Taking a deep breath and with a sense of some trepidation, Calleigh picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"Ah, CSI Duquesne, I believe. How nice to speak to you at last." The voice was of a man, his Brooklyn accent evident even to her Southern-honed ears. The voice sounded cocky and smug and immediately put her on edge as she spied a quick glance at Kyle, placing the phone on loudspeaker and placing it back on the desk.
"Where is he you asshole, what have you done with Horatio?" she spat, venom in her voice.
There was silence for a moment or two and then a low chuckle, "He's still in one piece at the moment, how long that remains the case is up to you and your team."
"What do you want from us, from him? Tell me what you want and I'll get it for you."
"I wouldn't be so eager to volunteer your services, Miss Duquesne. You have no idea what I might have in mind for your beloved lieutenant."
She could feel her anger getting the better of her, "Have you just rung to gloat, or was there something you wanted?"
"The boy, he's there with you, isn't he?"
"What boy?" She stole another quick glance at the young man, who was currently chewing on his bottom lip and balling his hands tightly into fists.
"Don't play games with me, Miss Duquesne; otherwise it will be Mr Kelly who will pay for it. Put the boy on the line. Now."
She tried to stop Kyle from speaking up but she knew that inevitably she did not have the right to deny the boy a chance to speak with his father. Deep down she wasn't sure if this would be the last time that any of them would get a chance to talk to him.
Kyle took a couple of paces forward, inching closer to the phone with such wariness, as if he were afraid that it would reach up and bite him.
"Say hello to your father," the voice on the other end of the line taunted him.
Suddenly he felt his mouth go dry, his words dying before he had even uttered a sound. There were so many things he wanted to say, things he wanted to tell his father, he wanted to tell him over a beer and a good meal, not like this. He felt as if he were a witness at an execution, the images of his dream assaulting him again, his hands were tied once more and there was nothing he could do about it.
He knew he had to say something and so he said the only words that would come into his head, not caring that they came out as a panicked jumble.
"Dad? Dad it's Kyle, if you can hear me I want you to know that I love you. We're coming to get you, just hold on!"
Again, there was silence. He wasn't even sure if his father was conscious or if he had heard him until his ears picked up on the unmistakable voice of Horatio. The voice sounded tired and weak but was undeniably that of his father. He could hear him shouting, pleading desperately for he and Calleigh to get away, to run away as fast as they could. He tried to tell his father to keep holding on as the voice became quieter and the sounds of footsteps became louder.
All three people in the room flinched as they heard the sound of a heavy, metal door being slammed shut, the shouting dying out into nothing.
"I have to say, CSI Duquesne, that orange really is your colour."
At first the statement made no sense; as she looked down at her blouse the realisation hit her that the Malucci's were still watching the lab.
"I guess you've worked it out by now that I still have people watching all of your team there, and not just from the outside." The unspoken threat left a heavy presence in the room. "You really should take better care of yourself though, try to get some rest. You won't be able to protect the boy otherwise."
"Just tell me what you want."
"I want you to know that I can reach you or any member of your team any time I wish, all I have to do is say the word and my men will make light work of whatever small army you try to put in our way."
"Just try it, you bastard. You'll meet your match in us."
"That I very much doubt. It was almost too easy taking him, you know. A measly two squad cars, is that all Mr Kelly means to you?"
"Just tell me what you want!"
"Find Agent Collins and deliver him to me, we have a score to settle with him."
"And what if I don't?"
"Then we shall take the boy and have a little fun with him, I'm sure Mr Kelly will be much more cooperative when he sees the boy in the flesh. You have twenty-four hours, CSI Duquesne. Use them wisely."
The line went dead; the harsh dialling tone seemed louder than usual in the silence of the room. Throughout the conversation Dave had been tirelessly tapping at the keys of his computer in attempt to lock on to the GPS signal from the phone.
"Did you get anything, Dave?" Calleigh asked as she let out a deep breath.
The lab tech shook his head sadly, "They were able to mask their location, they had the signal pinging off of at least twelve different cell towers. The best I can give you is a rough forty-five mile radius of where the location might be."
"Well, forty-five miles is a lot smaller an area than we had a few minutes ago. At least we have something to work with." She took a long, hard look at Kyle and could see the tears brimming in his eyes as he tried vainly to keep his emotions in check. "It's a start, Kyle. At least we know where we should be targeting our searches."
"We'll never be able to search every building on that scale in twenty-four hours; time's running out, Calleigh." He knew she was trying to remain upbeat and positive but he had heard how weak and tired his father sounded, he wasn't sure that the man could hold on for another whole day.
He heard the door open again and watched as the footsteps made their way closer to him. Suddenly he found his view of the world turned on its side as he was pulled up in the chair, he felt another wave of nausea hit him but swallowed down the bile that threatened to spill from his mouth.
"Time is running out, Mr Kelly. Or should I call you Horatio Caine?" Danny smirked as he saw the look of shock on his captor's face.
"It would be in yours and your boy's best interests if you tell me what I want to know. Kyle seems like such a nice young man with a bright future, wouldn't it be a shame if that future were to be cut short?"
Panic surged through him, he had no doubt that Danny and his cousin would make good on their threats against the boy he now knew to be his son. He glared at Danny with all of the strength he could muster.
"Tell me everything about your time as an FBI lapdog, I want to know what made you turn on us and I want to know where Agent Collins is. If you don't give me what I want I promise you that I will make your son's death a long and painful one and that you'll have a front row seat to the action."
"I can't… I don't know," he pleaded as tears escaped from his eyes, "I can't tell you what I don't remember!"
"Then it will be the boy who pays for the sins of his father. Think about that, Mr Kelly."
The tears fell as the door was slammed shut again; the room once more plunged into darkness. He was weeping like a child but for the first time in as long as he could remember he didn't actually care. The son he barely knew would be captured by his tormentors, of that he had no doubt. If they could get to him as easily as they had him, then he knew that they would be able to get to his boy.
For the first time in years he sat and prayed, prayed to a God that in his life had shown him little in the way of mercy or leniency. He prayed that God would take his anger out on him and not the innocent boy he had unwittingly brought into the world. It was his penance to pay for his crime, not his son, and he prayed as hard as he could that his boy would be spared.
Frank and Walter stood outside the opulent building that housed Dade Mutual Bank, even in such a time of austerity this was one bank that did not look as if it were feeling the financial pinch. The white stucco walls housed floor-to-ceiling panes of glass to allow as much natural light as possible illuminate the interior of the building.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Frank Tripp stalked his way into the bank, his eyes scanning for the nearest teller. Spotting an unsuspecting victim he made his way over to a young man with large tortoise-shell glasses that swamped his face. To Frank the man looked barely old enough to drive, the thin moustache on his face seemed like a poor attempt to add a few years to his youthful features.
"How may I help you today?" the man asked as he sat behind a screen of thick plastic.
Frank pulled out his ID as he replied, holding it up for the teller to inspect. "We're from Miami Dade PD; we're looking for some information on a couple of withdrawals that were made from here last week."
The young man frowned, "Do you have a search warrant, Detective?" The geeky-looking bank clerk began tapping at his keyboard. "It is bank policy not to divulge any information of our customers or their accounts, I'm afraid."
Frank could feel his temper rising, he gave a quick look towards Walter before rubbing a frustrated hand over his balding head. "Look, Urkle. We've had information from the IRS that says three withdrawals of just under $10,000 were made here last week; we wanna know who made them and what they looked like."
The fastidious bank clerk sniffed, offended by the detective's gruff tone. "Then I suggest you come back with a search warrant."
"We don't have time for a search warrant, you jumped-up little twerp!" The bank descended into silence at Frank's fiery outburst. He took a few calming breaths before continuing, "We need that information now, our colleague's life is at stake."
"Whilst I sympathise with your predicament, our policy still stands," the teller pushed the glasses back up towards the bridge of his nose with a perfectly manicured index finger. "Come back with a warrant."
Walk away, Tripp, he told himself as he fought the urge to reach through the plastic pane separating him from the insensitive jackass sitting on the other side of it, it was the only thing stopping him from throttling the scrawny little maggot.
He was distracted from his murderous thoughts by Walter calling over to him, "Hey, Frank. Come over here."
The big African-American man had that toothy grin on his face that he reserved for when he'd struck upon something worth following.
"What is it, Simmons?" he growled.
His colleague's enthusiasm could not be dented, "Meet, Rochelle. She and I were having a very interesting conversation," he began, still with the goofy smile on his face.
"We've got more important things to be worried about than your personal life. That buffoon at the counter over there has been yanking my chain for the last ten minutes whilst you've been working on your chat up lines."
Walter's face took on an expression of mock hurt, "You wound me, Frank. Rochelle has been kind enough to print me off a copy of the account records for the suspicious cash withdrawals. She even managed to find us some CCTV footage of the men who made the withdrawal. Isn't that right, Roche?"
The young Caucasian bank clerk returned Walter's smile as she looked at him admiringly. "Anything to help Miami's finest," she purred as she twiddled a finger in her poker-straight brunette hair. The woman was made up to within an inch of her life and yet still had the ability to look alluring; the tightly fitted white blouse that hugged her ample bosom didn't hurt either.
"You've done the city a great service," Walter replied as he maintained the intense eye contact between them, passing the printed images and information distractedly in Frank's direction.
The grouchy Texan swiped them from him, rolled them up before whacking Walter lightly on the back of the head with the papers. "Come on, lover boy. Let's get this stuff back to the station; we need to put an APB out on these images." He huffed as he noticed his love-struck colleague hand a card to the young woman.
"Now, Walter!" he barked as he stood by the door, impatient to leave and get the photo IDs of their suspects released to all local law enforcement agencies and the local news stations.
He shook his head as he saw Walter make a sign for 'telephone' with his hands and mouthed the words, "Call me" as he walked backwards towards the exit.