UNDYING GRATITUDE: To Cristina who supplies all our Spanish translation with amazing insight and skill.

Chapter 5 - Hambre

Brass watches as Bichito darts a look at Sam and scoots over on the bed. The wounded banger clearly doesn't like the fact that the cop who'd cooed to him in Spanish is turning things over to Jim. The seasoned detective can practically see the kid drawing inward, coiling tightly - like a cornered animal. Jim tries for nearly five minutes, through Sam, to get the basic info down; name, address, INS status.

Bichito clamps his lips shut, although whether it's out of actual fear that words might slip past, or against the nausea that greens his tan skin is anyone's guess.

Jim finally shakes his head and closes his notebook. From his jacket he pulls a stamp pad and a print card that's curled on the corners from the ride in his pocket. He pries open the banger's uncooperative fist, inks his fingers one by one, and rolls them across the appropriate squares on the card.

As the print stuff is pocketed, Bichito tries to yank his free hand away from the detective, but Vega is already expecting it; has one cuff already in hand, and smoothly snaps it around the kid's bony wrist. The other bracelet gets hooked around the bed frame.

"Thanks, Sam," says Brass, wiping ink smears from his hand with a tissue from the box by the bed.

"No problem, my friend."

Sam's been silent but for the brief translations of Jim's questions. During the periods of quiet that followed each of them he appeared to be reading the tats on the banger's back. Jotting down details in his own casebook.

Before Sam can retrieve the notepad from where it's been laid on the bed, Jim leans over to see what he's been doodling. They're pretty damn good sketches of the tattoos and their locations, carefully mapped out.

Sam sees Jim's curious look and points his pen to Bichito's back.

Jim follows the Bic as it singles out each inked work clockwise, starting with the green beetle on the right shoulder.

"Bichito's his tag, his gang name. Means 'Little Bug'." The pen moves down to a poorly rendered naked woman; head too big for her body and proportions so badly skewed if she'd been real she'd have fallen flat on her face upon standing. "This probably stands for our boy's wishful thinking."

Jim smiles and nods, the corners of his mouth pulling up impishly. "¿Tu madre?" His smile broadens into a grateful grin at Bichito's reaction.

The thug thrashes, rattling the cuffs and the IV stand.

"Tell me more, Professor Vega."

Sam pokes his pen at a crudely executed gun, then a series of 13's done in Roman and Anglo numerals. A pair of dice showing snake eyes. In the middle of the banger's back is a heart, pierced by a crown of thorns, surrounded by a halo of flames. "Sacred heart," Sam supplies. "Our boy fancies himself a good Catholic. He just picks an' chooses which of the Ten Commandments he likes."

The pen travels up Bichito's left side, and Jim suddenly flashes to a butcher's diagram showing the different cuts of meat on a side of beef.

"This one here's the real interesting one. And probably the reason he's keeping his mouth shut. Sol Set."

When Sam doesn't elaborate, Jim lifts his eyebrows and sighs. "Humor an old un-hip cop not down with the homeys, huh?"

Sam smiles and chuckles and then taps the pen against Bichito's left shoulder blade. "Number thirteen in a sun is the sign for the Sol Set. As in Puesta del Sol. A division of MS-13 running the blocks from 37th to Amarillo; basically the length of Puesta del Sol."

"He was grabbed outside a mercado on del Sol," Jim confirms.

"He looks pretty young," Sam muses, studying the kid's face.

Bichito rockets his eyes back and forth between the two cops like he's watching a soccer match.

"Betcha he's just in from El Salvador."

The kid flinches and looks away.

He may have missed ninety-five percent of the conversation, but Jim can tell the banger's picking up on the keywords. "You've worked plenty with these humps," he grunts with a sigh. "We got any leverage with 'em?"

"Nah. We ship 'em home and they find their way back. Like ants. Seal up one crack and they'll find a way back in. I, uh, heard about Stokes and Brown. I know you were hoping this guy might help, but I just don't see it happening. He's fresh, probably not too high up the food chain. His tats don't reference any kills. And with a name like 'Little Bug', he's probably in on someone else's rep. Brother or cousin."

Jim nods in understanding. Gives a small smile to Ginny as he reaches into his suit coat pocket. "Here," he says, handing her a business card. "This bug gives you any more problems, you tell him I'll be by to squash him."

She studies the small white rectangle, Jim's number embossed below his official title. Her eyebrows rise a little, impressed. "Captain, huh?"

"Yeah," he chuffs with a laugh. "I'll flaunt it if it means I can call you some time."

She doesn't answer but gives him a small nod. Then it's all back to business and she's got one hand on the privacy curtain. "I think this nice young man is ready for a new Foley."

Jim wouldn't trade places with the kid for all the tea in China.

They both figure either Nick's Spanish skills aren't all they're cracked up to be, or Alex schooled Jeff in the manners department. Because when the up-to-now fuck of a punk comes back to the room where they're being held, he's carrying three plates and three beers.

The two CSIs eye each other, the food, Jeff. Nick's stomach growls, loud and violent, and whether this is tactic or a peace offering doesn't seem like it's going to come into the equation if the food is offered.

Jeff places the plates and drinks on the table and pulls it over in front of the boys. He grabs the spare chair and scoots in across from them. All gentle smiles and controlled muscles. "You cerdos ever have Salvadoran?"

Neither Nick nor Warrick respond.

Jeff cracks open one of the beers and takes a drink. "We got homemade pupusas, here. Frijoles. Nice cold cerveza…" Nick's stomach rumbles like thunder, and Jeff smiles. He addresses Warrick but points at Nick. "Your partner knows. This is good shit, man. The cheeseburger of El Salvador. The Central American Dodger dog."

"What's the catch?" Nick asks, much to Warrick's amazement. But Nick's stomach is still mewling, and Warrick's suddenly answers like a call to war.

Jeff's smile increases, the blue lines of the tattoos on his cheeks folding in on each other, distorting the designs there. "No catch, hermanos. Just want you to keep up your strength. We got a lot of talking to do."

Rabbit joins them, a beer in one hand, the other wrapped around one of the stuffed corncakes; folded over like a taco and dripping red salsa and the pickled cabbage called curtido.

Jeff pops open the two remaining beers and sets them in front of the CSIs. "A nice beer to relax you after a hard day. Something in your belly to keep you strong." The words are delivered with a promise of a long night.

Nick and Warrick watch as Jeff carefully arranges the plates in front of each of them.

The food smells amazing and Nick's mouth waters reflexively. He sneaks a glance at Warrick who looks nearly as hungry. Coupla Pavlov's dogs. Maybe Jeff's not so stupid after all. But neither is Nick, no matter how hungry he is. He juts his chin toward the plate Jeff's served himself. "What if I said I'd only eat the food you've got?"

"Oye, Conejo!" Jeff calls out, laughing. "Este se cree que soy agente secreto."

Rabbit snickers and takes a huge bite from his pupusa, releasing a river of rust-colored juice over his fingers.

Jeff swaps his plate for Nick's, smiling the whole time. "You want that one instead? That's cool." He switches plates with Warrick as well. "Mira. Now I got his and he's got yours. We can three-card Monty it until you yell stop; we're all eating the same food. If I want to kill you, I'll put a bullet in your head or slit your throat."

It's honest enough, and Nick looks to Warrick, hang-dog expression more genuine than put on. I'm HUNGRY, Rick. Really fuckin' hungry.

Warrick acquiesces with a burst of air through his nostrils. Nick sees his partner could use a little grub himself.

"Conejo. Cut loose one hand each. Then finish your pupusa and get your fucking gun on their backs." Jeff flashes a smirk at both of them. "I can be nice, but I ain't stupid."

Catherine checks his office first, because Gil Grissom is a creature of habit. One who enjoys the safety and sanctuary of his cave. She's not disappointed. She raps her knuckles against the opened door.

"News?" he asks, looking up.

"Just got a call from PD. They found a truck matching Jim's BOLO--"

"That's good."

"But considering 'white produce delivery truck'…"

"Right. Who's on it?"

"Greg and Sara finished cataloguing everything from last night's 401. They're working through the evidence Nick and Warrick gathered this morning. Day shift's maxed out as it is, plus Divers is out with the flu. I thought I'd take the truck."

"Probably best," Gil smiles.

She leans against the door frame and crosses her arms. Her head falls back against the jamb with a sigh. "This is becoming a little too familiar, isn't it?" His only response is the rise of his brows, and it's admirable and anger-inducing both at the same time. "What the hell's goin' on, Gil? Our boys. In trouble again. In danger. And we can't do anything."

"We can work the evidence, Catherine. That's what we know, and it's the best way to help."

She shakes her head, not ready to accept it. "We're the good guys. The crime scene guys. It's not supposed to happen like this."

"And it shouldn't have," he replies, leaning back in his chair. "Nick and Warrick should have stayed--"

"Don't you do that." She's up in a flash from her passive lean against the wall. "Don't blame them for backing up Brass when nobody else would. You know what's going on."

He holds up his hands, palms forward, offering peace. "I do. And it's not right. Not fair. None of it is. But that doesn't change what's happened."

He's right. She knows it. But it doesn't calm or soothe her or make it any better. "I hate when you do that, you know."

He nods lightly, not willing to engage more than that.

"Somebody better talk to Ecklie and Burdick before IAB starts climbing up Jim's ass again."

"Jim can handle himself."

"Well, it'd be nice for him if somebody had his back on this."

Gil looks at her for a moment – testing his quiet against her fire - waiting for flares. "I'll let the lab's opinion be known."

She bites at her lower lip and then huffs out a breath that lifts her bangs off her forehead; a kind of Willows capitulation. "Any word on the blood yet?"

"It's only been a couple of hours."

"Still, long enough to get prelims. We've got Nick and Warrick's blood-types on file. They can at least verify and eliminate." Or confirm. Her brain amends the sentence her lips refuse to form.

Gil removes his glasses and sets them on the stack of paperwork in front of him. "We'll find them, Catherine. Both of them. They were leaving clues for us. That means they were okay when they left the store."

"When they left," she says, and despises him a little for being so stoic and reasonable. But loves him at the same time; he knows how to focus her and tamp down her flames. "All right, I got a date with a produce truck. You call me as soon as you hear anything," she says, pointing as she backs into the hallway.

"I will," he says, and slides his glasses back on.

"Thanks again, Sam. Can I buy you a cup of really bad vending machine coffee?"

"Least you could do is make it cafeteria coffee. Besides, I have an ER nurse to drop in on and flirt with fruitlessly. Caf's on the way there."

Jim nods his head with a small smile. "Nurses. There's just something about…"

"Yeah. You and Ginny seemed to spark a little. Huh?"

Jim throws his hands up in gesture that said 'who knows' and 'yeah, maybe' and 'I don't wanna talk about it'. Drops them to slap at his sides and jerks his head in the direction of the cafeteria.

Sam grins broadly and falls into step with his friend, a matched set of ugly brown suits making their way down the tiled hallway, following the blue line painted on the floor.

Jim's phone rings at his hip. "Brass," is the curt response, cutting off the second ring. He slows his gait, moves to the side so foot traffic can pass as he listens intently to the party on the other end.

Sam follows form, leaning against the tiled wall, one foot up, head leaned back, hands in pockets.

It's so cool and casual Jim can almost kid himself the detective isn't actively listening. Trying to parse out clues from his briefly uttered responses. "Yeah, thanks," he ends with a sigh, closing the phone and rehooking it to his belt.

Sam raises an eyebrow.

"That was the Lab," Jim supplies. "They got a preliminary match on the blood at the scene. Same type as Stokes; B neg."

Sam's face crinkles then quickly smoothes. "Doesn't mean it's his, right? Probably lotsa people are--"

"Yeah, I was headed that way, too. 'Til Wendy helpfully explained only 2 of the population has that type. Anyway. It means he was actively up and thinking at that point. Grissom said it was all laid out, like Nick was leaving a trail to follow."

Sam nods. "Those humps shouldn'ta picked on two brainiacs like Stokes an' Brown."

"Too bad brains don't beat lead," Brass says with another heavy sigh. "Can I give you a rain check on the coffee? Think I'll head back and see if I can lend a hand. See if they've gotten anything outta the old dude back at the station."

Sam nods, heaving himself away from the wall. "You still want my services? I speak old dude."

Jim cracks a brief smile. "Yeah. Nice to have some back up. Finally."

"Yeah, I heard about that," Sam says, eyes cast downward. "Cops are like fuckin' elephants, man. Never forget anything. At least until they have some other toy to chew on. Someone'll mess up sooner or later and they'll forget that shit ever happened."

"I won't." Jim's smile is sad and rueful and the words are barely spoken, more breathed out than anything. "C'mon." He holds a hand out in 'after you' fashion, and they start back down the hall.

They haven't made it much past the hall where Jim'd found Ginny and the younger nurse, outside Bichito's room, when Jim catches sight of a huddled figure; head down, shoulders hunched, hands in the pockets of tan chinos. He's stick thin and a half foot taller than anyone around him. Even with the hood of a sweatshirt over his head, the young man sticks out among the staff and patients who litter the halls. Jim takes in the tan skin and markings that peep out from the navy hoody. Tats. A lot of them.

Never breaking stride, he fakes a laugh and pats Sam on the shoulder like he's just told a joke. He presses his fingers into Vega's bicep, squeezing, and turns with a smile towards his friend. He crinkles his brow and pooches out his lips with a 'shhhhh'.

He continues that way with a bewildered Sam in tow until they round a corner of the hallway. Jim slams his back against the wall and pops a finger to his lips to reinforce the earlier shushing. Drops his hand to his sidearm, nodding at Sam to do the same, as they lie in wait for the kid to cross their path.

The scarecrow's efforts to keep his head down and the hood up ruin any chance he has to see the cops before they're on him, flanking him, weapons partially drawn from their holsters.

Jim meets eyes with the thug and sees surprise for the briefest of seconds before the squeal of sneakers on tile and those long lanky legs twist the tall form 180 degrees; a rocket released down the long corridor.

Shit! Jim pulls out his Sig and holds it at his side as he huffs off in pursuit of the banger. Sam's in his peripheral, mirroring his movements until Jim sees him draw up short to veer around a bathrobe swathed woman bent over a walker.

Scarecrow is nimbly dodging and weaving around the obstacles in his path, pushing aside carts carrying dirty linens, leaving them in Jim's path.

Jim's puffing lightly already, his head swiveling side to side trying to avoid bystanders but keep an eye on his prey. They rush past the nurses' station and Jim catches Ginny's eye. "Call Security!"

He doesn't wait to see if she responds because Scarecrow has hit the door at the end of the hall and is headed into the stairwell.

'Please take the down stairs' is all Jim has time to wish before he's slamming through the not-quite-closed door and pushing through. He catches sight of the top of the banger's head at the bottom of the stairs - almost to the ground floor.

Jim draws his weapon out further, remembering the sight of his fugitive popping off rounds at the OK Corral earlier. "LV Police!" he screams as he rounds the last stair. He thinks he might have a chance to nab the guy at the bottom, but as he hit's the landing he sees a group of hospital workers clustered around the open fire door on an illicit smoke break. A man in janitor's blues turns his head to stare at Jim, stepping back, butt held to his mouth in shock.

Jim pushes past a surgeon in green scrubs, mask pushed down to allow for the massive stogie clamped between his teeth, then past a nurse in a beclowned Pedes uniform. They're all staring out the door into the sunlight.

Jim pulls up with a gasping breath. Scarecrow is on the sidewalk, on his stomach. His hands are being cuffed behind him by two uniformed LVPD officers while he struggles and swears in Spanish.

"How…the fuck…?" Jim chuffs out as he pulls in fresh air.

Sam rounds the corner from the front of the hospital, slowing to a trot with a smile. His hand still holds his radio.

"Called it in," he tells Jim as he approaches, still a little out of breath himself. "Turns out there were some unis hanging around the ER who were happy to help out."

"Hanging out?" Jim asks as his breathing comes under control.

Sam just smiles and shrugs. "Like you said…there's something about nurses."

She feels like Carmen Miranda after a headgear malfunction; surrounded by fruits and vegetables, down to considering fingerprinting individual apples and bananas. "Get a grip," she tells herself.

There's enough black print powder in the cab and back of the truck to alter the color of the desert sand. And enough fingerprints for half the population of Vegas.

All things considered, it's not a bad haul. But there are other things, too.

More blood. A lot. Not enough to worry her about a possible gunshot wound, but enough to ensure whomever was bleeding in the mercado was still bleeding in the truck.

There's also a Latex glove – a single – that she finds between the truck's paneled side and a sack of brown onions. It's generic and clean, looks unused, but smacks of the familiarity of the ones she's currently wearing. She knows it's the brand the lab issues, as well as she knows her own hand. More clues. Thanks, guys.

The best find is the broken cell. The LCD screen is toast, there's a crack like a canyon through the silver plastic handset, and the phone won't fire up. But the memory card is intact, and that could be nothing or everything. No way to know if it belongs to the thugs who have the guys, but it's a better possible lead than the hundreds of lifted prints that probably won't garner a hit in CODIS or AFIS; most of them likely from undocumenteds and illegals.

She's bagging the phone when her own cell chirps at her waist. She seals the evidence bag, sets it in her kit, and checks her display before the call can ring over to voicemail. Grissom.

Okay.

She takes a deep breath and blows it back out, even though everything in her wants to hold on to it. "Willows," she answers.

It takes a few pumps of his fingers before the blood is circulating enough to actually hold the food without fear of dropping it. Nick doesn't want to look any more desperate than he does. He watches Jeff power through one of his two pupusas, then drain his beer in a couple of long swallows.

Jeff rises, pushes back his chair, and wipes a hand across his mouth. "Be right back," he tells them, then points at Rabbit. "They try anything, you shoot 'em."

The giggle from the banger behind them should have robbed them of their appetites, but in the end Nick's stomach wins out.

He's actually had Salvadoran food before and loves it as much as he does almost everything that comes from south of the border. But a stolen glance at his partner shows him Warrick is less open-minded. "It's like a…like a grilled cheese sandwich with coleslaw."

"Smells like a quesadilla with sauerkraut," mutters Warrick, poking the fat tortilla with a plastic spoon.

Nick takes a larger-than-his-mouth bite, and a green stringy leaf slaps against his chin.

"What the hell's inside it?"

"Cheese and loroco. Squash flowers," says Nick around his chewing. "Aw, man. It's good, bro."

Warrick pushes the pupusa and curtido to the side. Runs his spoon through the beans. "I think I'll stick with the refried protein," he says, rolling his eyes.

"Suit yourself," says Nick around another mouthful. He chews almost gleefully, barely tasting the warm, salty cheese under the pickled cabbage and fiery sauce. But the salsa's heat finally gets to him; tongue stinging, and his split lip a line of fire. After the third bite of the second corncake, he catches himself reaching for the beer. It's halfway to his mouth before he realizes what he's doing and stops himself. Eating is one thing, drinking's just going to mess with his head. Nick sets down the bottle and notices Rick's hand pulling away from his own.

"Hey, Conejo," Warrick calls over his shoulder. "Think we could get some water?"

Rabbit sucks at his teeth. "Man, why the fuck you think I wanna do something nice for a couple cops?"

Nick swallows down the rest of his second pupusa. "Come on, man. You were nice enough to give us some food."

Rabbit's laughing and tittering sends a chill up Nick's spine. "That ain't being nice, menso. That's Jeff fucking with your head."

"No offense, man. But the kindness of a coupla pupusas isn't gonna bring on Stockholm Syndrome."

"I don't know about no 'stocking' syndrome, cop," says Rabbit, sliding around the table to stand in front of them. "But those two little pupusas you ate? Are gonna be bringing on something in about forty-five minutes."

The wiry banger's grin is stupidly huge - almost delirious - and Nick freezes with sudden understanding. He swallows tightly and shoots a look at Warrick. "Whatta you mean?"

Rabbit sniggers and bends at the waist, bloodshot eyes spilling sardonic tears down both cheeks. "Estupido idiota. You just ate about a quarter gram of weed."

To be continued...