AUTHOR: Meercat PG-13
CATEGORY: Angst, drama, h/c, friendship
SYNOPSIS: Sheldon, Danny and Lindsay are held hostage in the lab. Lindsay is dying. What can Mac and the others do to save them?
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, never were, but don't I wish. Not making no money off this (drat and doubledrat!). All recognizable elements of this series, including names, characters, and locations, belong to someone else. No copyright infringement is intended.
ARCHIVE: Yes, but ask first and give me the URL or your site so that I can bask in my glory. g
SPOILERS: Various. I'll place a warning in each appropriate chapter.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The villain in this story loves to spout out literary quotes. A listing of quotes and their sources will be posted at the end of their relevant chapters.
When the Evil Shall be Done
By Meercat
CHAPTER 1
Danny Messer marched off the elevator and slashed the air over his right shoulder. "Get outta 'ere, Hawkes. You're full of it, you know dat?"
Dr. Sheldon Hawkes grinned and followed Danny Messer off the center lift onto the 35th floor--the NYPD's Crime Lab. "Sorry, Danny, it's true."
Danny leaned over to peek behind Hawkes. "Montana, you're not buyin' any of this bozo's crap, are ya?"
Lindsay Monroe couldn't hide the mischievous grin that brightened her pixie face. "He does make a valid point, Danny. His theory fits the evidence."
"Valid, smalid! It's a load a bull-hockey, 's what it is."
"You think you can prove otherwise?" Hawkes waved an "after you" gesture in Messer's direction then folded his arms across the front of his black turtleneck sweater. The former Medical Examiner tilted his head to the side, shifted his weight to his right leg, and said, "I'm listening."
Messer ticked each point off on his ever-moving hands. "First off, no way in hell Girardi've would've pulled the trigger on his partner. Todario's will and the inheritance clause in their business contract meant he'd gain nada--zip--zero from Todario's death. Second, no GSR on his hands--and before you say it, yes he had plenty of time to wash it off. But he didn't have any on his clothes neither, an' he didn't have time to change before the first uniforms arrived on scene."
Hawkes nodded but answered, "That only means he didn't pull the trigger himself. Carlos Girardi isn't the type to get his own hands dirty--your words, not mine. He could easily have hired someone else to do the dirty work. He has the money and the shady underworld contacts to do it. The killer could have escaped out the back way before the scene could be secured."
"True enough," Danny admitted, "but again, what's the motive? Todario's will and business contract leaves all his assets to his three kids. You saw how that trio hated Girardi. No way in hell they'd share with him, an' with their 58 percent controllin' interest in the company, they'd have him out an' done inside a year, tops. Killin' Todario just was not in Girardi's best interests--period, end of story."
Lindsay turned twinkling eyes on the dark-skinned former ME and grinned. "Point. Several points, in fact."
"Ahh, but he doesn't take jealousy into account," Sheldon said. "We know that Girardi was having long-time affairs with both Todario's wife and Todario's mistress. I say one of two things happened. Either Girardi wanted the women more than he wanted the business and was willing to take out Todario to get them, or Todario found out and confronted him on it. Girardi ordered the hit thinking to defend himself."
Lindsay nodded and turned back to Danny. "That's a valid scenario."
"Who's side are you on, Montana!"
Lindsay bit back a giggle and shrugged. "Beats me. I'm having fun just listening to you two argue it out."
"You think it's funny, do you, baby doll?"
"Yes. Definitely. Better than pay-per-view."
Messer stabbed his finger toward Monroe and mock-glowered, even as his own eyes twinkled and his lips fought the urge to pull upwards. "You know what they say about payback, don't you?"
Lindsay giggled and trotted away, headed for the lab's break room. No one noted the closed blinds or saw the silent figure standing to the right of the door. Waiting.
Monroe entered the room first, closely followed by Hawkes, with Messer bringing up the rear.
A sudden, striking pain exploded across the back of Danny's head. He fell to his knees and rolled to the side, stunned by a blow to his head. Bright lights burst behind his eyeslids. His hearing registered raised voices--warnings--Lindsay crying out his name--gunfire.
God. Shots. Three, maybe four. Breaking glass. The ping of a ricochet. Someone's been shot.
Danny Messer blinked away the stars, and awoke to chaos. The air stank of cordite and blood.
Pulled onto his knees by fingers buried in his sandy hair--held in place by a gun barrel pressed against his throbbing skull--Danny stared at the section of bullet-riddled chaos of the break room that he could see. Sheldon Hawkes lay five feet away, nearest the door, bleeding from a shallow cut over his right eye. Sheldon's gun lay on the floor some three feet from him.
The dark-skinned criminalist moaned and blinked, his eyes unfocused. Danny breathed a prayer of relief. Hawkes was stunned but not unconscious.
Messer couldn't see Lindsay from his position. Montana, where are you? God, please let her be okay.
Beyond the swinging, vertical blinds of the break room, uniformed and plainclothes officers responded to the gunfire. A dozen figures darted from cover to cover, seeking the best positions to contain the violent situation. Lab techs in white coats and terrified civilians disappeared into the stairways and elevators, their retreat covered by armed officers--all non-essential personnel would be evacuated.
Until SWAT knew how many gunmen they faced, what weapons and/or possible explosives they had, and how many hostages needed to be secured, they'd sit tight and wait. Mac would be out there soon. He'd know what to do.
The gunman's hand shifted Messer's corduroy jacket, baring his side holster. Danny ground his teeth as the man lifted his Glock clear of the leather. Praying the gunman wouldn't consider any movement a threat, Messer turned his head to the right, searching.
Lindsay lay on her stomach, close to the break room counter, face turned away from him, arms and legs splayed out in an untidy sprawl. Swizzle sticks, napkins, packets of sugar and creamer, and tiny tubs of half-n-half littered the floor around her--results from an overturned coffee tray. Her weapon lay near her right hand.
Dark, heavy blood weighed the back of her pink and plumb, tie-dye patterned shirt. A scarlet pool oozed across the creamy linoleum.
"Montana? Lindsay? Oh God."