That afternoon:

"Any news Carmichael?"

"Both teams have failed Mistress. Lasker was captured during the apprehension of Grissom, and though successful, Grissom was soon rescued by Sheriff Atwater. Martin and Benson are dead. The team in El Paso, well, all members are dead. Those who survived the crash were killed either in battle with the police, or took their lives rather then face capture."

"Has our involvement been noted publicly?"

"No Mistress, it appears that the LVPD has kept that under wraps. The Media is speculating of course, but nothing is confirmed. My guess is that they wish to avoid a panic."

"Then we shall use that to our advantage and strike their power base. Go to Vegas Carmichael, locate and tell Roberts to proceed with his suggestion. He is aware of what the most likely outcome will be?"

"Yes Mistress, and he hopes to take a few of the sinners with him."

2 days later-Grissom-Stokes Residence "“3 am

Gil Grissom was at last asleep.

Nick Stokes however, was exhaustedly awake.

After being awake for pretty much three full days, he should have been asleep as well. But as usual in these situations, he was finding the needed sleep to be elusive as his mind continued its incessant thoughts of "what if" and "when" and "who".

They had moved too quickly at the Dominion. He was down before his mind processed what had happened. One second, holding a teacup and grinning at Lady Heather (as per the usual, morning tea every other Tuesday, cases permitting), the next second, receiving a blow across the face and hitting the floor. He came around quickly, but too late to help. Lady Heather had her quarry; Gil was gone, and Nick could only call for help.

Forty agonizing minutes later he received the good news and took off, ignoring the pain and swelling on his face, knowing the horrendous black eye on his face would be gone in a few days. Seeing his lover safe and alive brought a tremendous joyful ache to his chest, and he exercised incredible restraint in not making a spectacle in front of the news cameras. Though Gil's disposition was not amusing.

"It's not funny Gil!"

"Oh Nicky, relax. It's over and I'm fine!"

Nick snorted in the darkness of their bedroom. Gil just didn't get it did he? It wasn't over. It's never over. It baffled Nick to no end how Gil would just waltz into and out of dangerous situations without a care to his own safety. Like he was invincible when he was really just a target for these sick fucks to go after.

Okay, I am too, but at least I carry my gun all the time and know when to call for backup.

That Lighter Lady Heather took down was awake and in a holding cell. Brass did his own shakedown thing, and Greg swears he had the guy wetting his pants, but they didn't get anything useful.

No names, nothing.

Nick clenched his jaw in frustration.

Always playing their game, always waiting for them to make the next move. Playing defense sucks.

Gil snuggled in closer to Nick, and Nick's face softened. He was grateful to Catherine and Warrick for throwing a minor coup and convincing them to go home, forget that 4-19 at the Mirage, they can handle it. When the Lighters made their next move, they should at least be rested.

And together damnit!

Nick was wondering how Mike and his parents were coping with being shadowed by Texas Rangers who watched their every step. His dad was use to it surely, but his spitfire of a mother hated feeling coddled and dependant, even though she would do that to any of her children in a heartbeat. It took all of Nick's persuasive powers for them to not fly out to Vegas, or purchase tickets for Gil and Nick to fly out to the Stokes ranch outside Austin. He spent half the afternoon swearing they were just as safe in Vegas as they would be anywhere else and yes, they were getting extra protection, though Gil hated it.

At least Gil was able to convince the Sheriff to not force officers upon their doorstep, agreeing only to a police escort to the lab and increased support at crime scenes. The Sheriff can be very accommodating to the wishes of CSI's when they contribute to his current status as a crime-busting hero of the city.

Agent Culpepper better just stay away from us too...

No word on getting the FBI involved yet, but that could change anytime, and dealing with their bureaucracy was frustrating at best.

Nick lay flat on his back in the bed, sweeping the room with his eyes and trying to relax. Examining the locked window once more before focusing on the bedroom door. It was closed, a rarity as they usually leave it open, letting air circulate through the whole house keeping things a bit cooler.

The air conditioner clicked on, filling his ears with its gentle hum before fading to background noise. Movement caught his eye, and he tightened his grip on the gun in his left hand.

Just the curtains flutterin' a bit, no big.

Gil had given him a small frown when he took the gun out of its holster and brought it to bed with them, but said nothing. Though Nick's spare was next to him, Nick felt better with his usual gun already in his hand.

Each man had a spare firearm. Nick kept his affixed under the bedside table on his side of the bed, and Gil kept his downstairs hidden in the kitchen. Gil did not really care to "pack heat", and only rarely went into the field armed, much to Nick and Brass's frustration, and Catherine's disgust. He only had a spare because Nick put his foot down and demanded it.

Gil's arm draped itself over Nick's belly, and Nick couldn't help but smile. He gently maneuvered Gil's head to rest on his right shoulder, molding Gil's upper body into his own. Gil stirred slightly, nuzzling softly into Nick's neck, before lying still once again.

Nick cherished moments like this, and a thankful tear came into his eye as Gil's breath ghosted across his chest like a gentle breeze and his arm tightened its hold across him.

Nick would cheerfully take on Heaven and earth for this man, and he furthered his resolve to see this latest test through to the end.

Bring it on...

Las Vegas Crime Lab-Westfall Ave. 3:15 am

It was an unassuming vehicle he drove. A blue sedan, not flashy, nor beat up, and not noticeable.

Brother Roberts himself was much the same. Average build, height and looks, possessing of very little that would bring attention from others. He was dressed average as well, forgoing the imposing black cloak that was his uniform for blue jeans and a light tan jacket over a green polo shirt to avoid early detection.

He parked and surveyed the scene. Police cars, lots of activity going on, even at this hour. He pursed his lips together, realizing and accepting that escape would be highly improbable, and death was most certain.

However, it was by his choice, and on his terms.

Anything for the Light, we must stop the decadence and the sin. The unnaturalness. Stop their oppression of the true way. They must suffer for opposing us. Justice will be done.

It was also his idea. Strike at their base, tear through their ranks and crush their spirit. The emotional pain alone would be worth it.

Brother Roberts zipped up his jacket part way, just enough to secure his extra magazines and grabbed his guns from under the passenger seat.

Knowing the metal detectors at the door would detect what he had even if he bothered to hide them, he needed to kill the guards and move quickly to accomplish his goal. He had a target list, with names of desirable targets; the graveyard CSI's and the detectives they work closely with. But he doubted that he had the time to seek them out, nor had he any guarantees that they were there now.

Brother Roberts got out of the car, said a prayer and shut the door.

He walked up the steps of the brown building, focused solely on his cause...

***

Dawn was but two hours away.

Normally her favorite time of day, when she was free from tending to the routine workings of the Dominion, it allowed her a brief period to relax and reflect. (Lady Heather, a true night owl, slumbered during mid-day; the Dominion was most active at night after all.)

There would be no relaxing when the sun rose on this particular morning.

She was in her study, reviewing the bids she had received from private security contractors who were more than eager to prove their ability to prevent a repeat break in and kidnapping of her guests.

The original contractor was, of course, sacked.

The study was cozy and tastefully decorated with oil paintings and small sculptures. Rich mahogany bookshelves lined with volumes of reference books suited to her profession along one wall. A large window on the opposite wall granted her a view of the well-kept courtyard. A pair of brown leather chairs sat in front of her desk suitable for visitors who were there to conduct business.

Her desk was a classic Victorian, rich rosewood, and very befitting to her wealth and natural power. The soft glow from an elegant desk lamp provided soothing light for her to read by, and a few lit candles for sheer ambience.

She tossed aside one proposal, and picked up another.

She sighed.

"What are you doing here?" She asked without looking up.

"And here I thought I effected a silent entrance. Aren't you going to ask me to sit down?"

"No." Lady Heather said calmly. "I will however, ask you to leave my Dominion. You are not welcome here."

"Ah Heather, you use to be much more hospitable," her visitor laughed, stepping out of the shadows and sitting in one of the leather chairs in front of her desk, "how you have changed."

"Get out."

"Still demanding though. Don't you want to know why I am here?"

"I don't particularly care. You were banished from our ranks, and I feel no need to suffer your presence." Lady Heather said coolly, allowing a hint of steel, but nothing else in her tone.

"Still overbearingly self righteous as well," her visitor mused, " I was sorry to hear of your daughter's passing."

Lady Heather didn't take the bait.

"Your condolences are neither appreciated, or required."

Her visitor laughed, and Heather's patience grew thin.

"Very well, what is it you want Alanna?"

"It is about the company you have been keeping of late, Heather, you really should be more discriminating of who you invite to tea."

Lady Heather betrayed nothing.

"Speak for yourself, and I'm sure I have no idea what you mean."

Her visitor smiled, well experienced in these exchanges.

"My dear Heather, those CSI's you consider friends. You should really stay away from them."

"My friends are my own concern, no one else's. Why do you care?'

"They are of interest to me. Especially Mr. Grissom, he could be very...useful. I have been after him for sometime."

Everything fell immediately into place.

Her visitor stood up.

"It is for your own good to stay out of this Heather. Consider that a warning from an old friend."

"We were never friends Alanna. I advise you to leave Las Vegas, you and your pitiful band are fractured and no match for the dealings and alliances in this city. Go back to your hovel in the backwoods of ignorance and shame."

"You will all be dealt with in due time Heather. Deviants and sinners, I will change this world, cleanse it. I will break Gil Grissom; he has defied the message I bring too many times. I have lost many faithful because of him and justice will be mine!"

"You are raving." Heather said with perfect disdain, "You will never break him. You failed before, and you always will. Anyone faithful to your "cause" deserves their fate," she raised and imperious finger, pointing it at the door, " Now. Get. Out."

"Very well." Alanna said tersely heading for the door, "But I have the Cause and faith on my side, and my soldiers have already begun to continue their work. What does Gil Grissom have compared to that?"

At her desk, Lady Heather said softly, "Nick."

The halls were quiet, or he may not have heard the initial shots before the shouts started up.