John Bridges Jr. looked at the files spread across the conference table and tried to figure out who was behind Aaron Hotchner's kidnapping and torture. There were numerous possibilities, but the team had narrowed it down, yet something about the voice was familiar. He wasn't sure why, but what he did know was that the way the man spoke was not something you heard every day. He'd gone home to sleep, but had lain awake until he'd given in to the fact that sleep would be a rare commodity until he figured out what was bothering him.

John had managed to get through several files and been able to cross four names off the list, but he wasn't sure that was a good thing since it was quite possible the name wasn't even on the list they'd compiled. He looked up in time to see David Rossi start a pot of coffee and realized it was already morning.

"I thought you were going home?"

"I did...couldn't sleep and it doesn't look like you've slept very much either," Bridges said.

"You'd be surprised...Hotch has great taste in furniture," Rossi said and sat across from the younger man. "Did you find anything?"

"No, I've gone through most of the files, but I keep thinking we know this guy, Dave. I've listened to his voice and I know it's distorted, but there are patterns."

"I noticed that too. He doesn't use contractions. I know it's not much, but there aren't many people who speak like that and he would stand out."

"I know..."

"What's wrong, John?"

"I don't...I think I know this guy, Dave, but I just can't make the connection...it's like he's speaking in old style English. It kind of reminds me of Daniel," Bridges offered.

"Daniel?"

"Roberson...my dad's old partner. Daniel always said English should never be bastardized," Bridges said. "I wonder if there's a list for people who talk like that?"

"There are lists for everything these days so it wouldn't surprise me," Rossi said and turned as Garcia strode into the office. "Good morning, Garcia."

"Morning...I thought I'd come in early and check out a few things I thought of last night," Garcia told them and headed for the coffee pot. "Has there been anything new?"

"Not since yesterday," Rossi answered and joined her at the coffee pot. He thought about Daniel Roberson, and Bridges reminding him that the man spoke in perfect English. It was a rare trait in this day and age and he wondered whether the man lived close enough to do this. Then again, he didn't really know Roberson, and couldn't think of a reason why the man would be angry enough with him to go after Aaron Hotchner.

"I'm going to try a new filtering program to see if we can figure out where the signal is coming from," Garcia explained and added sugar to her coffee before heading to her office.

"Is she as good as she thinks?" Bridges asked.

"No, she's better," Rossi answered. "If I had to put money on it I'd put it on Penelope Garcia. She's damn good at what she does and I doubt there's anyone better."

"Oh, I don't know. I met this kid in Denver. He works for the ATF...JD Dunne. Ever heard of him?"

"Not really, but I was out of the loop for a while. What team is he with?"

"ATF team seven under Chris Larabee," Bridges explained.

"I heard of them...Larabee's team was dubbed The Magnificent Seven wasn't it?"

"I think so. They've got one hell of a good track record," Bridges said. "I worked with Josiah Sanchez a couple of times. He's a damn good profiler and would probably fit right in here."

"I heard that too, but right now we've got work to do...we need to find one of our own," Rossi said and looked at the files.

"Dave, I don't know how much help I can be here, but maybe Daniel has some information we could use. I know it's a long shot, but he might just know if there's a 'club' of some kind for people who speak like he does."

"You make it sound like a disease," Rossi said, but told the younger man to go ahead. He sat back at the table and stared at the files in front of him. He could hear Garcia working at her computer and hoped he was right when he told Bridges that Garcia was even better than she realized.

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James Greeley loved his job, but he never thought of it as such. What he did was an art form, one that a man was born to and not something that he could learn. It took a special person with the right compulsion to make his mark on the canvas of skin that covered another man's body. He'd known very early in his life that he had what it took. He started with small animals, like the rodents that scurried around in his family's house and yard. By the time he was ten, he'd killed several neighborhood dogs and cats, but deep down he knew that was not what he was meant to do with his life.

He'd always been small for his age, but had suddenly shot up four inches in less than a year. He'd been proud of his body and worked hard to keep in top physical form. On the day he turned thirteen he wanted to celebrate his birthday by bloodying his hand with the stupid dog that had tried to bite him on the last day of school. His mother and father worked late and often left him to his own devices and he knew exactly where the dog would be. He knew he'd have several hours to do what he wanted, but his plans changed when he happened upon a man sleeping in a ditch a mile from his home. The man was a transient whose body would probably never be found, but he'd died magnificently and awakened a thirst for evil that could no longer be quenched by the blood of animals; at least not the four-legged variety.

By the time he reached the ripe age of 18 he'd made several kills and had perfected a talent he'd been born with. The police had questioned his family after a young, newlywed couple was found tortured in their own home. They asked him if he'd ever been to the house, but he denied it and since there was no evidence to tie him to the crime, he'd walked away a free man. After that he'd realized he had a knack for this and when he found an article on an obscure web page, he'd quickly come to the conclusion that he could be a rich man by hiring himself out as a man who worked on the human canvas created by God.

Daniel Roberson was a dying man, but he'd paid in full for what he wanted. The fact that the captive was a member of the BAU made it even more special. It also added an element of danger that he'd never felt before as he readied the small blades he'd brought with him. There were also several syringes, whose contents he could not pronounce, nestled inside a black case with a green velvet lining.

Roberson wanted Aaron Hotchner to suffer, and there was no doubt in his mind that the cocktails in the syringes would do just that. The small blades would ensure blood loss, but not to the extent that the agent would die too soon. This was something he wanted to make last, not because he had anything against Hotchner, after all the man was damn good at his job. He wanted it to last because he wanted to feel that power, that surge of emotion he felt every time he watched that first drop of blood slide down the perfectly sculptured knife.

Greeley closed the case and drove to Daniel Roberson's home, licking his lips as he felt the adrenalin rush that came whenever he worked his magic. It started the minute he decided what instrument he would use and continued until he closed his eyes and slept. It didn't really stop then as his dreams were constantly filled with images of past victims. He often wondered what the FBI profilers would have to say about him if they knew he existed. He pulled into the driveway and parked behind a silver BMW and took his case from the seat beside him. He made his way to the door and rang the doorbell, surprised when the feeble man opened it and motioned for him to come inside. They made their way into the office and he took the seat across from his employer.

"Mr. Greeley, what do you have planned for Agent Hotchner today?" Roberson asked when he saw the case the man carried.

"In this case are several items designed to not only cause pain, but to make it last and intensify the effects of the torture. I have brought several knives that were designed by me and specially made by a small firm in Asia. They are not well known, but their craftsmanship rivals the best firms in the world. The other items are four syringes filled with a cocktail of ingredients I can't begin to pronounce, but they will enhance Agent Hotchner's pain and make it last longer."

"Did you bring what I asked you too?"

"I brought a special mask that will allow me to work on Agent Hotchner without being recognized. I have done this many times, Mr. Roberson, and there were several clients who wanted the process immortalized," Greeley told him.

"Very well. I have everything set for you so we should begin as soon as you are set up," Roberson told him.

"Is there a table in the room?"

"No, but you can take the one next to the sofa," Roberson told him.

"That'll work. I will have everything set up in ten minutes," Greeley told him and left the man where he was.

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Aaron Hotchner shifted his feet and bit back a cry of pain as pins and needles started in his extremities. His legs shook, but he managed to stay on his feet and keep the pressure off his shoulders. He coughed, a harsh rattling sound in the eerie silence of his cell, and wondered how long he'd been out as the door opened and a man stepped inside.

Aaron didn't say anything as a table was placed in front of him and the newcomer opened a case and placed several items on top. Hotch swallowed several times in an effort to calm his tumultuous stomach, but there was no doubt in his mind that this session would be even worse than the last one.

"Well, Agent Hotchner, it's time to let your associates know that my employer is not to be taken lightly," Greeley said as Roberson entered the room and checked the recording equipment. "Are we good to go?"

"We are, but give me a minute to make sure the feed is accepted on the other end," Roberson answered.

"Very well," Greeley said and smiled as he checked the first syringe. "This will allow you to feel everything, Agent Hotchner."

"We are ready to start," Roberson said and could feel the captive staring at him as the bright spotlight illuminated the area around him.

"I do hope you enjoy this trip, Agent Hotchner," Greeley said and fixed the mask on his face before reaching for the roll of duct tape.

"What is that for?" Roberson asked.

"In my experience, it is more effective if his screams are silenced. It is your party so if you would rather..."

"Go ahead...I trust your instincts," Roberson said and watched as Greeley placed a strip of the silver tape across his victim's mouth.

TBC