So I was going through old files and found this bit I started last summer. I hope you enjoy it.
NOTES: 1) Sorry, don't own 'em. Just the bikers, the Blue Devils, and of course, my Campbell Trio.
2) Please see my profile for the disclaimer on sign language and the Campbell people.
3) The events in this story take place between "Amplification" and "To Hell and Back." None of the events of S5 will be mentioned.
"Does Hotch even own a pair of jeans?"
The strangled chuckle inside six throats was more than noticeable. "What's this about, Chase?" the lead agent asked, trying hard to ignore Emily's restrained giggles or Morgan's coughing that was covering for laughter.
"Big case here in Northern California. JJ, you remember that kidnapping case you threw us 'bout a month back?"
The liaison looked puzzled a moment. "I did?"
"Yeah." Soon the webcam screen split, and a photograph covered the right portion. "Gail Hathaway, age 23, went missing from a bar in Cervantos, a 'blink-and-you'll-miss-it' town just outside of Roseville, California about four months ago. Her boss said she'd been hassled by a group of bikers that are known for taking over the town every so often."
"Nasty group, these guys," another voice added, and soon the image of Oliver Lawrence's face joined his employer's. "They make Hell's Angels look like choir boys and girls, if you catch me."
"The name?" Hotch asked, all business.
"Call themselves 'The Revolution.' So far we've gotten a bit out of our contacts here in Cali, but nothing like a certain genius in cyberspace could get…"
"I'm on it," Garcia said, not bothering to stop to catch the nod of approval from her boss. "Names, records, incident reports…"
"Guy who runs it goes by 'Boss'," Oliver added. "Boss Salvador. Don't know if the whole name's contrived or not, but…"
"It's a start," Garcia said before vanishing into her lair.
"What about the girl?" Emily asked.
"We interviewed the mother and brother along with the other employees and friends," Chase replied. "From all accounts, she was saving to go to UC Berkley this semester. Quiet, nice girl who has a pretty face and got a lot of good tips on that account."
"No record, no priors, no complaints, save for the trouble with this group," Oliver added.
"What was the complaint?" Morgan wondered.
"Gail claimed the bikers were following her home, aggressively trying to pick her up, that sort of thing." Oliver shook his head. "Guys, the other employees aren't exactly ugly, if you catch me. There's something about this girl. I'm sure of it." Behind Oliver, the team could hear the sounds of other voices in the background along with the roar of an engine.
"What's that?" JJ asked.
"Oh, that's the guys," Chase said nonchalantly. "Locals here think they got a lead, couple of 'em going to check it out."
"In a tank?"
Chase chuckled. "Never been around a couple of Harleys, huh?"
"You're serious?!"
"Best way to track these people," Reid countered. "Travel like them."
"Precisely," Oliver said, giving Reid the thumbs-up. "Looks like we're heading out too, Chase."
"Damn. Not finished with the conference call," Chase complained. "Look, we'll try to catch up later. Might need some help on this one, so I say again—does Hotch own a pair of jeans?"
"Later, Chase, Oliver," Hotch replied stiffly before the connection was cut. He turned from the screen to see Reid nearly bursting with laughter and Morgan looking as though he'd swallowed an unwilling bullfrog. "All right, enough."
"Well?" Emily asked.
"Well what?"
"Do you own a pair of jeans?"
-----
The bar was raucous and loud. Pool cues struck weighted balls as round after round was served up by a terrified wait staff. Smoke filled the large, crowded room, and conversations ranged from civil and regular to spirited and thunderous. At one table near the bar a young woman sat miserably, dressed in too-large jeans and an ill-fitting flannel shirt.
"Anything for you, hon?" the forty-plus waitress asked, trying her best to look as though large biker groups routinely took over her place of employment.
"N-no, thank you," the girl whispered, just as a large, leather-clad man boomed, "The lady wants a whiskey straight, with a vodka chaser."
The waitress scribbled down the order and hurried off to get it, casting a quick look in the girl's direction. She can't be older than my Emma, the woman thought, her graying blonde hair wisping out of her long ponytail. If anyone looks like she didn't belong…
"The hell are you staring at, bitch?!" the tall, stout man shouted, his cries heard only vaguely over the other catcalls and shouts in the establishment. "I ordered drinks!"
Biting her lip, the woman scurried off to the kitchen. The girl's eyes followed her frame through the swinging doors and out of sight.
"It's a party, sweetheart," the stout man said, pulling the young woman close. "Celebration."
"Ce-celebrating what?" the girl squeaked. She tried to resist the man's advances, but he was simply too much for her small, thin frame to fight off.
"Good ride, and good sales," the man boasted. Then he stood on the round, splintering wood table, placing his hands around his lips like a bullhorn. "A toast," he called once he'd gotten the group's attention. "To a good sale, and a good ride!"
The shouts of agreement were deafening. The girl curled back into her chair and stared at the patterned grain of the table. She wanted nothing more than to escape these people and go back home.
-----
"So, does he?"
"Why are you askin' me?" Morgan whined. "You think I got the 411 on what Hotch has in his closet?"
"I know he keeps Fred Segal and Brooks Brothers in business," Emily countered. "I don't know…I just can't see him as the casual type."
"Just because he dresses professionally for the office doesn't mean he doesn't dress down at home," Reid pointed out, still poring over a file Garcia had dropped on his desk. "You really think he watches action flicks in his three-piece?"
"Kid, I swear he'd plant whole forests in that black and gray ensemble he wears like, once a week," Morgan replied. "Save that one time in Colorado, I don't think I've ever seen him in anything but a suit."
"And even that was for the job," a voice said as Rossi joined in the conversation. "Trust me. I've known Aaron Hotchner a long, long time, and even I don't think I've seen him in jeans."
"I wonder why Chase asked if he had any," Reid wondered.
"Maybe it was just a way of asking," Emily said.
"Could be she just wanted to start off light," Morgan speculated.
"No," Reid disagreed. "She made a point of it. Plus she and Oliver weren't exactly dressed up either."
"Kid, I think that woman would fight crime in her pajamas if she could," Morgan said. "Just her footwear alone…"
"She hates shoes."
"That's my point." Morgan tapped a pencil on his desk. "You did notice she had on tennis shoes, right?"
"She did?"
"Uh-huh," Emily concurred. "Looked new too. Those must be a bitch for her…"
"So she bought shoes. So what?"
"Kid, you don't buy new clothes on a case unless you need them."
"You're missing the larger clue, ladies and gentlemen," Rossi said.
"Which is?" all three younger agents asked at once.
"The noise in the background."
"But she said what that was," Reid countered. "Harleys."
"Exactly," Rossi said. "Now why would she and Oliver need motorcycles?"
"No," Emily countered. "The better question is, who are they working with that has motorcycles?"
"I think I can answer about half of that," Garcia said, her face all business.