CHAPTER 1 - A HELLACIOUS ASCENT
Cold dead eyes gaze up from the pool of blood the body lay in, the torso riddled with bullet holes. The agent's menacing eyes stared back, his heart carrying no remorse whatsoever for what he was forced to do. It was merely out of self defense. A little anger? Possibly. He wasn't foolish enough to deny it. He didn't think anybody could see what he saw and not be coursed with anger.
"All clear," he coldly said, talking into a device fastened to the bottom of his wrist.
He glared at his handy work for a few seconds more. This wasn't the first time had had taken a life. Sometimes he empathized, sometimes, he didn't. This was one of those latter times. The bastard had it coming, as far as he was concerned.
He slowly holstered his weapon wiping a sweat drop from his perspiring forehead.
It was then that something caught his attention. He glanced over towards the corner of the room next to the body, revealing the reason he was in the house in the first place. A small child, shivering, was huddled in between the nook of the connecting walls, terrified and traumatized. The agent's cold hearted demeanor instantly changed, his eyes having left the suspect, and now focused on the victim. He slowly approached the child, removing his blue bullet proof FBI vest that had been fastened against the white T-shirt that clung to his muscular frame and was tucked into his dark gray, almost black jeans. The little guy huddled closer to the corner, not really trusting this stranger who he just saw brutally gun down the monster he had once feared. The agent sensed his terror as he slowly kneeled, holding up his hands showing that he wasn't there to harm him. The child grew more and more anxious as a soft cry escaped his lips, tears beginning to steam down his face.
"Hey, it's OK," the agent said softly, still in the kneeled position. He glanced from the boy's face to his leg and observed a dark multicolored bruise. He sighed lightly, closed his eyes, turned his head and bit his lower lip, his heart paining at the thought of someone being cruel enough to hurt a child, something he personally couldn't ever dream of doing. A hint of internal rage suddenly came and went, but he didn't show it. He quickly gathered his emotions. "I'm just going to take a look at your leg, OK," he said as he looked back at the wound with sad, sympathetic eyes.
He softly cupped the child's tiny injured limb with his hand that practically dwarfed it in size. A wave of pain caused the boy to scream out, literally ripping the agent's heart to shreds as he lightly gasped, his eyes widening and his mouth falling slightly open, and he quickly moved his hands away from the boy's tender spot. When it came to children, they were without a doubt his softest spot. He saw them as the most innocent and vulnerable of victims. Anyone who was cold hearted enough to bring harm to a child, he felt, didn't deserve to live. He got emotionally involved in cases some times. It was just natural for his morality to come out, even if it was at an inappropriate time.
"Morgan, we're coming in now!" His boss's emotionless voice suddenly came in through his earpiece, catching him off guard. He glanced over at the window, the dark streets flooded with red and blue lights flashing intermittently. That image was all he saw, but they were all outside, waiting on instructions to enter the house. Local Law Enforcement assisted by SWAT and the FBI, none of which was needed after he had already ran inside, out of pure instinctual emotion at the sound of a young victim's torturous screams.
His boss had shouted after him, but he knew there was no stopping the foolishly brave FBI agent from putting his life on the line for the sake of stopping the outright injustice that weighed heavy on his heart. At the sound of gunshots, they were ready to rush in, but were told not to. They stood beside their vehicles, and waited for a cue. The cue had not come. Then, there it was, those two words. Two simple words that notified the officers and agents that the suspect was dead, and that the agent was still alive and kicking.
The agent however realized it was still too soon for them to rush in.
"Hotch, not yet, tell them to stay back." He knew he needed to get the boy out of there to seek much needed medical attention. The kid couldn't walk. His leg was badly injured. Morgan knew what he had to do. He had to carry the child out of the house. But in order to do so, he had to gain his trust, which he realized could possibly be a difficult task. The child looked up at the agent, his big brown eyes like swimming pools, holding in the tears. Morgan's brown eyes met his, and somehow created an instant calming affect.
"It's OK little man," he said again, catching the boy's tears with his index finger.
"My leg," the child whimpered, pointing to his injured limb.
"I know," replied the agent, softly, his compassionate eyes still looking into the boy's. The child whimpered again, but this time pointed at the dead body of his attacker lying on the floor. Morgan realized what the boy was indicating. The child was too young to understand what death was, despite the bloody lifeless corpse lying before him. To him, the monster was sleeping, and he was afraid he'd wake up and attack him again. He had no full comprehension that Morgan had actually ended his life.
"I promise you, he cannot hurt you anymore," Morgan softly reassured. The boy wasn't so sure of his words. How did Morgan know that, his pre-matured brain pondered? How did he know Morgan himself might not try to hurt him? He didn't. He didn't know who this strange man was. FBI? What does that mean? What if Morgan did the same thing to him that he did to the monster?
"Hey…," he tenderly began, "listen….I know you're scared…but I have to get you out of here so some people can see what's wrong with your leg." He reached his arms out in an attempt to scoop up the child, but the kid went into a terrified fit, and huddled closer to the corner. Morgan backed up and sighed, frustratingly, but not angrily. He couldn't be angry. The kid had good reason to be terrified. Had Morgan not have gotten there when he did, there was a good chance that kid would have been beaten to death by his foster father. The boy had already witnessed and gone through way more than he ever should have. He was only 3 years old. So innocent. So fragile.
The officers and agents continued to impatiently remain outside the house, waiting for orders to go in. Morgan knew all those officers rushing in would terrify the young boy even more. He needed this quiet time to build a rapport. To get the boy to trust him enough to climb into his arms and be taken to an ambulance, where he desperately needed medical attention.
He made one last attempt at this feat. He slowly took the boys tiny little hand and put it into his. Surprisingly, the kid showed no signs of resistance, indicating some progress.
"Hey," the agent began, looking back into the child's innocent face, "I promise you, little man, I won't hurt you." He took his thumb and gently wiped away more tears that streamed down the little boy's face as he continued talking to him, softly, and compassionately. "I would never hurt you. What that bad man did to you was wrong, and I made him pay for that. I'm only here to make sure you're safe, and I need you to trust me. I have to carry you out of here, to the doctors outside who can help make your leg feel alot better, and make sure you're not badly hurt. OK?"
He didn't really know if the 3-year-old could totally understand him. How much of that did he really comprehend? He feared that it wasn't much. However, his question was answered when the child stopped crying, and stuck out his arms, reaching for Morgan. A relieved sigh forced itself out of Morgan's mouth as he smiled, and took the small boy into his arms. He held him for a few minutes and found himself softly kissing the child on the top of his head, a parental instinct emerging from a man who didn't even have children of his own. "You're OK" he softly said twice, the child's head comfortably buried into the agent's chest. Morgan wondered if this had actually been the first time someone had held him like this, if this was the first time this child had been shown this kind of compassion and care. He shuddered, mentally, at the thought if of his wonders having validity. A child living three years in this life without love, without someone to care for him, to hold him, to make him feel safe in his most vulnerable of times. Morgan wondered how any child could endure such an environment and grow up healthily.
Morgan still held the child tenderly as these thoughts continued to roll through his mind. They tugged hard at his heart strings, each thought making him less and less willing to ever let this boy go. The things this child had seen, felt, and lived through. Morgan wanted to feel like he could be the one to make all of his pain go away. But he knew he had a job to do, and kind of hated the thought that his profession frowned upon exactly these kinds of antics that led to attachment. This is where it became hard for him to balance his vocation and his morality.
He continued to quietly hold the 3 year old until he felt the child was comfortable enough with him to trust him. The boy never made a sound, still resting comfortably in the same position – so comfortably – that sleep had slowly started to overtake his weary and exhausted little body.
"OK, let's get you out of here," said Morgan, softly, his voice vibrating through his chest, gently massaging the child's sleepy little head. To pick him off the floor, he had to change the boy's position a little bit, which he hated to do because of how contented the child was.
"Hold on," he said, trying to elevate the boy's body a little more, avoiding any contact with the bruised limb. The child's head softly draped over Morgan's shoulder, his teary eyes opening back up, and then slowly closing once more. Morgan put his right hand gently over the back of the child's head, softly smoothing his fingers through his short but slightly thick black hair repeatedly, as the boy drifted in and out of consciousness. His tired little ovular face told the story, his body becoming too weak to go on. His wispy arched eyebrows lightly twitched, his tiny little button of a nose sniffling.
Once Morgan had a good grip, he was ready for the short journey out of the house. As he left the bedroom where the incident took place, a wave of protective emotion came over him. Paternal instincts kicked in that he didn't even know existed. Was this how he would feel one day when he had his own child, nestled safely in his arms? He made his way through the dark kitchen, moving a white and light brown colored dining room chair out of the pathway with his foot. The part of the house he was in was dark. It didn't bother him because he knew he had already eliminated the threat that had been inside. He continued on, through the long kitchen, shuffling past the counter topped island permanently attached to the middle of the floor.
As he reached the living room, suddenly, he heard a loud crashing sound. He spun around and instinctively reached for his holstered glock, ready to fire at the first thing his eyes came across. He didn't even have hold of the weapon that long, before he saw what had caused the crash. A gray and white striped Abyssinian feline scurried away from the trash can it had knocked over in the kitchen, and ran into the bedroom, where Morgan had just left. The cat stumbled upon its deceased owner, fixing its vivid blue and yellow eyes onto his stone dead face. The feline then sniffed an area where one of Morgan's bullets had penetrated the flesh, leaving a bloody hole. To the agent's dismay, the animal began softly licking the blood out of the wound, almost enjoying its crimson metallic taste. Morgan backed up, somewhat disgustedly, and turned around, continuing through the living room, and out the front door.
Seeing Morgan emerge from the house with the child, the police and SWAT officers ran inside to check the perimeter. EMT's followed closely behind to remove the bloody corpse of the unsub. They ran by Morgan, almost seeming like in slow motion, as he methodically walked, the child's head still nestled comfortably in the same position. He paid absolutely no attention to the scenery around him. Everything became a blur. His line of sight was the back of the ambulance nearest to him. As he approached it, he patted lightly on the sleeping boy's back, suddenly waking him. "I'm going to put you down in here, OK?" he said in almost a whisper.
As he quickly glanced down at the concrete below, he kept a tight but not too tight grip on the boy's tiny body. He lifted his leg, put it down onto the bumper of the ambulance, and then exerted his full weight on it, lifting the rest of his body into the air, the other leg, coming into contact with the inside floor. He slowly approached the small bed fastened to the cold steel, and softly placed the child onto it. As the EMT's inside strapped the boy down to keep him secure for the ride, the agent proclaimed his intentions.
"I'm Agent Derek Morgan with the FBI. I'm gonna be this kid's escort to the hospital. He's got a badly bruised leg, possibly broken. "
The 3 year old's nervousness returned again, in the form of a worrisome look on his face that began to slowly materialize. Noticing it quickly, Morgan took the child's hand into his, and flashed him that empathetic look he had seen quite a lot of.
"Morgan." The agent didn't have a chance to say a word to the boy. Hearing his name, he turned his head to see Aaron Hotchner standing outside the ambulance doors with his signature blank expression. Morgan looked back at the child and rubbed his fingers lightly across the boy's forehead. "I'll be right back, OK?"
"Hotch…" acknowledged Morgan, hopping from inside the ambulance, down to the ground, walking towards his boss.
"You deliberately disobeyed my orders!" scolded the unit chief, his expression maintaining it's vacuity.
"Hotch, can we not do this right now?" replied Morgan in a soft but frustrated tone, running his hand from his thick finely groomed eyebrows, all the way across his smoothly faded head.
"Morgan, you know we had a plan…." Morgan cut him off. "And your plan took too long to develop."
Hotchner paused for a moment. "Excuse me?" He replied, taken aback while his expression remained the same.
"Hotch, with all due respect, that child's life was in danger. His foster father was beating him senseless, and I was not about to stand here and continue listen to that boy's screams."
"And it's exactly that kind of rash decision making that causes these cases to go badly."
Morgan held firm on his position as his tone conveyed a hint of clear frustration. "Well, this time it didn't. I took out the threat, and got the child out of that house safely…"
"This time." Rebutted Hotchner, quickly.
Morgan pointed towards the open ended ambulance behind him. "Hotch, he is hurt. But nowhere near as badly as he could have been had we continued to just stand here and let this go on."
Hotchner held his ground. "Morgan, you can't just run onto a crime scene like a cowboy and risk your life…"
Morgan shook his head "No. What I can't do is stand idly by and listen to a vicious crime being committed, taking my sweet time responding for the sake of FBI methodical bullsh…."
"Morgan.."
Hotchner cut him off before he was able to finish his last word. Morgan stuck his jaw out, pushing his lips together as he frustratedly stood there a moment more, before silently turning around.
"Where are you going?" asked Hotchner, responding to Morgan's movement.
"I'm riding with him to the hospital." Replied Morgan, preparing to climb back into the back of the ambulance.
"If you get in that ambulance, I will suspend you."
Morgan spun his head around once more. "WHAT?" he shot back bewilderedly.
"You heard what I said."
"Hotch, come on!"
Hotch started to walk towards Morgan. "You get in that ambulance and this case becomes personal. That boy is a foster child and I know what the outcome will be. You'll get attached and I cannot allow that to happen. The BAU won't tolerate it."
"Hotch, I really don't give a damn about the rhetoric right now…"
"Well unfortunately for you, I have to. It could cost me my job and yours as well if I allow you to do this."
"Hotch, you have no idea what it took for me to gain his trust, just so I could carry him out of the house. He's terrified right now. He has NOTHING. He's only what, 2 or 3 years old? He has already lost everything, man. I hate to say this, but I'm all he has right now, because he doesn't have anybody else. He's starting to get the idea that I saved his life."
"Morgan…."
Hotchner was cut off by disturbing sounds coming from the ambulance, sounds that were familiar to Morgan. The child had started to go into another frightened fit, screaming and crying frantically. EMT's were apparently attempting to calm him down, but the boy wouldn't have any of it. Morgan, instinctively spun around and hopped up into the ambulance, his heart racing.
"MORGAN!" shouted Hotchner from the ground, shock running through his mind. When he saw that the agent completely blew him off, he let out a sigh, and then hopped into the ambulance as well to check things out for himself.
"Watch out guys," instructed Morgan as he lightly pushed the two EMT's out of his way. He slowly leaned in towards the tussling toddler, making his own attempts at calming him down. "Heeeyyyyy, Heeeyyyy, It's OK. It's OK. You're OK." When he saw he was making no progress, he quickly removed the straps of the gernie and took the boy into his arms once more, holding him tenderly hoping it would somehow help. As Morgan sat down, the 3 year old slowly started to calm down, much to the relief of everyone in the ambulance. Morgan flashed an empathetic look towards Hotchner, as he continued cradling the child.
The unit chief had seen enough to persuade him to go against his feelings of foreboding. "Call me when you get to the hospital," he quickly said, nodding his head and exiting the back of the ambulance. As he walked out of view, Morgan tried to talk the child into going back onto the gernie. The boy flat out resisted, and tightened his grip around Morgan's torso, as he whimpered once more. Morgan looked over at the EMT's, and raised his eyebrows.
"So, what do we do?" He asked, flatly.
One of the guys nodded at the other. "Just hold onto him on the way there and we'll worry about getting him on the bed once we get to the hospital."
Morgan nodded as one of them left the back of the ambulance and proceeded to close the doors, leaving the other one to ride in the back with Morgan and the child. Before they knew it, the ambulance was on its way to its destination. The driver chose not to blare the sirens, due to there being no real emergency. The boy had quieted down at this point, as he was back in his place of familiarity. Morgan couldn't help but smile at how attached the kid was to him already. He really didn't mind. Although he didn't grow up parentless, he did know what it was like, not to have a father. His father was a police officer, who was off duty when he was shot and killed right in front of Morgan when Morgan was just 10 years old. It is that image that has stuck with him over the years. Thoughts of his father would reoccur everytime he did something good. He could feel him, watching over him, approving of him carrying on in his place, doing the kind of work he had sacrificed his life doing. That's what kept Morgan going. He knew his dad would be especially proud now, knowing that his son had rescued a defenseless child from an abusive foster home.
At just 26 years old, this would be Morgan's very first defining BAU case. But he knew deep down, as much as he despised it, that Hotchner was right. He needed to cut ties with this kid as soon as humanly possible, for the greater good. There was just something about this kid. Something that made Morgan feel personally responsible for him, and he couldn't really pinpoint it. As close and comfortable as the child felt with the agent, Morgan felt equally as familiar.
Was there any way I could adopt this kid? There it goes. Right there. That's what Hotch was talking about. These very thoughts. Morgan once again was wrestling with his heart. He feared what would come of this whole situation. What would happen to this kid once he was fully back in foster care. Would he be placed with a good family? Would he be officially adopted? There was no telling what the future would hold, and it was frightening to Morgan. He didn't know what to do, but he would soon find out.
Back at the crime scene, Aaron Hotchner stood surveying over the site with Senior Supervisory Special Agent Jason Gideon, and the Quantico Chief of Police.
"Are you sure we need a coroner when the cause of death is apparent?" questioned Gideon.
The chief kept his eyes fixed on the work being done in the house. "It's protocol, not to mention that the suspect isn't the only dead body we have on our hands."
"Are there any other victims?" asked Hotchner.
"The suspect's wife, Analeese Bradley, who was found just a few minutes ago in a large recycling bin in the garage, mutilated."
Gideon glanced over at the police chief "Can we look at the foster child as a possible victim?"
The police chief's eyes bounced back and forth from Gideon to Hotchner. "A victim that survived thanks to your lone ranger of an agent there."
"Sorry about that." Replied Hotchner, embarrassed, but hiding it.
The police chief smiled. "Hell, I'd have done the same thing, myself." He then walked away from the two men, heading for the house. Paramedics had the unsub's corpse already placed in a body bag and were bringing it towards the coroner's van. Another paramedic emerged from the house, with the strange Abyssinian feline cradled in his arms.
"Morgan's at the hospital with the foster child." Reported Hotchner to Gideon. "The boy suffered a bruise on his leg, possibly a break. I wasn't going to let him go, but…"
"He was the only one who could keep him calm." finished Gideon, picking up on the situation fairly quickly.
Hotchner flashed Gideon an uncertain look. "You know where this will lead?"
"Do you?" replied the veteran agent.
Hotchner hesitated for a moment, looking at the ground. "I don't know."
"I think Morgan's got a pretty good head on his shoulders. You should trust him a little bit more than you do."
"It's a little hard to when everything I do now is under constant scrutiny."
"Hotch, you've been unit chief for two weeks, don't be so paranoid. They gave you the promotion for a reason."
"Part of me thinks it was just to spite Strauss."
"Morgan will be fine. I know he's gonna do the right thing."
"That's just it. In this scenario, what exactly is the right thing?"
"That's what he's gonna have to figure out."
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