Present time

Shoot to wound. That was his training. Never aim at the head, never point at the heart. Shoot to incapacitate.

He sniffed the air. The place reeked of gunpowder and rage. Or maybe that was just him. He had been in the Bureau, what, three years not counting those four months he trained in the Academy to get his badge. Thirty-two cases, - twenty-five solved, four shelved and three that didn't end with a fist pump and a catchphrase - and not one led him closer to him.

To the devil who, in one night, destroyed him and all that was good in his world.

It had been three years since the trail went cold. A small part of him was telling him the bastard had already met his maker. But a huge part – the one that refused to be cheated – was telling him the fucker was still alive, biding his time until he could strike again.

They called him the Sanguinista because he exsanguinated his victims slowly by severing arteries before hanging them upside down like animals in a slaughterhouse. The Sanguinista had developed a special skill. The incisions he made were delicate, precise and sophisticated in a sadistic kind of way. A shallow slit to the jugular vein there, a couple of vertical cuts to the wrists here, never too deep, just enough for his victims to take hours - days even - to bleed out. He was a textbook sadist. He wanted his prey to wither slowly, drag out their suffering. And for the final act, after his victims had bled out, he would make crisscross slashes in their back, like an artisan's latticework. A post-mortem signature - scarring them to make sure no one forgets.

When the Sanguinista made his first kill - a prostitute in New Orleans - he was still disorganized, a little less cocky. The nervous bastard miscalculated the depth of the rudimentary gash he made in her trachea. She died almost instantaneously. But the Sanguinista was patient, far too methodical to make the same mistake. After a few more trials, he learned to master his craft. He started taking pairs. He became a better killer. What fun.

So far, there were eight recorded victims of the Sanguinista, from Bourbon street to Mississippi to Dallas and lastly, to Shreveport.

Shoot to wound. The minute he drew his gun he had to be in control. Even in the heat of the moment, he had to be smarter than the suspect. That was standard protocol.

Well, fuck protocol.

He reached inside his pocket and retrieved a small crumpled note. He kept it with him everywhere he went. A daily reminder of what he lost and hoped to find.

'Three down, one to go,' was scribbled on the piece of paper. It sounded so innocuous, so ignorable. Not for him, though. In five simple words, the Sanguinista had sent his message loud and clear.

Shoving the note back in his pocket, he picked up his government-issued Glock .22 and held it with both hands, his eyes fixed on his target's chest.

He hooked his finger around the trigger and squeezed, emptying his clip, all 15 rounds aimed at the heart. He was trained to apprehend but his first instinct was to kill.

His shoulder jerked when the last bullet exited his firearm. It wasn't as exhilarating as he thought it would be but at least it was something. A form of release. After the morning he had with Dr. Agrippa, he needed something to break. Badly.

Pulling off his shooting glasses, he put his pistol down and reached for the paper target that was swiftly whooshing toward him. He examined the black-and-white paper. Not even Batman could survive this kind of assault. Roman would be very disappointed if he saw this.

Then he felt a tap on his shoulder.

He looked to his side and groaned when he saw the burly man with a full beard grinning at him.

It was his partner, Alcide Herveaux.

Alcide, the six-foot-four walking advertisement for steroids who used an alarming amount of hair products to tame his unruly black hair, jabbed his thumb toward the double glass doors before walking in that direction without a word. Eric grudgingly trailed him.

"Knew I'd find you here," Alcide said, taking off his earmuffs as soon as they were outside the shooting range. Eric shoved his Glock back in the safety of the holster that was strapped to his shoulder before yanking his own earmuffs and ear plugs.

"How's your psych eval?"

Eric didn't offer a reply as he resumed examining the paper target in his hand.

Alcide glanced at the cardboard and whistled, obviously impressed with the accuracy of his shots. "That bad, huh?"

Eric raised his eyes to his colleague. "Don't take this the wrong way, Herveaux, but isn't it bad enough that we share a room every time we're out of town? Do we really have to hang out on our days off too? I'm telling you, man, people are starting to talk."

Alcide chuckled gruffly. "Let them gossip. I need a date."

Eric rolled his eyes. "Oh garsh, I'm flattered, really. But I like my dates blond and preferably with less facial hair."

Alcide shot him a look.

"C'mon, man. This is our first night off in weeks and that Rikki chick from accounting has been seriously eye-fucking me for months now. And it just so happens that she has a single friend who has a thing for the silent, brooding type."

"Aren't we too old for double dates? And haven't you heard of the adage: don't shit where you eat? Seriously, Herveaux, haven't you learned anything from Debbie?"

Debbie was the bleach blonde psycho from the cyber-crime unit. Alcide dated her for two months until she got paranoid and hacked into his email. Alcide's email was a cesspool of Viagra discounts, pornsite invites and a collection of old love letters from his string of girlfriends from Texas to Canada. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, especially when the woman had access to a million internet viruses known to man and knew how to use Adobe. The photoshopped nude pictures of Alcide sporting a tiny – almost non-existent – peen began popping in the office emails. Unfortunately for Alcide, that was just the appetizer. Debbie's piece de resistance had been stewing in the office pantry. After their nasty, albeit public, break-up, Alcide's coffee started tasting like cat's piss. While Alcide didn't mind the questionable blend of bodily fluids that probably swirled in his java, he drew the line at toenail clippings, which he found in the bottom of his cup three weeks ago. Since then, Alcide made it a point to only drink overpriced coffee from the Starbucks across the street.

"Oh right, like you're any better," Alcide grumbled with a snort. "What about Nora Gainesborough, then?"

Eric stilled. Alcide sure knew how to play dirty.


E/S

One year ago…

Eric tipped his nearly empty glass to his lips all the while regretting his decision to hang out in a bar. If there was anything sadder than drinking alone at home, it was drinking alone in a room full of strangers.

"I'll have what he's drinking," said the petite brunette who sidled next to him in the counter. "Make it two; he's getting another one on me." Alas, one more reason why he should've just stayed home.

He cast a sideway glance to acknowledge his unwelcome party. "Don't you have a plane to catch?"

Nora Gainesborough, the British intelligence working for the Interpol, flew in when a British diplomat and his wife were kidnapped by Albanian terrorists while visiting DC. It was Eric's first extraction mission as a federal agent. While the diplomat and his wife were successfully rescued, one of Nora's agents was caught in a shootout, dead on the spot. It was hardly considered a victory.

"Forgive me if I'm not in a hurry to bury a colleague."

He probably sensed it in her tone or perhaps it was the familiarity of her situation that made him stop and stare. "Sorry." He was genuinely contrite. He knew what it felt to have someone close to him become collateral damage. "It's not your fault. You can't save everybody."

"Is that what you tell yourself every night?"

His empathy quickly transformed into resentment as he slammed his glass back down at the old rustic bar with more force than he intended. The audible thud made her flinch but she didn't recant.

"I've read your file," she stated in a detached tone. "I know about Louisiana. How you stepped down as the sheriff to chase a ghost."

Eric felt a twist in his gut. Luckily for her, he'd had enough alcohol in his system to control his primal impulse to lash out at her.

With a roll of his head, he flashed her a rare smile. "Do you want to fuck?"

She coughed; a stiff drink down the wrong pipe. That had to hurt. His smile grew wider, feeling better already.

"What did you say?" she choked with a look that was a cross between appalled and mortified.

"Isn't that why you're here?" he asked coolly, picking up his fresh glass with two fingers of single malt, courtesy of Agent Gainesborough. "Isn't that why you chose to ditch your suit for a low neckline dress that shows off your cleavage? Isn't that why you picked this bar instead of the one in your hotel?"

She opened her mouth, seemingly contemplating how to respond. He never gave her a chance, though.

"You're here because you feel inadequate. Unlike you I don't need to read your file to know what a control freak you are. You could have sat on my left but you chose to sit on my right to make sure that when I look at you I won't be sneaking a glance at the TV. That way you can have my full attention. You kept touching your finger. I can tell by the almost invisible tan line that there used to be a ring there. An engagement ring, perhaps? Did your fiancé dump you? Or did you grow tired of having to explain why you can't tell him anything about your job? Am I getting warm?"

"Sod off."

"It's a yes then," he drawled. "I suppose you chose me because, like you said, you've read my file and you know I have commitment issues. You want the diversion without the hassle. So tell me, Agent Gainesborough, how do you like to do this? Would you like to be on top, that way you can regain a semblance of control you've lost. I'm cool with that, but I don't do post-coital cuddling. That shouldn't be a problem, though. You don't seem like the spooning type either. You don't trust anyone enough to let them watch you sleep."

"Stop profiling me like one of your psychos!" she whisper-hissed, her face so close to his he could see black smudge of make-up under her eyelids, probably from when she wept for her fallen comrade earlier. He would have felt bad for her, but every ounce of empathy he had for her dissipated when she brought up Louisiana.

His file was in black and white, nothing more. His entire life before the Bureau summed up in two pages. It didn't say how many times he had to wash his hands to scrub off the blood embedded in his nails. There was no written report on the instances he passed out drunk in a cemetery, beside a tombstone. Nothing that told of the nights he woke up screaming only to whisper apologies. Sorry because he wasn't there for them. Sorry because he wasn't clever enough to beat the Sanguinista in his own game.

He sneered at her. "Sucks doesn't it? When someone pretends to know everything about you?"

"You've made your point."

He finished his drink, fished a couple of bills from his wallet and left it on the counter. "For what it's worth, I am truly sorry for your loss." With that he rose from his bar stool and pocketed his phone.

"You're not wrong, though," she whispered, sounding defeated. "I came here for you. And I was wondering if your offer still stands."

He cursed his stupid, stupid mouth. After the day he had, all he wanted to do was crash in his bed and sleep until his phone rings and another summon comes.

"I'm serious about the spooning."

She beamed. "I'll even let myself out."


E/S

Present day…

"I have it in good authority that a certain British liaison spent a night in your apartment," Alcide stated smugly.

"That's different," was all Eric could say.

"Right…" Alcide drawled. "And how is that different?"

"Geography. She lives in a different continent and she doesn't have direct access to my coffee."

Alcide guffawed.

"C'mon, Eric. One date. I'm buying; all you need to do is show up."


A/N: I don't own Eric.

Next chapter is a mix of present time and a flashback. I know this chapter is vague, if you can humor me for a few more chapters, most of your queries will be answered.

Thank you for reading and taking the time to review! I appreciate the feedback!

Huge shout out to my gals, Amandagm, MsStitcher, Realjena and Mindy781! They are fanfic gems!