"Wanna know how we found you, Stokes? Last night at 4 am I made a call to your friend the Doc's wife and told her I was with the Houston PD and told her that Gil Grissom had asked me to inform you that your dear Mom and Dad were in an accident and I needed your phone number. Always call in the middle of the night because people aren't thinking straight when they wake up. Your little friend didn't hesitate once about giving me the number. The moment you made that call I had you pinpointed and then you go and do my job for me? Driving right into my lap? Stupid Stokes, stupid!"
Warrick's shadowy vision took in the blurry sight of a man with his hand curled around the fabric of Nick's shirt. Another man, at his left, gun pointing at his own temple. He groaned.
"Oh good morning, CSI 3 Warrick Brown," the man smiled in his direction. "The forensics are gonna have a blast with you Brown," a gleeful voice spoke close in his ear. "See, I have your gun and for a moment I was contemplating using it on your bud here, placing a slug in him to have him slowly bleed out."
His face was pulled to the side and he recognized the man immediately. He was older but still the arrogant bastard he remembered; FBI Special Agent Culpepper.
"Good thing you seem to be concussed, not much of a threat that way. As for you friend here, tempting as it might be, I won't shoot him. Too easy an end for him, the bastard needs to suffer. I've been contemplating his fate for a while but, well, he apparently wasn't wearing a seatbelt and was thrown up against the windshield and broke the already fractured ribcage into tiny little bits and pieces before he drowned. What do you think, CSI Brown, drowning suits you just fine, am I right?"
Nick made a move and Culpepper turned to him, grabbing a fistful of hair and yanking Nick's head back. "Never piss me off, son. I have ways to eliminate people that leave no evidence at all. You're going down the ravine, SUV and all, then you'll drown and your testimony with you."
The reflection of a silvery, thick metal-band over Culpepper's knuckles had Warrick wince.
"Shut up man," Nick moaned breathlessly. "I'm - taking you - with me, you sick - bastard."
His voice came out garbled, punctuated with pained exhales.
"Fuck! Nick?" Warrick tried the door, but it was stuck, his leg trapped between it and the seat, making it impossible to move and deck the fucker taunting them. His hand went for the key in the ignition but it was gone, so was the gun from his holster. Just like the bastard said, he realized he must have been out longer than the initially thought. His heartbeat picked up and hammered in his ears. "I'll kill the two of you, assholes!"
He had intended to sound threatening but his voice came out garbled and weak.
"Hear that, Brannigan? The prick is trapped like a rat and still gnawing. Stokes deserves a reminder just for that."
Warrick jerked at the sound of a fist connecting with Nick's chest and his bud's pained grunts and wheezing exhale. His rage blended with helplessness. "Jesus fuckin' Christ," he exhaled with a whimper, his good hand going out to Nick instinctively.
Culpepper snorted. "Think I've roughed him up enough now, Brannigan? I want him to be conscious when he drowns. Immobile but conscious. How much more can he take, you think?"
"You didn't - get me - in that alley, you sick fuck, what - makes you think - you'll get me now?" Nick panted and Warrick turned his head, vision swimming and bile rising in his throat as he did so.
"You calling me what, you punk? You were out for the count, and if Timmy just had followed orders we wouldn't be here, tidying up your mess. Your man Brown here would be safe and sound. Ever think of that? " Culpepper pressed the gun hard into Nick's ribcage. "You know you can thank your friends of the LVPD for sitting here. If they hadn't shown up at the shoot-out in the alley so fast I would have gotten the merchandise that was stolen from me without causing problems for anybody." He pressed Nick harder into the seat and shook his head sadly. "I hate messed up scenes and Tim didn't check that you were dead, he had to pay for that. He was a good man and very diligent. You see what you made me do to him? Huh?"
The increased pressure had Nick still in his seat to conserve what little air he was able to breathe in.
"I ought to thank you for shooting that punk in the alley, hell I'd had his back on numerous occasions. And when paroled he wants to have his piece of the action or he'll expose me? I have to send the judge that made the deal with him some flowers or something; he really made it easy for me to rectify the situation. No one sings under my watch, not even you, Stokes. I had a good thing going. You know how grateful Veronica was when I arranged a plea-bargain for her? I just had her rat out the Russians flooding our market with roofies. Everything was excused after that. You know how grateful her hubby was when I arranged immunity for them both and a new life? He even helped me get CAP in where I needed them to be. You know how grateful Brannigan here is for me picking up his faltering, half-assed trial in the industry of cleaning up? Do you know how many I have in the palm of my hands? No, you don't, do you? You know how grateful all the junkies are that we provide them with clean and pristine flunitrazepam, for free? Well, with some strings attached, of course. All these people depend on me, and you want to take that away from them? You never had a chance, Stokes."
He let go of Nick and stepped away with a victorious grin. "Haven't had this much fun in ages. Your boy here is really begging to get smacked around, isn't he?" Culpepper winked at Warrick, laughing softly and a last jab at Nick's face had him bent over and spitting blood. "I just love playing with your boy, Warrick Brown. It's ironic really. It was that case with your team that had my career on hold. It pisses me off when I see nitwits get promoted. Really pisses me off. But it seems I always get my revenge. You can thank your buddy Stokes for that."
Warrick had to close his eyes when he saw Nick's face contorted, with blood oozing from his nostrils, a swelling forming under his left eye. The rage he felt was making him nauseous and weak. He wanted to leap out, grab the man around the neck and slowly suffocate him, enjoying every moment of the bastard's death-struggle.
"Get the towline," Culpepper instructed his partner in crime, walking away with a gleeful smirk in Nick's direction. "We'll let them take a dive down the canyon ahead, that one is nice and steep. I would love to make your demise more painful but you've seen to it I have to watch my steps more carefully, and I'm not liking it one bit."
He turned to leer at Nick while walking leisurely away from their car, still laughing a sick hollow laughter. "So perfect, top notch CSIs of LVPD drive off road and die in violent car crash. I can already see the headlines. They're going to dig up all the dirt on you, serve it for your families enjoyment."
"Shit Warr, I'm so sorry, I'm so freakin' sorry I dragged you into this," Nick slurred, panting for air, holding his arm around his middle while straining to straighten himself up.
Warrick suppressed his rage and pain enough to reach out his right hand to cup it around Nick's bent neck, groaning at the pain that shot up his leg. Then all hell broke loose. A cell phone played a happy tune and Brannigan fished it up from his pocket, checking the display and flicking it open. "'Lo?"
"What the hell are you doing, you fucking moron?" Culpepper roared, turning to his companion on the phone. "You bastard, you answered?"
"Told you my wife is due any moment," the man answered, turning his back to Culpepper, laying the towline down on the hood. "Lo', honey, that you? Hello?"
Nick dove stiffly, whimpering and coughing, to reach under the driver's seat. Warrick's already fractured thought processes got even more jumbled up as he watched Culpepper disintegrate Brannigan's skull with one perfectly aimed bullet. Warrick's head echoed with the sharp sound of the shot and his vision swam with the rusty red ketchup-like streams on the windshield. He stared oddly fascinated at the small pieces of ebony splinters swimming in the stream.
"Stupid moron, I told you the cops got your wife, don't you think they'll check out her cell-phone traffic?"
Warrick's eyes darted to the fuming man at the side of their car. Culpepper turned to slaughter them, and by the expression in his eyes, he would enjoy it immensely. Warrick felt Nick turn and plaster his back to him like a shield. A gun was unsecured just a fleeing moment before the first shots were fired rapidly, one after another. His hand reached out to wrap around Nick's chest when he felt Nick's body jerk violently at the impact of the bullet. Nick emitted an indescribable sound and his left leg came up in instinctive protection. Warrick watched Culpepper's eyes widen in surprise as he staggered backwards, a hole burned in the heart region of the fancy shirt, revealing the bulletproof vest underneath. In absolute horror, he witnessed Culpepper fighting to raise his arm anew, but Nick was faster and the fraction of a second between the pulls of triggers resulted in Culpepper's head tilting backward and his arm lowering as he fired and fell. Nick twitched sharply as the second slug ripped his left leg to pieces of torn muscle and flesh, revealing the bone, before he fell to his back onto the seat.
The sand underneath Culpepper's skull turned red.
The silence that followed was deafening and he drew in deep breaths, battling the nausea when the stench of blood and gunpowder filling his nostrils, finally registered. It was broken cruelly by Nick's agonized whimpering as his butchered leg slid off the seat, the pant leg pooling around his knee, exposing the damage done. Warrick closed his eyes at the sight, his hand around Nick clutching blindly at his shirt, fisting around the damp material. Sounds of pure agony, punctuated by raspy exhales, left Nick in a low keening and maddening melody that etched itself into Warrick's mind with claws sharpened by the eerie stillness. The Glock fell out of Nick's slackening hand and landed on the rubber carpet with a soft thud. Fighting for his breath he tried to get up, fingers grasping for support, the seat under him soiled with blood. Warrick's hand slid down Nick's side and felt the sticky and warm flow between his fingers. Nick lost his momentum and fell back, breaths raspy and uneven.
Warrick threw up out the open car window, emptied his stomach thoroughly before he groaned and sank back, still trapped in his place. His leg shot sharp twinges of pain up his spine and his left hand felt stiff, sore and utterly useless. It was not until then that he dared look at his bud again. Nick was still struggling weakly to get up, mumbling something about the cell. His body now shivering violently, teeth clattering and raspy exhales forced forth a foamy blood stream from the corners of his mouth. His eyes hazed and unfocused.
"Nicky, it's all right; I have the cell in my pocket, just hang on man!" He fished for it in his shirt pocket and found nothing.
"To' 'em, s'sor." Nick slurred and Warrick secured his grip around his middle, trying to calm the shivers. His breathing was getting more labored. Warrick felt Nick's body tense in small convulsions when he clutched the gunshot wound hard with his hand and pulled him closer. His own body screaming in protest and Nick's head tilted to the side, and he was still, only shivers wracked his body occasionally. The slowing stream from the corner of his mouth colored Warrick's jean clad thigh. The car was hot despite the open door on Nick's side, sun beating down on the dark metal mercilessly. Rivulets of sweat ran down Nick's forehead and then he stopped shivering. He made no sounds anymore, slack hand stretched out, gun long since fallen to the floor of the vehicle, sweat dampening his T-shirt, mixing with the blood and chest barely moving.
"No Nicky," Warrick spoke, resignedly calm all of a sudden. "You did yours Nicky, you don't need to do anything anymore. Just rest baby, lie down and rest for a while. I gotcha man, I gotcha. Just stay still, don't move Nicky, just stay still."
He drew a deep breath, his eyesight dimming. "I love you man, just know that, you need to know that, baby."
His head felt like a balloon, his vision started swimming again and darkness hovered at the edge of his consciousness. He laid his swelling left hand on the top of Nick's head, the short hair all ruffled up and sweaty. Warrick had no other option than holding him tight, like trying to keep him alive through pure force.
"You took the bastard out Nicky, teach the motherfucker to play with my homie Nick Stokes, huh? You hid the gun under the seat? Teach 'em to underestimate ya, shit Nicky. I love you man."
The nausea was back, with a vengeance. The tightening of his chest made his mumbled words non-decipherable, but he had to say them all the same. He wanted to scream in protest, curse all and everyone. Lash out and have his revenge on the world for doing this to his man. Promise anything to anyone for Nick's life to be spared. But the black veils on the edge of his consciousness were creeping closer and closer, dimming his view and he heard the sound of a helicopter approaching. He knew his mind was playing tricks on him and tears rolled down his cheeks when he held on to his dying bro until everything went mercifully dark and silent.