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"Oh, My, God!" Greg groaned dramatically in boredom. "Worst shift ever!"

"I'd say would-be victims would disagree with you," Doc Robbins said flipping through a National Geographic magazine that had been left in the breakroom. It was six years old or so, but he couldn't really tell . . . the print had faded and he wasn't entirely sure . . .

"They are blissfully unaware," Grissom sipped his coffee, filling out yet another crossword. Probably his eighth or ninth of the evening.

"Cable TV sucks!" Bobby Dawson yawned, tossing the remote onto the break room table.

Grissom had been the commander of the lab during the evenings and most of the staff had gone home. Fortunately he was unable to play favorites. For a night like this, Ecklie had put a system in place. One team of CSIs on shift that night had to stay within the lab until calls came in, while the other teams were able to go home and get some much needed rest. So long as they knew not to go partying because they were on call and could get a phone call at any moment. Unfortunately for the Number One grave shift team, they were stuck inside, just itching for an assignment.

"BULL SHIT!" Wendy shouted, drawing attention to her and Hodges who were sitting in the corner playing a game that she'd learned of when she first saw her favorite movie How To Loose A Guy In Ten Days. "Sorry," she giggled. She turned her attention back to Hodges and composed herself. "I said, bullshit."

He sneered at her and picked up the two cards on the top of the pile that he'd thrown down, turning them over and showing Wendy that he had, indeed, been bluffing.

"Pick up the whole pile, boy," she laughed triumphantly as David Hodges picked up three quarters of the deck of the cards and tried to hold them in one hand, put failing miserably.

"Seriously," he grumbled, "we need more than two people playing this game." He glanced around the room and saw that Warrick was flipping idly through an old car magazine. "What about you?" Warrick looked up, unsure if Hodges were addressing him or not.

"You interested in making time go by faster?" Wendy smiled.

"Trying is more like it," Hodges rolled his eyes. But the idea of adding another person into the mix to allievate the amount of cards in his hands was appealing.

Warrick shrugged, tossing the magazine down and joining the two. "What about you Cat?"

She tossed the old Cosmo magazine down ontop of the InStyle she'd been reading next to Warrick's car magazine. "I guess it's a foursome."

Nick's Blackberry started to chirp, so he placed his mug on the break room table. Glancing at the clock, he noted that it was almost eleven thirty. His email icon flashed, but he didn't know the sender name. But the tag line grabbed his attention. Dreams of Gold. The words he'd whispered to Sara only hours before. His brow furrowed in confusion. He knew Sara's email address, so it couldn't have been from her . . .

"Is it work related?" Greg asked, jumping at the sound of the blackberry. Maybe they'd get a case tonight after all. Or a lead on a cold case.

Nick shrugged his shoulders before using the little plastic pointer on the screen to open the email.

"OH, FUCK!" Nick yelled, his entire face turning red in an instant.

Everyone started asking what was up, but he couldn't answer them. All he could do was reach for the phone on his belt and dial Sara's cell phone. He didn't get an answer, so he hung up and motioned for Grissom to pick up the Blackberry when he dialed her home number. Nothing.

"What's going on?" Catherine asked, dropping the cards from her hand of Bull Shit face up on the table, ignoring the fact that she'd just 'spoiled' the game.

"It says, 'I'm going to finish what I started so long ago,'" Grissom answered. He felt his throat go dry as he starred at the attachment that had been sent as well. "There's a photo of Sara. She's passed out. The time stamp says it was taken an hour ago."

"Shit," Warrick mumbled. Catherine was stunned into silence, and Greg went pale. Nick was so angry as he continued to dial numbers into his cell phone. He couldn't even get a hold of the building manager or the supervisor.

Nick stood up so quickly that the chair he was sitting on fell backwards behind him, hitting the floor with a clatter. He raced out of the room.

"I'm calling Brass," Bobby Dawson muttered, grabbing the phone on the wall. The rest of the people in the room were stunned into silence. How in the hell could this be happening again? First Nick was taken, and nearly killed, and now Sara?

"We're heading out there now," Catherine had regained her composure -- well, at least some of it.

Warrick, Greg and Grissom all followed her through the door that Nick had just bolted through. By the time the three CSIs made there way to the parking lot, running at full speed, Nick's Denali was already out of the parking lot. The only thing visible of him was the tail lights of the SUV as it sped down the road, law enforcement lights flashing.

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Nick slammed on the breaks near the front doors of the apartment building, tires burning rubber as they left skid marks. Throwing the car in park, he leapt out the drivers side door, leaving the door wide open, and not giving a damn about the possible threat of theft. The CSI part of brain was working as he used the material at the waist of his shirt to press in the security code, gaining access to the building. Once the light flashed from red to green, signalling the door would be briefly unlocked, he again used the hem of his shirt, grabbing the handle and yanking the door open, hurling himself inside.

He raced down the carpeted hallway, yelling her name. A few of the occupants poked their heads into the hall, wondering what the commotion was. Some looked at him oddly, while others chastised him for making such noise at such a late hour.

His palm fisted the hard wood of her door as he pounded, furiously calling out to her. "Sara?! Baby, it's Nick! Open the door! God, open the door!" He was on the verge of tears, terrified.

Struggling, he finally managed to unlock the door for the second time that evening. Everything was in tact. The exception was that her coat was missing and the patio door was off it's track, leaning against the wall. The white billowy curtains that had hung on the inside were sucked outside of the room into the gentle breeze.

"Please, please," he muttered, stepping towards the door. He noticed that it was slightly ajar and he reached for his gun, preparing for a stand off with an intruder who sat at her bedside. Hoping that it would be over in a few short seconds and that he would be holding her close to him, whispering how it was over.

He hugged the wall of her walk-in closet, the wall of the master bathroom on the opposite side of him as he travelled down the small hallway within the master bedroom. He heard nothing. No rustling, no breathing. Nothing. Just utterly unbearable silence. Still, he gripped the gun tighter, and sprung away from the wall, cocking the gun towards the bed where they may have been.

No one was there.

In frustration, he kicked the wall, cursing himself for leaving. She was already sick and that had probably aided the kidnapper in his quest. Whatever it may be . . .

He glanced up as the rest of the team, followed closely by Brass and Sophia, who were entering the bedroom.

"She's gone," he whispered quietly.

"We're going to find her, Nick," Brass spoke softly, clasping a hand on the young CSIs shoulder. He could see how much pain Nick was in. He'd just lost someone that he completely loved. He'd loved his wife with the same devotion, but she hadn't returned it. It caused him to turn to the bottle . . .but Sara, well, he could see that Sara felt the same way about Nick. "We will. I promise." And he meant it, but he couldn't help but wonder if he were really trying to convince Nick, or himself. Maybe both, he thought sadly.

"Lets get to work," Catherine said, snapping on a pair of rubber gloves and flicking on the lights in the bedroom. "Greg and Warrick have the main living area."

"He came in through the patio door," Nick pointed out the obvious.

"We noticed that," Sophia tried to lighten the moment, but it was useless. Even though she and Sara had started out on not so friendly terms, they had come to a silent agreement to not let it effect their work. And slowly, they'd even become friends.

"I remember locking it before I left," Nick said, feeling his knees start to give way. Brass grabbed his arm to steady him.

"Don't blame yourself," Catherine said softly. "This is not your fault."

Nick nodded his head in acknowledgement of her statement, but he wasn't convinced.

"Did you kick in the toe jam?" Grissom asked him. It was the second locking mechanism on patio doors and without it, any intruder could simply lift the glass door out of its track and gain access to any residence.

He was silent for a moment, going over his earlier actions. "I don't remember," he admitted.

Grissom nodded his head. He forgot from time to time to lock his own with the second lock as well. "We'll dust for prints."

"Oh, God," Greg muttered before he lost his balance and fell backwards into the stove, he braced himself as best he could, but his heel made contact with the drawer beneath the oven, and the metal made a loud clinging noise.

"What's going on out here?" Grissom's lips pursed together. Now was not the time for games. Deep down, he knew that they knew that. Sara was their friend too.

"We have a suspect," Greg announced.

"What? Who?" Nick pushed his way through the people in the bedroom and walked into the living area. He saw Greg standing at the breakfast bar, holding a silver chain.

"Nine," he said, closing his eyes as the chain dangled from his finger tips, the flat circle dangling at the end, the number nine taunting him.

The small crowd of CSIs and law enforcement that had gathered in the apartment all went deathly silent. The only sound was of Sara's cat who meowed in discontentment. It sat down looking up at Nick expectantly. He bent over, on autopilot, prepared to pick up the cat, but it bolted away from him. He stood up and looked at the cat, who was making a quick exit through where the patio door had been. But it stopped and turned to look at Nick, crying once again.

"Dust for prints and collect everything," he instructed, inadvertantly taking the lead from their supervisor. He followed the cat through the door and into the apartment courtyard.

"You heard him," Grissom nodded, "get to work."

Brass and Sophia started conducting the door to door investigation as the others started their jobs. Catherine went into Sara's bedroom and found a shirt that she'd worn earlier in the day, at work, in the hamper. She picked it up in a gloved handed and bagged it. "I'm calling in the scent dogs," she stated.

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Nick quickly sprinted after the cat, following its every move. It ignored seemingly everything, intent on leading the CSI to something. It stopped suddenly, sitting down in a curb side parking stall on the streetm which was to the side of the buildings actual parking lot.

"Is this where he brought her, buddy?" he asked the cat, squatting down and examining the pavement.

Satisfied, the cat meowed once again, only this time, the pitch of its cry was normal. He rubbed his body against Nick's leg as if to say yes. The water run off slot was there and Nick noticed a piece of white cloth just a few inches down from the opening of the space. He reached his already gloved hand down and retrieved the item before it could fall away into oblivion, perhaps washing away all traces of whatever that might be on it. If it pertained to the case. Sighing, he stood up and looked around. The street was empty and all the lights in the surrounding apartment buildings were mostly off. But a slight red flickering caught his eye.

Nick pulled his phone out and quickly hit speed dial -- calling Warrick. He'd called him on his way back from Sara's to get coffee orders. He decided to make a pit stop at the Starbucks around the corner and decided that everyone back at the lab could use a jolt too. "I think I have something on the southwest corner of the lot."

In no time, Warrick and Brass had joined him. He handed the white cloth to Warrick. "Have this sent back to the lab to have it analyzed."

"What else have you got?" Brass asked.

"Lucky," he pointed to the cat that was now sitting on the sidewalk watching everything unfold with curiousity, as if he actually knew what was going on,
"lead me here. I think this is where the getaway vehicle may have been."

"Because of a cat?" Warrick asked incrediously.

"I know it sounds insane," Nick said, "but I found the cloth in that drain," he pointed to where the cloth had been. "And up there," he pointed to a window in a corner unit on the third floor, "is a flashing red light. Perhaps from a camcorder. If we're lucky, we might have a clear shot of the guys face, the vehicle he was driving, license plate number, or the direction he went in." He took in a shaky breath. "Anything."

"Good luck, man," Warrick held out his fist for Nick to bump like they always did.

"Thanks," he bumped fists. "Lets go, Jim."

Jim nodded his head. Together, they sprinted across the deserted residential street, gaining access to the secured building by a door that had been propped open. A resident had probably forgotten to close it after a quick smoke outside. Quickly, the two flew up two flights of stairs and knocked on the door of the corner apartment. "LVPD!"

"What do you want?" a woman in her thirties threw the door open, exasperated. "Do you have any idea of what time it is?"

"We saw a red light in your window," Nick started impatiently.

"Yeah, and?"

"We need it," Jim stated in a professional manner.

"Why would I help you? The only reason why I have the damn thing recording every night is because some little vandals decide to either egg my windows, or throw stones through them. My insurance company has refused to pay up, and the managers of the building are accusing me of doing it. I need proof that it isn't me, and you guys wouldn't help me. So tell me, what's in for me if I give you the tape?"

"We're investigating an abduction from across the street. It happened a little while ago and we have reason to believe that your camera might have critical evidence on it for our investigation. Time is of the essense, Ma'am."

"Please," Nick was ready to drop to his knees and beg. "We don't have a warrant and it could take hours to get one. We believe the person who kidnapped Sara is the serial rapist and murderer."

The woman visibly started to shake. "My little sister was good friends with Vanessa White," she was shocked. She stepped into her living room, leaving the door open for Jim and Nick to step inside. She grabbed the camera, hands still shaking. "Here," she handed the camera to Nick, "take the whole thing, I don't want to ruin the tape."

"We'll get this back to you soon as possible," Jim said as he watched Nick bolt straight for the door and back down the stairs.

"This Sara person . . . the one who was taken, she's something special to that guy, huh?"

Jim just nodded his head slightly. "Yeah. To all of us. She's a CSI, just like Nick."

"He loves her," she stated. "Good luck."

"Thanks," he smiled. "To show you how much we appreciate this, I'm going to have some under covers placed outside for a few days. We'll see if we can nail those little punks for you."

"No rush," she shook her head. "Just find her and put that creep behind bars."

TBC . . . .