Disclaimer: While MS-13 is a real gang, the characters and actions depicted here are fictional. As to our boys: if we owned them, there would be hella more shirtless crime solving.
SPOILERS/Timeline: Takes place during season 6 between 'A Bullet Runs Through It' and 'Daddy's Little Girl'
UNDYING GRATITUDE: To Cristina who supplies all our Spanish translation with amazing insight and skill.
A/N: This is a co-written story; the squeaky gen fic-baby of two fangirls' long labor. All questions and comments should be directed to both ladies (Kim and Beth), please and thank you. This is old skool action!whump!friendship fic. Will post Thursdays and Mondays.
"Hey, man. You mind turnin' up the heat a little?"
"You cold?"
"Heck, yeah, I'm cold. It's freakin' five thirty in the morning, Rick; I'm tired and hungry and cold, and I wanna go to bed."
"Man, you sure get pissy after back-to-back double shifts." Warrick shoots Nick a sly grin to let him know it's all play.
Nick rifles through the duffle in the back seat of the Denali. "Man, I didn't even bring a windbreaker or a sweater."
Warrick can't help but laugh. His partner sounds like an inconsolable six-year-old. "Aw, too bad Mommy didn't pack you off to work with warm clothes."
Nick drops back into the passenger seat, pulling down the sleeves of his deep blue henley. "Yeah, comin' from a guy whose wife packs his lunch, wakes him up, and makes his bed, that cuts real deep."
Warrick throws up one hand in mock surrender. "I mean, I can understand your upper lip bein' cold—"
"Shoot, man. Leave it alone already. I told you; it was an experiment. The moustache didn't work out, I shaved it off. Get over it."
"I wish I could," says Warrick through a humor-draped grimace.
"Yeah. Like I'm gonna take groomin' advice from an Ewok."
"Hey. Tina loves my hair."
"Like only a wife could."
"Exactly, bro," grins Rick, arriving on top once again.
Nick points to a spot halfway down the mostly dark block. "I think that's our panaderia, boss."
"Yeah, there he is."
The Denali pulls up and parks next to the Taurus, and a very rumpled Jim Brass approaches through the glare of the headlights. The CSIs ease out of the SUV and meet the detective at the edge of the scene.
"Jim."
"Hey, guys."
"You look tired, old man," Warrick teases lightly.
"Yeah, well, I haven't had my morning coffee yet."
"What do we have?" asks Nick, rubbing his hands up and down his arms.
"You cold, Nicky? You shoulda brought a jacket."
Warrick's head dips in stifled laughter and Nick shoots a look between his partner and the captain.
"Yeah. I got the memo already. Where's our vic?"
"Front door of the bakery."
Brass waits for them to grab their kits and then walks them to the entrance of the turquoise cinderblock storefront.
"ID in her wallet shows her as Graciela Flores. Senior at St. Mark's High School. ID could be a year or so old, but it looks like her."
The young woman is sprawled sideways in the tiny alcove of the bakery's front door, blood spread out under her like a blanket of dark, melted chocolate.
Their eyes dart around the immediate area, around and over the still form of the young woman.
"Holy shit," utters Warrick.
"Is she…she's pregnant," whispers Nick.
"Call went straight in to the coroner. They're not sending a bus." Brass pulls a small spiral notepad from his jacket pocket and flips to his notes. "Bakery owner came in at four a.m. through the back, didn't even come near the front door until around five to set out tables and chairs. Said when he tried to open the front door, he found her. Tried to help her, reported to 911 she was stiff when he touched her."
"Rigor," says Nick from a crouch at the edge of the blood pool.
"Yeah," sighs Warrick. "No way the baby's still alive, then."
"No," says Brass, rubbing a hand across his hair.
"Look at this, man," Nick says, motioning to his partner. "She's almost completely decapitated."
Warrick leans in for a closer view.
It's obscured by tangles of silky dark hair, but he can see what his partner is pointing out; the carmine gap that runs from ear to ear across the dead mother's neck. "Damn. That's pretty brutal."
"It'd take a helluva knife to cut like that."
"Hunting knife or machete or something."
Brass speaks up behind them. "There've been three machete assaults in this area in the past month. One other a fatality."
"Serial attacks?" ventures Warrick, taking his camera from his kit.
"I don't know," says the detective. "The baker seemed pretty tight-lipped, nervous. This area of town? I'm thinking gang related."
"Mara Salvatruchas," Nick says, rising from his crouch and slipping on gloves from his vest pocket. "MS-13."
Brass tilts his head at Warrick and hooks a thumb in the Texan's direction. "Guy speaks a little Spanish and he's an expert on Latino gangs?"
Nick delivers a consolatory grin to his co-workers and pulls out his own camera. "I caught a beer with Vega a couple weeks ago when we worked that home invasion over in Henderson. We were talkin' shop and he mentioned MS-13. Their signature weapon is the machete. Kinda stuck in my head."
Warrick rubs his hands together. "A'ight, boss. Let's do this. I'll snap East, you snap West?"
"Sounds like a plan."
A half hour's gone by the time they've documented the scene in photos; blood pool, spatter, a smeared shoe print: all they can without moving the girl's body. They take shots of the alcove, pieces of trash. Moving out and away from the dead woman, they continue collecting and cataloging trace. They number and shoot and bindle and bag; cigarette butts and candy wrappers, a stray sneaker, empty beer and soda cans, a used condom, gum. There's so much possible evidence it's impossible to tell what ISN'T probative.
Once he's finished crabbing down the sidewalk to the end of the block, Nick's no longer cold. The sun is beating down like it's not December at all, and sweat has turned his blue henley nearly black at the edges of his forensics vest. But it's his stomach that's troubling him now.
The little block of 13th Street is dotted with panaderias, pupusarias, and little mom-and-pop owned restaurantes prepping for the morning crowds; the smell of steamed tamales and spicy recuados stewing with carnitas makes his gut rumble and growl. He can't even remember the last time he's eaten – too busy, too distracted, too involved in the other two cases he and Rick had been working the past twenty-four hours. Grabbing a nice, dark café con leche and a semita is all Nick can think about until he's worked his way back close enough to the young woman's body for the metallic tang of blood to find purchase in his nose and throat once more.
"I feel like a damn garbage man," calls Warrick from ten feet away.
Both their kits are brimming with the over-night detritus of a city block.
"I hear ya, man. And it's slim t' none any of this is gonna do us any good, anyway. Where the hell's Phillips?"
"Speak of the devil," Warrick smiles, pointing to the coroner's assistant passing under the yellow tape Brass has strung around the scene.
"Sorry I'm so late, guys."
"'S alright, Super Dave. We had plenty to do in the mean time."
"If it makes you feel any better, Catherine, Sara, and Greg are stuck on a double fatality, three car pile-up with shots fired off the strip."
"Happy holidays," Nick mutters sardonically.
"Yeah, well, let's get this wrapped up and motor, before we get pulled onto that one, too," says Warrick, motioning the young ME over to the bakery's tiny alcove.
"Oh," whispers David, taking in the pregnant woman's body.
"Yeah," says Nick, depositing his kit and switching out the memory card in his camera for another series of photos.
David steps carefully around the blood pool, setting down his bag. "You guys shoot this already?"
"Everything we could until you clear her," says Nick, adjusting the strap of the Nikon around his neck.
"Coffee, anybody?" asks Brass, back from another chat with the panaderia's owner. He presses a warm, white Styrofoam cup into both CSI's hands, sipping from a third.
"Oh, perfect, man," smiles Nick, drawing greedily on the hot liquid.
"Thanks, Jim," says Warrick between cooling breaths over the cup.
"Baker man's still not talking, but he does make a nice cup of joe. Sorry, David. Didn't know you were here or I'd have brought you one."
"It's okay. Had mine at the morgue. Let me just get a liver temp," says the assistant coroner. He kneels beside the young mother and gently pulls her hip toward him. He lifts the edge of her maternity top and pauses a moment. "Uh, guys? I think you might want to see this."
The three men approach, cradling their coffees.
"What's up, Super D?"
The coroner lifts up the woman's blouse revealing a prosthetic stomach and breasts. "I don't think we're looking at a stork situation as much as we are a mule."
Nick shoots several photos of the prosthesis, coffee set reluctantly on the sidewalk at his feet.
Phillips extracts a small baggie of white crystals from the folds of material around the torso of the body, holding it out to the CSIs. "This was caught inside her shirt."
"Aw, shit," mumbles Warrick.
"Crystal," says Nick, retrieving the baggie with a freshly gloved hand. "There more in there, David?"
The young ME hands him another small, Zip-loc'ed satchel, reaches inside the foam-padded stomach, and pulls out one more. "That's it."
"Looks like somebody knew to clean her out," Brass says.
"Yeah," says Warrick, wiping his forearm across his chin.
Nick snaps off a few more photos and then rises. "I guess we have motive."
"You okay if I go ahead and transport?" asks David.
"Yeah, sure. We got what we need," says Nick, removing the Nikon from his neck.
They watch in silence as Phillips bags the young woman's body and wheels her off to the morgue wagon.
"This seem familiar to you guys at all?" Warrick's mouth and jaw are tight, one hand massaging the back of his neck.
"Drugs and murder? Yeah, I think we've seen it once or twice," chuffs Brass.
Nick doesn't like the worry worming across his partner's face. "What's up, boss?"
Warrick glances carefully between the two men. He shifts from foot to foot and takes in the sidewalk for a few beats.
"Rick?" Nick nudges, stepping closer to his partner.
Warrick looks up, pinched regret falling roughly across his face. "The Bell case."
The atmosphere of the immediate area seems to change: breaths drawn in by all three men, electricity crackling.
Brass's thin lips purse and his head ticks once, pulling to the right. "The Buick Regal."
"Fausto?" asks Nick.
Warrick's head bobs once. He watches Brass nervously as he speaks: "Yeah. I mean, the original pursuit. Contranos and Guerro. Cath found a prosthetic stomach at the bust scene."
"Where'd that end up goin'?" asks Nick.
"Straight to La Tuna, as far as I know. Those two clammed up like a coupla Boy
Scouts in church."
"You worked that with Cavalier, right?" Brass's voice is quiet and tight.
"Yeah. Yeah, lemme try to get him on the phone, see if he can give us anything."
But before any of the men makes a move, a timpani of gunfire echoes through the morning air.
"What the--?" Three heads swivel in the direction from which the pops originate.
"That's close - about a block away," Nick observes, hand falling to his service piece.
Brass tosses him a warning glare and a parting shot as he dashes for his vehicle. "Easy there, Dirty Harry." He's not even looking as he runs, eyes on the cartridge he is double-checking in his 9mm.
He throws open the passenger side door of the Taurus and lifts the radio to his mouth. "Dispatch, this is Bravo Robert Alpha 179 requesting backup in the 1300 block of Puesta del Sol. Repeat, Puesta del Sol at 13th Street. Code 443. Officer in need of assistance. Multiple shots fired. Code 3."
The small handheld receiver is dashed down to the seat and Jim is halfway around to the back of the car. The trunk popped, he grabs the rifle from its lid mount, practiced hands cracking the barrel and checking the ammo.
"Okay, listen up you two mutts! You stay in the goddamned yard! I mean it. If you wanna stick around, then hightail it back to the Denali and stay put until a uniform shows up."
The captain's face reads 'don't piss me off' mixed with guilt/fear and hesitation, then he takes off on foot past the panaderia where Graciela Flores was found, and down the dirty alleyway.
"You know, it's probably just a drive by," Warrick muses, but isn't making any move toward the Denali.
"Yeah. You're probably right," Nick agrees with a slow nod, chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip. And also makes no move toward the truck.
"Jim's probably just paranoid. You know. 'Cause of the Bell thing."
"Yeah, well it's just 'cause of the shit he took for the Bell thing that makes me wanna do what the man says, Rick." Nick places weight on one foot and leans, showing his intent to head back toward the truck.
Warrick mulls this over for a bit, then nods his head shortly in acceptance. "'Kay," he sighs.
"But we carry for a reason, man. Doesn't feel right not following him."
"Copologists- not cops, Rick. 'Sides, with how bad your aim is, Jim's probably safer with us not there," Nick says with a smirk.
"You should talk, son. Sir Flinch-a lot."
"My last eval score's better than yours. You need to check your facts, bro."
And the two keep jawing at each other, but neither makes any real move toward the Denali.
Nick finally does the honorable thing and starts off toward the truck, stopping as they hear more gunfire in the distance.
Warrick takes a few long strides and passes him, headed for the driver's seat with a competitive, sly grin on his face. Nick just shakes his head with a laugh.
"Long as you get the heat fired up, you can drive. Hell, I'll crash out in the back. You know it's gonna take forever for a uni to show up."
"Don't you worry, Miss Daisy," Warrick cracks. "I'll get her all cozied up for you." The smile slides from his face as more gunfire is heard. "Ain't no drive-by. Sounds like all out war."
Nick's back to chewing on his lip. "You hear any sirens yet?"
"Nope. Let's check the radio."
Both men speed up and haul themselves into the truck, Nick lifting the mouthpiece from its base as Jim's voice crackles to life.
"Dispatch this is Bravo Robert Alpha 179. Where the hell is my back up? Code 444, multiple gunmen, 1300 block of Puesta del Sol. Respond with lights and sirens." The fear and anger in his voice is clear in the static-filled transmission.
The two toss heavily loaded looks at each other and simultaneously throw their doors open, making a mad dash toward the battlefield.
They round the corner of a carniceria, half a goat hanging in the glass front next to a dozen freshly plucked fowl carcasses.
The sound of gunfire is deafening now, mixed with shouts in Spanish and the occasional cry from innocent bystanders crouched behind shot-up cars and in shop entrances.
Warrick stops briefly, hands on his knees, his chest heaving with every breath. Nick is almost as winded, and he wipes sweat from his brow with the back of what he realizes is a still latex-covered hand.
The block has been turned into a latter-day Tombstone, Arizona. High noon at the fucking OK Corral. Men with guns cover each side of the street, barrels poking out of broken windows, men slouching behind mailboxes and light poles. A dark SUV, fully pimped out with spinning rims and a lowered chassis, sits running against a curb. The end of an automatic peeks out a driver's side window, smoke curling from it as another hail of bullets flies.
There's no sign of Jim, and Nick hopes that the detective has hidden himself away someplace safe. Not that there's really a safe place on the block.
"'S like fucking Kandahar here, man!" Nick bites out. What the fuck? And yeah, where the hell is the backup? "By the time the unis show up it'll be nothin' but blood stains left."
Warrick shakes his head angrily, not replying, just pointing his hand toward an open doorway in a small mercado one shop over on the block from their corner. The front window of the market is still intact, and for the few minutes of observation Warrick hasn't seen anyone firing from within.
"How you see our chances makin' it there, bro?" Nick asks with a sardonic laugh.
"Never ask that of a gamblin' man," his partner answers with a snort. "It's our best option, though. We'll get a better view and be outa the line of fire."
Nick sizes up the situation quickly, nods his agreement, and shoots his buddy a 'you go first' look.
Warrick grunts out a laugh, then crouches with his 9mm in hand and takes a step around the corner.
The gunfire has slowed a bit; whether the shooters are running out of ammunition or dying off is one of many questions. Like who the fuck are the players in this, and where the hell is SWAT or the Gang Unit, or even some fucking tans in squad cars?
It's World War III and the good guys are two science geeks and a roly-poly detective in his fifties.
Nick follows his partner, gun held carefully, barrel aimed up and over the taller man's shoulder. Warrick holds up a hand in classic ops style. Nick shakes his head once at the image of playing soldier as a kid; the extent of his military training.
A mother is laying down behind a '78 El Dorado, a boy of three or four squatting next to her. His hands are over his ears as he screams bloody murder; sobbing relentlessly, face purple. The mother has one hand gripping the boy so tightly her fingers practically disappear into his chubby upper arm. The Caddie was already in rough shape; no cream puff this car. No bling, just rust and Bondo. Now it's riddled with bullet holes as well.
A shot rings off the front steel bumper and the woman yelps, her hand loosening for a split second as she instinctively flinches.
The little boy is already spring-loaded on his haunches and bolts away, hands still over his ears, that and the continuous gunfire blotting out his mother's agonized screams.
"Mijo!"
The mother scrabbles on the pavement, hands grabbing on to the rust bucket's rear bumper as she tries to follow. Another bullet ricochets near her knee and she recoils back, then lunges again for her son who has stopped in front of the market's doorway, eyes saucered wide, spittle mixed with tears flying from his gaping mouth.
Nick sees the kid first, shoving his partner in the shoulder and pointing at the kid.
A bullet strikes the doorway of the market, but the child never flinches.
Warrick pushes off with his long legs, crouched down, upper body as parallel to the ground as he can make it, and slams down the sidewalk toward the kid. Nick is at his back, eyes flicking between the boy and the street, then at the mother.
The woman makes another attempt to reach her son, a bullet striking her in the shoulder, flinging her back behind the car to lay in the dusty street, barely moving.
"Mom's hit!" Nick shouts.
But Warrick is all kid right now; his entire focus on the boy. His only thought - his only fucking prayer – is to NOT see the kid jerk; body riddled by lead.
They are at the Caddie. Nick falls to his knees at the woman's side and pulls her up by the armpits. She's small, barely out of her teens. Her tee shirt, picture of Mexican pop star Luis Miguel emblazoned in a large pink heart, is covered in a steadily growing crimson stain.
Warrick makes it to the boy, his breath held as he snatches the kid into the air and wraps him in his long arms. Two more strides takes them into the mercado and he drops to his ass behind the safety of the stucco front wall, kid still squealing and wriggling like a greased pig in his arms. A bullet strikes the front window inches above his head and a small rain of shattered glass falls on them as Warrick enfolds the boy beneath him. The bullet continues its trajectory into the store, absorbed by a ten pound burlap sack of arroz.
Nick has the mom cradled in his arms and throws himself through the entranceway to the opposite side as a bullet hits the door frame, wooden splinters flying. He dumps the woman down next to him, holding her back as she tries to launch for the boy.
"He's okay, ma'am!" Warrick shouts to her, unfolding long enough for the mom to see her boy.
The young woman slumps in relief, sobbing. Her head falls to Nick's shoulder, her tears and her blood soaking his henley.