David Rossi had never been more afraid in his life. The hopelessness of the situation they were in—the utter helplessness of knowing there was nothing to do to prevent it—was eating at him.
It wasn't his life he was afraid for. He was fairly confident of being able to walk out of this alive—he and Prentiss. The unsubs were smart. They knew they'd never get away with killing a couple of feds. He and Prentiss were much more useful to them alive. As hostages. Or bargaining chips.
What scared him was what the unsubs might do with them in the meantime.
Or rather, what they might do to Prentiss.
Grimly he gazed at her across the dusty cellar they were in, blurry in the semi-darkness. She was sitting with her back to the wall, the only comfortable position available with her hands cuffed to the wall the way they were. His stomach felt hollow at the thought of what could happen to her—what would happen to her—unless they were lucky enough to get rescued before it came to that.
Have to trust the profile, he kept repeating to himself. And he did trust it. So far, the unsubs had done nothing to prove them wrong. They were organized—methodical. Three unsubs, all between 20 and 30. One dominant, two submissives. The dominant one was smarter, more educated—he called all the shots. The submissives listened and obeyed. But when it came to Prentiss, the most dangerous ones would be the submissives. They were the power excitation rapists.
He and Prentiss hadn't dared talk, for fear the unsubs would come back. They didn't want to attract any attention whatsoever. But they'd shared plenty of looks, and from the bleak determination in Prentiss' eyes, Dave knew she'd come to same conclusion he had.
With the submissives, it wasn't a question of whether or not they were incur in sexual violence. It was a question of when.
He could only hope that particular part of the profile was correct. Power excitation rapists were only aroused by the terror of their victim. As long as Prentiss played possum—refused to show any sign of fear or disgust—they wouldn't be able to go through with it. Their cocks would be limper than a garden hose.
There were so many things that could go wrong, though. The profile might not be totally correct. Or they might not be as sensitive to Prentiss' detachment. And Prentiss might not be able to play the part. She was tough as hell, and if anyone could stare a rapist in the face and refuse to look scared, it was her. But nature had made her a fighter—would she really be able to keep herself from fighting back when they came for her? Would she be able to keep a straight face, not flinching or gasping or looking away? And would Dave be able to maintain his poker face?
It would be the hardest thing he'd ever had to do. Watching a friend being attacked and not yelling or attempting to defend her in any way. He wasn't sure he'd be able to do it. But he had to. Any objection from him would feed their power excitation, making it more likely for them to consumate the rape.
They'd been in this basement for an hour already, and there was no telling when the unsubs would come for them. So far they'd been running scared. Clearly bumping into these feds, even overpowering them and taking them hostage, had not been among their plans, and they hardly knew what to do about it. The dominant unsub had been upstairs barking unintelligible orders for what seemed forever.
Hotch and the others must have realized we're gone. We should have checked in ages ago. Garcia must have already tried our cell phones half a dozen times. She knows they're dead.
It didn't take a bunch of seasoned profilers to know that meant trouble. And they weren't that far from the house they were supposed to be looking at. The house where they'd got caught.
Unsuccessfully, Dave tried to choke down the guilt of knowing this was ultimately his fault. If he'd only cleared the scene—none of this would have happened. They would never have been ambushed. But neither he nor Prentiss had thought of making sure the house was free of unsubs. The crime scene was not new—it had been released hours before. The local PD had cleared it. They had no reason to think someone might still be inside.
But someone was. Three someones. Three someones with guns. And once they'd trained their loaded weapons on Dave, it was no go. Even Emily and her Glock couldn't hope to compete with that.
He surveyed her again through the thick swarm of dust particles swimming between them, surprised at how young and vulnerable she seemed all of a sudden. Her face glistened with perspiration, arms twisted behind her back. Her dress shirt stuck to her skin. Their eyes met and he could only hope to see the same light in them once they were out of here.
Footsteps clattered on the stairs and one of the unsubs appeared—a youngish man with dark brown hair and a goatee. Dave cringed. It was the youngest unsub—the one more likely to fall prey to impulses. He'd already felt Prentiss up when they were patting them down for secondary weapons. He did not need any more power trips.
Leering, the man shut the door behind him and turned to her.
Dave closed his eyes and prayed.