Present time…

Eric had waited for his fellow agents to vacate the briefing room before he turned on his heel and stalked his unit chief in his office.

"Don't do this to me, Roman."

"Close the door," the unit chief calmly replied as he reached for the black gym bag under his cherry wood desk. Eric had the same go-bag in his car. They were all instructed to keep a couple of go-bags in their cars at a time in case of emergencies. They were like doctors, always on-call. The only difference was they have a private jet.

Eric did as he was told. He knew by now that Roman always operated with utmost discretion, especially in the workplace.

"You can't take me out of this case," Eric tried again, his tone mutinous.

"It's already done."

"Undo it!" Eric whisper-hissed, his fists trembling on top of the desk.

"You've seen the note. It was a taunt meant specifically for you."

"I got the memo. He wants my attention."

"Exactly," Roman pointed out. "He wants you involved. He's obsessed with you probably the same way you are with him. And if we bring you in then we're only enabling him. We don't do that here. We don't negotiate with terrorists."

"How can you do this to me?" It was an accusation. "You, of all people, knew what that bastard took from me. What I gave up to find him. He's the reason I joined the Bureau. And now you're telling me I can't work on his case?"

Roman looked down and palmed the five o'clock shadow along his jawline. "You have too much skin in the game, Eric. You're too emotional to be objective."

"You're damn right I'm emotional," Eric lobbed back. If it were any other time, he would have chosen his words wisely. But this was different, this was the Sanguinista. Fuck caution. "Remember what you told me when I first joined the team? You said you'd help me catch him. I know how his mind works, Roman. I've studied him – how he operates. You said it yourself: if there's one person who could end this, it's me."

"I know that!" Roman gritted, snapping his head up to meet his intense glare. "And I also know how far you're willing to go to get him. If I let you on that plane, you won't be coming with us as an agent, you'll be an executioner."

"I'm not gonna kill him," Eric spat through clenched teeth. "Death is too good for him."

He wasn't certain if he could hold on to that promise, but right now he'd say about anything if it meant he could go to Atlanta and hunt that son of a bitch.

They reached a standoff as both men held each other's glares. Roman was the first to look away as he bent and began gathering the stack of folders on his desk and shoved them furiously in his attaché case.

"Let me work this case, Roman. Don't make me beg." God knows, he had done enough begging to last him a lifetime.


E/S

It was the longest 70-minute flight of his life. Everyone was on edge. This wasn't just any other case. A psychopath singled one of them out and put a ring of bull's eye on his back. This was personal.

While Alcide and Willa were on-board with Roman's decision to let Eric in on the case, Kibwe remained dubious. But Kibwe, a seasoned veteran who had been working with Roman for almost two decades wasn't imprudent enough to question the Big Kahuna's call.

Eric sat rigidly in a spacious cushioned seat opposite Alcide on the jet while Roman, Kibwe and Willa were on the three-seater couch on the other side of plane. Eric's hands trembled as he held his iPad and stared at the crime scene photo of the housekeeper. It looked too damned familiar to him.

The housekeeper was a heavy set woman with silver gray hair. She was lying facedown on the carpeted floor, a set of china teacup and a copy of OK Magazine scattered beside her lifeless form.

"You'd think one shot would have been enough huh," Alcide commented. His partner must have noticed him twitching. It wouldn't be that hard since they were all trained to spot the obscure.

"He had to shoot her twice in the head," Eric replied without looking up. The photo of the housekeeper was blurred by the image of Adele, swimming in her own blood in the trunk of his Corvette.

Alcide pursed his lips and nodded his comprehension. Willa, the youngest in the crew, unfortunately wasn't able to read between the lines as she asked, "Why?"

"Because he's staging his last crime. He had to kill her using my gun," Eric said in a flat tone. Everyone turned silent. Even Roman, who was speaking to Kibwe, swiveled his head to Eric. "It's been five hours since the abduction. Six, since he sent the vials to APD, which means if we don't find him before noon tomorrow, he'll send us either Purifoy or Flynn in a body bag."

Eric's hand flew to his chest to grab his wedding band hanging from the dog tag chain around his neck. He didn't wear his ring on his finger; it was too far from his heart.

Three years, nine months and five days had passed since that god forsaken night. Adele had been the first casualty - the warning shot before the race. And it had been a race. A race to find Pam and Jason. A race to get to Sookie. A race to identify the first body. A race to save the one who remained. It was a goddamned race where Eric never really stood a chance.

He pinched the bridge of his nose to shake off their images. Their pale, bluish skin. Their glassy eyes that mirrored his grief. The jagged scars seared on their backs. There were times when he could remember the littlest of details, compartmentalize them into different files. Look at them with the objectivity of a trained agent. This wasn't one of those times.

He peeled himself off his seat and went straight to the pantry by the cockpit. He could feel his ears clogging with pressurized air and he was afraid his head would swell and explode. Alcide followed him with the pretense of fixing himself a cup of coffee.

The pantry didn't have enough space to accommodate two six-foot males. Alcide's shoulder brushed against his, making him bristle.

"You okay, man?" It was a stupid question. Alcide must have realized it too because he cleared his throat and reached for another cup from the drawer and raised it to him as though asking if he also wanted a hit of caffeine. He shook his head no. It was a blanket reply to both his questions. Nothing about this was okay. Nothing.

"I can't say I know what you're going through because I don't. I can't even begin to imagine having everyone I love taken from me like that." Alcide paused, running his fingers through his wavy black hair. Eric kept his eyes on Alcide until the latter raised his gaze back to him.

"We'll get him," Alcide finally said. It was a promise between brothers.


E/S

As soon as they were grounded, Roman quickly divided the team. He dispatched Kibwe and Willa to the coffee shop to interview Jake Purifoy's coworkers, while Eric and Alcide were sent to the psychiatrist's residence to study the crime scene in situ. Four FBI liaisons greeted them at the tarmac. Roman boarded one of the three black Lexus and headed straight to the field office while the rest of them were escorted to their respective destinations.

The first thing that Eric noticed when they arrived at the scene was the blinding klieg lights that surrounded the perimeter of the estate. Yes, estate. Complete with a sprawling manicured lawn, cobblestone walkway and a tiered garden fountain in front of two stately columns at the entrance of the Spanish-style mansion.

"Holy shit," Alcide muttered under his breath. "Should I be concerned that a shrink can afford this kind of house in this town?"

Malcolm, the liaison assigned to them, laughed at Alcide's comment as he flashed his badge at the uniformed officer standing guard by the wrought-iron gates.

"The house belongs to the shrink's parents. I heard his father was from old money. We've talked to his secretary. According to her the good doctor was running a private practice in London until a year ago when his mother died."

Alcide grunted. "Still. The property tax alone must cost a fortune."

Eric remained silent. He couldn't give a fuck if the psychiatrist was the owner of Coca-Cola, all he cared about was how quickly they could get into the house without these news crews blocking their path. It was past one in the morning and the media had already descended. If it weren't for the smattering of uniformed police officers huddled behind the yellow tape, Eric would have thought it was a film production with all the cameras and klieg lights.

Their car halted in front of a white news van.

"Perfect. We're behind Channel Five," Malcolm groaned, sarcasm thick in his voice. "Let me handle the introductions. Unis are already on edge with us taking over their crime scene. Don't expect them to roll the red carpet for you Quantico boys," he briefed them before they exited the vehicle.

A blast of hot air slapped Eric's face as he slipped out of the car. Alcide, who wasn't accustomed to Southern heat, hissed and quickly shed off his brown suede coat. They were definitely not in Virginia anymore. Eric did the same with his black leather jacket and thanked the summer gods that he was wearing casual jeans and dark cotton t-shirt like Alcide. They were both in a hurry to go to the office that they didn't get the chance to change into their three-piece suits like their fellow agents.

Eric shouldered his way past the camera men and reporters. Another perk of wearing casual in a crime scene, no one would give him the time of day. Alcide and Malcolm caught up to him as he reached the yellow tape.

"Hey 'bert!" Eric heard Malcolm yell behind him. "BAU's here. Mind if we take a look inside?"

The policeman by the door that was at least a foot shorter than Eric pursed his lips into a taut a line before he nodded at them to proceed. Eric stooped to get past the yellow tape. It was much cooler inside the manor even with the opened doorway with the air conditioning running in full blast. Three steps inside and Eric could already smell the metallic scent of blood along with something vaguely familiar.

The interior of the mansion proved to be just as impressive with its matching sets of expensive furniture and massive oil paintings adorning the wall. The first floor had wall-to-wall beige carpet. It didn't take long for Eric to find the blood-soaked area at the foot of the polished wooden staircase a few feet from the entrance.

"That's the spot where we found the housekeeper - on her belly, head pointed at the stairs."

Eric studied the rest of the scene as he put on latex gloves. The body had already been moved, along with the teacup and the magazine. He leaned to the wooden arched volute and sniffed it. "Ammonia," he detected. No better solvent to wipe prints than ammonia.

Alcide leaned in to confirm.

"Yup. That's ammonia," Alcide agreed. "So he used chloroform to subdue his victims and ammonia to clean up after himself."

"Methodical," Malcolm remarked.

'Fucked up' was more like it in Eric's professional opinion. "Who made the call?" he queried.

"The girlfriend," Wybert replied. "They were supposed to meet for dinner. When he didn't show up in the restaurant, she came here."

Eric nodded. "Have you luminoled the house?"

The policeman who introduced himself as Wybert Brauer bobbed his head. "Aside from this blood pool over here and a few drops upstairs, the place is clean."

"Upstairs?" Alcide asked.

"In the master's bath. Flynn was probably in the shower at the time of the break-in. The shaver was still running when we got here. The girlfriend said she didn't touch anything. Flynn must have run into his abductor on his way out of the bathroom. Forensic team theorized that the scuffle was isolated in the bath. The blood drops had been wiped but luminol managed to get a trace. However they were not able to gather samples of the blood drops."

Eric nodded. "How big is the shrink?"

"Six-foot-three, a hundred and eighty pounds," Wybert answered.

"If he attacked Flynn upstairs, how the hell could he carry that much dead weight? And how could the abductor get in the master's room so quickly if Flynn had been alerted by the gun shots?" Eric thought out loud.

"I think we're dealing with multiple unsubs," Alcide voiced his theory.

"Great. As if one psychopath isn't enough," Malcolm chipped in.

Wybert carefully sidestepped the yellow markers on the carpet indicating the blood map as he made his way up to the second floor, Eric and Malcolm followed closely behind. Eric noticed Alcide peering at the next room but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"You're done processing the scene?" Eric asked as he climbed the steps.

Another silent nod from Wybert. It must be exhausting to be at the bottom of the food chain and answer all the preliminary questions.

They turned right at the top of the staircase where they navigated a long hallway leading to the largest bedroom in the mansion. There was another tape on the door of the master's bedroom, as well as a uniformed officer on duty. The room was ridiculously enormous. The en suite bath alone was almost as big as his one-bedroom-apartment in Arlington. The area was divided into three adjacent spaces. They were greeted by a dressing area with floor-to-ceiling mirrors and a massive walk-in closet by the entryway. There were two more doors at opposite ends which led to either the bath or the bedroom.

"Bed," Wybert pointed at the door at the right, "Bath," he gestured at the door to the left.

"I'll take Beyond first," Alcide, who finally caught up to them, quipped as he made a beeline to the walk-in closet.

Eric went straight to the bathroom leaving Malcolm and Wybert behind. Yellow numbered markers were scattered on the black and white ceramic chess tiles, indicating where Flynn and the unsub exchanged blows. There was a white wet towel on the rack, an electric razor was still plugged in but already turned off and an opened after-shave balm on the porcelain countertop by the sink. The array of evidence cemented the initial deduction that Ben Flynn must have been in bath when the housekeeper was shot.

"Eric," Alcide called out.

He heeded his partner's call and found him in the walk-in closet. It wasn't the line of criminally expensive clothing that impressed Eric. It was the condition of the closet itself. Hangers were neatly lined exactly one inch apart, the ties were compiled by their colors – from light to dark – and socks and undergarments were rolled neatly and arranged in glass-top see-through drawers. Pairs of shoes glistened with polish. Nothing was out of place.

"Someone's a neat freak," Alcide commented.

"Obsessive Compulsive," Eric lobbed.

"That. Or his housekeeper is. I mean, was."

If the kidnapper had left any evidence, they wouldn't find it there. So they moved on to check what was behind door number three.

It wouldn't take two profilers to discern that Ben Flynn had big plans for the night.

Rose petals scattered on the silk draped king-size bed. Chilled champagne bottle inside a bucket by the night stand. Scented candles strategically placed in every corner. Condoms in the bottom drawer of the nightstand. And a Nora Jones playlist on the iPod.

Sex was in Ben Flynn's agenda.

"Man, here I thought I was horny." Leave it to Alcide to mock an abductee.

"Wouldn't blame him." Wybert couldn't seem to help but chime in.

"Why did you say that?" Eric asked, curious.

"Have you seen his girlfriend?" Wybert volleyed back, a ghost of a playful smile on his lips.

"She still here?" Alcide asked. "Wait, is she the brunette I saw downstairs?"

Wybert licked his lips and nodded.

"You saw her?" Eric turned to Alcide. In his haste to study the crime scene he failed to take note of the people inside the house.

"Some of her," Alcide replied with a shrug. "Caught a glimpse of a brunette talking to a bald guy in the next room. They didn't seem to notice me though."

"Yup. That's her. Long brown hair, blue eyes, killer curves," Wybert prattled on. Eric rolled his eyes. It was very unprofessional for an officer like him to look at a potential witness or person of interest with such lust.

Eric decided to ignore him as he busied himself to examine the rest of the bedroom. He hunkered down and ran his gloved palm over the bed. He sniffed the silk ivory linens, they reeked of lavender. Eric was reaching for one the red petals on the bed when something caught his attention: An ornate steel picture frame with no photo in it.

He plucked it from the bedside table and held it up to Wybert. "Where's the photo?"

Wybert shrugged. "It was empty when we got here."

"Did you ask the girlfriend about the picture?"

"She wasn't exactly forthcoming."

Eric and Alcide exchanged a look.

"She's hostile?" Alcide asked.

"She was a mess," Wybert replied with a head shake. "I was among the first responders and she could barely speak when I questioned her. She managed to give us her initial statement, though. Said she called Flynn's cell half an hour after she got in the restaurant. When he didn't answer, she phoned his office. The secretary told her he left two hours ago and that was when she decided to come here. She called nine-one-one as soon as she saw the housekeeper."

"And then?" Alcide prodded sharply, waving his hand in a rolling motion to urge Wybert to get to the damned point.

"And then," Wybert answered pointedly, visibly irritated. "Her sitter showed up."

"What do you mean 'her sitter'?" Eric butted in, equally annoyed at Wybert for burying the lead. "She lawyered up?"

"Worse," Wybert groaned. "US Marshall."

"She's in the WITSEC program?" Alcide queried, while Eric remained silent, contemplative.

"My guess is: she's some kind of a C.I. That's prolly why they've holed up here. She can't leave the house with the media prowling outside. If she's really a snitch and her picture pops up in the morning news, she's as good as dead."

Alcide was already halfway through the door by the time Eric got his bearings back. "I'm on it," he muttered.

Eric nudged his chin up at Alcide. The US Marshall's involvement was sending a tremor up his spine. Peeling off one of his gloves, he dug for his cell phone and pressed the second number on his speed dial.

Roman Zimojic's name popped up as the call began its connection. It rang three times before the call went to voicemail. Their unit boss must be in the middle of a briefing.

"Do we have a copy of the evidence file?" Eric asked Malcolm as he made his way out the master's bedroom.

"Everything's in the field office along with the package," Malcolm replied as he trailed Eric, who was rushing through the corridor.

Eric bobbed his head as he tried phoning Roman again. The unit chief picked up after the second ring.

"Eric, are you on your way here?" Roman wasn't one for Hellos.

"Yeah. We're almost done here," he replied as he padded downstairs.

He was at the bottom step when he heard Alcide's loud voice: "Look, pal, I know it's your duty to protect her but right now your job is getting in the way of my job. This is now a federal investigation. I can charge you with obstruction if you don't let me talk to her."

Eric followed the sound of his partner's voice.

"What's that?" Roman inquired. He must have caught some of Alcide's rant.

"Posturing," Eric answered concisely. "Actually, Roman, I need a favor. About your friend in the US Marshall. Can you give him a call about-"

"I was waiting for you to ask me that. You want to know where your wife is," Roman cut him off, as though he read his mind.

Eric reached the sliding glass doors leading to what appeared to be a library. It was slightly open, allowing Alcide's raised voice to seep through. With the phone pressed in his ear, he swiped the door wider and stepped in.

Three heads lashed in his direction. His eyes landed on Alcide then on the medium-built bald guy in a gray suit, and lastly on the petite brunette in a strapless lavender dress.

He froze. The wind knocked out of him.

"Don't bother, Roman. I found her."


A/N: I don't own Eric.

Thank you amandagm for finding the time to read this. You are my rock!

Thank you for reading and taking the time to leave me your thoughts, loves! Only one TB episode left. I'm preparing for the worst.