A/N: Go easy on me, kiddos. This is my first chapter of my first CSI story. Hopefully, it's not too terrible or trite. Please R & R!

-1-

It was the nail on her left thumb that took the most abuse. Nibbling softly on the bit of exposed keratin, Sara Sidle's soft brown eyes scanned the webpage before her, searching for any information relating to her cause.

"Considering adopting?" Greg Sanders asked as he entered the room.

Jumping, Sarah closed the page with a click of a mouse and turned to face her younger colleague with a dissatisfied smile. "I'm going to put a bell around your neck."

"You know, my Mom always said that. Funny." He took a seat across from her, leaning back in his chair. "We're out on assignment together."

"Oh yeah? What do we have?" She reached for the file in his hands, flipping open the manila cover and scouring the contents. "DB…Southside…confession?" Cocking an eyebrow, she tossed the file back to Greg.

"Yeah. But, I did manage to get the most interesting case tonight. We're pretty dead." A look from Sara warranted a smirk. "No pun, of course."

"Right." Grabbing her jacket, she headed out the door, passing by Gil's office with slight hesitation. After having passed the door frame, she turned back, popping her head inside. "Hey, Gil…thanks for the confession case. You know they're never that easy."

"That's why you're on it." He never looked up from his desk, filing through a stack of papers, looking for the ones which still needed his approval.

Greg whistled from the end of the hall, tilting his head out the door. Nodding, Sara knocked on the doorframe with a slow, regretful swing in her first step. Yep, shouldn't have stopped.

The car ride was quiet. Sara watched out the window as they approached the crowded entrance to the club, an impatient manager tapping his toes at the front door. As soon as kits were retrieved and a path was made towards the door, Sara found herself in a sea of angry club-goers. Each over-dressed male and under-dressed female slung angry words at the investigators, wanting to be able to go back into the club to finish a dance, a drink, or a deal.

"Look, how long is this going to take?" An irate manager asked, looking at his watch.

"As long as we need." Greg thrust the necessary paperwork into the manager's hands and pushed past the guards. The scene inside was messy. The coroner was knelt next to the victim, pulling his thermometer from the body.

"Hey David…what do we have?" Sara took a similar crouch near the body, inspecting the surroundings carefully.

"GSW to the chest, no other visible wounds. He's been dead for about ten minutes, but his body temp is more up around the 102 mark. Can't tell for sure if it's the heat of the club or what, but we'll find out in a bit." Standing, he nodded and gave a little salute. "Good luck, guys. That mob's nasty."

Sara nodded, pulling out her camera and snapping off a few shots. "Tell me about it. See you at the lab." She took a few steps around, making sure not to crush any more of a broken champagne flute on the floor. "Someone was celebrating." A few more photos were taken of shards of glass in the vic's hand.

"No I.D., no money…you wanna take care of this and I'll get the confession?" Greg stood, snapping the latex gloves from his hands and pushing them into his pocket.

"Sure. I'm not in the mood to deal with the live ones today anyway." Laughing, Greg walked away from the scene with his kit, leaving Sara be. He stepped underneath the tape and up to the responding officer. "Who?"

Officer Davies had a nose like a pterodactyl. Greg had always found him amusingly pointed on his edges. Turning to face the young CSI, Davies offered his hand as a greeting. "Hey, Sanders. This is Jenna Gallows. She claims to have shot the vic. Says he dumped her a few minutes before, and she stole a gun from some guy's pants, then threw it across the room when she was done."

"Do we have the gun?"

Davies smirked. "What do you think?"

"Great." Greg sighed and moved towards the young woman. "Ms. Gall—"

A scream came from the main dance floor, followed by two shots. Most of the crowd stirred, ducking low. As soon as the shots were over, however, Greg took off, heading for where he'd left Sara. Sliding into the room, he saw what he feared the most. Where Sara had been, her camera and kit remained. Drag marks from her shoes pointed to a side exit, apparently not secured by the police. Blood rushed to Greg's ears as he began to hear his heartbeat in them, fumbling for his radio.

"This is CSI Greg Sanders…backup respond ASAP! Possible abduction at Club Ninety-Nine, I'm in pursuit of the perp as I speak!" His feet pounded the floor, squealing as he pushed open the exit and stumbled onto pavement. A tagless black Buick pulled out of the alley, onto the street, Greg quick behind it. As he realized his speed was no match for that of a car, he slowed to a stop and panted as he watched the car leave, helpless.

-

The soft aroma of the green tea in the mug beneath Grissom's nose allowed him a second of fleeting relaxation in the hectic workspace he occupied every night. His scent-enhanced daydream ended abruptly with the shrill cry of his phone. Sighing softly, he placed the mug on his desk and answered the phone. "Grissom."

"Where the HELL are you?" Catherine shouted into the phone.

"Sitting at my desk. Where the hell are you?" He replied calmly, waiting to hear why his colleague was so frazzled.

"At Greg and Sara's crime scene. Without Sara. Gil, we've been trying to get you by radio and apparently you've turned off your cell. Sara was abducted while processing her scene. Greg turned his back for just a second and…"

The receiver hit Grissom's desk as he snatched his coat and sprinted for his vehicle, kit and gun in tow.

-

The room was dark, quiet. Groaning, Sara lifted her head from the desk to which she was securely tied. Her head was throbbing with pain in a way it had never hurt before. She could feel the sticky, dry feeling of coagulating blood on her temple.

"Hello?" Sara's dry lips and throat provided no ease in calling for the attention of her captors. "Someone please…tell me what's going on…" Her head swirled, dizziness setting in. Resting her head upon the desktop again, too weak to hold it up any longer, she forced her eyes to stay open. If she had a concussion, she had to stay awake. Stay alert. Be ready to make a statement when they find you. Leave evidence enough to convict the perps if they kill you.

-

"Someone fill me in, now." Jumping out of his SUV, Gil Grissom was met with the worried looks of Catherine, Greg, and Nick. Nick's jaw was set hard, his cheeks flushed with fury at the fact that Sara, one of his best friends, had been taken by some jerk. Looking to Grissom, he crossed his arms over his chest and cleared his throat.

"She's been gone for fifteen minutes. Greg went to talk to the suspect and shots were fired. He went back into the main dance floor, and Sara was gone. Her kit, her gun, and scrapes from her shoes were left behind. Greg ran after the car, tagless black Buick. Other than that…nothing."

"Perp came back to the scene? Wanted to keep her quiet?" Raising an eyebrow, Grissom ducked under the tape and sped for the scene, wanting to see for himself. Although not a religious man, he was secretly praying that substantial evidence was left.

"I don't know, Griss. But God damn…if we don't find her in twenty-four hours—"

"Shut up, Nick. I know. Don't say it." The older man adjusted his glasses on his nose, the grips already sliding with stress-induced sweat. He leaned down and carefully pulled on latex gloves before gripping a small flashlight with which to examine the evidence.

Catherine Willows stepped up, biting her lower lip. "Greg's pretty shaken. I'm having an officer take him back to the station for evaluation." She looked over the void where a dead body had been moments earlier, the skid marks from her friend's shoes. "Double scene. Two crimes, seemingly unrelated, within minutes of each other. How do we tell evidence apart?"

"We keep our heads." Grissom pulled his tweezers from his kit and picked up bullet casings. "And interpret the evidence." When he looked up at Catherine, she could see tears in his eyes. "No matter how much we're hurting."