No such thing as a perfect crime---only a perfect getaway. Well, the UNSUB messed up this time and now the four walls of justice are closing in: Hotch, Rossi, Prentiss, and Morgan. It's still possible for him to elude our beloved profilers but alas, no one's luck is that good. I keep thinking about how Hotch reacted when he came face to face with The Reaper, and I wonder if Morgan--the hot head that he is--will turn around and walk away, or will he give in to emotion? Anyway, I don't own Criminal Minds.

P.s. I want to apologise in advance for using the Lord's name in vain and a couple of others too. This is the most violent scene I have ever written. Please read with caution.

Part of The Plan

Mac Case sat up in bed and carefully swung his legs over the side. Goddamn his body hurt! Closing his eyes tightly, he took a moment to ward off the nausea which overwhelmed him every time he tried to take a deep breath.

The pain was incredible and he was pretty sure he had a couple of cracked---if not broken---ribs. He had been preying on women for so long that he never considered one going on the defence. But he never would have imagined anything that small could have so much fight. He had made a mistake trying to corner her in the hallway instead of waiting for her to make it to the bedroom.

That, of course, was her fault. If that damned bitch hadn't made him so fucking hot and hard, he wouldn't have tried to take her right on the spot! All he could imagine was burying himself so deep inside of her that his mind never entertained the fact that she would do everything to prevent it.

Gently he touched his nose as the memory of that night flooded back.

He had been so busy trying to hold her down that he never saw her palm come up against his nose. The crack and intense pain was enough to divert his attention which gave her enough time to get back on her feet and deliver a roundhouse to his ribcage. That tiny little thing had had enough force to knock him off his feet and land on the coffee table. That must have been when he cracked his ribs.

She was good, but he was stronger---and faster. She had tried to get away, but he grabbed her robe and delivered a back hand slap across her face. Landing hard on the floor, she had felt the wind being knocked from her.

He threw himself on her and wrapped his hands around her throat. The more she fought against him, the harder his erection grew. He had never fucked a corpse, but there was a first time for everything. And for that punch to his nose, he was going to make sure that when she was found, an open casket funeral would be out of the question.

Ever so slowly he could feel her energy dissipate as he tightened the pressure around her neck. But she still had a lot of fight left, and used it to bring her thumbs up to gouge his eyes. Yelping in pain, he blindly tried to reach for her, but she brought her knees up and delivered a kick to his midsection which caused him to fly backwards into the wingback chair.

Unable to stop himself, he hit the chair and felt it tip back. Landing with a thud, he was momentarily stunned. By now he should have had her at his mercy. What the hell had gone wrong? Dazed, he tried to ignore the throb in his head and the fire in his chest. Hearing her gasp and sob for breath, he rolled over and tried to get to his feet.

Light from the street lamp cast an eerie yellow glow in the room, but it also enabled him to see her try to crawl across the room to freedom. Letting out a primeval growl of frustration, he sprinted over to her and grabbed her around the waist. He was going to end it for good. Right now.

Holding her in place with one arm, he used his free hand to pull her robe and gown up. The sight of her skin only made him more intent on possessing her. Releasing his fly, he tried to position himself when he felt her dispense a hard kick to his most sensitive area. Screaming out in pain, he released her and fell to the ground where he withered in pain so excruciating he thought his eyeballs were going to explode.

Gasping for breath and barely able to stand he watched her try to make it to the front door. He wasn't going to let her get away that easy. Disregarding the burning pain in his crotch, he gave chase. Grabbing the belt around her waist, he pulled her back and delivered a series of slaps across her face.

He watched her head loll limply as he took out his frustration and anger on her. He had never met her, but he hated her. He hated her prissy attitude, her air of superiority, and the way she had deliberately teased him as she walked away and sashayed her hips. She had purposely sent out an unconscious invite. Now she acted like she had nothing to do with purposely making crazy.

She was like every woman he had ever met in his life: beautiful, sensual, oozing sex from every pore, sending out subconscious signals with their eyes and body---to tease that if they were treated right they would be more than willing to let a man get his dick wet. But once they were cornered and forced to put out, they went cold and tried to play innocent. Every fucking woman was the same: a cold, frigid, prick-teaser. And he had had enough of them. He was tired of begging just to get his rocks off, so now he took what he wanted when he wanted. And if they lost their lives in the process…well, at least it was one less bitch in the world to tease and torment men.

He was past the point of wanting to fuck her---he wanted to kill her. In the middle of slapping her, she grabbed his hand, bit it, and then ran her fingernails down his face. Adrenaline rushed into his system and he threw her across the room. Her body hit the wall and landed on the floor with a dull thud. Extracting his switchblade from his back jeans pocket, he flipped it open.

Bending over her, he delivered two knife blows and was about to run the blade across her throat when a bright light lit up the room. Headlights from a car stopped at the corner stop sign suddenly turned on its brights. Suddenly aware that he was standing in front of a bay window holding a lifeless form, he dropped the woman abruptly.

The lights stayed for another moment, and then moved on. Unsure as to whether he had been made or not, he decided to book. Tucking his limp, painful penis back into his jeans, he pulled up the zipper, and closed the switchblade.

One last look at the woman on the floor, he delivered two hard kicks: one to her rib cage and another to her head. Then he walked to the front door, opened it carefully to make sure the coast was clear; then he sprinted away.

Peering into the bathroom mirror, he took in the bruises, scratch marks, and black eye. There was no doubt that he was going to have to quit his job and go underground until the whole thing blew over. Unfortunately he was going to have to go into work and put in his notice. He wasn't sure how he was going to make up an excuse for his looks.

Then an idea dawned: everyone knew he was a hard-drinking, skirt chasing bastard---he could say that he picked up a woman he didn't know was married. It had happened once before; why couldn't it happen again?

But right now he needed rest. He would call in sick tomorrow and then put in his notice Tuesday.
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Floyd Israel was pissed off. Not only was it Monday, but Mac had not shown up for work. The drunk bastard had decided to call in sick and leave him with the whole damn route. It was for sure that it was hell trying to find good help these days.

Worthless little shit probably went out and got totally shit-faced and couldn't get out of bed. It wasn't the first time. But why on a Monday when the route was twice as long and twice as difficult? Oh, he would get his revenge---when Mac came back, he was taking the left side of the truck for the South Chase route.

Sipping his coffee, he flipped open the paper to the METRO section. His eyes were drawn to a picture of a beautiful woman. Frowning, he tried to figure out why she seemed so familiar. He read the article about her attack and how she was in guarded condition at a local hospital. Reading further, he discovered that she was an FBI agent. When his eyes made it to part that described how she had been attacked in her home in the South Chase development, it hit him how he knew her.

She was the pretty little thing he had helped with the trash a few days earlier. Someone had attacked and tried to kill her? Who? When he got his hands on them, they were going to wish they had never been born. That son of a bitch was going to be begging for God's mercy when he was through.

The FBI was asking anyone for any information to contact them immediately. There was a reward of fifty thousand dollars. Screw the money! His reward would be to send that bastard to hell. Although he had only met Amy Churchill a couple of times, he liked her. He liked her attitude and her beautiful smile.

He had seen the guy who lived with her a few times before. How was he doing? God knew that he wished he had the information to help the police.

Dressing in his coveralls, Floyd stopped. A memory of Mac making a vulgar gesture toward Amy crossed his mind. Was it any coincidence that Amy was brutally attacked and Mac called in sick? Never one to jump the gun, Floyd wanted to call the FBI, but what if he was wrong?

Well, Mac was off today, and the trash wasn't going to wait---especially now that he had to do the route alone. But tomorrow he was going to confront his co-worker. Regardless of Mac's answers, Floyd's gut told him that the two were linked.

But first he had to go to work.