Happy New Years! If you're out clubbing or partying tonight, be careful. Who knows... This could happen.

"It's called clubbing."

Dr. Spencer Reid rolled his eyes. "Yes, Morgan, I understand the term. What I don't understand is why we're out here 'clubbing.'" Tully's Nightclub was a small establishment, but looked lively enough through the large window that had its name inscribed upon it with, what looked to be, Sharpie. Inside, couples grinded against each other, swaying and bouncing to the faint music that could be heard through the walls of the building. Stringed lights criss-crossed the room, shaking in time to the booming bass. "Really," Reid continued, "this place looks quite—"

"Exciting?" Derek Morgan asked, grinning.

"I was going to say rundown. Doesn't it seem a little unkempt?" Reid gestured to the sagging brick walls. "It practically looks as if it'll collapse on us!"

"Come on, Reid, you've got to live a little," Morgan said, clapping his large brown hand on Reid's shoulder.

"I'm afraid this building will end my living…"

Emily Prentiss agreed. "It's just a party. Besides, we deserve it after that last case."

They did. It had been a particularly nasty one: the unsub had been slicing the throats of third graders. Ten children had been brutally murdered before the BAU team had managed to identify the serial killer and arrest him.

"You can't get cold feet now, Reid," Garcia complained. "You already agreed to come with us."

Reid shook his head slightly. "I agreed to get a drink with you. No dancing."

"I'm sure you've got some wicked moves," Morgan teased.

"Let's just get in there, so we can get it over with sooner," Reid muttered, pushing the door open.

The music was nearly unbearably loud and the ground shook with the combined efforts of dancers and an overbearing bass. A very drunk girl stumbled into the team, before turning aside and vomiting on the floor. "Classy," Reid remarked, making his way to the counter where a dirty bartender leaned against the wood, leering at a short, busty brunette. "Four beers," he ordered, taking a seat on a cracked leather seat.

As the bartender went about fulfilling the order, Reid began to do what he did best: spout random facts. "Did you know," he began, "there is actually a study for beer specifically? It's zythology, which stems from the Greek word, zythos, which means beer. This study—"

Morgan cut the young genius off. "I don't want to study it; I just want to drink it." He grabbed his glass and took a single swallow, before grabbing Garcia. "Let's dance, baby girl."

Prentiss leaned against the counter, sipping her beer. "Sometimes it's just nice to let go of everything and not have to worry about unsubs and murders and just all the awful that goes on in the world." She looked sideways at Reid, before continuing. "We all just need a break, you know?"

"Yeah, I do," Reid agreed. "Only, my type of break is usually rereading War and Peace or Dune, if I don't want to have to think too hard."

Prentiss stared at her partner for a second, before shaking her head and drinking more of the beer. "You're crazy, you know that, right?"

Reid smiled. "So, I've been told."

He took a sip of his beer and then Reid turned back to Prentiss, probably about to tell her another strange fact regarding her alcoholic beverage, but a young man around Reid's age approached the two. His eyes lingered on the two agents' side arms, but quickly moved up to Prentiss' face. "I know this is stupid," he began, "but my brother over there," he gestured to a taller brunette man across the dance floor, "was wondering if you'd like to dance with him."

Prentiss eyed the younger man, before coolly replying, "If he wants to dance, he can ask me himself."

In a short amount of time, the man had come over and Prentiss and he were dancing on the floor, close to where Morgan and Garcia were. This left Reid alone with his beer. And the younger boy who had sat himself down next to Reid. They sat there in silence for a moment, before Reid decided that something must be said. He almost started the conversation, but everything was suddenly happening so quickly.

Something smashed against Reid's head and he fell backwards, grasping at the counter to keep himself upright. Vaguely, he felt someone grabbing his waist, but Reid's mind was still swimming through whatever haze had been brought about by the sudden impact with something hard. As he blinked away the confusion, Reid noticed that he was staring down the barrel of a gun. His gun. Great. Across the room, Reid noticed, Prentiss and Morgan had been similarly disarmed.

The man with Morgan's gun, fired it into the ceiling, eliciting screams from many of the clubbers. "Everyone to the middle of the room!" he shouted, waving his gun meaningfully in the direction of a couple of the patrons.

Rubbing his aching head, Reid made his way to where Morgan, Prentiss, and Garcia were standing. As he did so, he observed the three men with guns. The one in charge, who was currently shouting at all the clubbers, looked to be the oldest, probably in his early thirties. He was bald and had one of those double-pointed chins that jutted out with every word he said. Beside him, stood a younger man with dark brown hair that hung foppishly across his forehead. He also waved Prentiss' gun excitedly, but allowed the older man to do the talking. The third guy was the one who had managed to nab Reid's own gun. He was young and quiet, allowing the other two to take the lead in whatever hostage situation was about to occur.

"They've got to be brothers," Prentiss whispered. "Look at the slight similarities. Plus, the way the two younger ones follow the leader," she sighed, "it has to be some twisted sort of family activity."

"We need to contact Hotch and Rossi," Morgan muttered out of the corner of his mouth, glaring in the direction of the three brothers.

Garcia pulled out her phone swiftly. "On it." She had just started texting, giving a location and a brief description of what was occurring, when the middle brother noticed the glow from her screen.

"Hey!" he shouted, pushing his way through the crowd toward Garcia. She quickly hit send, wishing she had been able to finish the text, but hoping that Hotch would understand the garbled message. "Put your phone away!" The older brother took the cue and began informing all the guests that their phones must be placed on a table near the window, out of reach. Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid all reluctantly handed their phones to the middle brother, who was already holding Garcia's confiscated phone.

Once all the phones were safely out of reach, the middle brother lowered Prentiss' gun, observing the crowd with a smile. "Hey, Ted, what should we do with all them people?"

The older brother, Ted, shrugged. "Clearly, we'll have to do something fun." He turned to a lady near the front and asked, "Do you like to have fun, little lady?"

The girl, for she only looked to be about 18, shook her head tearfully, fearing the implications of Ted's words.

"We need to figure something out. Maybe if we gang up on them all at once," Garcia suggested, her voice shaking slightly.

Morgan shook his head, "They'll shoot the other hostages. Whatever we end up doing, we need to be able to get the guns away from all three before they notice what we're doing."

"Some sort of blitz attack?" Reid asked.

"Basically. But, we'll need to split up and somehow manage to get close to each of our targets. I'll go for the older brother, Ted, if that's what his name is. Prentiss, can you take down the middle one?" After she nodded her affirmation, Morgan continued, "That leaves Reid and Garcia with the youngest guy. The element of surprise will be in our favor."

Before Morgan could say anything else, the middle brother shouted at them to shut up, before turning to his older brother. "Hey, Ted, what're we gonna have 'em do?" He gestured at all the nervous patrons. "They're gettin' antsy. Hell, I'm gettin' antsy."

Ted rubbed his hand over his face briskly. "I don't know, Joe. What d'you want 'em to do?"

The youngest brother spoke up. "Can I choose, Ted?" he asked softly, his voice barely audible above the nervous hum of the hostages.

"Something about this doesn't add up," Reid muttered, ignoring the brothers for a moment. "I mean, we're hostages, right? But, why? What do they have to gain by taking a club hostage? And why haven't they contacted the police or anything? What do these men want?"

"Maybe it's something personal about the club," Prentiss suggested.

"Do you think it was a spur of the moment decision?" Garcia asked. "Like, they just walked in and decided they wanted to hold all these people hostage?"

"They don't seem very educated," Reid observed. "It is unlikely that they planned this out before hand."

"Plus," Prentiss pointed out, "they didn't come in here with weapons. They got those from us."

"So," Morgan said, in summation, "it's just a trio of brothers looking to have fun. And the way they decide to do that is by taking a club hostage."

The BAU agents all looked up when another shot was fired into the ceiling. "Listen up!" Ted shouted, the gun raised dramatically above his head. "This here is a club, right? And at club's we dance! Right?" When no one answered, Ted waved the gun threateningly at the hostages and repeated his question louder. "Right?" A few heads nodded and a couple yeses were murmured in fear. "Then let's make this a party! We gonna dance to my little bro's favorite song." Ted's eyes darkened. "And if you don't wanna dance, that's fine by me, but you're gonna be meeting your maker a lot sooner than you probably anticipated."

"He wouldn't shoot them, would he?" Garcia whispered.

"Judging by the way his eyebrows came inward and the jugular vein stuck out of his neck as he said that last part, I'd say it's highly likely that he'd follow through on his threat," Reid said.

"It's not that hard to dance," Morgan commented.

"Speak for yourself," Reid muttered, half to himself.

"In fact," Morgan continued, "we can dance our way over to our targets and hopefully manage to take them out before anyone is injured."

Suddenly, what could only be described as techno music came over the loudspeaker. "Oh, please, no," Garcia muttered at the opening beats.

"Is this what I think it is?" Prentiss asked, as Morgan groaned.

"What?" Reid asked, thoroughly confused. "What's going on?"

The music, after some woman in the song shouted "Ai!" immediately jumped into the melody. "Dance!" Ted shouted, waving his gun. Reluctantly, the guests began dancing to the quite familiar Spanish music.

"What's going on?" Reid asked, noticing that everyone was dancing in the exact same way. "Is this some sort of line dance?"

"I will shoot you!" Ted threatened a couple of people near the edge who were half-heartedly following the dance moves.

"Hey, Macarena!" the entire club shouted, jumping a quarter turn.

"Like this," Garcia explained, showing Reid how to move his arms. "Right arm down, left arm down. Right arm up, left arm up. Left shoulder, right shoulder. Right ear, left ear. Left hip, right hip. Butt, butt. Shake your booty, and turn! Now, we just repeat it indefinitely," Garcia complained. "I hate this song."

Morgan would have laughed a little at Reid's awkward attempts to dance the Macarena, if the situation was any less serious. Instead, he just focused on the dance moves. It was going to be a long night.

Hotch was finally leaving the office, ready to settle down with a chapter of a book and then go to bed. He had reached the door of his office, when his phone buzzed. A message from Garcia. Hotch rolled his eyes, figuring that he was the recipient of a half-drunk text from their technical analyst. He knew perfectly well that, nearly an hour ago, four members of the BAU team had headed off to a bar, most likely. Reluctantly, Hotch opened the text: Help. Anderson and Ca.

Quickly, Hotch went down the short hall to where Rossi was just finishing up some paperwork from the last case they had worked. "We've got a problem."

Rossi looked up at the younger man and the phone in his hand. "A case already?" he asked.

"No. I have reason to believe that Morgan, Prentiss, Reid, and Garcia are in trouble."

Hotch passed the phone to Rossi, who quickly scanned the text. He looked up at Hotch. "Anderson intersects Cannon and Catlin. They've got to be somewhere along that road."

"I'll get a team to start a search. Will you be joining me?" Hotch asked.

Rossi quickly shouldered his jacket on. "Of course." As they headed out of the BAU office, he added, "They're going to be fine, Hotch. They'll keep each other safe."

Hotch frowned. "I know, but we don't have any idea what we're getting ourselves into. Garcia only said they needed help. Anything could be happening."

The two men quickly left the FBI building, Hotch taking the driver's seat of the black SUV. Rossi slipped into the passenger seat, his face grim as Hotch pulled away from the building. They had no clue what to expect or what sort of danger their team had managed to catapult themselves into. Slowly, Hotch crawled the SUV down the street, both men looking for any sign of the team. "There!" Rossi pointed to a twin black SUV parked in an empty lot bordering a series of small buildings.

Hotch pulled the car over and got out to examine the dirt parking lot that housed the SUV. "No signs of disturbances," he observed. "They must have parked the car and gone somewhere else."

"Where would they go?" Rossi asked. He waved his hand at all the small buildings scrunched up together. "We don't have the time or the reasonable cause to go searching in all these buildings."

"I'm pretty sure they were planning on getting drinks," Hotch recalled.

"Okay, a bar. That narrows it a little. I think there are four in the vicinity of Catlin and Cannon. I'll alert the team to keep an eye out for anything suspicious happening at a bar."

Hotch shook his head. "They've got to be somewhere around here. They parked the car and got out and went… where?" He turned, examining the buildings near the parking lot. "One of these is where they are, it has to be."

"What if they were taken, moved somewhere else?" Rossi asked, also examining the buildings for a sign as to where his team had gone and managed to get in trouble.

"We're going to find them," Hotch vowed.

Quietly, Rossi asked, "Do you think it was planned? Or do you think it was a spur of the moment attack?"

"It had to have been planned. I can't see anyone surprising both Prentiss and Morgan and managing to overcome all four of them. Not without some sort of plan, anyway.

"Well, we might as well look at the buildings, see if there's any clue," Rossi suggested.

The two men kept together, traversing the street and peering into the windows of the buildings. A couple old mom and pop restaurants and an overly-packed bar were what met their eyes. "What about that one?" Rossi asked, pointing to a decrepit building across the street. The name "Tully's" was lit up against old, sagging brick.

Hotch shrugged. "Maybe, but I don't see why they'd show up here. I'll try calling Garcia again." He pressed the phone against his ear as he followed Rossi across the street. Her dial tone was really beginning to irritate Hotch, mostly because he had no idea where his team was and how he could help them.

"That's strange," Rossi muttered softly. He gestured lightly to the crowd of people that could be observed through the dusky glass window. The entire crowd was dancing to the Macarena. "I remember when that song came out," Rossi remarked. "I'm surprised people are still dancing to it. If you would've asked me, I would've told you that the song went out of popularity a long time ago."

"Apparently not," Hotch said, slightly distracted as he listened to the ringing of the phone. "There seems to be quite the crowd in there—" he cut off, a pile of cell phones on a table near the window catching his attention. One of them was vibrating wildly. Suspicious. Hotch immediately hung up on Garcia and tried Reid. Another cell phone began to vibrate. "They're here," Hotch whispered.

Rossi crouched down next to Hotch, the two of them peering into the window to understand what was going on. They could make out Morgan and Prentiss, dancing the Macarena. A little farther back were Garcia and Reid, also going through the dance moves. Towards the front of the club, with his back to the window, a bald man stood, gun in hand. "I see one with a gun."

"There are two more back there," Hotch pointed out, noticing two younger men with guns near the wall. One of them looked mildly annoyed, but the other one was grinning wildly as he watched the club goers perform the Macarena.

"What's the plan?" Rossi asked.

"We need to wait for backup. If we go in there, just the two of us, there is no way that we can apprehend the three men before people get shot. I've called the other team and they're on their way now."

"So, we wait?"

"So, we wait."

Reid hated dancing. He had never really been a fan of it before this night, but now he absolutely, positively hated dancing. To make matters worse, every time the song ended, just as Reid was ready to collapse to the floor in relief, the younger man restarted the song. Reid wasn't generally a violent man, but he was ready to smash everything in the club, if only to get the music to stop.

"This is stupid," Garcia muttered, voicing everyone's opinion. A couple of the clubbers nodded sympathetically. "I never liked this song to begin with, but to dance it over and over? This is torture. Cruel and unusual punishment."

They had been dancing for nearly half an hour and Reid's arms were beginning to feel like lead. He was sick of the repetitive moves and really just wanted to take a break and get a glass of water. Thirst burned at the back of his throat, but he forced himself to ignore it, concentrating, instead, on the dance moves. Down, down. Up, up. Shoulder, shoulder. Ear, ear. Hip, hip. Butt, butt. Shake and turn.

31 minutes in, the first dancer collapsed.

32 minutes in, the collapsed dancer was killed.

Before Morgan could even comprehend what had just happened, the door burst open, Hotch and Rossi running in, weapons drawn. "Put the guns down," Hotch commanded, his voice hard and deadly.

The dancers, in shock, had stopped mid move, hands still on their shoulders. Ted noticed and waved his gun at the clubbers. "I will shoot you. You know I will. Keep dancing!" Tiredly, the dancers resumed the Macarena, a very tired "Hey, Macarena!" whispered throughout the room.

"Put the guns down," Hotch repeated, his voice sharp.

Morgan realized that there was no way that Rossi and Hotch could take out three armed men before people were injured. As soon as Ted went down, his younger brothers would retaliate by shooting everyone and anyone near them, most likely ending the firefight with a bullet to the brain. He nudged Prentiss and they carefully made their way to the two younger brothers.

Hotch made eye contact with Morgan, nodding once, before suddenly jerking his gun up and shooting Ted in the shoulder. Morgan and Prentiss reacted instantly, catching the younger brothers by surprise. Before they could do anything, Morgan and Prentiss had wrestled the guns from their grasps. The older one looked as if he was ready to bolt, but Morgan held Prentiss' gun steady, pointed straight at the man's chest. "I wouldn't do anything, if I were you."

The youngest one cowered against the wall, his eyes frantically searching the room. "Where's Ted?" he asked.

"Turn around," Prentiss commanded, handcuffing the young man. Morgan did the same with the other brother.

Across the room, Hotch pulled Ted up, not caring when he strained the bullet wound in the man's shoulder. Ted cried out in pain, attempting to wrench away from Hotch's firm grip, but was unable to do so. "You're hurting me," he complained.

"Tough," Hotch growled, allowing Rossi to handcuff the oldest brother.

At that moment, the rest of the search team filed into the club, taking in the three handcuffed men and the safe FBI agents. "We're going to need medical attention for this one," Rossi informed the team.

Reid was crouched down near the murdered club-goer. He gently felt for a pulse and was unsurprised to feel nothing. The woman was pretty, a young brunette at the prime of her life. She could never have imagined that she would be killed for not dancing the Macarena. Garcia hovered behind Reid and quietly asked, "Is she—"

"Yeah," Reid admitted, leaning back on his ankles. He shrugged off his sweater and gently laid it over the deceased woman's face. He watched the clubbers leaving Tully's, wondering if any of them knew this woman. No one seemed to care about her, only a few glanced mournfully in the body's direction. Most people seemed more focused on their own brush with a hostage situation and were thankful that they had not been killed.

"Are you guys okay?" Rossi asked, coming up to stand near Garcia.

Reid looked up. "Yeah, we're fine."

Morgan and Prentiss soon joined the group, having sent the brothers outside with a couple members of the search team. Prentiss glanced at the body, murmuring, "It's just too bad."

"No one was supposed to get hurt," Rossi muttered. "We were hoping to find a way to take out the three brothers without anyone getting injured."

"We still managed to get everyone else out of here," Morgan pointed out. "It could have turned out much worse."

The team watched as a pair of officers came and gently removed the poor woman's lifeless body. Each member of the team's thoughts wandering different, lonely paths. Finally, Rossi broke the silence. "I could really use a beer now."

"No," Garcia groaned. "I don't think I could enter a bar or club ever again."

"I don't think I can listen to the Macarena ever again," Prentiss complained.

Morgan cracked a grin, as the team headed out of the now infamous club. "Hey, Macarena!"

Everyone groaned.