Usual disclaimers, plus one for really really angsty stuff. I warn dark themes, people!

--Is there anything?-- Kyle asked as he raced into the lab, nearly knocking over a strange contraption that looked rather complicated and expensive. He deftly dove underneath the falling object and managed to save it from shattering into a million pieces.

--Nice catch!—the raven-haired technician said, giving Kyle the thumbs-up. –And my microscope thanks you too!—

--No problem. Now, is there anything?—

Abby pointed at her plasma screen, which was emblazoned with the bespectacled face of Penelope Garcia. –"Ask her,"—she said. –"She got all McGee-like on me and just dropped in…"—

"And with some good news, anyway," Garcia said hastily, not to be outdone. Turning towards Kyle's position so that he could see her face, the bubbly blonde spoke. "I found a hit in one of the more obscure databases out there—one without any cool letter strings, if you can believe it."

"And?" Kyle said, using his voice.

"And the print got a hit, but there's a problem."

Kyle looked at Abby with one eyebrow raised, a clear sign of confusion. The forensics specialist translated the message, and Kyle's face fell nearly a mile. –Problem?!—

"The person it coughed up…well…he's supposed to be dead."

--Great. You're telling me I'm crazy.-- Kyle rolled his eyes and sank into the waiting desk chair. –Or better, that Oliver and Reid were kidnapped by ghosts.—

--"Ghosts do not leave evidence,"—Abby said firmly. –"Your mystery man is very real."—

--You're sure?—

"It's entirely possible that our creep stole someone's identity, or took over one from a dead guy," Garcia admitted. "I'm looking into that possibility as we speak."

--What about the rest of the evidence?—Kyle asked, looking at Abby.

Abby shrugged. –"We got sea salt, white fibers, and a dead man's print."—

--Not enough to tell us anything.—

--"But enough to tell us that something's definitely hinky,"—Abby countered. The sound of Garcia's slight chuckle echoed through the lab. "Something funny?" the white-coated technician said, glaring at the screen.

"No, just that the word 'hinky' is kinda cool."

"Thanks," Abby said, quickly turning her glare into a smile. "Love the colors, by the way!"

Garcia blushed a little. She was wearing her purple glasses and had gone all out in pinks and blacks and some bits of fuchsia. "Place needed some sprucing up. Glad you like it!"

Kyle clapped his hands, forcing the girls out of their sudden chatfest. –Two people missing, four more people lying to their respective employers, and we've got diddly-squat to set everything right. This is great. Maybe I really am crazy…--

Just then McGee raced in and began loading something onto Abby's computer, turning the smaller screen into a veritable plethora of windows and images. "Finally got something on that tire tread…"

--"You got something off that?"—Abby asked, rather impressed. –"I was about to give up on it…"—

"Well, you were absolutely right on one thing—the tire is useless as a lead."

--"Then what did you find, McGee?"-- Abby challenged, her nostrils flaring slightly and her face firmly set in a look.

"Wear pattern. See this?" An image blew up on the screen, showing a rather large divot in the left side tread. "That, Abby, is…"

--A nail,-- Kyle said before the tech could speak up. He traced the shape of the divot, noting it had a peculiar square-like shape. –A cut nail, to be exact.—

"Cut nails aren't in use much anymore, except if you make your own nails," McGee added. "So we're looking for people who know how to work metal and are used to making their own stuff, even nails."

"Hobbyists, woodworking cultures, et cetera," Garcia said, quickly typing something into her computers on her end.

--"Or…this could be a plug in the tire,"— Abby suggested. –"And those can look like anything."—

Kyle shook his head. –It could be both. They can make plugs the same way as they would a nail, I think. But then you'd have to compare tool marks…--

--"Find me that tire, I can match it to a tool you bring me,"—Abby declared.

"Did you run the fibers for DNA?" McGee asked.

--"Couldn't find enough for a match. The sample was tiny, and degraded to boot."—

"Send me those results anyway," Garcia said. "I've got a few things I can try..."

--The dead guy, what's his name?— Kyle asked. –At least that gives me a place to start.—

Garcia consulted her monitor. "Guy's name is Carlos Pena. Died in a raid on a barn located on a key just off of the Miami coast."

--I'll see what I can come up with. Thanks, Garcia.—

"No problem. Keep me in the loop, and I'll…" she began, when Abby and McGee heard her office phone go off. "Talk dirty to me," Garcia said, a smile creeping over her face. "The first minute's free."

"Garcia, can you run a list of polygamist groups operating near the Castle Dale area?" a female voice asked, chuckling at the technician's joke. "And you can charge the rest of the bill on Morgan's account."

"Surely you jest," Garcia said. "For you, Em, the toll's on me. Let me get back to you in a jif on that…"

"Thanks. Hey, have you heard from Reid? Hotch is on the warpath, and about to call someone over at the Navy Yard…"

The four figures working on the 'secret' case felt their faces blanching at once. What now? McGee mouthed silently, and Garcia quickly caught Abby's reaction.

"Uh, sure," Garcia said. "He said it was a Special Agent McGee that had him drop by…something to do with a particularly difficult interrogation of a murder suspect that's about to ship out…"

The voice on the other line sighed. "Well, we could really use him out here. He was great in Colorado, and we've got one of those Cyrus-types…"

"You got it. I'll make some calls, put the smack down on the people keeping him," Garcia said. "Later." As soon as the phone disconnected, she heaved a huge sigh. "I am so getting fired for this…"

--Don't worry, Garcia,-- Kyle said. –We'll all probably be fired for this.—

----

It was impossible to tell just how long he'd been sitting in that miserable room, on display like a collectable item or a child's toy still in the original packaging. Reid kept his back to the clear window of a door, wishing he had free use of his hands if only to wrap his arms around himself. The aching limbs were beginning to stiffen in the forced and unnatural position they were bound in, and it seemed like the hateful steel bracelets would never be removed from his wrists.

Footsteps scuttled past the back wall of the stifling cubicle, assaulting Reid's ears with every stomp and shuffle. He'd lost count after the first ten or so, realizing that the group that planned to 'sell' him and Oliver was much larger than he'd thought. After a while, however, the footsteps ceased, and Reid was left to let his mind wander his fate.

The sound of his stomach protesting made the profiler realize he was famished. The prospect of getting anything to eat seemed like a distant fantasy, however, so Reid tried to focus his thoughts on other things. A chill persisted in wrapping its icy tentacles around his thin frame, and there was no way of warding it off. His hair was still damp from the forced shower, and small droplets continued to fall onto his knees, which were pulled as close to his torso as they could possibly be.

Can it get any worse? Reid wondered. He wished he were anywhere else in the world--even back in that hateful shack deep in the Georgia woods. The concept of being purchased—purchased!—like cattle or a table lamp for a buyer's pleasure was becoming harder to fathom, and yet Reid realized that soon that very circumstance would soon befall him. His mind was so wrapped up in trying to devise a way out of this hellish nightmare that he took no notice of the soft creak of the plastic door's solid hinges. It wasn't until the touch of cold fingers played across his bare shoulder and the rustle of fabric sang through his ears that the profiler realized he wasn't alone.

"Hola, querido," a familiar voice cooed behind his ear. "It's a pity you can't hear me…" Reid bristled as the gentle fingertips began to caress the curves of his back, and he tried to pull away when those appendages began to explore the soft parts of his throat. Strong arms pulled Reid closer to the warm figure behind him, and soft hands began to tenderly work their way across his exposed midsection, tracing each line of muscle that existed across his torso. "So soft," the voice behind him whispered, full of infatuation with the unwilling man who was a prisoner to the younger man's advances. "So gentle."

Full of loathing and disgust, Reid tried to curl himself further into a ball, trying desperately to shy away from the young man's touch. He felt as though each brush of the man's fingertips or affectionate word that reached his ears was an infringement on his person, and he longed to scream at his assailant to leave him alone. However, he ground his teeth and compelled himself to remain quiet. The thought of being lost to Oliver or any hope of rescue dwelled heavily on his mind.

"I brought something for you," the young man said, and the sound of plastic crinkling rang through Reid's cochleas. The smell of chocolate wafted towards the profiler's nose, teasing him with the memory of Hershey bars that lay in his desk drawer at the BAU or the thick cake that JJ had insisted on making for his last birthday. The taste of bile rose in his throat, and his stomach growled loudly at the thought of actual sustenance. "I know you won't tell on me—we're not supposed to feed the merchandise until after the sale."

The idea of eating anything made Reid gingerly lift his head up from its protective stance. He wriggled a little, indicating his bound hands behind him.

"I can't, querido," the young man said, lifting Reid's head up to meet his eyes. "I don't have the keys. And I can't ask…" He turned slightly to pick up a packaged cupcake, the kind with the little white squiggle of icing on the top. It took every ounce of willpower Reid possessed to not drool over the confection, especially considering where it was coming from. On the other hand, he was so hungry he felt he could eat just about anything put in front of him. The dinner he was supposed to have shared with Kyle and Oliver had been a dream unfulfilled, and the thought of starving for who knew how long was one Reid refused to acknowledge.

The young man picked up the cupcake with long fingers, and Reid's warm eyes latched onto the chocolate concoction like a puppy eagerly expecting a biscuit. As long fingers broke the cake into pieces, Reid's breaths began to deepen, and his tongue ran itself impatiently over the back of his teeth. He swallowed thickly, imagining the taste of cocoa and sugar coating his soft palate and his tongue.

"I hope you like this," the young man said, gently holding a piece of the cake out for Reid to take. "These are my favorites. Perhaps soon I'll learn a little more about you, querido—just a little. The rest I'd like to figure out myself."

Reid attacked the section of cupcake as though it were the last morsel of food left on earth. He rolled the spongy confection in his mouth for a moment, trying to eat the cream filling before sinking his teeth into the chocolate. He let the stiff icing lay across his tongue, allowing the sugar to dissolve onto his tongue. Swallowing quickly, Reid's eyes instantly looked over at the remaining pieces of torn cupcake, growing wide in anticipation of another bite.

"Slow down," his captor said. "You might get sick. We can't have that."

Sick or no, I'm starving, can't you see that?! Reid thought. Give me the damn cupcake!

"Here," the man said, turning his head of black hair towards Reid's line of sight. The sound of something scratching on the concrete floor bristled in Reid's ears, and soon a plastic cup was being held to his lips. "Drink, querido. It's good water."

The profiler drank greedily, as though he'd never seen the clear liquid before in his life. Reid had been too shocked and mortified to attempt taking a drink in the 'shower,' and the remnants of unswallowed cake were settling thickly in his mouth, making it dry.

"Slow down," his captor said, pulling the glass away. "You'll be sick."

Please, give me more, Reid begged silently, hoping to convey the message through his eyes. Don't take it away…

"I can't risk it. I'll be in enough trouble as it is if Darius finds out I've been here," the young man said, as if he was telepathically communicating with the object of his infatuation. "I'll let you have another sip, but no more."

Reid accepted the cup gratefully, taking another long pull from the cup. The last few crumbs of cake washed down into his esophagus, and the taste of chocolate still lingered on the back of his teeth. He wished he could have another bite, but refused to betray his secret—it was too important to keep.

"Until later, querido," the young man purred, waving slightly. "Soon this place will be nothing but a memory."

As the clear bar fell into place, locking Reid in the tiny cubicle, his mind rolled over that last statement. What does he know that I don't? he wondered suspiciously. And more importantly, how do I play into it?