See disclaimers.

The night before…

Eamon had been unceremoniously frog-marched back into the tiny room high within the rock wall—the one the young man came to think of as a prison cell. He tried in vain to shy away from the reach of the chain that lay motionless on the floor, not wanting to be bound once again.

"Please," Eamon whispered, his voice almost pleading. "Please, don't…"

The click of metal encircling his ankle put an end to his protests. A knife snaked forward and quickly cut the ropes that dug themselves into his wrists.

"I expect you're hungry," his tormentor said, acting as though it was perfectly natural to keep people under lock and key. "Something can be brought up, if you like."

Eamon stared at the face before him, many of its features etched into his own. "This is insane," he muttered to himself, wanting desperately to believe that this was all some sort of dream.

A quick strike to the face disabused him of that notion. "That mouth of yours, Eamon," the man said. "You'd do well to learn your place."

On the other side of the room, Landon rose from his cot. He took two steps towards his companion but was quickly stopped by the sight of a 45-caliber Glock pointing straight at him.

"What've I done to you?" Eamon asked. Of all the people in the world that might want to do him harm, he never thought of this man, not once. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"I told you—I want my due. All the work I helped your family put in to get you where you are now, and then your father all but cuts me out. Probably at your mother's instigation, as though the London plot were my doing."

"Was it?" The idea that the man could have been trying something like this before was unfathomable.

"Hardly. Though I could have, for the right price."

Eamon looked as though he were punched in the gut.

"Now, do you want food or not? I mean, I really don't care much if you eat…"

"Michael…"

"I take that as a 'no.' Fine." The man turned on his heel and began walking towards the door, the 'guards' having long since left.

"No…wait…"

"Yes?"

"I-I'd like to eat. Please." Eamon wanted to crawl in a hole. The thought of having to beg for something to eat had been bad enough, but now…

"Very well." The man stepped onto the outer ledge and turned out of sight.

Landon walked over to the Australian, who was sitting on the floor, his face a clear indicator of his deep shock. "Who was that?" he asked.

"My uncle," Eamon said. Swallowing hard, he looked up at Landon, his eyes wide. "I don't know what's come over him…"

Landon looked at the floor, studying it as though it held the secrets to escape within its cracks. –"At least you've met your tormentor,"—he said, his hands flying into action though they were difficult to see in the moonless night. –"Mine, I've only heard of.—

--Heard of?-- Eamon was silently proud of the fact that he was getting better at this sign language thing.

--"My brother, Kyle, he, ah, got caught up in his work once,"—Landon said, sitting next to Eamon and beginning to explain. He wished with all his might that there was even a fraction of light to see by. –"A pair of men who were plotting against the government tried to…convince him to do something for them."—

--Did he?—

Landon shook his head. –"No. But these people, they dragged in a whole bunch of others against their will to make their plan work. One of them was a friend of his, from the FBI. Another was our friend Oliver. These people, they had taken Oliver's sister hostage and were leveraging her to make him do things to other people."—

Eamon's eyes, even in the dark, still conveyed the silent message: what happened?

--"One of the men is dead. Our friend Chase was being coerced too, and she shot the man instead of hurting other innocent people. The other one is in prison; he killed Oliver's sister and was about to kill Kyle's FBI friend before someone else shot him. He'll never get out."—

"Who, then…?"

--"Someone, a relative of the man in prison, wants revenge. At least, that's what Kyle tells me. He's already tried once, using their friends at the FBI as bait, but they got out of that okay."-- Landon swallowed hard. –"I don't think he'll stop until he has his way…"—

"What makes you say that?"

Landon looked out at the starless sky. "The things he made me say," he replied without signing. "In the tape they made."

----

In the substation, the following morning...

Morgan held out the two discs in front of him. Kyle could clearly see one marked "Parker" and the other "Owen." Nearby, he could see Agent Hotchner saying something to the group of agents and officers that had gathered around. What that something was, Kyle couldn't tell.

--What's going on?—he signed, looking straight at Chase and Oliver. –Tell me.—

--They want to view the tapes. They're going to send them to Garcia to be better analyzed…-- Oliver said, but Kyle interrupted him.

--I can do that.—

Chase shook her head. –Not this time, Kyle,-- she said. –We go into this like always, and we might not get another chance to finally catch these bastards.—

--I don't want them caught. I want us to 'handle' it.—

--You don't mean that.-- Chase's eyes were serious.

--The hell I don't.-- Kyle's stare was equally grave.

--Killing someone isn't something to take lightly, Kyle,-- Chase reiterated. –Why do you think I don't do that anymore?—

--You do too. When it's called for.—

--But I don't like it. Intimidation is one thing, but taking a life…just because I can doesn't mean it doesn't bother me. And I know you—you'd never be able to live with yourself if you did.—

Oliver's eyes raised questioningly. –There something I need to know about?— he asked.

--Later,-- Chase said. Aloud, she called out, "Will we be able to see these tapes? Should I send for the Owens and Mr. Parker?"

Hotch's head picked up a seventh of a degree. "Yes," he replied. His face, however, told Chase that he'd rather not have to make them watch if they didn't have to. The three investigators quickly left in search of the people mentioned.

"What's bugging you?" Rossi asked, watching the expression on the team leader's face as he watched them leave.

"I don't know," he admitted quietly. "Just…there's nothing in either boy's profile that meshes with the other, and now this."

"Proof of life is usually a good sign, Hotch."

"It is. But not when we can't figure out what the motive is. I mean, this thing's all over the map—terrorism, then that's not quite it, then it's kidnap, but to what purpose, and then it might be about money, or it could be about revenge, or…"

"There's too many variables," Rossi agreed. "Why don't we forget about putting the two together for a moment, and look at each kid individually?"

Hotch seemed a little confused. "Okay, but…"

"Considering them as a unit isn't working. Maybe if we look at the parts instead of the whole, we'll figure out why this happened and who's behind it."

Hotch shrugged, his usual tenth-of-an-inch tip of the shoulders that indicated such. "All right." He then stepped inside the small conference room, where Capt. Benson and another officer were setting up a monitor and disc player. "I hope it gets us somewhere."

"Has to be better than nowhere, which is where we are now," Rossi reasoned.

---

Patricia and Liam Owen were sitting nervously in the small room, surrounded by several of the American government agents. They'd been questioned for three days about their son, but no answers had been forthcoming.

"Decided to let us in, have you?" Liam said, his words clipped.

"Sir, we can't comment on an ongoing investigation," a thin blonde tried to reassure them, "but we're being as forthcoming as we can."

"Not like those people with the American kid," the man snapped. "Something you're not sharing? I'm not blind, you know."

"Mr. Owen, right now we need to see this," another man said, in a no-nonsense tone that actually intimidated the businessman greatly. "We're hoping it might give us some insight into who might be behind your son's kidnapping, and perhaps there might be something in there we can't make sense of—something private, meant only for you or your wife."

"Liam, for once in your life let someone else be in charge!" Patricia Owen cried. "Please, play it. I want to know if my son's okay…"

A tall, skinny man with hair too long for Liam's liking hit the 'play' button, and instantly the image of Eamon sitting on some sort of stool appeared in front of them.

"Mom, Dad, I'm okay," the young man said, his eyes clearly indicating that that wasn't entirely the case. "And I'll stay that way if you follow these directions to the letter."

"He's being coached," an older man muttered, just loud enough for Liam to hear. "Someone's telling him what to say."

"They want ten million dollars, U.S, wired to an account number that you'll get tomorrow," the young Australian recited. "You've got three days to put it together. After that…" Eamon's face looked frightened as the sounds of safety catches on guns clicking off filled the room.

Beside her husband, Patricia Owen silently cried. Liam glanced over at his wife, wishing that there was some way to end this.

"You'll get more information on what to do by tomorrow," Eamon reiterated. "If they think you're going to slip them a mickey…" The wide brown eyes flittered around him, looking at something hidden in the wash of bright light that framed him.

"The light's too bright," the no-nonsense voice said. "Maybe Garcia can do better with it, but we can't now."

"Can't what?" Patricia Owen asked.

"Tell where it is your son's being held, ma'am," a tall brunette woman replied. "And if he's being coached, he might not be able to slip in any clues, either."

As the recording ended, Liam Owen asked, "Do we know when this was made?"

"It looks like it was made very recently, possibly even only a day ago," the tall kid with he long hair said. "Our technical analyst will be able to pinpoint it better, but…"

"So he's alive, then?"

"Yes, sir, I would say he is."

Liam bit his lips—an old habit. "We…we don't have that kind of money," he admitted softly.

The look on Mrs. Owen's face was enough to turn the man into salt. "What do you mean?" she demanded. "You—you always said there was plenty of money…"

"Not almost fifteen million dollars, we don't," Liam repeated. "Honey, I'm good at what I do, but at least a third of the money has to go back into the business just to stay afloat. You know that."

"Sir, how much do you average in a year?"

"I…I run a small software provider. On the average, we clear about 900,000 dollars a year. Work's been a little slow, as of late. Eamon actually brings in more than I do, but his money's tied up in trust."

"Trust?" the brunette asked.

"I'm a businessman. I've got a couple of enemies, and lord knows Eamon's got a few people looking to hurt him—look at London. When this started taking off for him, I didn't want him only looking at the figure in a ledger; I wanted him to focus on being the best he could be, no matter the situation. When the offers came in, Patricia and I agreed that he'd be put on an allowance, and the rest of the money would be put in trust for him."

"What are the limits of the trust?" the kid with the hair asked.

"Patricia and I hold conservatorship of the trust until Eamon reaches 36 years old. Neither of us is allowed to withdraw from it without documentation as to what the money will be used for, save a limit of 1000 per month for his allowance."

"Documentation?"

"Bills for his education, payments to his coach, his training fees, travel to meets, things like that."

"Sir, how much is in that trust now?" the young man asked.

Liam thought a minute. "Something like nine million Australian. He didn't start getting huge paydays until about four years ago, but he's been swimming for almost fifteen years. Still, we can't access it."

"That's why the three days, Hotch," the agent said to his supervisor, whom Liam remembered as the man with the cold look and the no-nonsense voice. "Whoever's behind this knew that they had just about enough, but not quite."

"How much can you raise in the time frame?" the lead agent asked.

"Realistically? Maybe half. And that's in Australian dollars—the exchange rate doesn't quite work in our favor…"

"We'll come up with something."

"Please, tell us the truth—is there any chance we'll see our son again?" Mrs. Owen asked.

The group kept their professionalism in check. "There's no reason why that won't be possible," the blond woman said—Jareau, Patricia recalled. "But right now you might need to make some calls—maybe to family?"

"No. I want to help." Liam said.

"There's really nothing more you can do here, sir," the older gentleman said, his voice also stern but not overly so. "Why don't you go and make any arrangements you might need? Should anything happen, we'll inform you at once."

Defeated, Liam took his silently sobbing wife and led her out of the room. A collective breath escaped several pairs of lungs as the couple exited the front door.

"Well, it's clear that money's the motive in this particular case," Rossi said. "And from the sounds of things, it's probably a point that's been thought about for a while."

"How so?" Morgan asked, who had been unusually quiet while the Owen's had been present.

"This unsub picked a number that was doable but not realistically attainable in such a short time—that's why the long period to 'arrange things'," Rossi explained. "This guy knew the Owens had that kind of money, but not readily available."

"You thinking inside job?"

"Could be. Can you ask Garcia to run background on the Owens—family, business associates, enemies, the works. I want to know why that figure was picked—I can tell you it wasn't picked out of a hat."

Morgan dialed the bubbly tech, walking out of the room as he did so. He almost walked into Kyle Parker, who was coming in with his dad. Chase and Oliver lingered by the doorway, wanting to give the Parkers their space.

--Come in, you two,-- John Parker insisted. –You're both as family to him as anyone else.—

The two took seats near Kyle, and motioned that they were ready. John looked at the screen, and suddenly his eyes saw the image of his youngest son, his hands bound in front of him.

--Dad, I'm okay,-- he signed, his fingers trying to acclimate themselves to being so close together. –These people, they want money…ten million dollars. They say you've got three days to get it together, and by tomorrow you'll receive an account number to wire it to. If they don't get it, well…-- Landon's eyes flickered, but they bore signs of both fear and hatred in them.

"Whoever's coaching him, he doesn't like," Oliver said. "Not in the slightest."

Landon's hands began moving again. --They say if you try to come get me, they'll make sure I die before you reach me.-- Landon's eyes grew wide. --I believe them.--

"Damn it," Chase said. "Whoever it is knew we'd come for him." Chase's anger was barely veiled as her lips twitched out a curse she didn't want spoken.

--Please, do what they tell you, and tell Kyle not to jump the gun, or it's curtains for me.-- The recording then snapped itself off.

"Same as Owen," Hotch said. "Bright lights, no way to tell where they are or what's near them."

"They could be anywhere," Emily added.

Kyle, meanwhile, was still staring at the screen. –Play it again,-- he said.

"There's nothing…" Emily began, but a hand silenced her.

--Yes, there is. We weren't looking. Play it again.—

Reid pressed the 'play' button, and the recording reset itself. Kyle took the remote from the agent and began going through the tape frame by frame, paying particular attention to his brother's hands.

"What is he looking for?" Rossi asked.

"Beats me," Chase said. "Even I'm stumped."

Soon Kyle paused the recording and pointed at Landon's fingers. –Look at that,-- he said. –Looks like finger twitching, but it's not.—

"No," Chase said, shaking her head. She too noticed it now—the deliberately placed fingers making a shape. –Play it.—

The two looked through the entire recording, finding different finger positions. Chase wrote them down as Kyle discovered them.

"What the hell…" Rossi asked, clearly confused.

"Landon, I could kiss you," Chase said. "And they thought it wouldn't come in handy…"

"What?" Now Hotch was intrigued.

"It's called cued speech," Chase explained. "It's used by some deaf people, but it's nowhere near as predominant as American Sign Language. Some families use it when they want to raise their kids as more 'normal' but things like cochlears aren't an option. The deaf community grudgingly admits its existence, but it's not used very often."

"And Landon knows it?"

"We came up with our own version of it," Chase said. "It involves taking two of the most important letters in any word and giving it the meaning of the implied word. That's why my name is signed C-H and Oliver's is signed O-V. Has nothing to do with placement, though often the first letter in the words is spelled."

"So what's he saying?"

"He's saying "Man Behind the Curtain," Chase replied.