A few miles from Quantico, Virginia stood a beautiful small town known as Triangle. This town had beautiful and small neighborhoods where mothers watered the garden and children played on the streets. A particular neighborhood, located in the middle of the town, was known for its upscale residents, pretty homes, and quietness. For twenty years, that neighborhood kept that reputation until 1970, when a businessman, his wife, and young son moved into the oldest townhouse on the block. The family had appeared normal at first, but the young son troubled the neighbors. He was severely attached to the mother to the point of isolating himself from children his own age. The young boy also played with fire and by his young teens had become a master of fire. This unusual behavior followed the son even until his twenties and thirties.
On a sunny day in July 2011, the son, now 41 years old, stood in the attic of a large townhouse. He ran his hand over a cartoon, assumingly drawn on by a young toddler. The son left the attic and stepped out into the hallway. In his right hand, he held a small red container. As he continued down the hallway, the son poured a clear liquid from the container on to the floor. It left a trail from the attic to where the son walked, covering everything from a Victorian dresser sitting near the parents' room to the three bloody dead bodies in the hallway.
The son was less concerned with the three dead bodies and more concerned with the individuals that had interrupted what he had been doing. To counter this, the son had used a trap that his father had taught him at a young age on the individuals. Now, the son needed to make sure that they were all dead before he finished his task. He walked to the end of the hallway and jumped over the gap that had replaced the stairs.
At the bottom of the stairs stood the oldest of the six who was facing the other direction. He was watching the youngest member drag a member of his team towards the open back door. Annoyed with the results, the son lit a match and dropped the container next to his feet. The oldest member turned to the son and pulled out his weapon.
"Agent, you're alive," The son muttered while walking to the back door.
"Sorry to disappoint you," the agent muttered. Suddenly, the agent's eyes widened when he smelled the odor coming from the clear liquid. He yelled back to the youngest member, "Reid! He's coated the place in gasoline! Get them out, now!"
The son smiled and replied, "You have to make a choice, agent. You shoot me and we both go down in flames. You could let me go and make sure your teammates are ok. I promise you, though, with the second option, you won't catch me again."
The agent yelled back again, "Reid!"
"I got them all out. Are you going to take the shot?" Agent Reid yelled. The son slowly moved the lit match through the air, taunting the older agent. In the background, the son could hear someone yelling, "Police!"
"Tic, tock, Agent. I don't have all day. You have until the count of three to decide. One-"
The older agent quickly glanced between the younger agent and the son.
"Two."
Agent Reid exclaimed, "Rossi!"
Agent Rossi hesitated then lowered his gun. He ran to the back door and left the son alone in the house. The man smiled, opened the kitchen door, and dropped the match. He then quickly walked into the crowd of neighbors and police officers that had surrounded the home and disappeared into the crowd.