A/N: Okay, I'm sorry this is incredibly late! It's been one heck of a week so I'd really like to dedicate this to you patient readers who've willingly (I presume) been holding up for me!


The A/V lab back at the Crime Lab had been a hub of both maniacal and vibrant activity in the immediate minutes which followed the news that a suspicious nine-one-one call had appeared to point towards Greg's sudden disappearance. Catherine oversaw as Archie and Ray poured over the tape with intense scrutiny. Doc Robbins had even gotten himself involved, it was otherwise a quiet day in the morgue and he too was eager to do anything to help find their colleague.

They were particularly interested with the section which suggested that the pursuit vehicle had headed north on the US ninety-five road and had accessed some traffic cameras along that stretch of road. Sure enough, the white GMC Savana bearing the specified number plates could be clearly seen even on these cameras with no enhancement required by Archie.

"Well, this implies that our van and possible kidnapping are genuine," Ray concluded as they observed the footage with a glimmer of hope that they were getting close to finding him.

"Yes, but how do we know whether Greg was in the van?" Catherine asked. "I mean, it could be something to lure us away from his actual location."

"I'm afraid I can't enhance the imagery any further to see who's in the van," Archie said with regret.

"Well the speaker from the nine-one-one tape sounds an awful lot like Peter Grimsrund," Doc Robbins spoke up. "Having been enlightened by him for a couple of hours yesterday, that voice is easily recognisable."

"But Peter Grimsrund is our suspect, he was the person who was with Greg when he disappeared," Ray pointed out, overwhelmingly confused by the situation. "How do we know it's not him who's been behind this all this time?"

"I don't think it was him," sounded a familiar Texan voice as Nick strolled into the A/V lab, grinning sheepishly having obviously acquired valuable information which would help them locate Greg.

"Spit it out then," Catherine urged, reminding him that they were running out of time.

"Okay, okay," he responded. "I ran the plates that our nine-one-one caller took, came back to a Mr Erlen Strasse. He has no record, but he was nice enough to leave us his photo." Nick slammed down a document on the table revealing Erlen Strasse to be the balding man with the cold eyes, who was spotted swearing at the surveillance camera in Greg's apartment block.

"I think you may just have identified our serial killer," Catherine confirmed with the team.

"Wait, I've got more. I looked up Peter Grimsrund, and I got something on this Norwegian database. He's an NIS agent; he works for the Norwegian Intelligence Service."

"That, I can confirm," Brass said as he walked in and joined the team. "The director of the NIS just got in contact with Ecklie, apparently Mr Grimsrund was sent from Norway to investigate possible fascist emergence in the US. They lost contact with him yesterday and Vegas was his last known co-ordinates."

"Great, so now we've got a CSI and an NIS agent in trouble now, do you reckon it's time to call in the Feds?" Catherine asked defectively.

"Absolutely not," Brass responded quickly. "By the time they get their asses into gear, Sanders will have been carved up like a Thanksgiving dinner. I'll get a SWAT team and some ambulances ready but I'm gonna need a location ASAP!"

"And I think I just got you one!" Sara hurried in gleefully; as she extracted a file she had created with her research. "I looked up any events of catastrophic flooding in the Mount Charleston area but most flooding events appear to have been successfully managed, bar one property." She flicked through the notebook and opened it on a page where an old rickety two-story house which stood abandoned and derelict against a lonely desert landscape. "Flash flooding event, May two thousand and seven, I sure remember that storm. The house was completely waterlogged, the damage was too large and the house was abandoned, that gives it ample time to develop the black mold Hodges analysed."

"You sure this is the only case?" Nick asked her.

"A hundred percent positive," Sara replied, "I reckon this is our crime scene."

"Well, it's better than nothing," Brass grabbed the file and picked up his radio. "This is Brass, proceed to Telephone Canyon Road. It'll be the only house you see."


Greg felt himself begin to sweat uncontrollably as Strasse slowly walked towards him and Greg tried in vain to free himself from the chair he was restrained on. He tried to look away from Peter who was still spluttering and slowly bleeding out. Strasse brandished a blade, a small blade, a boxcutter, Greg felt himself go cold as he could make out the glistening blood stains which lined the minute instrument. He heard a deafening whirring sound behind him, as Linden started to rev up the saw which had been used to perform the previous executions.

They're on their way, he told himself, they'll get the nine-one-one call; they'll come and find me. The problem was, when they would find him, Greg knew he had to stall them, but he also had it in his mind that Strasse would keep him alive as long as possible. That would be more fun and it was then, that Greg knew his only chance of survival, was to join in with the game himself.

"What would you get from this?" He asked Strasse, directly looking into his cold eyes. "What gain would you, or the National Gathering gain from killing me?"

The whirring of the saw subsided and Strasse himself paused, thinking of the best way to respond to his hostage's question. "So, it seems that Peter's already given you some lessons," he began to talk slowly, starting to circle Greg, who lay trapped in his spider's web. "I can assure you Hojem, your death will be a monumental achievement to all who support the National Gathering, or to use its correct term, the Nasjonal Samling."

"Oh yeah," Greg laughed heart-heartedly. "How could I forget I'm an enemy to the party?"

"Not just you, your entire family," Linden snarled as he clamped a sweaty hand on Greg's left shoulder.

"Your grandfather appeared to be proud of you," Strasse whispered to Greg sinisterly. Despite having his wrists restrained, Greg still had the power to clench his fists angrily as Strasse brought up the subject of Papa Olaf. "Having kept a close eye on him in the weeks leading up to his death, I learnt a lot about him, I wonder how much he told you about his past life."

"I know he fought for Norway's freedom in the war," Greg replied confidently.

"Oh is that what he told you?" Strasse sneered. "It looks like he missed a chunk of timeline there."

"What do you mean?" Greg asked, a look of confusion appearing on his face. Strasse began to smile coldly as he began to gain the upper hand, crouching down in front of Greg so their faces were just centimetres apart.

"How about I tell you a story about my family? My father was just like your grandfather, he fought in the war for Norway..."

"For Norway's occupation probably," Greg retorted.

"To restore Norway to its former glory," Strasse spoke loudly over Greg, continuing his story. "He spent a lot of the war in London, secretly recruiting more officers for the Nasjonal Samling. Of course, my father was a great man, but he couldn't succeed at his mission by himself, which is why there were others with him. And I thought you'd like to know about a particular, how should I put it... colleague of my father." Greg squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, partly out of anxiety but also in a vain attempt to loosen his restraints. "Now what was his name?" Strasse asked himself rhetorically. "Oh I remember it, his name was Olaf Hojem."

"You're lying!" Greg snapped back at him causing the four men who surrounded him to start laughing mockingly. "Papa Olaf was not one of your lot!"

"I understand this may be something hard to comprehend about someone you idolise, but let me ask you Hojem, when did your grandfather move to America?"

Greg had to think about the question for a moment, he'd heard the story of Papa Olaf's emigration to America many times before, and it was only then that he truly considered the date. "Nineteen forty-six," he replied, having thought about it for a while. "After he got my grandmother pregnant before they were married, he didn't choose to go."

The men around him started to cackle again and Greg could feel his blood begin to boil as he once more wriggled his wrists and ankles attempting to be released from his prison of duct tape. After about thirty seconds Strasse was able to compose himself and he continued to speak to Greg coolly. "You honestly believed you could get kicked out a country for pre-marital pregnancy? I thought you CSIs were meant to be smart. Well Norway for some reason didn't embrace our ideas, in fact, they wanted nothing to do with us nationalists, and we were exiled from Norway after the war, my father and your grandfath..."

"No, Papa Olaf was not a fascist!" Greg yelled at Strasse, managing to inflict a flinch upon his foe. Strasse gestured to the curly haired man who stood in the corner who handed over a large book. No, it wasn't a book, it was the photo album, the one Peter had shown him outside the Starbucks. Strasse opened the album to the first photo, one that he'd already seen that night, he positioned the album in front of Greg.

"Read, who this is," Strasse said quietly pointing at a man who stood next to Papa Olaf holding his arm round his shoulder. He was a man with blonde hair, who looked slightly older than Papa Olaf, sporting a beard and rather shallow eyes.

Greg cast his eyes down to the bottom of the page where it named each member of the photo. His felt his heart tie itself in a knot when he read the name. Erik Strasse.


The still calm of a Saturday morning was disrupted by a forewarning sound. The sound of sirens. A convoy of police cars, ambulances and Denalis roared along State Road one-fifty-seven road seamlessly passing the unaware traffic which was distributed sparsely on the road to Mount Charleston.

The convoy was lead by Captain Jim Brass, who sped along roughly sixty feet in front of the other vehicles. Brass felt particularly anxious about what they could find at the house. At the very best, they'd find Greg alive, they'd bring in the kidnappers and the case could be closed there and then. At the very worst, there could be no trace at all, a dead end, and Greg would die, if he hadn't been killed already. Brass shook that thought from his mind, by his logic, they were no more than twenty-five minutes behind the GMC Savana and Brass felt confident that his next shift wouldn't be investigating the death of one of his colleagues.

He glanced in the interior mirror, Officer Mitchell and Officer Akers were close behind and he could make out an ambulance behind them. Brass couldn't help but think he was partly responsible, his department had ultimately failed to stop this, if anything he could be facing just as much criticism as Officer Highcliffe should this go wrong.

He glanced down at the Sat Nav he'd installed. Estimated TOA, five minutes. Although the pedal was firmly on the floor, Brass felt himself inputting even more power into the vehicle as the speedometer once more began to climb back up to the hundreds.


Thoughts of disbelief began to flash through Greg's mind as he sat in the chair awaiting his fate, his captors stood around him laughing and jeering at him. All those years he'd idolised his grandfather and it turned out, he was one of them, a traitor to his heritage. Hold on, traitor? Greg remembered back to the many letters he'd been sent, recalling how they called him a traitor to the Norwegian people. That he should be punished for his crimes. Something didn't add up, if Papa Olaf was part of the National Gathering, why would they kill him?

"Any last words, Hojem?" Strasse sneered, deciding that it was finally time to begin his execution. To Strasse's surprise, instead of quivering away in fear, Greg began to smirk.

"He turned you in, didn't he," Greg replied.

"What?"

"Olaf Hojem, he wasn't part of National Gathering..."

"Nasjonal Samling," Strasse hissed.

"Whatever," Greg shugged. "He set you up, you know, I think you might have missed a big chunk of that timeline yourself. You even told me yourself; in the letters you sent to my work, and my home, that I was a traitor to the Norwegian people."

"Is it not unjust, that traitors get to live a happy life, a new life in America, and the rest have to rot in a prison cell for twenty-one years?" Strasse began to raise his voice.

"It was the traitors who rotted in prison," Greg corrected Strasse. "The ones who thought they could make their country conform to the crap you believe, you told me yourself, Norway never accepted the views of the Nasjon..."

"My father smiled down upon me, the day I spiked Olaf Hojem's drink with cyanide," Strasse exclaimed loudly, Greg could sense he was beginning to gain the upper hand here, he was beginning to hear the truth and stall his potential demise.

"It was never about the Nasjonal Samling was it? It was never about restoring its legacy, all those brutal murders, simply a revenge which has been waiting on seventy years?"

"I bet you don't know what it's like to grow up with a prison being the backbone of your childhood. Where my father spent the first fourteen years of my life, it's where I spent my weekends; it's where I was conceived." Greg tried to block out the mental images created by these statements. "I never knew my father properly, when he wasn't in prison, he was in some mental institute. When he moved on from there, he was in a coffin, six feet under."

"What about Joseph Huyt? Or Matthew Ellis? Or Dirk Faversham? What did they have to do with all of this?"

"Have you ever killed someone Hojem?" Strasse asked quietly, barely speaking above a whisper. "Have you ever felt the excitement, the adrenaline, the euphoria, of taking someone's life? And just like any thrill, you want to repeat it again, and again."

"I have killed someone," Greg replied coolly. "And let me tell you, I felt nothing but remorse. That feeling is what differentiates me from yourself, and it's what differentiated Papa Olaf, from your father."

"Well that's good, because I'd be ashamed to have any relation to that traitor at all!" Strasse screamed into Greg's face, swinging a punch which precisely struck Greg's left cheek firmly. Greg winced out in pain as he felt the full force of the punch.

"Strasse," a hooded man, one who hadn't yet talked spoke. "Do you hear that?"

There was an unusual silence which swept over the room as Strasse, the men and Greg, having recovered from the initial punch listened out. Over Peter's still spluttering, the sound was obvious and crescendoing rapidly. The sound of sirens. As a burst of hope emanated within Greg's mind, Strasse hissed something in Norwegian to the hooded man and the curly haired man by the door. Although Greg couldn't make it out what was said, the two men disappeared, presumably to meet the LVPD who were beginning to pull up.

"We'd better make this quick," Strasse nodded at Linden who still remained behind Greg. Before Greg, took notice of what he had said he felt a searing pain through his right arm as the minute blade swished across it, slicing the skin open. Greg could feel his own blood beginning to ooze out, praying to himself, that it was not too late.


Nick pulled up alongside the house behind several patrol cars and one of the two ambulances which were part of their convoy. Heart pounding, he leaped and took cover behind the driver's side door, loading his gun. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sara and various officers around the perimeter doing the same. At the front of the house, there looked to be two figures crumpled on the floor. He saw two of the paramedics run up to them and begin to administer immediate first aid.

Nick breathed a small sigh of relief, this looked to be the right location at least although he felt a cold dread overcome him as he saw the paramedics hurriedly wheeling the two figures on gurneys back towards the ambulance. Neither one of them was Greg or Peter Grimsrund, which meant they probably were still inside.

"Drop the weapons!" With cat-like reflexes, Nick rapidly took cover against the vehicle again as he heard Brass yelling to two more figures who had emerged from the front door. Nick immediately recognised one of them as the curly haired man who they had seen on the surveillance footage from Greg's apartment. Brass yelled at the two figures even louder. "I said drop the weapons!"

The sound of bullets immediately filled the air, as the two figures wordlessly opened fire on everything in the vicinity using what appeared to be a standard AK-47. Nick ducked as he saw various bullets flying around him, a few of them ricocheting and landing inches away from him. Nick felt his stomach clench, hoping that everyone had managed to avoid them. The air was filled with numerous shots, considerably louder than the initial firings, before there was total silence. Nick waited two seconds before peering up; he saw that the units had completely emptied their cartridges on the two men whose corpses lay motionless on the ground.

Nick sprinted to the front door of the house, following the SWAT team who had begun to storm the place. He heard various units clearing rooms on the lower floor and followed Brass and Officer Mitchell upstairs towards the only closed door on the landing. The three of them quickly waited outside as a SWAT team member ran up the stairs, armed with a small battering ram.

"On the count of three," Brass whispered to them. "One..."

Bang.


A single shot echoed throughout the house.

Greg winced as the blade was thrust towards him again, this time aiming for his chest. Greg closed his eyes waiting for the pain to return only to hear the sound of raging gunfire coming from outside. Fortunately the sound of gunfire had halted the movement of the blade as both Strasse and Linden vacated their posts and dashed to the window, potentially prolonging Greg's life by mere seconds. Seconds was all he needed. He eyed the loose end of the tape and clenched it with his teeth, yanking it across his wrist as much as possible.

It was enough.

"We've got company," Linden told his boss, noticeably panicked. It became apparent to Greg that the 'rescue effort' appeared to be larger than expected, particularly to his captors.

"Let's welcome them with a bang," Strasse replied, brandishing a remote controlled device, complete with a flashing light. He made his way to the wall and placed his ear against it.

Greg's heart stopped as soon as he saw the device. He could hear his rescuers entering the house, checking downstairs, he could hear more footsteps making their way up the creaking stairs. Greg remembered being brought into the house, how he was ushered to the room slowly and precisely. Let's welcome them with a bang. The flashing device. Greg realised that his captors were well prepared, well prepared and willing to take the whole house down with them.

It was now or never.

"Do it," Linden hissed to Strasse as he positioned his thumbs on the device.

He inched his thumb towards the bottom of the switch, he prepared to flic...

Bang.

A single shot echoed throughout the house.

Strasse dropped to the floor.

The door burst open as Brass, Nick and a member of the SWAT team stood in the doorway, brandishing their weapons. Greg felt himself being pushed back into his seat, his now-free left hand dropping Peter's gun he had snatched from the floor near to the chair, where Strasse had kicked it.

He saw the three figures in the doorway screaming at him, although all sound was masked by the whirring sound of a saw next to his ear, as he felt Linden's grip tighten on his shoulder, the buzzing got increasingly loude...

Bang.

The buzz subsided as Greg felt the body of Linden collapse behind him. Smoke pouring from the gun held in Peter Grimsrund's hand. His final act of redemption. The body moved no more.

The moments which followed were a blur of emotions as he realised that in those past few seconds, it was over, and here he was, with only a minor slash on his right arm to take away. His eyes began to fill with tears as Nick and Brass rushed over, ripping away his adhesive restraints without even bothering to put on latex gloves. He felt himself hoisted out of the chair and his arm was draped around Nick's shoulder.

"It's alright G, I've got you," Nick told him as more tears began to cascade down Greg's cheeks. Greg wiped them away quickly, not wanting his colleagues to see him in this state, but when he turned to look at Nick, he saw that his eyes too, were glistened with tears.


Greg waited patiently on the back step of an ambulance. He'd been waiting several hours, he had found himself being pestered by Ecklie, Catherine and even Mayor Grimmle about the events that morning. He still had blood on his hands, both literally and figuratively. Twice he had killed now. Once he had fired a gun, although thankfully no charges would be pressed towards him.

He felt another figure sit down beside him. They took his injured arm into their hand, and Greg immediately felt a spark of butterflies in this stomach. He turned to see who it was and found himself looking into a pair of emerald eyes, complimented perfectly by the woman's jet black hair, which was tied neatly in a ponytail.

"Seems like we're always meeting in the back of an ambulance Mr Sanders," Amy Griffin spoke to him light-heartedly. "At least you can see me this time."

"You were there for me, weren't you," Greg replied sombrely. "That morning, in the alley."

Amy smiled and nodded to him. "October the twelfth, o-six. My third ever dispatch, and my most memorable to date. It's not every day a semi-conscious patient tells you that you sound beautiful."

"Did I really?" Greg smirked, Amy nodded. "Well, I don't try and remember that day particularly, you know. You came to visit me though; it's only now that I've just remembered."

"Rookie mistake, never get too attached to your patients."

They both laughed together and Greg felt his arm slipping out of Amy's hand, only he felt himself begin to hold on.

"I'm sorry I've been ignoring you," he spoke up.

"Don't be, I understand, with what's been going on. I guess I kind of was a little stalkerish." The two of them laughed again before Amy spoke up again sadly. "It's a shame we keep on meeting in this way, I'm sure you'd like to forget today as well."

"You know what, I think today will be one worth remembering."


A/N: That concludes the story, and a major story arc. I hope that was a satisfactory ending for you, even if it was a little fast paced! I hope you've enjoyed it and your comments are always welcome! Thanks for your incredible patience!

The next story, The House of Irony (1x08) will be published on Friday, August 26 and it will definitely be a more light-hearted and humorous story to follow on this rather action packed one.

Thanks for reading! :)