Author: Sam

Story: Speed Trap: 21 of 23

Series: Speed-Burn

Setting: September 20, 2005: Miami: afternoon

Note: Prodigal means “imprudent or short-sighted.” I say this because a lot of people seem unaware of the true meaning of the word.

Feedback: Yes, please? Especially constructive. samwise_baggins@yahoo.co.uk

Webpage: http://www.geocities.com/samwise_baggins/index.html

During the argument in the main lobby, almost all of the bystanders quietly left the general area. It was a scene no one should have been privy to, and it had been uncomfortable to witness. By the time the argument had finished, and Peg was reeling with the understanding that she had lost the fight for her son, only Calleigh and Stella had remained.

As if by some unspoken agreement, Danny and Aiden had moved back into the trace lab, followed closely by the tall, dark-haired, hazel-eyed Ryan Wolfe; the Miami investigator wasn’t sure who those two were and wasn’t about to leave them unattended in the lab. A frowning Eric turned to go to the locker rooms to get some dry clothes for Horatio’s ex-wife; he was willing to still help the woman despite her viciousness. Mac moved towards the lower area, and the morgue, deciding that talking to Speed would be the most direct way to solve many of the questions that were still floating around.

Wanting to avoid the horrible scene she knew had been coming, Yelina had taken her son, Ray Jr., to the snack machines close at hand; she would be able to tell when the fight ended, as well as the results, but Ray Jr. wouldn’t actually be watching the argument.

At the sudden silence in the lobby, Yelina moved towards the door to check on her brother-in-law and nephew. Something abut the tableau before her let her know that, at least for now, Peg had accepted defeat and conceded the child to his father. Relief swept over the detective and she let herself smile.

Horatio kept his hands on his son’s shoulders, watching his ex-wife carefully. Peg had given in, but he knew better than to think she’d be cowed for long. He could see a long, drawn out court battle for custody in the future. The redhead had every intention of winning the case, too; he loved his son too much to let him go back to such a lonely life as Peg’s little pet possession.

The younger redhead was content to merely lean into his father, watching his mother just as warily. He knew that somehow his father would make it all right; he’d get to stay forever. To the child of ten, there was suddenly nothing his father couldn’t do.

John Fredericks frowned as he noted the six vehicles, four of them law enforcement marked Hummers, parked in front of the Miami-Dade Crime Lab. He hadn’t counted on it being so crowded; that would make his interview a little more difficult. With a quick glance, he noticed a driveway to the side of the building and started maneuvering down its flooded surface. In passing a second parking area, he noted four vehicles, none marked, and wondered just how many people had been allowed to stay; wasn’t the place under mandatory evacuation? The FBI agent wanted to park where he would be noticed least, and it seemed he would continue to be thwarted with every attempt; the back parking area was loaded with three Hummers and a law enforcement marked truck. Just what's going on here, anyway, a hurricane party?

Pulling into the parking spot furthest from the truck, the agent put his rental car into neutral and sat thinking, letting the engine idle.

He had wanted privacy to interview his witness, but all of these vehicles denoted that privacy was most likely a hard to come by commodity in this lab. However, technically, all of those people connected with the mass of vehicles could be a good sign. It meant he actually had a good chance of finding his witness and interrogating him. After all, fewer people meant worse odds that his witness was indeed there to begin with. Fredericks had already taken a big chance guessing a lab technician would be sent to the lab and not an area of heavier danger or damage. Maybe his gamble would pay off. And if the witness wasn’t here, he’d check in with the police task force, or even FEMA, to verify the New York team’s location. For now, Fredericks preferred to keep a low profile.

Calmly, the agent lifted his eyes to stare at the double doors leading into the building. His breathing was steady, his demeanor calm. Slowly, the agent with the slicked back salt-and-pepper hair reached down to reassuringly touch the hilt of his service weapon. He eased it out, pulled out the magazine, and checked to make sure it was fully loaded. With a nod, the man slid it back in place, listening for the reassuring click. Fredericks then slipped out of his car and into the blowing rain, heading for the morgue doors and his intended target.

“Look at you, Timmy, you’ve lost weight.” Alex smiled at the younger man and touched his cheek yet again. She’d been continually reaching out to him, reassuring herself that he was indeed standing in front of her, for the last half hour. It would probably take some getting used to; Alexx had been in mourning for her friend for a year.

With a small smile, Speed let Alexx touch him as often as she wanted; he’d missed the contact. The New York team was friendly, but more reserved, less personable, than the easy-going Miami crew. It was good to be home at last. “I’ve been eating,” he said on a small laugh.

It was somewhat disconcerting for Alexx when Tim walked past the slab she used for autopsies; a year ago, exactly, she’d done his autopsy there. She reminded herself that it was his brother she’d done the autopsy on, not him. For peace of mind, however, the doctor grasped the investigator’s hand and tugged him towards the counter instead.

The friends had been talking for the entire half hour, knowing that the real world would need to be met soon, that the rest of the Miami team had a right to know Speed was still alive. They wanted some personal time, however, and were putting it off a little bit. Just another half hour or so and the entire lab could be told about what was going on, that Speed’s twin was the one lying in a grave, that the prodigal son had returned.

Knowing there were two teams of investigators in the building, neither paid attention to the sound of a lone set of footsteps approaching. They continued to talk, trying to catch up on a year of missed days and lost chances. Somehow, through their words, they were attempting to seal that inadvertent rift that had started with a bullet through the heart.

There were a few sounds one never forgot in one’s life. The sound of a gun’s hammer being cocked for firing was one of them. As soon as the click rang out, instinct took over and the pair was down on the floor of the morgue, Speed covering Alexx with his larger body. Neither saw the threat, but they could sense it.

Tim raised his head carefully, one hand over Alexx’s head as she trembled beneath him. He scanned the area, trying to locate the gun they’d heard. He could see a shadow, but he couldn’t identify who it belonged to. The investigator lowered his head and whispered in the doctor’s ear, “Stay here, Alexx; I’ll check it out.”

Pain ripped through his side, causing an involuntary gasp, as blood spattered the pair.

“Timmy!” Alexx had heard the shot, it seemed to still be echoing around them. Twisting her body under the heavy weight of her friend, she was all too aware of the warm blood seeping from his wound. Not again! She wasn’t about to lose her baby again. Her steady healer’s hands found the injury to his side and covered it, trying to stem the flow of life-giving blood.

“Damn,” Speed gasped, his hand covering Alexx’s over his wound. “I hate getting shot!” He turned his head in the direction the shadow had been and saw a man, weapon held comfortably in his hand... And that gun was pointed directly at the pair on the floor.

No matter where they were in the vast laboratory building, there was no mistaking the sound of a gun shot. After all, there were no running machines and busy staff to provide cover noise. From the trace lab to the locker rooms to the myriad hallways in between, it was evident someone in the building had fired a weapon. Everyone reacted to the noise.

Horatio quickly shoved his son towards his sister-in-law, drawing his own weapon as he led Calleigh and Stella towards the stairwell. They were followed within moments by Ryan, Danny, and Aiden. From the locker room, closer to the morgue, ran Delko, also with weapon drawn; he could tell the gunshot had come from the morgue, and he was worried for Alexx.

Ignorant of the CSI’s running towards the echoing from the depths of the building, Peg screamed in fear. True, she’d just gotten home from a war and should have been used to the sound of gunfire, but somehow it was different when one expected to hear it as compared to the unexpected sound in what was supposed to be a safe area.

A single stinging slap across the cheek cut the woman off and drew her shocked attention to the woman standing close by. In anger, Peg turned on Yelina. “You didn’t have to hit me!”

Rolling her eyes, nodding quickly as HR stopped next to her, the detective reached out and gripped Peg’s uninjured arm. “Ray, HR, come with me.” She snagged a first aid kit in passing and led the complaining woman back up into the office they’d so recently vacated. Yelina ignored the sight of Madison’s destroyed picture frame, instead pushing Peg into a chair and helping to pull off her suit jacket. If it kept the woman out of the way, and gave her a chance to keep the boys safe as well, Yelina would tend her former sister-in-law’s injury.

The sound of the front door opening drew Yelina from Horatio’s office with a frown. She handed her teenaged son the first aid kit and quickly headed down the steps towards the blonde woman who’d just entered the lobby.

“May I help you?” The blonde was soaked and panting as if she’d just run through the hurricane. She looked up at Yelina and immediately flashed FBI credentials, heading directly towards her. Yelina came to a stop at the bottom of the steps, wary but listening.

“Ivana Gideon. There’s a man down here who’s life is in danger. He’s being hunted.” The agent had been driving since her plane had landed, breaking half of the traffic laws for the state of Florida. “His name is Speedle...”

“Speedle?” Yelina pulled out her phone with a frown, not sure why the woman would think a man dead a year would be in danger now. She knew about Stetler’s investigation, however, so determined that Horatio would need to deal with this newest problem. Besides, with the sound of gunfire in the lab, the FBI agent may have been on to something.

Mac, still heading down the hallways, retracing his earlier steps back to the morgue, slowed and drew his weapon, keeping his eyes alert for the shooter; the echo was joined by the memory of a child’s innocent question “does that mean you’re in danger?”. He was willing to bet that someone knew Tim Speedle had returned to Miami, and that person wanted Speed dead. The question was, had he gotten his desire with that single shot?

Rounding the corner, he saw a man standing in the doorway to the morgue, facing inside. There was a weapon in his hand, and the steady grip told Mac that the man was specifically aiming at someone. The New York detective had no idea how many hostages the man had.

Falling back on procedure, Mac called out, “Police, drop the weapon!”

His distraction worked to a point; it at least briefly drew the man’s attention from whoever was in the morgue. Mac kept his weapon steady on the suspect as he continued his slow approach. “Drop the weapon now.” He took another couple of careful steps towards the man.

Trained for years in rapid response, first in the Marines then in law enforcement, Mac was prepared for the man to fire the gun. He was even prepared to have the man turn the weapon on him as a prime threat. What he hadn’t been prepared for was the man firing his weapon at the same time he shifted his aim. Several shots rang out and Mac felt fire tearing through his thigh.

Drawing on discipline he’d never relinquished when he’d left military service, the ex-Marine ignored the injury and returned fire. His shot missed as the man threw himself into the morgue for cover. Mac’s adversary was apparently well trained himself, and it drew this confrontation onto a whole new level. The Marine-turned-detective ran the last few steps to the morgue’s doorway and glanced cautiously inside, gun at the ready all the while.

Inside the room, he saw Speed laying atop his doctor friend, Alexx. Blood was covering both, and it was uncertain just which one had been hit or how serious the injuries might be. The tall suspect with the gun was still turned towards Mac, weapon steady, bottle-green eyes cold.

“You’re at a disadvantage, Taylor.”

Who the hell is this guy, and how does he know me? Mac frowned, his gun still just as steady as the other man’s. “Drop your weapon.” He gave the man one last chance to comply freely, already planning out the shot he’d need to take in order to disarm the suspect.

Another loud shot, followed by searing pain in Mac’s gun hand quickly turned the tide against the New York detective. He instinctively fired back, but lost control of his weapon with the recoil, dropping it with an involuntary curse. Mac noted that his adversary had received a shot in the arm and had dropped his own weapon, as well. As the ex-Marine crouched to reach for his backup, the suspect moved quicker, pulling his own and taking aim from his crouched position.

“Kick the gun over here, Taylor.”

If the weapon had been aimed at Mac, himself, he wouldn’t have cooperated, but it was aimed directly at Alexx and Speed. Knowing he’d have to bide his time, hoping the others had heard the gunfire and were even now coming to help, Mac did as he was told. He used his injured leg to shunt his service weapon away from easy reach, out maneuvering the man by making sure it skittered out of his reach, as well; it landed somewhere on the far side, near the morgue table but nowhere in reach of the two combatants.

“Cute,” the man growled and scooped up his original weapon. He stood quickly, his aim never wavering from the bloody pair on the floor. With a flick of his head, not his weapon, he instructed Mac, “turn around, Taylor. Don’t even try to stall; I don’t care if I take all three of you down.” For good measure, he added, “Conspiracy to run guns for drugs.”

Mac turned slowly, hands raised despite the blood seeping from his injured arm and thigh. His mind was turning the words in his mind. That phrase, while not unique in the criminal world, had been one he’d seen or heard recently; if he could clear his pain-fogged mind, he’d figure it out. It seemed to be important somehow.