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.

"Hey. Archie just paged me. Should be info on the memory card from the smashed cell from the truck. Care to join me?"

Gil nods but he's obviously lost in thought, tapping the phone receiver against his bearded chin. He cocks his head to the side as if puzzling over something then purses his lips as if reaching a conclusion that surprises him. He nods to the air again as if agreeing with himself. Hangs the phone up slowly and finally turns his attention to Catherine still in the doorway.

"Archie. The cell phone from the truck. Right."

Catherine shakes her head impatiently. "Glad you're up to speed on this, Gil. But we could use a little more."

He cocks his head like a dog at its master's feet again and Catherine huffs out an exasperated sigh. "Speed, Gil. Come on. What the hell has you so stunned?"

Gil opens his mouth to answer but she cuts him off with a toss of her head. "Come on. You can tell me on the way."

She's already several feet down the corridor by the time Gil is out of his office so she slows, reluctantly, enough so that he still has to hasten his step.

"How do you do this in heels?"

Catherine just rolls her eyes and keeps up her hasty pace. "So. Phone call?"

"I called Conrad. Ultimately the… misplacement of CSI personnel falls under his purview. I was trying to do as you asked and lend Jim my support."

"And?" she asks impatiently as they near the AV lab.

"Aaand… he said he'd already let Burdick know, under no circumstances did he blame Jim for this mess."

Catherine slides to a stop, heels skittering briefly on the tile floor. "And you believed him?" she asks, her doubt crystal clear in her voice.

"Not at first, no. But then he asked if I needed any extra support- offered up priority queues in all the labs, plus extra payroll for overtime."

"No hook? No fine print?" Catherine's eyes narrow and she tries on a moue for a second or two while she processes. "When the…Gordon thing happened…Ecklie came up with some idea to raise the money with budget cuts and salary freezes. I still question whether that was genuine or a thinly veiled attempt at him pushing through plans he'd wanted all along."

Gil is already nodding in agreement. "Which is why I called Jim. He said he'd already been paid a visit by Conrad and Burdick, and apparently…" He scratches his beard and softly smiles. "Apparently Conrad 'didn't suck' was the way Jim put it."

"Huh." Catherine wipes a hand over her forehead and down her cheek to rest for a second. "Imagine that. Conrad Ecklie not sucking. Maybe there's hope for him yet."

Gil just nods and holds out a hand, ushering her into the AV lab.

Archie looks up at their arrival, fingers finishing a task across the keyboard while he says hello. "Hey, guys. Any news yet?"

Catherine shakes her head sadly. "Not yet, Arch. How 'bout you? What'd you get off the cell?"

Archie's mouth pulls down a little at the corners. "Not much. Sorry. The cell's a disposable. Pay as you go thing, so it's not registered to a specific user. I did find out it was purchased at a 7-11, but it'll take me another day or two before their guys can tell me which one. Which wouldn't necessarily help anyway."

"I know you didn't page me down here to tell me you have nothing."

Archie holds up a finger, begging patience. "I want to try something. When you guys called Nick and Warrick, did their phones ring, or go straight to voicemail?"

Gil exchanges a look with Catherine. "We've been operating under the assumption they were taken from the scene by force. Why would they be able to answer the phone?"

Catherine closes her eyes and looks like she might be sick right there in the lab. "GPS," she breathes. "We never even thought to use GPS to see where the phones are."

Archie is already shaking his head vehemently. "Thought of that the first I heard. No GPS in our issued phones. The technology only recently became available widespread. And our contract with the cell company isn't up until next year. I heard the new budget includes phones with GPS chips in 'em."

"Of all the cheap, penny pinching …" Catherine starts to work up a head of steam.

Gil places a calming hand on her arm. "No use crying over --"

"Spilt milk? Damn it, Gil! Pithy goddamn axioms?" She takes in a deep breath and centers herself, swiping angrily at her hair. "So, what, Archie? We call their phones, and…?" She has her cell phone out and is already flipping it open to hit the speed dial as Archie catches up and turns back to his computer screen. He pulls up a diagram of the city, blocked out in tans, blues, and greens.

"If their phones are still operative, say the bad guys set them aside or threw them out somewhere near where they're being held? If anybody answers the phone, I can use the connected signal to triangulate with the cell towers being used. Could at least get us in the neighborhood."

Catherine stares a large-bore laser into Grissom, and when he doesn't move, she mouths 'Warrick'.

Gil nods and hits his own speed dial button. "And if they can't, and no one else does?"

The lab tech shrugs his shoulders. "Then we're kind of S.O.L. and I'll be running the stored numbers off the memory card all day." Archie inputs the numbers for their phones from a Rolodex on his desktop, and two overlapping red dots light up, centered over their location at the lab. "I put our info in as the first point of the triangulation," he explains to the two behind him, eyes never leaving the screen.

Catherine shakes her head, phone still to her ear. "I'm getting Nicky's voicemail."

Gil nods. "I've got Warrick's."

Archie keeps his eyes on the monitor. "Did they ring first? Four rings, or straight to voicemail?"

"I got four rings," says Catherine, holding out the phone as if it proves the point.

"Four rings on Warrick's, as well."

"Okay," says Archie, fingers hopping on a few more keys, "Well, at least we know the phones are capable of being answered."

Catherine hits disconnect and then speed dial again.

Grissom looks at her, confused. "What are you--?"

"I do it with Linds all the time. If I'm persistent, eventually it gets picked up."

When Grissom turns to him seeking some sort of understanding, Archie just shakes his head. "Hey, I do the A/V thing, Cathrine's the teenager expert. I guess it's worth a try."

Gil considers it for a moment and flips open his own cell again. Punches in the speed dial for Warrick.

Catherine lets out an anguished curse and drops the phone to her hip. "Going straight to voicemail now."

"Same here," says Gil, closing up his own phone with a bleak expression on his face.

"Phones either just got shut off or disabled, then. CSIs have call waiting. Sorry, guys," says Archie. "I'll start running the numbers off the memory card. Top priority."

"Thanks anyway, Archie," says Grissom, a hand dropping onto the tech's shoulder. "Like you said, it was worth a try."

Catherine just nods brusquely and leaves the room without another word.

Burdick may be a grade-A asshole, but he comes through. The GSR pulled from the as yet unnamed banger turns out to be sufficient for a warrant; enough to detain the suspect, run prints, and get his clothes. Jim breathes a silent thanks, his conscience free of the trumped-up charges he'd been relying on until now.

Jim's a good cop, and he knows in his gut that this tattooed hump is up to his neck in Bad Shit, but they'd had nothing to hold him on and that rankled. Jim had played the game by the rules, rubbery and bendy as he liked to flex them, but there were rules nonetheless. And in this day and age, all the scrutiny they were under? He really didn't feel like getting somewhere, only to have some bleeding heart throw everything out on a technicality.

He rounds the corner in time to see the thug he's mentally tagged as Scarecrow - at least until a suitable replacement is obtained - pulling an orange one-piece jumpsuit up over his slim hips.

Jim takes in all the ink, trying to catalog away the tattoos in his head for later.

The banger's bony, practically concave chest bares another of those flaming sacred hearts Sam had pointed out before, higher up and centered over his sternum. His stomach is a riotous mix of thirteens, Spanish phrases, and a naked lady (much better than the one Bichito has) reclines across the waistband of Scarecrow's low hanging boxers; her one hand wrapping around his navel, the other dipping down below the elastic waistband of his underwear.

Scarecrow stops, suit still barely higher than the boxers, and flashes Jim an icy smile. He could used the cheap-ass dental work his buddy, Bichito, has; the banger's teeth are discolored, leaning like an old picket fence. "¿Disfrutando la vista, querido?" He pushes his lips out in a duckbill and bats his eyes in grotesque parody. Kisses the air with a harsh squeaky sucking.

Jim humphs out a laugh. "Already got a date with a nurse, I think, but thanks."

"¿Quieres mirarme bien?"

Jim just blinks at the Spanish but then Scarecrow stands and turns like a model, one arm out, the other hanging on to the sagging jumpsuit.

His back is almost a single piece: a rocket on the launch pad. The exhaust from the fuselage burps out in coils and columns of smoke and flames. And in nicely matched, curlicue lettering is scrawled "Cohete".

"Hey, nice ink," comes a voice behind Jim. He turns to see Chris Cavaliere in the doorframe.

The younger detective is visibly impressed, eyebrows raised as he appraises the work in front of him. Jim clears his throat and Cavaliere breaks his gaze to look over. "Sorry, Jim. But that is some nice work. Not the usual prison shit. Our boy paid good money for that one, or has a relative or buddy who's a real artist."

"What are you doing here, Chris?" Jim asks tiredly. Not that he isn't happy to have the company of one of the few other cops who generally has his back, and a Spanish speaker to boot, but Cavaliere has a rep as a short-tempered ass.

"Got bored with the old guy, Chavez. Heard you had someone way more interesting in here."

Jim just grunts out another short laugh. "Hey, the more the merrier. You wanna habla with our friend?"

"Love to." Cavaliere waits as Jim takes a seat opposite the banger, still struggling into the jumpsuit.

Jim drops his weight onto a rickety chair and pulls out his trusty notebook and pencil nub. A broad grin forms and Cavaliere turns to see what Jim finds so humorous.

The banger is so tall, once he's got his arms in, the jumpsuit tugs up against his crotch, practically cutting him in half. The pants legs are flood length, ending halfway down his calves, and the short sleeves end a full four inches above his bony elbows.

The thug glares balefully at them, then gathers what dignity he has left and folds himself into the other chair. He crosses his arms as best as he can, wincing as the fabric pinches him, then stares at the mirrored glass behind Brass.

"¿Tienes nombre, hermano?" Cavaliere asks.

"No soy tu hermano, cerote mexicano."

"Whoa." Cavaliere raises his hands in surrender. "Not bad. Dude pegged me as Mexican right off."

"Maybe it's the accent," Jim says with a smile.

"Ha ha. Yeah. Well, if the tats weren't enough, he's Salvadoran from his accent. And he doesn't seem to care for my people." He turns back to the glowering thug. "Te pregunté el nombre, güey."

He gets no response to what Jim at least recognizes as a second request for the banger's name.

"Cohete? ¿Es tu apodo?" Cavaliere tries again. The banger shifts uncomfortably in the jumpsuit and squirms in his chair.

"I think we're safe with an ID of 'Cohete'," Cavaliere says to Jim. "Means 'rocket' in case you didn't pick that up," he adds with a chuckle.

"Yeah," Jim says with a sigh. "Got that." They're wasting their time here and the senior detective's getting prickly. "Ask him what he was doing at the hospital."

Cavaliere translates but Cohete just rolls his eyes. He gets the same response to 'Where'd the GSR come from?', 'Who are you running with?', and 'What do you know about the death of Graciela Flores?'

Jim is getting pissed, and he thinks if he sees another roll of the eyes, rules or no, he'll be knocking that bony shaved skull so hard those eyes will fall out of their sockets. He plants his fists loudly on the rickety table and is gratified by the thug startling, at least. "Ask him what he knows about the kidnapping of two cops!"

Cavaliere nods shortly. "¿Sabes algo de los policías que agarraron?. ¿Se los llevó tu gente?"

Cohete's brow knits and he draws back with an incredulous look on his face. "¡No sé de lo que estás hablando, cerdo¡Me viste que estaba en el hospital! Quería ver a mi primo. ¡Nada de secuestrar a ningún policía!"

Cavaliere starts to translate for Jim but he's already got it. It's crystal clear by Cohete's response that he has no clue about the CSIs being grabbed.

Jim takes the notebook he's been clutching in his hand, pencil at the ready to write down absolutely FUCK all, and slams it on the table. The Carter-era office furniture has an unstable leg, cants to one side. The pencil hits the surface and rolls off onto the ground.

Jim's practically growling now, teeth gritted so tightly he swears the cap on his back most molar is about to snap off. He bends, exhaling heavily, and swipes his hand at the pencil. And catches a bright flash of color under the table.

The sky blue is set off especially nicely by the hunter orange jumpsuit, practically pops off Cohete's calf: the flag of El Salvador. The same tat Jim caught on the calf of the banger fleeing the scene in the chopped and dropped Chevy. Leaving behind a bleeding buddy in the dusty street.

"Hey, Chris." He nudges Cavaliere, who bends down to see what the hell has the captain so entranced underneath the table. "I think I know how he got the 'Rocket' tag."

"Nick."

His name has a tone, a feel, a COLOR almost, coming from his partner's mouth.

"Nick, man."

He risks opening his eyes and turning toward Warrick. It's like he's moving in slow motion, suspended in Karo-syrup. The room tracks and blurs, and by the time he's facing Rick he can feel a heavy-duty sweat forming, slick, across the back of his neck. "Shit, man…"

"Hey," says Warrick, wincing as he scoots and maneuvers closer to him, "How you doin'?"

"I'm not…I'm…" His lips aren't his; feel borrowed from someone else. "I don't like this, Rick."

"Listen to me, Nicky. You're okay. I get you're not feelin' that way, but you're gonna be fine, bro."

Nick shakes his head, tiny side-to-sides that awaken a buzz behind his eyeballs. "I don't think so, man…"

"Come on, boss. I need you to keep it together."

Keep it together. Right. Even though he feels like he's completely come undone. "Rick, man, they know…"

"Nick," Warrick says.

"They know about Gordon, and if they--"

"Nick." Firm. Calm. Solid.

Nick's breathing picks up; slow, shallow, and swift. "I can't…if they--"

"That's not gonna happen, man. Listen to me."

But he can't listen, can't hear. For all intents and purposes he's back in that box. Back in the earth. Back to May and his service pistol jammed against the underside of his chin.

"You ever smoke?"

"What?" Nick hears him but thinks he must not have.

"You ever get high before?"

It's a funny question. A CRAZY question his best friend is asking. Because after all the time they've known each other, it's never really come up. But, yeah. "Yeah."

"You smoke it or eat it?"

And that's an even funnier question. It just is. He laughs, embarrassed. "Rick, man. This is nuts. How the fuck does this shit keep happening to me?"

Then there's pressure; something hard against his side. Warrick's scooched next to him, is leaning his lanky body against Nick's more compact frame.

"You gotta calm down, man. It's the dope doin' this. You smoke it or eat it before?"

"Smoked it," Nick says and turns his head to scratch his chin on his shoulder. Damn, that was a horrible night. "Made me paranoid, Rick. That kinda paranoid where you know it's irrational and you still can't do shit about feelin' it. Like bein' under a microscope while givin' a speech in a crowded auditorium. Everybody lookin' at ya, thinkin' stuff you're thinkin'… Freaked me out, man. And this is…Fuck! This is gonna be worse, man, I can feel it." He tries hard to keep his breathing under control.

Warrick bucks him gently, shoulder against shoulder. "So, come on, bro. Get your CSI game on. You know what weed does to ya, and you know what it does to the body. Speeds up your heart, reduces your oxygen output, ratchets up the paranoia factor. You ate it – a pretty sizable amount, dude – so you know that's all gonna be intensified. Gonna go straight into your blood stream from the stomach, latch onto your fat cells…"

Right. Right. He knows Warrick's right…

"Effects are gonna stick with you longer because of all that. The amount the kid said? You're probably lookin' at a five to six hour high."

Nick smiles goofily, science and sense having skipped through his brain crossing just the short distance between in one ear and out the other. "What'd you attend a seminar on this stuff?"

"Kinda like that."

Nick's high – oh, very high – but not THAT high. "Warrick. You a magic brownie connoisseur?"

Warrick fights a smile. His eyes dip closed, he shakes his head, and exhales a breath through his nose that speaks a litany about the travails and missteps of youth. "First time was my freshman year of college. Friend of a friend shows up at this jazz club with a Tupperware container of chocolate chip cookies. Goes on and on about how turnin' on helps you tune in; you can feel the music, all that. This was before I went the Criminal Justice route…"

Nick sniggers. Oh, shit… Because it's suddenly funny. SERIOUSLY funny, to imagine his best bud, in college, stoned out of his mind. And then the play on words hits him – Bud. Best bud. Good bud, man – and Nick's coughing out a laugh that's from some place like maniacal idiot, or maybe anxious desperado. "Oh, Warrick, man…"

"Yeah, laugh it up, Captain Hilarious. Keep that thought in mind and center on it, man. This'll pass. Stay positive, okay?"

And that's kind of sobering. Nick sniffs deeply, rubs watery tears off each cheek with a shoulder. Hisses and utters a curse when he wipes his left cheek. Hits the open cut there.

"You got any idea what they're plannin'?"

Nick shakes his head. "Shoot, I don't even know what they want. Pretty sure, though, they wanna know how much evidence we gathered at the scene."

Warrick nods, eases his lean against Nick. They stare straight ahead, no eye contact, and Warrick lets out a long, slow breath. "How you wanna play this, man?"

Nick runs his tongue along the roof of his mouth, over his teeth. He tastes left-over blood, curtido, thinks NOW he can taste the weed. And he'd do almost anything for a sip of water to clear the cotton from his mouth. "I figure Alex wants to hear we got an idea who killed Graciela Flores…"

"And Jeff wants to hear we don't."

"We're lookin' at the south end of a north bound horse..."

"Just gotta figure which rider is the safest bet."

There are muffled voices outside the door; too low for Nick to understand, but he knows one belongs to Jeff. He can feel it by the way his stomach lurches and aches. "Warrick--"

"We play it cool, Nick. Go with the flow. Watch each other's leads."

Nick can feel the tiny tips and taps of the key finding the hole as if his skin is the key plate. Feels the metal click of the lock like a ricocheting echo at the base of his spine. He just nods.

"We're gonna get outta here, boss."

And then Jeff and Rabbit are back.

The door swings inward and the bangers glide in like their shoes are ice, Jeff's smile wide and cold. "Hey, cerdos, you miss us?"

Rabbit's been reduced to little more than the uck-ing parrot at Jeff's shoulder. He giggles and grins and scratches one tattoo-sleeved arm across his middle. When the cotton t-shirt presses against his body, Nick can see the lump of a gun under the material.

Jeff steps to Nick, squats down, and bounces on the balls of his feet. He grabs a fistful of Nick's henley and pulls him forward a few inches from the wall.

All Nick can do for a few seconds is wonder how Jeff could be such a punk and still keep his t-shirt and socks and tennis shoes so white and spotless. And then he tries really hard not to throw up, because another wave of nausea breaks in his stomach, and there's a swell in the high. Aw, damn…

"How 'bout you, weto? You miss me? I missed you. Couldn't stop thinking about you."

"That right?" Nick asks, making an effort to sound calm and polite, but not provocative.

The nuance is pretty much lost on Jeff. He pulls back the fist not otherwise engaged, and drops it like a rock against Nick's lips.

Nick's head snaps back and taps the cinderblock wall. Warrick shouts something, but Nick can't process it, what with the fireworks going off inside his skull, and all that wet warmth on his chin.

Jeff and Rabbit cackle like hyenas, then Jeff hoots like a vaquero. "That's what I been thinking, cop! About that!" He hollers again and shakes out his hand, tiny dots of Nick's blood flying off his ruby knuckles. "I been thinking you and me should spend some one-on-one time. Hablar. Mano a mano."

Nick gets a second of clear mind and vision, enough to smile at the fact Jeff's t-shirt isn't so clean anymore, when the next blow comes. Warrick's yelling again, but fuck if Nick knows WHAT, because this punch makes his nose pop and his ears ring.

"Course," says Jeff smiling, forcing up Nick's dipping, dripping chin, "Hand to face works okay for me, too."

To be continued...