Heaven & Hell Part 3

The situation was beyond nightmarish. It was a nightmare when a cop was shot. It was a horrible nightmare when a CSI was abducted. Now a cop had been shot and a CSI was missing--the same CSI who had made the news with his abduction just over a year before. The situation had to be contained, and quickly.

That's what Conrad Ecklie forced himself to think about--the situation. He wasn't going to think about the young officer who was likely bleeding to death on his way to the hospital, and he was definitely not going to think about what could have happened to Nick Stokes. If he allowed himself to start thinking of those things, he would lose his grip on what was going on around him--a grip that was already tenuous at best.

He had arrived on the scene just as Carreiro was being loaded into the ambulance. Grissom and Sanders were the only CSIs present, but Conrad had no doubt the rest were on their way. Vega was there--he had sent out the call, which pretty much eliminated the whole "first on the scene suspect" scenario--along with Sofia and nearly a dozen uniforms. Fortunately, one of the uniforms was Sergeant Herrera, whom Conrad had worked with often as a CSI, so when he suggested barricades, Herrera got right on it. They both knew Captain Brass would take charge of that aspect when he arrived, but also knew it's exactly was he would order. Curious neighbors were beginning to wander near, and soon the press would be there as well. Conrad wanted all of them kept well away.

As for Undersheriff McKeen, he would likely be arriving at some point and could give the statement to the press. Whether or not the Sheriff would make an appearance probably depended on how many reporters showed up.

Conrad already knew how he wanted the scene processed and who he wanted--and didn't want--to do the processing. He also knew that it was not going to go over well, so before Grissom and Greg entered the house, he stopped the entomologist. "Gil, I don't think having graveyard work this one is a good idea." From the corner of his eyes, he could see Sanders readying a protest, but Grissom said nothing. If Conrad didn't know better, he'd almost say the man was shell-shocked. "You and Catherine will be on it, but I want to Deems and Hempstead from swing and Travis and Ogawa from days." Those people were all the senior CSIs from each shift, and also some of the best in Vegas.

"Fuentes, not Travis," was all Grissom said in reply.

"Done," Conrad said, and pulled out his cell to call. He couldn't fault Grissom for his request. Although Lee Travis had more seniority than any of the quartet besides Oscar Deems, and although he was capable enough, the man had little inborn talent or even passion for the job. Marisol Fuentes, although only a CSI-III for six months, had talent, passion and boundless energy.

Grissom had finally entered the house, and had also spoken to Sanders, apparently. The former tech was waiting outside the house with a small knot of officers, not looking happy with the decision, but not trying to go inside, either.

Then his cell phone started to ring, and Ecklie simply waved Deems and then Fuentes inside when they arrived, while fielding calls from McKeen, Internal Affairs, several techs in the lab who had heard and a handful of reporters. Catherine arrived just behind Fuentes and stopped to talk briefly to Greg before going inside as well.

Right behind Catherine were Brass and Sara. Conrad quickly cut short his call to the Lab Director--fine time for the SOB to be in Washington--and went into the house to find Grissom. It didn't matter that he was the Assistant Lab Director, Sidle wasn't going to a damn thing just because he told her to and as much as that pissed him off, now wasn't the time to deal with that issue. His phone was ringing again, so he quickly beckoned Grissom over. "Captain Brass and Sidle are here. Could you--?"

Grissom nodded and went out without a word. Conrad watched him go, then turned to Catherine, who was also looking after the entomologist with concern. She met his gaze and shook her head slowly, looking thoroughly drained herself, then went back to work.

Answering his phone, Conrad walked back outside. "Ecklie."

"Conrad, it's Vartann. I just heard."

"Alex." They had actually gotten along well since the Bilmeyer case and more so since Bell's shooting, getting together every couple of weeks to see who could out-cynic the other.

"Any idea yet about what happened? Or why?"

"None yet."

"That John Doe case Nick asked for--the kid with Mullins' business card. Did he talk to you about it?"

"No," Conrad tensed. "Why?"

"He recognized the vic."

"Fuck." The word just got away from him. He never used it on the job--it made one look too unprofessional--but at the moment, there was nothing else to say.

"That mass grave case two years ago. He met this kid out there, on Barrett Sampson's land. A couple of weeks later, four guys roughed him up when he was out there again. The Feds took the case over because there was the possibility of human trafficking."

Conrad nodded slowly, remembering the case. "Okay. You think this has something to do with that?"

"Barrett Sampson was one of Sylvia Mullins' clients."

"Fuck!" Conrad wanted to hurl his phone hard enough it would shatter, but he still needed it. He had known with a gut instinct that he shouldn't have given Nick that case. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" He was only vaguely aware that cops and CSIs were staring at him in shock.

"Conrad--"

"Okay," he cut Vartann off and took a deep breath. "Where are you?"

"Henderson. I should be there in about fifteen minutes."

"I'll get Brass to call you. Go over this with him."

"Okay."

Conrad disconnected the call, pointedly ignoring all the looks he was receiving as he walked over to Brass. "Give Vartann a call on his cell. He was on a case with Nick that might be relevant." Brass gave him an inscrutable look before moving away to make the call, but Conrad didn't have time to wonder about it because his phone was ringing again. He looked at the display. Hodges. Christ, he didn't want to talk to Hodges right now and listen to the guy go on and on about how he could be counted on blah, blah, blah. Kiss ass some other time--I'm busy. But he answered it anyway. "Ecklie."

"Nick's truck is gone." There was no preamble, no smarmy tone.

"What?"

"Nick's truck--his vehicle is gone, and we're pretty sure the Denali parked here is his."

"It's there? In the lab's driveway?" This was just getting weirder all the time.

"Wendy noticed it when she got back from break. We tried his place, but there was no answer, so Archie is pulling the tape to see what--wait, he's here."

"Conrad?" Archie's voice came on the line, tense with worry. "I checked the tape. I wasn't able to identify the person, but I know it's not Nick. I'll keep trying for an ID, though. Bobby went out to seal the doors on the truck."

That clinched it, then. This was almost definitely a kidnaping. Another kidnaping. "Keep at it, Archie, and have the vehicle towed into the garage. I'll send someone to process it right away." He hung up again and walked over to the group. "Sofia, can I talk to you?"

The blonde detective arched an eyebrow--they had barely spoken since her change in careers--but followed him a little distance away.

Conrad wasn't too worried, she was too much of a pro to react, no matter what she might actually think about him. "Nick's Denali was returned to the lab and his truck taken by someone. Archie still hasn't got an ID, so--Nina!" He waved over the wiry brunette who had just arrived. "Check with the Captain and see if you can join Nina when she processes the vehicle."

They all looked at Brass, who was still on the phone and wearing a very foreboding expression. "I'll leave him a voice mail for when he's done," Sofia said. "I'm sure he'd okay it." She looked at Nina, "I'll fill you in on the way."

Nina Hempstead, fortunately, was ever unflappable, so she merely pushed up her glasses and headed back the way she came. Conrad was relieved they would be processing the vehicle--the pair had always meshed well when they were on day shift together.

Brass was still on the phone, which was probably why Herrera came up to him to say that the press was gathering, obviously scenting a story, and were getting demanding. Conrad sighed, the press was sometimes helpful in locating a missing person, but something told him it would only endanger Nick further if his abductors heard themselves mentioned on television. He told Herrera to hold them off until his spoke to Brass about a statement, then quickly brushed the sergeant off because he saw a bigger problem approaching.

A much bigger problem.

Warrick Brown strode up the driving, ignoring Greg and Sara when they called to him and making a beeline for the door.

Bracing himself, Conrad stepped in and blocked his path. "Grissom and Catherine are the only graveyard CSIs working this."

"Not anymore," Warrick moved around him.

Conrad moved as well, blocking him again. He noticed that Vega and Caveliere were slowly approaching, obviously expecting trouble. Sara had also moved closer, but there was no telling whether she planned to stop or assist Warrick. Warrick feinted the other way--so did Conrad. "I mean it. This is different then last time. An officer was shot."

"Get out of my way." Brown was looking a little crazed, and Conrad was brought back to that night, when the ex-gambler had been prepared to blow up rather than leave Nick's side. They shuffled back and forth a little more, Brown getting more aggravated by the moment. "I said get the fuck out of my way!"

"You're not going in," Conrad insisted, moving when Warrick moved. "You want me to have to get Grissom or Catherine and take them away from the scene? You want to make trouble? Cause hassles? You think you're wasting my time? You're wasting Nick's time."

It was probably the only thing he could have said that would make Warrick stop and Conrad was immensely relieved it occurred to him to say it. Warrick was now silent, but still wild-eyed and tenser than a bow string--Conrad couldn't tell if he was going to take a swing at him or simply collapse. Sara was speaking to him in a low voice, but the man didn't seem to hear a word.

Brass had finished his call and also hurried over, "Rick--" he began, but couldn't come up with anything other than that.

"Just let me go over a few things with Captain Brass and then I'll tell you everything we know so far," Conrad offered, hoping to forestall any other problems. "We're going to need your input on several things, and after that I'll keep you updated as often as possible. But you're not getting in on this one."

Warrick's jaw worked briefly, then he gave a short nod and allowed Sara to lead him away. Conrad didn't bother trying to fool himself into thinking that it was the last time he'd have to tangle with Brown, he didn't have time for that at the moment. Releasing the breath he'd been holding, he turned to Captain Brass.

"Vartann filled you in on his suspicions?"

"Yeah," Brass rubbed his forehead. "Jesus H. Christ! I'm gonna have to talk to Gil and Catherine about this. If it's connected--" he shook his head.

Conrad, for once, could actually relate. It almost seemed that there was too much information coming from too many directions--he still hadn't gotten the chance to let Grissom know about the vehicle exchange and that was pretty damn important. As Nick's roommate, Warrick had to be questioned as well as filled in, and that was going to be trouble all around. And--oh, son of a bitch! If Nick wasn't found within twenty-four hours, someone was going to have to notify Nick's parents that their son was missing--again. First things first. He told Brass that Sofia was processing the vehicles, then changed the subject to--"We've got to give the press something before they start either making stuff up or trying to sneak past the barricade. Just something to hold them off."

Brass nodded in agreement. "I don't want names given out yet either, especially Nick's. Until we're positive what's going, it could jeopardize him. What about McKeen? You heard from him?"

"Once. Says he'll be here. Didn't say when."

"Okay. I'll give 'em something to chew on." Brass started up the street, and Conrad followed.

His progress was halted by an unbreakable grip on his arm. Warrick's stark expression was a silent demand for answers. "I just want to hear Brass' statement, and then everything I know, you'll know."

Warrick released him, and they all moved to hear what Brass had to say.

"I'm Captain Jim Brass of the LVPD. I have a brief statement and will not be taking any questions. Any officer was shot at this morning at approximately 3:40 am. He has been taken to Desert Palms Hospital and is in critical condition. We will not be releasing his name until his family has been notified. The LVPD is pursuing several leads and we are attempting to locate a witness believed to have been at the scene. I cannot give any more information at this time."

There was almost no warning before a hand grabbed him by the collar and hauled him into a semi-sitting position. Trying to maintain his balance with his hands and feet still bound, Nick reluctantly opened his eyes and looked around the dingy motel room. The single lamp between the two beds didn't reveal much of the room, but it was enough to let Nick know this wasn't a four-star establishment. He couldn't check his watch to see how long they'd been traveling, but he couldn't hear any traffic no matter how much he strained his ears, so he knew they had to be well out of the city.

He looked at the man who had him by the shirt, but there was no way to tell whether he was the one that had worked for Sampson before or the one with all the questions. At the foot of the bed stood a man that was utterly nondescript--average height, average build, average features and average brown hair. Several more pieces clicked into place for Nick, none of them good. It had been Sampson's men that had attacked him out in the desert and Sampson himself had been there.

With a jolt, it suddenly occurred to Nick that none of the men were taking any precautions that would keep him from identifying them. He knew what that meant, and fought for control over the panic that was bubbling through him again.

Stay calm. Stay calm. They found you once before. They're looking for you now. All you have to do is hang on until they find you.

All three men were looking at him as though they expected him to say something, but Nick remained silent, his jaw clenched slightly. He knew that if he began to speak, his voice would start to shake, then he would start to shake, and probably lose it. That couldn't happen. He had to keep his cool, to stay on top of things if he was ever going to make it out.

"We've met before, haven't we, Mr. Stokes?"

Nick swallowed hard.

"And I believe we have a mutual acquaintance."

"Alexei," Nick whispered, the name getting away from him.

"Do you realize that I've had to change my plans and my base of operations several times because you decided to make a nuisance of yourself? And naturally such things have cost me, both monetarily and in regards to my reputation. So I've decided it's only fair that you help me in this demonstration that will restore the faith of my business associates."

"Yeah, what exactly is this demonstration?" asked the question guy. He was standing further away and Nick couldn't make out many distinguishing features except that he easily the largest of the trio.

"Quite simply, Mr. Rauscher, I need to prove that I can keep secrets--especially when those secrets happen to be human. Keeping Mr. Stokes hidden even though the entire police department is looking for him will go a long way toward restoring confidence in my business."

Out of pure bravado, Nick said snidely, "Didn't you already try that? I don't think it worked."

Rather than seeming annoyed, Sampson merely smiled. "I suppose that only proves the old adage, 'if you want something done right...' I never should have taken Sylvia at her word that she could handle that lunatic Gordon. Fortunately, his equally lunatic daughter took care of Sylvia for me, so that was one less chore."

Nick felt the breath rush from his lungs as panic now tightened like a band around his chest. Sampson was confessing, and the more he admitted, the less chance there was of him letting Nick live.

"I'll be back when the time is up," Sampson said to the men. "There may be more things I have to discuss. Mr. Moutry, our guest seems rather subdued at the moment, but if begins to annoy you, this should do the trick." He handed Moutry what looked to Nick like an elaborate gag, made of leather with some sort of tongue depressor built it. "I expect to find him alive when I return."

Once Sampson was gone, Rauscher spoke from the shadows. "Alive. That gives us a whole lot of leeway."

The band around his chest tightened inexorably.

In rare moments when he wasn't thinking about Nick, Warrick was forced to acknowledge that Ecklie had been right to keep him off the case. He hated admitting it, but it was so far down the list of things he hated about the last sixteen hours that it barely registered.

Normally, the knowledge that he wasn't up to doing his job, that his colleagues knew he wasn't up to doing his job, that he couldn't just handle things, would have driven him around the bend; maybe sent him to the tables, but not this time. This time he was frozen, in every sense of the word, and goddammit, that wasn't supposed to happen to him. Warrick Brown did things--it was how he dealt. The right thing or the wrong thing, smart move or bad move, he always did something, and right now he was incapable of anything.

That included maintaining his poker face, which only made things worse. It showed. Warrick knew it showed--it was obvious in the way people were treating him. In the way Sara never left his side for the first five hours; the way Greg kept his voice pitched low and careful when they spoke; the way all the techs tiptoed around him; the way Ecklie kept him updated without being asked; all of it indicated people knew Warrick Wasn't Dealing Well. And that sucked. It wasn't his thing. It wasn't him.

He had no way of knowing if anyone suspected that his relationship with Nick had changed and didn't particularly care if they did. For some reason, though, he couldn't bring himself to actually tell anyone.

Shock, maybe. He must still be in some sort of shock for all that it should have worn off by now. Shock was the only explanation for his reaction to Ecklie's suggestion that he go home and rest.

He went.

Not even an hour into a double and he had gone home. He, Warrick Brown, who could work three triples practically back-to-back before he started to drag, had gone home a mere hour after his usual shift would have ended. Even though every CSI was now on the job, even though the case was life-and-death, he went home.

And he stayed.

And here he was.

He kept his phone on and nearby, but for the first several hours, Warrick lay on Nick's bed with Nick's scent surrounding him. He even slept, which surprised him, and dreamed of Nick, which did not.

Filled with self-loathing that he could even think of sleeping, when Warrick awoke the first thing he did was call Sara. There was no real change, she told him, and Sampson still looked like their best lead, except that he wasn't in the country.

"Look, I'm just going to grab a shower and then I'll be in to pick up some slack for swing," Warrick said, even though he privately doubted he'd be of much use.

"Warrick--"

"I'm sorry about skipping out on you guys like that."

"It's okay," Sara said.

"No. It's not," Warrick insisted, then said good-bye.

He headed straight for the shower, making a determined effort to clear start thinking clearly--hell, at this point he would have happily settled for being about to think at all. Right now, he just had to hang onto the fact that Nick was somewhere and alive. That wasn't just a desperate hope on his part, he knew. If Nick was dead or seriously wounded, he would have mostly been left at the scene with Carreiro. So someone wanted him. Warrick didn't allow himself to think any further than that, knowing he would only freeze up again.

Although Sampson was their most likely lead, there were still several different ways he could fit into the picture. It was just a matter of untangling coincidence from connections.

When he finally stepped out of the shower, Warrick could hardly believe he'd actually left work in the first place. He actually left the place he was most likely to hear any news about Nick immediately. If he needed proof that he wasn't rational enough to work Nick's case, that was it. He would hinder, not help on Nick's case, but there would still be other cases coming in. Crime didn't stand still just because the most important person in someone's world disappeared, Warrick knew that as well as anyone. He didn't want Deems and Hempstead to think about anything besides Nick's case, and if that meant he had to work their entire caseload, so be it.

He'd almost finished dressing with Nick's home phone rang. With his heart in his throat, Warrick bolted into the living room and snatched it up. "Hello?"

"Hello," a woman replied, and Warrick's heart sank back to the pit of his stomach. He knew it was unlikely, but there had been the tiny flicker of hope he would hear Nick's voice. "Is Nick there?"

"Who's calling?" Warrick asked.

"It's Joss. Is this Warrick? Nick said you two were going to be roommates."

Warrick filtered through Nick's sisters--the only two he'd met were Susannah and Sammie--Joss was the twin sister of big brother Brett. "Yeah. Warrick Brown," he said, the words automatic.

"Hey, Warrick," Joss said, in that same friendly way Nick had. "Is Nick there?"

Oh, Jesus. What could he say to her? Obviously Nick's parents hadn't been notified yet.

"Hello?"

"Someone--" he had to clear his throat before he could continue. "Someone should be contacting you...or your folks about Nick."

"What?" There was dread in her voice already.

"There was an incident at--that is, we believe--" Warrick sighed. What the hell was wrong with him? He never stammered like this.

"Where's Nick?" Joss' voice rose fearfully.

"We...don't know."

"You don't know...he's missing?"

"Yes. He went missing from a scene he was working."

"Does...does this have anything to do with what happened to him last year?"

"We don't know for certain at this point," Warrick said, strangely relieved that the worst of the news had been broken. "It's one of the things we're looking into, though."

"Oh, my God..." she sounded close to tears. "When?"

"Between three and four this morning. Your parents may have been contacted already."

"I thought there was supposed to be someone with him at a scene at all times. That's what he told us when he was here."

"There was. The officer was shot."

"Oh...oh, dear God..."

"Miss Sto--Mrs...umm..."

"Joss," she whispered.

"Joss. I'm going back to work now, and--"

"You're a CSI, too," Joss said.

"I am. I'll make sure that someone had told your parents. I can give you my cell phone number if you want information or anything like that."

"Yes, please."

"It's 555-0127."

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry," Somehow it was painful to say that.

"So am I," she said, and rallied briefly. "You're Nick's best friend. He's told us that often enough. Mom told me you were there for him every step of the way."

"I'm going to try to be again," Warrick promised.

"I know you will," she whispered, her voice breaking. She disconnected without another word.

As soon as he managed to swallow the lump that had returned to his throat, Warrick began dialing Grissom's number. He wanted to warn them in case the Stokes hadn't been notified. The Judge had been coldly furious with the LVCL and the entire LVPD the last time around, even after they'd found Nick. There was no telling what he would be like this time.

The conversation kept replaying through his mind in an endless loop. Even after morning and afternoon had passed and the sun had set again. After the room had grown stifling and stuffy--despite the air conditioning--and then began to cool once more. After he had sat up, then lay down first on one side and then the other, always trying to move unobtrusively so to not attract too much attention. After concocting and abandoning dozens of possibilities for escape. After all that, Nick still couldn't get that conversation out of his mind.

Sampson had been gone for an hour, and Nick's guards had spent the time checking everything and getting organized to their satisfaction before settling in front of the television. Nick, on one of the room's two double beds had been mostly ignored, and that suited him just fine while he tried to get his bearings. The sun still hadn't come up at that point, and the men seemed content to work by just the light of the television and a single low-wattage bulb, so Nick hadn't been able to make out many of the details of the room or his captors. All he'd been able to note was that he was in a standard low-end motel with a little kitchenette, that Moutry had a stringy, wiry build and longish hair while Rauscher would have towered over Warrick by several inches and bore a striking resemblance to a brick wall.

Nick's ears had served him better during that hour, and he'd learned that Moutry had been released from prison about a month earlier and had gone to Sampson looking for work. Rauscher had only been out for a week and immediately brought in on the job by Moutry. It was during this exchange that Nick heard the exchange that chilled his blood.

"What's all this shit you've got going on about leeway, anyway, man?" Moutry asked after they'd been watching television for only a few minutes.

"Just wanted to know."

"Fuck that. Why?"

"I know him," Rauscher replied, his voice hard.

"Him? Wait...you know him?" Moutry jerked a thumb in Nick's direction.

Nick quickly averted his eyes, not wanting to provoke them in any way at the moment.

"Fucker blew my alibi out of the water with some shit about fibers. Goddamn judge gave me the whole nickel on a fuckin' C felony because of him. Second strike, too."

Oh, dear God. Nick frantically searched his memory for the name of Rauscher.

"Son of a bitch, and you served the whole stretch," Moutry gave a low whistle

Going back five years, Nick finally remembered Rauscher, who had attempted to burn down the trailer of a witness to another crime, but hadn't succeeded. He'd insisted he'd been out of state, and had witnesses to say so, but Nick had been able to prove them wrong with the chemical burns on Rauscher's clothes and fibers found on the scene. The judge had given him the maximum. And if he'd served the entire five years, he definitely hadn't been a model prisoner.

After that, Nick had abandoned his half-formed plan to engage them in conversation and had decided he'd be better off drawing as little notice to himself as possible.

Once the sun had come up, Nick spent two hours scanning the room as thoroughly as he could from his position, then spent another two scanning it again in case he'd missed something the first time.

The rest of the day, Nick sorted through everything he'd learned, trying to fit what might somehow help him versus what could possibly provoke his captors. He also tried to estimate what sort of progress was being made on the case without getting his hopes up too high. Unlike the last time, which had seemed completely random, Nick was certain that Vartann would be following up on Sampson as a lead almost immediately.

Except that Barrett Sampson was supposedly out of the country.

How the hell had he pulled that off?

Nick didn't waste too much time wondering how; the fact remained that it was most certainly possibly. Hell, Sampson had done it before, he realized with a jolt. The man had been present at Nick's assault by the Dead Mountains, despite the fact that passport records had shown him to be out of the country then as well. Great. How was anyone supposed to put that part of the puzzle together without Nick letting them know?

Michaels. There was another piece of the puzzle. I don't know how you managed to get two weeks vacation at once, you lucky SOB, but have fun in Hawaii. Everyone probably figured Michaels was in Hawaii. No doubt Sampson had helped him with that trick. If he had fled, it would be two weeks before anyone started looking for him. Or, if he figured neither Carreiro nor Nick would survive, he might just return to work.

Carreiro. Oh, Jesus, Carreiro. Was he still alive? Vega had been due to arrive at the scene at any moment, maybe he got there in time. Maybe the wound hadn't been fatal.

He listened whenever his captors talked, but most of their conversation centered around the Ely State Prison. They discussed who had been killed, who would be killed, who should be killed, who had clicked up, who'd been sent down, turned out and signed in. Nothing Nick heard was very encouraging.

From the sound of it, even allowing for exaggeration, each of his guards had gone down for some of their lesser crimes and never been brought to justice for the more serious ones. Granted, they never actually admitted to anything, but by listening carefully, Nick was able to discern that between them they had three murders and innumerable assaults. It was more incentive than ever to remain silent and still.

They nuked some fast food at one point and kept glancing at him while they ate as though they expected him to ask for some.

Not in a million years, assholes. Of course, the whole idea of food raised other issues, but Nick knew he had a few days before the issues evolved into actual problems.

Sampson wanted to demonstrate he could successfully hide a person--and if that wasn't an admission to human trafficking, Nick didn't know what was--but no one was going to be impressed with someone remaining hidden for a mere 48 or 72 hours. Nick estimated in order for it to be even remotely impressive, he'd have to be held for at least five or six days. Maybe during that time he would be able to find a weakness in their plan that would result in a way out. Unlike the last time, there was a much higher chance of human error that he could exploit--he just had to watch for his chance.

Not once since he'd regained consciousness had he thought about Warrick, and he made a determined effort not to start now.

He couldn't.

He didn't dare.

There was no doubt in anyone's mind that Barrett Sampson was behind the abduction. There was certainly no doubt in Alex Vartann's mind, and as far as he was concerned, there shouldn't have been doubt in anyone else's.

Naturally the CSIs on the case were looking at every possible option and he didn't fault them for that--that's what CSIs always did. He was going to do was he always did--follow his gut.

It led him straight back to Hugh Vrederveld.

Brass had practically told him to run that lead as far as it could go and to bring in Caveliere or Curtis if he needed the help. Vartann decided to follow the lead alone for now, Chris was taking care of any BOLO calls on Stokes' truck, Sofia was tracking down the bullet they'd pulled from Carreiro's body and Sam was doing practically everything else.

Besides, he didn't need any help at the moment, because Catherine Willows happened to agree with his gut and that was pretty much all he needed. Conrad might run the lab, and Grissom might be a genius, Catherine was the one who really knew how to get results. She could get techs, other CSIs, even cops to do almost anything she asked of them.

In the early hours of the morning after Nick's abduction, Vartann had gone to see Vrederveld, demanding a straight answer about Sampson's whereabouts. Vrederveld stammered something about Brussels, so Vartann returned to the lab to tell Catherine, but they were unable to find him anywhere in Belgium. So Catherine set Archie--when he wasn't analyzing the video--to tracking Sampson's passport.

Vartann returned to Sampson's ranch house in the afternoon, and told Vrederveld if they didn't find Sampson, he'd be getting hauled into the station. More nervous than ever, Vrederveld rattled off two more countries and promised he was cooperating.

Luxembourg and Sweden were also busts, and when Vartann tried to contact Vrederveld again, the man had disappeared.

Rather than being upset, Vartann felt suitably vindicated--he'd been on the right track all along. He'd known the guy would crack, too.

Now he just had to run Vredereld to ground and get the truth from him.

Warrick wasn't sure what exactly had possessed him to offer to pick up Nick's family from McCarran. Maybe it was just too frustrating to be at the lab right now when evidence in Nick's case was still being processed and not much was being discovered. Perhaps it was that he remembered that Judge Stokes and Grissom had pretty much been oil and water during Nick's recovery, even though neither man would ever acknowledge it. There was almost some sort of competition there, although Warrick wasn't sure what it was based on and didn't want to contemplate it too much.

It was also possible that he felt obligated to look out for Nick's family because of his relationship with Nick, even though he had no intention of telling them--or anyone--about it. Most likely it was a combination of all those things.

Of course, he'd made the offer before he'd known that Brett was joining Nick's parents. Warrick still didn't know what his opinion of Nick's brother was, but then he barely knew a thing about the guy. He had learned the basics over the years--wife, two kids, city attorney in Houston, but really wasn't sure how Nick related to him. The most he'd ever heard had been in the past few months, because Nick had spent a lot of time talking about his visit with his brother, but Warrick had never quite been able to work out what that meant.

At the airport, he spotted the Stokes' immediately, and would have spotted them easily even if he had never met Nick's parents before, just by the man standing next to them. Brett Stokes was a taller Nick Stokes with blond hair and a few more years but without that easy, friendly smile. The lack of a smile, Warrick reminded himself, could very well be due to the circumstances, but somehow he didn't think so. Taking a deep breath, he walked forward to meet them.

"Mrs. Stokes. Your Honor."

The Judge's expression was one of cold fury, but he thawed slightly and very reluctantly, "Mr. Brown." He had always acknowledged Warrick and Nick's close friendship by being less disapproving around Warrick.

"Warrick," Jillian Stokes took his hand. "Has there been anymore news since we last spoke?"

"Has there been a ransom demand?" Brett asked.

Warrick looked at him in surprise.

"Sorry. Brett Stokes," he held out his hand.

"Warrick Brown," Warrick replied. "No ransom demand, but we aren't really expecting one. We believe--maybe we could get your bags and I can explain on the way. Once we get you settled at Nick's and you've had the chance to--"

"We're going to the police department," Stokes stated in a tone that brooked no argument.

Well, he hadn't expected it to be easy. "I thought you might want to--"

"We want to know what's going on with Nick."

"And I'll tell you," Warrick said, trying to speak firmly without seeming argumentative. "On the way to Nick's."

It didn't work. The Judge's expression grew colder and darker. "If you think we're just going to sit back and let this happen all over again, you are sorely mistaken. I'm going to talk to your Gil Grissom--I want to know why he let this happen again."

"Bill, please--" Jillian said, looking around.

They weren't drawing much attention, though. Stokes' voice wasn't overly loud, although it still got his point across. "Goddammit, I knew we shouldn't have let him come back here."

If there was one thing about Judge William Stokes that never failed to infuriate Warrick it was the way he dictated--tried to dictate--everyone's actions and the way he'd always acted as though Nick's presence in Las Vegas was some sort of disobedience. He tried his best to keep his temper, though, knowing Nick wouldn't want him fighting with his parents. "I don't think the airport is the place for this...sir."

"He's right, Dad," Brett said, after shooting Warrick an unreadable look. "Let's just get to Nick's place and figure out what to do from there."

No one spoke as the Stokes got their bags and Warrick led them to his jeep. As he pulled away from the airport, Warrick began relating what the LVPD knew so far, but the Judge was more interested in having his questions answered. "Why don't your people expect a ransom?" he demanded.

"How is the officer who was shot?" Jillian asked, cooling the situation in the car somewhat.

"Officer Carreiro is holding on, but they aren't exactly counting on him waking up."

There were a few moments of quiet, respect for the fallen cop, then the Judge spoke again, "Jocelyn told us you said this might be related to the last time."

"We think their might be some connection, yes."

"Then why wouldn't there be a ransom demand this time?"

"How could they be related?" Brett added a few of his own questions. "We were under the impression that Nick's kidnaper had acted alone. Wasn't it some sort of revenge?"

Warrick glanced at the two men in the rear view mirror, then over at Jillian in the passenger seat. "It's...more complicated than that. Walter Gordon had a partner. She made the ransom demand, even though Gordon himself had no intention of collecting it."

"So you know who has Nick," Jillian exclaimed, hope in her voice. "It's his partner."

"No, ma'am. She's dead, too." Realizing Nick hadn't done it, Warrick told them about Mullins' involvement and subsequent murder, and Kelly Gordon's release and suicide. Once he'd finished, heavy silence descended and lasted until they reached the house.

"Why...why wouldn't he have told us this?" Jillian whispered after they were inside.

The Judge was standing with his arms braced against the back of a chair, holding onto it as though that were his only means of controlling his temper. "If everyone is dead, how the hell could these cases be connected?"

That led to the explanation of Sampson, the land by the Dead Mountains, the mass graves, Nick's meeting with Alexei, his assault while "trespassing" on Sampson's land and Alexei's recent death.

There was another long silence, broken only when Nick's father spat--"What the hell is wrong with that boy?"

"Hey!" Warrick snarled without thinking.

"Bill," Jillian said in a much quieter voice.

"Why don't we know about any of this?" Bill asked her, then turned on Warrick. "Anything else we need to know about? Anything else happen to him in this god forsaken sinkhole of a city?"

Warrick ignored the insult to his hometown, because he was too busy wondering whether Nick's family knew about Nigel Crane. "That's everything we have on the case right now." All three of them exchanged glances and Warrick realized he really should know better than to try bluffing a bunch of lawyers.

"Why haven't the FBI been called in?" The Judge asked, and didn't wait for an answer. "Nevermind. I'll contact them myself."

Not the Feds. Jesus, not the Feds. If they think it'll nab them a trafficker they'll leave Nicky twisting in the wind. "We found him last time and we'll find him this time. If you'd just sit down, I'll go over every single thing we know so far."

To Warrick's immense relief, they sat.

Nick awoke with a jolt, bewildered to find himself upright instead of horizontal. By the time he recovered from his surprise that he'd managed to fall asleep in the first place and got around to opening his eyes, he found himself in the motel room's small, crowded bathroom. Crowded because both of his guards were in it with him, Moutry by the bathtub holding a gun on him and Rauscher holding him up by his arms. That last part was absolutely necessary, because they hadn't bothered untying his feet, making any sort of balance virtually impossible.

"What..?" was the only thing that sprang to mind.

"You're gonna take a piss now," Moutry informed him. "Or you can wait another day."

What the hell?

Nick felt the restraints on his wrists being removed, and his hands tingled as the blood flow returned to normal. Rauscher kept hold of one wrist and twisted that arm painfully behind his back, the man's other meaty hand gripped his neck. "You gonna take care of it?" The man's breath on the back of his neck made Nick shudder, "Or do you want us to?"

Under no circumstances was Nick going to give them a reason for that, so he quickly did as instructed, unfastening his jeans with one hand. The situation was humiliating--which Nick was sure was part of their intention--but so surreal that it wasn't that difficult to deal with. Besides which, he actually had to go.

Then Moutry leered, "He probably would love it if you did give him a hand."

Oh, God.

"Yeah?"

"That's what Sampson said. Heard it from a cop this guy works with."

Michaels. You bastard.

"You must really be enjoying this, then," Rauscher breathed in his ear.

Nick clenched his jaw and concentrated on refastening his jeans with one hand. A hand that, thankfully, did not shake despite the panic bubbling inside him. He wanted desperately to keep the lid firmly fastened on that panic.

"All done?" Moutry asked, falsely solicitous.

Rauscher yanked Nick's free arm behind his back and fastened them again. Only then did Moutry holster his gun. Nick's precarious balance disappeared and for a brief moment he felt the lid shift slightly until he realized his guards were merely dragging him back out of the bathroom. The lid rattled even more dangerously as the men abruptly dropped him half on the bed and he froze, not daring to move until he was certain they were in front of the television again.

He squirmed and struggled until he was completely on the bed and lying on his side--it was as comfortable as he could be in the situation--and prepared himself for another long stretch of tense watchfulness. The sun was up again, so Nick knew it had been at least twenty-four hours, but beyond that, he couldn't even guess at the time. His guards were blocking the television, so Nick strained his ears as they flipped through the channels, silently willing them to stop on a news station.

Instead, overdone panting and moaning sounded from the speakers, leaving no doubt what they had decided to watch. Nick stifled his own groan--of disgust. At some point, he knew he might be grateful for having their attention so focused on something other than him, but at the moment there were no opportunities or viable options for him to take advantage of.

It was back to waiting, then. They had to trip up somewhere, sometime.

Warrick looked up from the comparison scope as Catherine walked into the ballistics lab.

"What have you got for me, Bobby?"

"I finally track down the bullet taken from Carreiro."

Immediately, Warrick abandoned the bullets from the previous day's drive-by. Neither Catherine nor Bobby commented on his listening in even though it wasn't his case--everyone in the lab was doing the same thing whenever Nick's case was discussed, all of them hoping for some shred of new information.

"The bullet is a .32, manufactured for a CZ-70," Bobby said. "These are pistols used by the Internal Security in Czechoslovakia. The ammo is not sold here in America, and the weapons are usually only owned by collectors. Special permit is required for import--printout goes back five years," he handed Catherine a sheet.

"Sampson," Warrick said immediately.

"He's not on the list," Catherine said as her eyes scanned the paper. "But that doesn't mean much. I doubt anyone we're looking for would be on--Prause."

"Who?"

"When we first investigated Sampson, this guy's name came up," Catherine explained. "The Feds have been trying to find him for years. Dammit!"

"Well, you've got a starting point, then," Bobby pointed out.

"Yeah, but if we try to look up his files, it'll red-flag the Feds for sure. If that happens--" Catherine let her words trail off.

"Jesus," Warrick whispered. "The Sheriff is already itching to call them in, if they contact him, he'll hand it over for sure."

"And if the Feds think that sacrificing Nick will get them Prause, they'll cut him loose without blinking," Catherine finished.

"God!" Warrick gritted out through clenched teeth and left the lab, not even sure where he was headed. It had taken 27 hours to find Nick after his first abduction, and nearly twice that much time had already passed. Even worse, they about 20 hours away from the 72 hour mark and something was bound to change after that.

"Warrick. Warrick, hey."

Warrick stopped and allowed Catherine to catch up--he was just storming blindly through the hall, anyway.

"We're going to find him, Warrick. We found him before and we can do it again."

"This is different, Cath. You know it is. Jesus, we've got a dead cop on this one."

Her eyes widened in shock, "Carreiro is..?"

"No," Warrick sighed, "But you've heard the prognosis."

Catherine nodded sadly, her hair falling forward to obscure her face. "Conrad asked Gil to join him and Brass when the meet with the Sheriff."

"When is that?"

"This afternoon at four."

"No," Warrick closed his eyes.

"What?"

"Judge Stokes said he has a meeting with the Sheriff at four. Cath, can you get in on it?"

"On the meeting?"

"Or ask Gris to stay out of it?"

"What?!" Catherine looked at him as if he'd gone insane and her voice rose with honest anger. "Warrick, don't you even--Gil is giving everything on this. I know he's been...different, but--"

"You noticed that too?" Warrick asked, momentarily distracted. He'd been meaning to ask someone about it, just to find out if he was the only one seeing it.

Tears sprang to Catherine's eyes and she motioned for Warrick to follow her into the office. "This is killing him," she whispered. "He won't talk about it...not in any context except as a case, but--"

"I know," Warrick agreed quietly, and immediately the image of Grissom sprang to mind. Blue eyes burning, features drawn, expression stark, like a man on a crusade. Like a man with nothing left except that crusade. "And that's not what I meant. It's just that he and Judge Stokes..."

Catherine's anger subsided and she nodded, "I know."

"I've told his parents why it's not a good idea, but the Judge is insisting on calling in the Feds." Warrick paused as a lump rose in his throat. It was getting more difficult not to give in to despair, because the stack against them--against Nick--just kept getting higher and higher. Even the people who were supposed to be on the same side seemed to be working against them. "He's so...he's furious with everything. With Grissom, with CSI, with LVPD--hell, with Las Vegas. I don't think he wants anyone here working on Nick's case."

"Warrick, he's not going to sacrifice his son out of spite."

Warrick couldn't bring himself to answer, not even when he heard Catherine's sharp intake of breath.

"Would he?" she whispered in horror.

"No. Not consciously," Warrick said. "But..."

"Oh, God. Okay. Okay, I'll talk to Gil about the meeting."

Nodding, Warrick suddenly remembered he'd been in the middle of a case, and turned to go back to ballistics.

"Warrick?"

"Yeah?"

"Did anyone get a hold of Mark? Does he know?"

"Mark?" Warrick frowned, trying to place the name.

"Wasn't that who Nick had been seeing?"

He froze, "Uh..."

"I was teasing him about it the last time I--" her voice caught. "Well, he didn't deny it. And he'd been so happy these past few days I figured it had to be love. Didn't you notice?"

He was going to die. Right here in Catherine's office. He couldn't see. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't feel anything expect pain. No one could possibly hurt this much and not die.

"I'll look into," he said roughly, and fled.

Another day and this time in addition to the humiliating trip to the bathroom, there was also a dry cheese sandwich and half a bottle of water to break up the tedium. They didn't bother to untie him for either food or drink, apparently finding it entertaining to hand-feed him.

By the time his meal was over, Nick had nearly choked twice and his shirt was damp from all the water that had spilled. He'd remained silent throughout the meal, but it hadn't been easy. His guards were definitely trying to provoke him, no doubt hoping for the chance to put him back in his place. Nick wasn't about to give them that satisfaction.

His limbs were beginning to seriously cramp--his legs hadn't been untied since arriving in the hotel room and his arms only twice. Even if at some point he was suddenly free, he was going to waste valuable seconds trying to regain his equilibrium.

His guards were methodical, never leaving him an opening, and yet Nick could sense the situation beginning to change, even after two days. Thus far, the television and their conversation, along with hurling the occasional insult in his direction, had been enough to keep both men occupied, but Nick knew they were getting bored already.

He didn't want to think about what would happen when the imprisonment began to get to them as well.

Jim glanced over at Gil Grissom for what seemed like the hundredth time, willing the man to come out with one of those bizarre, obscure quotes or facts that gave everyone pause but still managed to bring people around to his way of thinking. Unfortunately, Gil seemed beyond either quotes or facts at the moment. They didn't have much evidence for him to draw from either, which might have been the reason for his unusual silence.

It was horribly chilling to realize that if not for Walter Gordon's twisted desire to gloat by contacting them the last time, they never would have found Nick. While they actually had leads this time around, they were still no closer to locating him.

All Gil had really been able to say--and he'd said it more than once as though to make up for the lack--was: "We'll find him." It was one of those rare times--Jim knew he could probably count them on one hand--that he'd seen the entomologist operating on nothing more than blind hope; on the conviction that they were going to find Nick simply because he couldn't bring himself to contemplate not finding Nick. Although Jim considered himself a realist, at the moment he was happy to go along with his friend--he had also been stubbornly refusing to think about what not finding Nick would do to everyone.

Today, though, Gil's inability to expound in his usual manner might actually be working in their favor. Jim had the feeling anything the scientist said would only infuriate Nick's father more and would automatically be denied. Judge Stokes wasn't interested in Gil's determination and Jim doubted he would have been interested in cold, hard evidence, either. Stokes didn't want Gil--or anyone else from Las Vegas--on the case and had been arguing vehemently on the subject for the past twenty minutes.

He knew it would make little difference, but Jim decided to step into the breach once more. "Your Honor, Gil Grissom is responsible for finding your son the last time."

"And who is responsible for the boy disappearing again?"

"We have several--"

"Don't give be your we have several leads bullshit, Captain," Stokes cut him off. "I want to know why Nick was taken at all. What the hell were your people doing when this happened?"

Asshole. I don't care if you are a Supreme Court Judge. "A cop was shot!" Jim growled. "And he was probably shot trying to protect your son!" And dammit, the last thing he wanted was for Nicky to be the battleground in this fight.

The Judge obviously knew he'd crossed a line, but instead of retreating or drawing a new one, he simply obliterated it all together. "Well, let's not have any more of your men getting hurt on my boy's account--the FBI can take it off your hands."

"It's a good point, Captain."

Jim had to grit his teeth to keep from lashing out at Sheriff Burdick. Unlike his predecessor or his undersheriff, who both occasionally still thought like cops, Ron Burdick was all politician. He was only too happy to have such a difficult case taken off his hands and as a bonus, do a favor for a high-ranking judge, even if it was one from another state. Jim couldn't think of a way to argue the point.

Much to his surprise, Ecklie could. The Assistant Director had been silent for most of the meeting, but now he spoke up. "You'd know the mayor's take on this better than I would, Ron, but I don't think the Lab Director would care for the implication that the Las Vegas Crime Lab can't handle this case. We are, after all, second only to Quantico. Will the mayor like it getting out that the City can't take care of its own?"

The Sheriff actually looked disconcerted, and Jim made a mental note to buy Ecklie a drink when this was all over. Whatever else he was, he knew how to play the game to perfection, and for once Jim was glad to have him on their side. As for Stokes, he was staring at Ecklie as though seeing him for the first time, and Jim supposed he was--before this, the Judge had merely treated him like an insignificant paper pusher.

Before anyone could pick up the argument again, there was a knock on the door. Jim was keeping an eye on Burdick to gauge his reaction, but turned when he felt Gil start next to him. It wasn't difficult to see what had thrown him--at first glance the man beckoning to Judge Stokes could have been Nick.

"Excuse me," Stokes said with a frown, and left the room.

Gil's shoulders slumped and he took off his glasses to rub tiredly at his eyes. Jim shifted in his chair and rolled his neck, trying to work out some of the stiffness in his shoulders. No one in the meeting room spoke as they listened to the murmur of voices outside. It sounded like an intense discussion, but wasn't loud enough to be understood. After a good fifteen minutes, the Judge returned, and Jim could see Nick's mother had been out in the hall as well.

Stokes did not look happy, and when he spoke it was through clenched teeth. "If you truly believe your people will be able to find him, I won't press for the FBI to be brought in."

Jim looked at Gil and then Ecklie, wondering what the hell had just happened.

"Your Honor," Burdick was quick to change gears. "Let me assure you that we'll have the maximum manpower assigned to this case."

Stokes left with nothing more than a curt nod to the Sheriff.

Ecklie glanced through the doorway, then shrugged. "Back to it?" he asked.

"Yep," Jim stood.

Gil followed, the distracted expression back on his face. None of the three men bothered taking their leave of the Sheriff. They hadn't gone more than a few yards down the hall when Warrick stepped out in front of them. "What happened?"

"What are you doing here?" Jim asked.

"Did he call it off?"

"He did," Gil said, studying the younger man closely.

With a sigh, Warrick slumped against the wall.

"What did you do?" Ecklie asked.

"When Catherine told me there was a meeting about calling the Feds in, I knew Judge Stokes wouldn't listen to any of you. I've been trying to tell him since he got here, and he won't hear it," Warrick explained, rubbing his neck absent-mindedly. "So I started talking to Brett, explaining how the Feds already tried to take over this case two years ago, and that I figured they'd give Nick up if they thought it would help their case. Finally, Brett called a couple of his friends in the Bureau, just to ask a few questions."

"And...?" Gil prompted.

"He made it hypothetical, of course, but basically they told him the same thing I had--that they'd probably sacrifice someone if it meant catching a big fish. Once Jillian found that out, we came straight over here."

Ecklie gave Warrick a hard look and obviously wanted to say something, but thought the better of it and walked away.

Gil, on the other hand, reminded him--"You aren't working this case."

The younger man bristled immediately, but as he studied his supervisor's expression, his anger subsided. "This wasn't part of the case."

After a moment, Gil nodded his agreement and Warrick left as well. Jim hated the way everyone had become so subdued. There were no longer waves or salutes or smart ass remarks whenever they took their leave of each other. He heard Gil let out a sigh and glanced over--the entomologist was staring after Warrick even though he'd long since disappeared around a corner. "Gil?"

"I told him in was over," Gil said quietly.

"What?"

"Nick. When he was working the Mullins case. I told him it was over."

Gil's voice was toneless, dead. Jim wondered if he would have been able to think of a way to reply if there had been any emotion or inflection. He doubted it.

Even more quietly, Gil added, "Never meant to disappoint you."

Jim watched him walk away, unsure whether that cryptic remark was meant for him or Nick.

"How's it going, Archie?"

Archie gave Catherine a small smile of greeting as she joined him in front of the computer. "It's going. Nothing more on Sampson yet. I'm positive he's in the States--probably here in Nevada--but I haven't been able to find anything besides the ranch."

"He's got to have an alias."

"Probably several. Detective Vartann called to ask if I could dig a little deeper on his assistant...um, Vrederveld. I'm going to see if any names jump out."

"Vartann called you?" Catherine looked mildly surprised.

"Yeah. And Detective Cavaliere was here a couple of hours ago, too, with a possible lead on Sampson." Archie didn't bother adding that he'd spoken more to the Detectives in the past four days than he had in the past four years. "Should I tell them to go to one of you guys?"

"No, that's fine," she assured him. "Don't worry about it. Everyone wants to follow every lead they can. Speaking of which--" She opened the folder she'd brought along. "I have a huge favor to ask of you. I just want you to know that if you don't want to do it, I completely understand."

Archie was immediately on his guard. The last time a supervisor had made a similar request, it had nearly cost him a friendship. Nick had eventually allowed him to explain and forgiven him, but he still regretted it--now more than ever. No harm in finding out what it was, though, so he nodded for Catherine to continue.

"You know we investigated Sampson before, right?"

Archie nodded, by now everyone in the lab was very familiar with the cases out by the Dead Mountains.

"At the time, we found a business connection between Sampson and a guy named Prause--this guy was into some bad stuff and was probably the reason the Feds took over the case. Yesterday, Bobby traced Carreiro's bullet to a Czech gun that has to be imported. Prause's name is on the list of permits from a few years ago. I've been trying to do more digging on him without alerting the Feds, but I can't get anywhere. They've been after this guy for years."

"And we don't want them on Nick's case."

"No, we don't," Catherine's voice was low. Then, even more quietly, she added, "Is there a way you can check this guy out without throwing up any red flags?"

She was asking him to do something that was unethical at best and illegal at worst, but Archie only felt a sense of relief. His biggest worry was that he'd have to lie or hide something from his friends again. What Catherine wanted could land him in a whole lot of trouble, but he was more than willing to take that risk. "Nothing I might find will hold up in court."

"I don't give a damn about court."

He figured she'd say that.

"I'll do it," he said without hesitation. "And if you want, I've got some friends...of some friends of an acquaintance who might be able to dig even deeper."

Catherine gave him a tiny smile as she slid the folder under his keyboard. "I knew you were the man."

Warrick emerged from his bedroom and vaguely acknowledged Nick's parents and brother as he walked past on his way to the bathroom. He hoped that a shower would be enough to wake him up after only two hours of sleep. Even though Ecklie was insisting that each CSI go home at least 6 out of every 36 hours, he had no way of making sure they actually rested once they got there. Most of the CSIs would have willingly worked until they dropped right now, but Ecklie's plan meant they could keep up their intense pace for longer.

Warrick spent most of his six hours in his bedroom, but few of them actually sleeping. He knew he needed more sleep, and was beginning to worry that he might be losing his mind a little. In preparation of the Stokes' arrival, he had changed the sheets on Nick's bed--that only made sense. What didn't make sense was for him to still have those sheets in his room, and use them as covers instead of throwing them in the laundry. He knew it was sad, but couldn't decide if it was sick.

He would lay on his bed, wrapped in those sheets, reliving those five short days that he and Nick had been together and trying to forget the five endless days Nick had been missing.

Showered and dressed but still with a couple of hours before he could return to the lab, Warrick was back in his bedroom and more reluctant that ever to leave it. Tense did not even begin to describe the atmosphere between himself and Nick's family, which was strange considering they all had the same goal. The Judge still emanated icy rage, not directed at Warrick or anyone in particular, but at the entire city. Jillian tried to diffuse or divert her husband's anger, but was too sick with worry over her youngest to have much effect. Brett did make an effort to talk, to be reasonable, even to get to know Warrick, but something else was also weighing on him--to Warrick it almost seemed like regret.

Thus far, none of them appeared to have any idea how much his relationship with Nick had changed, and for that, Warrick was grateful.

Finally, he forced himself to leave his room and went straight to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. He drank it standing next to the counter.

Jillian ventured to one of the two stools at the breakfast bar, "Aren't you going to eat?"

"Nah," Warrick replied with a shrug.

"I can make you something if you like."

"Thanks," Warrick mustered a smile for her. "But I'm fine."

"I don't think I've seen you eat since we got here," she persisted.

"I usually grab something on the way to work," he assured her.

"She's revving up because she won't have me to feed much longer."

Warrick looked at Brett questioningly.

"I have to get back to Houston. I can't stay away from work any longer."

Warrick nodded then glanced at Jillian, "Both of you are staying though, right?"

Before she could answer, the Judge spoke from the living room, "We won't be going back to Texas until we bring Nick home with us."

Gritting his teeth, Warrick managed not to retort.

There were several beats of silence before Brett gamely stepped up again, "Suz...my sister Susannah is coming. She said you two had already met."

Warrick didn't have to search his memory for that sister, he definitely remembered meeting her. Thirteen years older than Nick, she alternated between the roles of big sister and second mom around her youngest brother. Both she and her husband had been very easy to get along with. Despite that, Warrick felt it was time to mention something that had been pressing on his mind for the last few days. "I think I'll let you guys have a little more space. I'm going to stay at a hotel for a few days."

Immediately, both Brett and Jillian protested. "Do you have a problem with Suz?" Brett asked with a frown. "Because, she could just stay at a--"

"No, nothing like that," Warrick assured him.

"We can't let you do that, Warrick," Jillian looked honestly distressed. "You aren't getting enough sleep as it is. It'll be worse at a hotel."

"If you're that uncomfortable, we can make arrangements to stay elsewhere. Nick'd be downright ticked if he came back to find we'd chased his best friend out of his own house."

And that was why Warrick never stayed mad at Judge Stokes very long--the man's bluntness worked both ways. What's more, the way he spoke of Nick's return as though it were a foregone conclusion was soothing to a fractured spirit. Almost before he knew it, Warrick was acquiescing and saying he would stay.

"For fuck sake, go do that in the bathroom!"

"Fuck you. What do you care where I do it?"

"I wouldn't care if you didn't do it twenty fuckin' times a day."

Nick seconded Moutry's words wholeheartedly. After two days of having to listen to Rauscher's self-gratification he was thoroughly sick of it. He was just glad Rauscher was always facing the television and he didn't have to see it as well.

"You've been out for a month," Rauscher complained. "You had plenty of time to get laid. The day after I get out you haul me in for this fuckin' job."

"What the hell does that have to do with you doin' it the goddamned can?"

"I want to watch TV while I do it, do you fuckin' mind? What the hell else I got to work with? You gonna blow me?"

There was a charged silence, and Nick stifled a disgusted sigh. Oh, hell. Don't tell me I'm going to have to hear that, too. He had been so concerned with staying alive and watching for a chance at escape that it never occurred to him that he'd have anything else to worry about. As their silence went on, curiosity made him lift his head. His heart stuttered to a halt when he saw them both staring at him, then began beating double time as realization sank it.

"Work with what you got," Moutry suggested.

"Hell, he's probably better than the bitch boys in Ely." Rauscher stood up, "Probably had plenty of practice."

Nick struggled to sit up--he knew logically that with hands and legs bound he wasn't really going to get anywhere, but he certainly wasn't just going to lie there and wait. "Look, Sampson's the one the cops are going to be after," he said, addressing his guards directly for the first time. "When he goes down there won't be a whole lot on you guys--don't mess that up by doing anything stupid right now."

"Shut the fuck up," Moutry said, grabbing Nick's arms. "It's nothing you ain't done a thousand times before." He looked at his partner, "How you want this? On his knees?"

"On his back--you think I'm gonna leave it up to him how much he takes?"

They pulled and shifted him, and Nick fought every step of the way. He might not have a choice about this, but he'd be damned if he was going to make it easy for them. Since reasoning obviously wasn't going to have any effect, Nick spat curses at them instead.

Neither man paid much attention.

"He's prettier than that punk you had in Ely," Moutry commented.

"Helluva lot prettier than anything you had in Ely," Rauscher jibed in return.

Finally they stopped when Nick was lying across the bed on his back with his bound arms pinned under him and his head hanging over the edge. When Nick struggled once more to sit up, Moutry straddled him, sitting heavily on his stomach. "And don't take all day," he told Rauscher. "I'm gonna get in on this, too."

From upside down, Nick could see Rauscher approaching, cock in hand and already leaking. He squeezed his eyes shut, but there was no way of escaping the heavy scent of the man. "No," he said flatly, bracing his jaw closed.

"This is no time to get difficult," Moutry warned.

Nick heard the click of the gun and felt the press of cold steel under his chin. Rather than increasing his panic, the familiar sensation actually helped him focus. "You think that scares me?" he gritted from clenched teeth. "If you kill me before your boss wants me dead, he'll kill you. So go to hell."

Moutry snarled and got rid of the gun, but Rauscher wasn't the least bit deterred. The musky scent grew stronger and Nick clamped his lips more firmly together. He felt flesh slap his cheek, his lips, his chin, felt the wet smear of precum against his skin. Squeezing his eyes shut tighter, he swallowed a sob, determined not to let it escape.

Then Moutry's fingers began to dig into his jaw, painfully forcing his mouth open. Rauscher wasted no time; holding Nick's head stil, he slid his thick cock inside. Nick gagged as much on the size as on the taste of stale sweat and semen. Ignoring the shooting pain in his arms, he tried to twist away, but to no avail.

"Good?" Moutry asked.

"Oh, yeah," came the panting reply as Rauscher began fucking Nick's mouth in earnest.

Nick fought the desire to vomit, and less successfully tried to fight the tears that leaked from his closed eyes. Finally accepting that this was going to happen no matter what he did, Nick told himself he just had to get through it--just like he always did when bad things happened.

Blocking who was actually doing this to him, Nick thought back to his junior year in college when he was braver--or more stupid--about some things and had been willing to experiment. There had been many nights at various clubs, getting and giving anonymous blow jobs.

This isn't much different, he told himself desperately.

Rauscher let out a loud groan, and Nick felt him tense. He barely had enough time to prepare before his mouth was filled with warm bitterness, and he swallowed convulsively. Rauscher slid free, and chuckled as he sprayed the last of it over Nick's face.

Moutry released his jaw and Nick moved it gingerly while he coughed and swallowed in an attempt to rid himself of Rauscher's taste. More tears escaped from beneath his lids despite his best efforts. He fought briefly again before Rauscher--twice as heavy as Moutry--straddled him, even though he knew it was useless. What's more, Rauscher only required one big, meaty hand to force his jaw open. Moutry's: "Jesus, you going again?" left no doubt what Rauscher was doing with his other hand.

Then Moutry thrust into his mouth--although he wasn't as massive as Rauscher, that didn't make it any easier--and it started all over again. Nick endured, telling himself it wouldn't, it couldn't last forever until finally, Moutry filled his mouth with metallic wetness. This time there was also a spray of warmth against his neck as well.

The weight disappeared from his sternum and the cock from his mouth, and Nick took several deep gasping breaths. He heard them zipping up, then sitting back down in front of the television. Relieved that they seemed to be finished, Nick finally dared to move, rolling onto his side and shifting further onto the bed. Rubbing his face frantically against the rough bedspread, he tried to rid himself of them as best he could.

He heard a lighter flick once, twice, then the scent of a newly lit cigarette wafted through the old smoke and the heavy smell of sex.

"Well, that's one way to pass the time," Rauscher chuckled.

Nick's eyes were still closed tight in the hope--even though he knew it made no sense logically--that if he kept them shut and thought about something else, anything else, when he did open them, he would find it had been nothing more than a nightmare.

"Catherine, you got a minute?"

Catherine slowed her pace at the sound of Ecklie's voice, but only briefly. "Actually, no. I have to get to PD. Vartann left me a message more than two hours ago that they finally found--"

"Vrederveld. That's what this is about."

"Oh. All right," she followed him into his office and sat down.

"The guy was such a nervous wreck that Vartann didn't want to wait--worried he might grow a spine."

"Okay. Well, I can call him for--"

"I joined him for the interrogation."

Catherine blinked, completely thrown.

"Vartann called me looking for one of the CSIs working the case. No one was immediately available, so I went in."

"Oh." Catherine couldn't help wondering when Ecklie had last been in on any significant interrogation. "How did that go?"

"First of all, I don't think Vrederveld knows anything about the crimes we suspect Sampson of. Vartann agrees, by the way," Ecklie's lips twisted into a rueful smile, "I don't expect you to go solely by my judgement in this case. Anyway, the guy was happy to spill his guts about all sorts of tax evasion and fraud. Sampson would be a fool to trust him with anything more serious."

"And whatever else Sampson is, he's no fool," Catherine added.

"He finally admitted that Sampson is probably here in the States, but claims he doesn't know where. He did say that Sampson had moved from his ranch by the Dead Mountains to a house west of Vegas. He got a little vague about there, saying it was Sampson's, then saying it belonged to a friend, then saying he had made the arrangements."

"So the house probably isn't in Sampson's name," Catherine frowned.

"Not likely. Vartann and Cavaliere went out there to see if they can find enough for a warrant."

"After that, we asked him about Sampson's employees and he offered to get us a list, since he was in charge of paying them--except one."

"That's probably the most interesting one," Catherine's lips quirked.

"Most definitely. Sampson's personal bodyguard, one Lars Wietzel. Vrederveld figures Sampson must pay him from a personal account--apparently the man has worked for him more than a decade." Ecklie handed her a folder. "Extensive rap sheet. More than two dozen Class A & B felonies--no convictions."

"That is very interesting," Catherine said.

"The next time you see Gil, could you tell him?"

Catherine nodded, then sighed, as she always did when she thought about Gil Grissom lately. Anyone that had ever called Grissom a robot before this--and Catherine included herself in that group--had to revise that opinion, mainly because in the past six days, Grissom had brought "robotic" to a whole new level. He didn't neglect his need for sleep or food as so many others were doing; he slept and ate enough to keep functioning at his best for the case. What he ate or where he slept made no difference, nor did his feelings or anyone else's.

The pace he was setting was not a mad, headlong rush, but steady and determined as though it could go on forever if need be. Leads that others had abandoned as fruitless he pursued to their furthest possible point and handed back.

As for telling him about Ecklie's interrogation, Catherine suspected the entomologist already knew about it. No longer was Grissom the absent-minded professor they were all familiar with, now he seemed able to keep up with what everyone on Nick's case was doing. Catherine had often admonished him to keep a closer eye on things, but now regretted that wish, just as she regretted discovering the circumstances required to drive him to such vigilance.

She knew what it would do to her if Nick was never found, but was absolutely terrified what it would do to Gil.

Warrick took his usual seat in front of Grissom's desk and Grissom closed his office door before sitting behind it. The sight of his supervisor's expressionless face and flat eyes caused the tightness in his chest to constrict even further. Whatever Grissom was about to say to him was bad. "You...you found Nick--you found his body?"

"No!" Grissom said quickly. "No, that's not what this is about."

Warrick closed his eyes with relief. He could handle anything else.

"We have some questions for you."

The unexpected voice made his eyes fly open and he turned to see Ecklie seated in a chair slightly off to the side.

"Conrad is here to observe that everything is above board. Some of these questions may be difficult."

They had found out about he and Nick. Someone had figured it out. Although it was never the way he'd ever intended their friends to hear about their relationship, Warrick felt it would be something of a relief for them to know. It also explained why the questions would be difficult; a lover was almost always a suspect in such a case and Warrick knew that having kept quiet about it would not look good. He wasn't too worried, because he was with Caveliere and another uniform at the time, but hard questions would have to be asked. He wasn't going to make the situation even tougher on Grissom by being difficult about it, so he took a deep breath--"Okay. Ask."

Grissom nodded and glanced briefly at Ecklie. "How well did Nick know Officer Carreiro?"

It was so far from what he'd expected to hear that it took Warrick a minute to process the question. "What?"

"How well did Nick know Officer Carreiro?" Grissom repeated patiently.

"Wh--I don't...as well as any of the other uniforms I guess, maybe not as much. Carreiro had only been here for a year."

"Did you know of any bad blood between them?"

"Nah. Why are you--oh, hell, no!" Rage surged through him as the implication finally sank in. Considering him a suspect was one thing, but Nick? "What the fuck is--"

"Warrick," Grissom said, with no edge to his voice, just weariness, and that stopped Warrick where the other wouldn't have. "It's something we have to consider."

"The hell it is!" Warrick snapped, then caught himself. "No one would buy this."

"There have been...questions about why we haven't explored the possibility."

"Who? Who?!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Brown," Ecklie said coolly. "We aren't about to tell you that. These questions have to be asked, otherwise it will look as though we're deliberating guiding the case in a certain direction. Carreiro isn't expected to wake up, and with the possibility of a dead cop, we can't take any chances."

As always when Ecklie spoke to him, Warrick was reminded of the Assistant Director's words on that first night. Pitching a fit now would only waste more time, better to get this ridiculous lead finished off as quickly as possible. But he couldn't help growling a little under his breath. "Keep going."

"Has Nick ever mentioned Carreiro?"

Warrick took the time to think about it, if there was something, he didn't want it coming up later. "Not that I can think of. At least not other than, y'know, which uniform is on scene and stuff like that."

"Did he mention if he was being harassed?"

"No. If anyone on the force hassled him, it was never bad enough for him to mention it." Warrick leaned forward, suddenly exhausted, resting his elbows on his knees and cradling his head in the palm of one hand. For a moment, he considered telling Grissom about them anyway, but just couldn't bring himself to do it and the worst part was, he wasn't entirely sure why. "Anything else?" he finally asked.

"No. That should cover it. We've already heard the same from several other people and should be able to put this to bed soon."

Warrick looked up and saw much of his own on pain reflected in his mentor's face. He escaped the office as quickly as possible.

It became part of the daily ritual, along with the trip to the bathroom and the bottle of water. Food was not an everyday occurrence.

Nick briefly considered just going along instead of fighting--trying to fight, really--knowing that it would save him a myriad of bruises and pain. He just couldn't bring himself to, though. The outcome might be inevitable, but Nick wasn't going to make it easy for them.

He knew he'd made the right decision when several hours after their second time, Rauscher suggested another round. Moutry's "the little fucker fights like a wild cat--too goddamn much trouble every time you want to get off" only proved to Nick that he'd made the right decision.

Someone had come by to replenish their supplies at some point, but Nick had been asleep at the time, and if Sampson returned on the second day as he'd said, Nick had missed that as well. So the first time he saw anyone other than his guards was when Sampson arrived on the sixth day--or seventh--Nick thought he might have lost a day somewhere. When Sampson walked into the hotel room, Nick did his best to stifle the panic that suddenly began to bubble over. This was probably it, then. It had been a week and he hadn't been found. Any demonstration Sampson wanted to make about his competency to hide people would have been successful and Nick knew he was no longer necessary.

"It wasn't quite as perfect an example as I wanted," was Sampson's greeting. "The police have been investigating my dealings a little more closely than I'd have liked." He sat down in one of the chairs and lit a cigar. "Still, the fact that I've been able to keep Mr. Stokes hidden despite an intense search will speak well to those I do business with."

"So now what?" Moutry inquired.

"An excellent question. I believe he is the only thing connecting me to the dead body, but I'm not entirely certain of it. Is there anything you can tell me about that, Mr. Stokes?"

"I can tell you the dead body's name was Alexei," Nick spat, part of him wondering where his nerve was coming from when he felt so scared.

Sampson's shoulders shook once in a silent laugh as he looked at Nick with amusement. Then he frowned and leaned forward slightly. "God Good, he's a mess. What in--aaahhh. Entertaining the troops are we, Mr. Stokes? How gracious of you."

"Want to have a go?" Rauscher asked.

"First of all," Sampson said mildly. "This is hardly the setting I'm accustomed to. Secondly, he's a little old for my tastes. And third," his voice suddenly became deadly. "If I did care to have him, I would hardly require your permission."

"Yes, sir." It was the first time Nick had heard Rauscher sound even remotely subdued.

"Is that what you're going to do with him?" Moutry asked. "Sell him?"

Nick blood turned to ice as a whole new set of terrifying possibilities opened up in front of him.

"I've considered it," Sampson said. "As I said, he's a bit old, but still quite a fine specimen, and his quasi-celebrity after last year, along with the fact that he's in law enforcement would definitely raise the price. But that still wouldn't be enough to cover the cost it would take to properly acclimate him and what's more, the chance that he'd somehow escape is much higher than average. I'm afraid the risks outweigh the profit margin. That's not to say he couldn't prove useful in other ways, however. If say, he told me what I needed to know about this irritating investigation."

Shooting the most withering look he could manage under the circumstances, Nick spat, "Why would I tell you anything? I know how this turns out."

"Not necessarily. You may be able to provide me with time and convince certain people to abandon evidence."

"You're out of your mind," Nick said flatly. "The Las Vegas Crime Lab doesn't make deals."

"True. But your friends there do, don't they? They were willing to deal with Sam Braun in an attempt to get you back. I think they'd be willing to throw a wrench into an investigation and junk some evidence in order to do the same."

Nick wasn't entirely sure he knew the answer to that. If he was being completely honest with himself, he didn't want to know the answer to that, whether it was good or bad. It was a moot point, in any case. "I can identify you and you've confessed a multitude of crimes in front of me, but you expect me to believe that you still might let me go? Do you think I'm stupid?"

"On the contrary," Sampson said pleasantly. "But I can understand that your mental skills might not be working at full capacity at the moment. Perfectly understandable, of course. The truth is, Mr. Stokes, that I would prefer not having to kill you. Kidnaping charges wouldn't follow me outside of the United States the same way murder would."

"You've practically admitted to killing Alexei. Of course they'll be murder charges."

Sampson waved that away. "That's another matter. The murder of a homeless illegal, or even a crooked cop, won't be looked at too carefully. Not like the murder of an upstanding member or law enforcement and the son of a Texas judge to boot. Some things are just more easily ignored that others."

Shock at the realization that Michaels was dead warred with disgust at the way Sampson so easily placed value on human life.

"I'll let you think about it for another day or two." Sampson tamped out his cigar in the little glass ashtray, leaving more than half of it behind when he stood. His lip curled with distaste as he surveyed the hotel room. "And for God's sake do something about the smell in here before I come back," he demanded of Nick's guards. "There's running water in this place, don't you two use it?"

"It's not us," Rauscher explained and pointed at Nick. "He's the one that hasn't had a bath for a week."

"Then give him one," Sampson ordered on his way out the door.

When Warrick returned to the house for yet another mandatory break, he found it empty. That was something of a surprise, because unless they went to the police department or the crime lab, Nick's parents rarely left the house. Instead, they preferred to stay by the phone, keeping in near-constant contact with family members in Texas.

"I told them to get out for a while. See a movie, have dinner and not come back for at least a couple of hours."

Warrick glanced toward the dining table and saw the eldest Stokes' child sitting with a cup of coffee in front of her. Susannah Sutherland had arrived just as Warrick was leaving for work the day before, so they'd only exchanged greetings. "How did you pull that off?" he asked as he hung up his jacket.

"Told them that's what cell phones were for, then offered to show Dad how to use one if he was having a problem with them."

He'd met three of Nick's six siblings over the years and Susannah had been his favorite. Now he knew why.

"I know you're here to crash, but I was hoping you could join me for a cup of coffee first."

She wanted a complete run down of the case, Warrick guessed immediately. Separate from what her parents had told her. It wasn't that unusual a request for anyone, and not at all unusual coming from anyone in this particular family. "Sure. Let me just grab a cup." Then, coffee in hand, he sat across the table from her, preparing himself to go over the whole thing one more time for her benefit.

After meeting his eyes steadily for several long seconds, she asked, "How long?"

"It's been a week," Warrick said, then hastened to assure her. "But that doesn't mean we won't find him--"

"No, Warrick," she smiled sadly. "You and Nick. How long?"

Warrick managed to close his mouth after his jaw dropped, but that was it.

Susannah looked down at her coffee cup and back at him. "I started to wonder back when Nick was...ooh, nineteen or twenty, I guess, if he might be more interested in men than women. After college he went to work at the Dallas Crime Lab and I don't think he went out with anyone for more than a couple of weeks during those three years. Everyone seemed to assume he was playing the field, but that was never Nick. I've occasionally run into women who have dated Nick and the things they've said--nothing bad, but...well, they kept me wondering. When he moved to Vegas, I was actually happy for him, despite the rest of the family being up in arms." Her gaze drifted to a point past Warrick's shoulder, "One thing I never expected was that he would come out to the family the way he did last summer. Not easy to do in any family, and especially not ours. I underestimated him, though."

"Everybody does," Warrick barely managed to get the words past the lump in his throat.

"It must have been about three or four years since I noticed that Nick talked about you the most," Susannah touched his hand briefly. "And talked about you differently than everyone else. When Wes and I came for a visit, it was obvious the two of you were close, but it didn't seem to go beyond friendship, so I thought--maybe not. Then Mom told us how you reacted when Nick was kidnaped last year and I thought--maybe so. When Nick came out to all of us, I thought it was so he could tell us you two were together, but a month later he said you got married. Then he told us you'd gotten divorced and that you two were roommates. I figured things were finally settled, but since this has happened, no one has mentioned it..."

"Oh, God," Warrick squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that finally filled them.

"Oh, God," Susannah sounded horrified. "You weren't together. I'm sorry, it's just when I got here yesterday and saw how--"

"Five days."

"Pardon?"

"Five days," Warrick whispered. "We had been together five days before this happened."

"Warrick..." Tears sprang to Susannah's eyes as well. She took his hand.

"We didn't know. I thought--he thought--" Warrick swallowed hard. "How did you know?"

"By the time Nick moved to Vegas, I had pretty much convinced myself of the reason. So I paid attention, and it wasn't hard to tell who he had crushes on and who he had deeper feelings for."

Warrick shook his head, certain that if he tried to speak, he'd break. It was something of a relief--that someone knew. Knew that Nick had been so much more than a close friend. And if any of the siblings had to know, he was glad it was Susannah.

"It was too soon for you to tell anyone."

He nodded, keeping his gaze on the table.

"What about now?"

"Five days?" Warrick croaked. "That's not a relationship."

"Warrick..." her voice was softly chiding.

"No, I can't. When we find him there'll be time enough. If we don't find him--then there's no point." If they didn't find him, he didn't want the inevitable fall out from Nick's family, or the pitying looks of his friends. If they didn't find him, he was going to hoard those five days like treasure.

"But--"

"Please."

"All right."

Warrick freed his hand. "I should get some sleep," he muttered, barely waiting for Susannah's nod before going to his bedroom. There, he burrowed under Nick's covers, buried his face in Nick's pillow, and for the first time in seven days--cried.

Nick fell into another exhausted sleep several hours after Sampson left and awoke again to the sound of his guards arguing--again.

"Christ, you think he was serious about that?" That was Moutry.

"You sure he wasn't? You want to risk finding out the hard way if he meant it or not?"

"Look, it's different than when the guy just takes a piss. Then his legs are still tied and you got one of his arms twisted up behind his back. Besides, he doesn't seem too worried about getting shot anymore."

Shaking off his drowsiness, Nick realized with horror they were discussing Sampson's suggestion about giving him a bath. Although he felt disgustingly grungy and still had dried semen on him in spots, he would have willingly gone another month without bathing rather than endure what Rauscher was suggesting.

"S'matter you think you can't handle the little featherwood?"

"Fuck you," Moutry snarled.

The next thing Nick knew, they were hauling him off the bed and standing him up. Panic rose again, but he throttled it with the knowledge that this might be a chance at escape. He prayed that his legs wouldn't buckle when he tried to run, and even though logic told him he wouldn't get far with his hands bound, he had to try.

"You got his feet?" Moutry asked.

"Yeah," Rauscher crouched down in front of him.

There was a split-second of disbelief before Nick realized that the men had got their wires crossed and Rauscher was untying his legs at the same time as Moutry was taking off the flexi-cuffs. He tensed, hardly daring to breathe as he struggled to find his balance. He felt the bonds slip from his ankles and stayed still until he was certain both hands were free. Then he exploded into action, kicking Rauscher as hard as he could, ripping his hands from Moutry's grip and making a break for the door.

His legs wobbled only slightly, but that was enough for Rauscher to tackle him at the knees and send him crashing to the floor. "No!" he hollered, trying to get up again. Before he could, they were both on top of him.

"Fucker!" Rauscher snarled, digging a knee into his spine and landing several punches to his ribs. Moutry was sitting on his legs and together they managed to bind his hands and feet again, but it took a solid fifteen minutes to do the job.

It was only after he was once again trussed like a Christmas turkey that Nick stopped twisting and struggling.

"Fucker!" Rauscher spat again, putting a boot against Nick's ribs and shoving him aside.

"The hell with it," Moutry was panting.

"Oh, no," Rauscher insisted. "That son of a bitch is getting a bath if I have to drown him in the goddamn tub." Then he snorted, "Hell, we should have thought of it before."

"What?"

"We can just cut his clothes off. We don't have to untie him."

No.

"What's he going to wear once we're finished?"

Please.

"Who the fuck cares?"

No.

On to Part 4