Part two
Derek Morgan and Spencer Reid found themselves in separate cells in a dank, dungeon like part of the facility. During the walk down there they'd noticed numerous off shooting corridors, as well as doors that lead to who knew what. It was obvious the facility was extensive, old, and the faded – but still legible – notations on the doors and walls indicated it had once been a military base of some sort. Perhaps a precursor to the extensive facility that now existed outside of Hawthorne, Nevada, a couple hundred miles away.
"Okay, Reid, I'm ready to hear whatever theories you have here. How do we get out of this?" Derek queried, pacing the compact cell. There was a small pallet on the floor, and an open shower and toilet at the back. 'All the comforts of home' his mind provided as he paced.
"I'm pretty certain we are being monitored, if only via audio," Spencer replied softly, looking around his cell for signs of cameras or microphones. "That's what the Providers did on the show," he added softly.
"Gotcha," Morgan replied, understanding that any talk of potential escape scenarios would have to wait for now.
"If this follows true to the show, we will be assigned trainers to get us ready to compete in their contests," Spencer added, not looking at all pleased with that idea.
"Contests? What kinds of contests?"
"I don't think the episode ever showed a normal contest, but they were training with nets, whips, knives, and spear/staff things. Apparently the battles were to the death. Also, it appeared that smaller, weaker slaves – actually, they weren't referred to as slaves; they were called 'thralls' for some reason – would be used as practice targets. Same for those who broke the rules." Reid couldn't help the worried look at the thought of being used as a practice target, but he was well aware of his physical prowess, or lack thereof.
"Kid, you're going to be fine," Derek assured him, reading his expression well enough. "Just train hard, you know the team will find us. We just have to avoid getting dead until then."
Whatever else Morgan was going to say was interrupted by the arrival of a tall, muscular man who stopped in front of Morgan's cell. He tossed in a bright blue tank top and spoke in a voice that had a bit of a British accent. "Put this on."
"What's going on, man?" the agent asked, even as he gratefully pulled off the mesh tank and donned the more comfortable blue cotton one.
"I've been assigned to you. This is the color of our team. I will assess your fighting abilities today, then set up a training schedule. You are not to ask questions, you will do as you are told or feel the pain of the collar." He unlocked the cell and indicated Morgan should exit. "Come with me."
With a worried glance back at Reid, Morgan followed the big man, both stepping aside when a petite African American woman entered with a nod at the other trainer.
"Put this on," she ordered Reid, handing him the blue tank top she'd brought. "It's time to determine if you can be trained as a fighter," she added, unlocking the cell door as Reid changed his shirt. She was barely over five feet tall, but her blue tank top revealed well muscled arms, liberally sprinkled with bruises and other injuries in various stages of healing. Her attractive face was marred by a scar that ran from over her left eye to just below her right ear.
"Where…where are we going?" Reid asked anxiously, stepping out of the cell.
"To a training room. Don't ask questions, just do as you're told and you'll survive," she informed him, indicating he should follow her.
Taking her advice Spencer quelled any further inquiries and shadowed the small woman through several corridors, carefully noting which turns they took and taking in as much detail of the layout as possible. He almost stumbled over her when she stopped abruptly and turned to open a door.
They entered a spacious room with a large square of mats in the center and several multi-purpose weight training machines and treadmills along the perimeter. One wall was dominated by a rack of assorted odd weapons, most of which Spencer did not recognize.
"Come, we will test your strength level first,' the woman said, indicating one of the machines.
Spencer approached the machine tentatively, looking at it with a puzzled expression. "I, um, I'm not familiar with the functions of this particular device," he admitted at last.
"Sit here, straddling the bench and facing out and I'll show you how it works," she replied. For the next hour she walked him through the use of the machines, working on the tension to determine his baseline strength. She made no comments, but her expression was increasingly unhappy.
"Can we take a break now?" Reid asked at last, having worked up a sweat and feeling like his muscles had all the strength of cooked spaghetti.
"Sit up and rest, then," she agreed, having acquired a clipboard and making notes.
"How'd I do?" he finally asked as she paused in her writing.
"You're stronger than you look, at least, but that's not saying much," she reported.
"Oh. Sorry," he mumbled, studying his feet. "What's your name?"
"Two Forty Three."
"That's not a name, that's a number," he noted with a frown.
"At some point during your training period you will be given a designation which will be your new name," she informed him, her voice softer than before.
Matching the quiet tone he asked again. "But, what's your name? From before?"
"Aisha," she whispered, wincing as if admitting that hurt. She sat down on the machine's bench beside the FBI agent.
"I'm Spencer," Reid replied, matching the still lower tone. "How did you end up here?"
She was silent so long he figured she wasn't going to answer, but eventually her soft voice continued. "We'd been hiking in Yosemite. Me and my sister and brother-in-law. We were walking back to the car, joking about the best place to get a full on carb loaded dinner after hiking all day, when we were each shot with a tranquilizer dart. We woke up here." A tear meandered down her unscarred cheek, and she wiped it away angrily.
"Is you family still alive?" he asked gently, guessing the answer before she spoke.
"My sister, Anne, she had a heart condition. That's why she was so into hiking and exercise, it all helped along with the medications. But…she made a mistake….they used the collar…" her whisper trailed off with a stifled sob.
"I'm so sorry," Spencer said, putting a comforting hand on her arm.
She took a deep, steadying breath before continuing. "My brother-in-law made it until last week, when he was fatally injured on one of the stupid ass contests. Me, I've been a practice target until they promoted me to trainer. You're my first, if I don't do a good job they'll likely demote me to target again," she admitted, looking up at him with anxious eyes. "You have to do well, Spencer. For both our sakes." She paused, and then stood up with a determined expression. "Next we'll see how you do with the punching bag," she ordered, handing him some thin gloves to protect his hands at least a little.
Spencer nodded in agreement, his own expression solemn as he pulled on the gloves. He approached the hanging bag apprehensively, wishing with all his heart he'd been more interested in fighting and physical endeavors, feeling the weight of responsibility for two lives as he threw his first punch, barely making the heavy bag quiver.
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"It certainly appears that Morgan and Reid made it here, based on what you saw on the road and the number of newer footprints. And of course, this," Hotch said, showing Kate the dart he'd found. "Did you see anything around those trees?" he asked.
"I didn't actually go in there, I wanted to see what you found here first, to determine if we need to bring in reinforcements and cordon off a crime scene," Callahan replied.
"Let's go on up there and do a preliminary search, then we can determine if we need to bring in the Reno Sheriff's crime scene unit," Hotchner decided, heading over to the SUV.
They parked short of the trees, wanting to preserve the tire tracks, then walked well above the stand of trees and tiny creek that happily burbled through them. Keeping the kill site in view, they carefully scanned for footprints and debris as they approached the most logical observation points.
"Hotch, I have something," Kate called over to the boss, gesturing for him to join her.
"What is it?" he inquired as he came to her side.
"Looks like one of our unsubs is a smoker," she grinned, indicating four cigarette butts snubbed out in the soft desert sand. The spot was well hidden, but still allowed for a good view of the road, including the area where Morgan and Reid had probably been taken.
"Good job. See if you can bag them without disturbing the scene too much and I'll check in with Rossi, see if Adams can spare a CSI team to go over this," Aaron requested, turning away and pulling out his cell phone.
Taking two carefully placed steps toward the cigarette butts, Kate was able to extract each of them, bagging them individually, and back out using the same steps. Hotch was just closing his cell when she joined him, holding the four bags aloft with a grin. "Got 'em."
"Great, let's head in. Adams is going to send a CSI team right away, and Dave has good progress on the stabbings. He and JJ are standing by so we can meet and plan our next steps," Hotch said, hurrying to the SUV and climbing behind the wheel. He barely allowed enough time for Callahan to take her seat before he turned the black vehicle around and sped down the dirt road toward civilization.
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Spencer was once again sitting on a weight machine bench, his blue tank top drenched in sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps. They finished the strength testing before moving on to endurance, and he'd just completed a five mile run. Aisha approached, handing him a paper cup of water.
"Thank you," he gasped, downing most of the contents in one long pull.
"Hey, slower, or you'll be cleaning up your puke," she warned shaking her head at him.
"Yes, ma'am. Well, how bad is it?" he asked.
"Bad. No strength, sucky endurance. What were you? A librarian or something?" she wondered in exasperation.
"No, actually, I'm an FBI agent," he informed her, finishing the water.
"In your dreams, maybe," she scoffed.
Spencer favored her with one of his small smiles. "They didn't hire me for my physical abilities."
"What did they hire you for?"
"I have three PhD's, an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory, and can read 20,000 words per minute."
"Hate to tell you this, but that ain't gonna help you any here. That fella you came in with? He's got a much better chance," Aisha told him with a wry look.
"Then I'll have to call on what I learned as a twelve year old senior in a Las Vegas public High School; be invisible. And when that doesn't work; endure."
The young woman gave him a warm smile, shaking her head slightly. "This means I have to train you in how to maximize the training for those who are actually fighting in the contests. How to minimize your injuries. I'm actually sorry, Spencer, I'd hoped you'd test out better." She shook her head, as if to dispel her thoughts, and then spoke in her usual businesslike manner. "Those in training have chores. Normally you and your friend would be doing facility cleanup, but a couple of newer arrivals are being punished with that, so you got lucky and were assigned to assist in the kitchen. Come, it is time to go," she announced.
"Aisha, how long have you been here?" he asked softly as they headed toward the door.
"I think about three months. But in all honesty, it feels like forever."
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Hotch and Kate hurried into the Reno Sheriff's office, seeing Dave, JJ and Adams in the conference room conversing quietly around the table, which was covered in assorted files. Joining them, the conversation came to an end as Rossi spoke in the sudden silence.
"They'd gotten there?" he asked.
"It appears so. I found a dart at the kill site, and Kate has some cigarette butts from where it appears the shooters were hiding. JJ, contact the local FBI satellite office and find out where and how for the fastest DNA and chemical analysis please. Dave, what did you find out on our serial killer?" Hotch asked, handing the five evidence bags to JJ, who hurried out with them.
"All five of our victims used the same barber, and his coworkers confirmed that four of the victims either complained to the owner about him or stiffed him on a tip or both. The fifth one they didn't recognize, but there are times he works the place alone. The suspect's name is Ernest Valdivia, a native of Reno, forty seven years old. Minor record with the PD; couple DUI's, a trio of domestic disturbance calls. Boss and coworkers describe him as okay to work with when he's in a good mood, but difficult when things don't go his way. Quick temper. And carries a grudge. Once he's mad at you, he stays mad, despite any overtures."
"Any idea of customers he's currently complaining about?"
"He has been angry about one or two, but they don't know the names, just the faces. We did get a copy of his appointment list, and Garcia is compiling driver's license photos to match the names, then we can go back and see if that jogs any memories. Adams here has officers standing by, along with support from the local PD, to protect potential targets," Dave reported as Sheriff Adams nodded his agreement. "She said she'd have the photos to us within the hour. She is also doing a deeper background on Valdivia."
"That's great, Dave. I didn't see anything special about the kill site, but then again, I was more looking for signs of Morgan and Reid." He held up his right hand, forefinger extended as he pulled out his cell phone. He punched in the code and hit the speaker function.
"Garcia, you're on speaker," he said into the small device.
"Sir! Did you find any sign of our boys?" she asked anxiously.
"Nothing definite yet. We found some evidence, but need DNA and chemical analysis before we can say for sure."
"Oh, I can't stand this," the tech said, her distress evident over the phone. "They just have to be okay."
"Let's not borrow trouble, Garcia. In the meantime, can you do one more thing on the case? You have the coordinates for the kill site, right?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Do some digging, see if that location has ANY connection to Valdivia," he requested.
"I'm on it. Please tell Rossi to check his inbox in five minutes, he'll have the photos he'd requested. And, please, Sir, let me know as soon as you have any news on Derek and Spencer?"
"I promise, Garcia, you'll be the first person I call." He closed his cell gently then sat down wearily.
JJ was still gone, and Adams and Kate had both departed for personal reasons, leaving Hotch alone with his older friend. The two shared a worried look before Rossi spoke gently.
"We'll find them, Aaron. We have to. And I'm feeling hopeful the original case will be finished quickly. Oh, and Adams said he'd provide any assistance and personnel needed to search for Morgan and Reid. We aren't alone out here."
"Adams is a good man, I appreciate his support," Hotch replied. Before he could say anything else, JJ hurried in accompanied by Kate.
"The agent at the local office just came by to get the samples," JJ reported. "He's going to personally fly them to the Las Vegas main office and stay until the information has been processed and he has results. Seems he went to one of the lectures you and Reid gave last year," she said, smiling at Rossi. "Spence spent some time with him afterwards, and he was impressed. Guess you never know when putting in some extra effort will pay off, right?"
"Great," Rossi agreed, distracted by a beep from his phone. "Ah, Garcia has come through with the pictures. You ready to go see our friends at the Eastside Barber shop?" he asked the blonde woman.
"Absolutely." JJ agreed with a nod and grabbing her jacket as they headed out. "Sooner we finish this, the sooner we can concentrate on finding Derek and Spence."
To Be Continued