A Rock and a Hard Place
"I have no desire to suffer twice, in reality and then in retrospect."
~Sophocles.
*Author's Note: A very huge, heartfelt thank you to everyone who has left reviews or added this story to follows or favorites lists so far. It's such a fun ride, and we're just getting started. Hold on, chickadees.*
Earlier that Morning. Capitol Hill. Washington, D.C.
"And what was the nature of this mission, Agent Cruz?"
"It was an intelligence-gathering op—our orders were to track down the whereabouts of known terrorists, and report back."
"And how, exactly, was the information to be gathered?"
"By all means possible, sir."
"Did those means include interrogation?"
"Our orders were to interview potential suspects and local witnesses who might have information."
"And did those interviews contain interrogative methods that relied on the use of force?"
"Sir, I was not personally present for every single interview; I couldn't possibly commit to answering such a question."
The senator took a beat to merely look down his nose at Mateo Cruz, the disdain evident upon every fiber of his features. It wasn't because of Cruz's answers so much as it was because Cruz had bested him in this little battle of wills and wits.
Mateo Cruz simply smiled back. This wasn't his first Senate Oversight rodeo, not in the least. And sadly, it wouldn't be the last—since several of his missions in Afghanistan had become declassified, he'd been called up to the Hill to answer countless questions, as if somehow his responses would ever change. It was time-consuming, pointless, and a waste of taxpayers' money. It was bureaucracy at its finest.
His phone suddenly buzzed in his coat pocket, and he retrieved it without a second's hesitation.
"Agent Cruz, we're going to have to ask you—"
"Senator, may I remind you that I am the section chief for one of the most high-profile units in the Federal Bureau of Investigation," he interrupted quickly. "And as of this moment, I do still have duties to attend to."
He stood and turned away, keeping his voice low as he answered, "Chief Cruz."
"Matt." It was Scott O'Donnell, the Quantico SAC. "There's been an incident at Quantico."
"I'm leaving now—"
"No, no. Stay. Finish pandering to those assholes. Don't want anyone to know that something's wrong here—not yet. The Hill's crawling with reporters; if one of them sees you speeding out of there, they might catch wise. I just wanted you to be aware."
"What's happening?" Cruz kept his voice low, though worry and frustration were bubbling up in his throat like acid.
"We don't know for sure yet—about twenty minutes ago, there was an explosion on the ninth floor. We're thinking it's a bomb."
"Jesus."
"Yeah," O'Donnell gave a heavy sigh. "It hit pretty close to your office. You're one lucky man, Cruz."
"Yeah, I guess so." For some reason, he didn't feel so lucky. "Keep me posted, will ya?"
"Absolutely. Call me when you're done—I'll let you know where to go from there."
He wanted to ask if anyone he knew was wounded—but the list of names was too long and time was too short. So instead, he nodded, quietly agreeing, "I'll call you. Be careful out there."
"Will do." O'Donnell hung up.
Matt turned back to the senators, whose expressions ranged from bored to curious to insulted.
"I apologize for the interruption," he slipped his phone back into his pocket, forcing himself to smile with an air of nonchalance that covered his true feelings. "Perhaps we can continue with the next question."
He answered the rest of the committee's queries without any further interruption or hesitation—but for the life of him, he couldn't recall a single one.
Several Hours Later. Quantico, Virginia.
Mateo Cruz leaned forward in the driver's seat, eyes wide with shock at the number of television crews outside the main building. Through the throng, he spotted the MCC van, pulling his vehicle down the appropriate driveway to reach it.
When he rolled down his window to show the Marines his credentials, he was barricaded by a volley of questions, shouted from the reporters who were being kept at a safe distance.
"Sir! Sir! Can you tell us what's going on here?"
"Is this a terrorist attack?"
"Who's behind this?"
"Who's in charge?"
"Does the FBI have any leads at this time?"
The answers to those questions frightened him, even though he didn't know them yet.
He parked his car next to the row of standard-issue black SUVs, pulling his phone out of his overcoat pocket. He dialed the last number on his recent calls list.
"O'Donnell."
"It's Cruz. I'm here. What do you need me to do?"
Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.
"What about Matt?"
Spencer's heart stopped at the question. As much as he hated to admit it, he hadn't given a single thought to his section chief. His only concern had been for his team members—most particularly JJ, whose situation had proven herself worthy of such concern. "I—I don't know. I'm assuming he made it out safely, if he was even there yet at all."
"He was there." Penelope gave a definite nod. "His computer was on—this morning, I went up to his office to ask for his input on some cases. It was obvious that he'd just left the room for a little bit."
"Oh my god," JJ's head suddenly felt too heavy. She titled back, letting it rest on the pillow behind her. "He could have been right down the hall—"
She didn't finish her sentence. They knew what she meant (right down the hall, where the bomb went off).
"We don't know that for sure," Will interrupted quickly, trying to keep his voice calm and soothing.
"I'll call Hotch and ask." Spencer promised, stepping forward slightly.
"Carrington wasn't there yet, so I know she was safe." Penelope offered helpfully, trying to ease some of the stress of the situation.
Spencer's mind flashed to earlier that morning, when he'd looked across the front drive to see Rossi, who was separated from the rest of the team. "Yeah, she was actually outside the barricade with Rossi, in the beginning."
"But that doesn't tell us where Matt was," JJ stated, her tone flat and neutral (a sign that she was trying to cover up her frustration and fear, Spencer knew).
"He'll be fine, JJ," Will assured her. "Right now, you need to focus on yourself—the only thing you can control in this situation is making sure that you stay calm and allow your body to heal."
JJ knew he was right, but that didn't stop her from wanting to snap at him, to tell him to stop being so damn patronizing. Luckily for him, Henry was still in the room, watching her every move with eyes the size of saucers.
"You're right," she admitted, sighing heavily as she tried to release the stress building in her blood. Then, with a cheeriness that she certainly didn't feel, she added, "Thank goodness I have all these awesome gifts to help."
Henry grinned proudly at the statement, leaning over to rest his head on his mom's lap. "Don't worry, Mommy—Grandma's gonna be here soon. She's good at making you feel better when you're sick."
JJ took a moment to look up at her husband, her one visible blue eye filled with surprise.
"I had to call her," Will held up his hands in a helpless gesture. She knew that he had a point (god, her mother would never let her live it down, if she'd kept something this traumatic from her). So instead, she decided to keep the tone light, forcing aside her inward cringing at the thought of her mother hovering over her.
"Henry will be eating nothing but pizza and ice cream for a week, if it's just you and my mom taking care of him," JJ informed him, her tone laced with feigned concern.
"Yay, pizza!" Henry sat up again, pumping his fists in the air.
Penelope laughed, "Don't worry, Wonder Mom. I'll come over every other night or so, cook the boy a balanced meal. That's what godmothers do, isn't it?"
"Oh, no, Penelope, you don't have to—"
"Au contraire, mon amie—I believe it is in the official godmother handbook," Penelope held up her hands to stop JJ's protest. She winked at Henry, "Besides, it gives me an excuse to hang with this wicked cute kid."
Henry beamed over his shoulder at his godmother, keenly aware of the fact that he was adored by every single person in the room.
There was a gentle tap on the door, and the nurse's regretful face appeared, "I'm sorry, but time's up. Agent Jareau needs her rest."
"I love you," Will leaned forward, placing a quick and gentle kiss on her lips.
"I love you, too," she murmured.
"I love you three!" Henry completed their familiar refrain. He leaned across his mother's lap again, arms wrapping around her legs. JJ leaned forward to rub his back, patting him affectionately with a tearful smile. Her ribs screamed in protest and her head felt fizzy again, but she didn't care. Her baby was here and he was safe and the worry and fear that had been in his eyes when he first saw her were completely gone. That was all that mattered.
Spencer slipped past Will, and JJ held out her hand for his. He gingerly squeezed her fingers—the closest he dared to hugging her. "I'm so glad you're OK."
"Me, too," she smiled wanly, her energy nearly depleted. "And I'm glad it was you, in the back of the ambulance with me. If anyone else had told me it was gonna be OK, I wouldn't have believed them."
He blinked back tears at her confession, and she reached up, her right arm pulling him down into a half-hug. "It's all going to be OK, Spence."
He nodded, pulling away to return to Penelope's side.
The blonde technical analyst reached forward, her hand lightly patting JJ's foot reassuringly. "See ya again soon, Toots. Try to play nice with the nurses."
JJ grinned again. "I'll try."
Will was on the opposite side of the bed again, hoisting up Henry and gingerly leaning him closer to his mother's face so that they could exchange a quick kiss as well.
"Have a nice nap, Mommy," Henry was absolutely cherubic.
"I will, my darling," she promised, reaching out to caress his sweet face. "Be good for Daddy and Grandma, OK?"
"OK."
"And thanks for my super-cool Mikey balloon. I love it."
Henry offered one last dazzling smile before hurrying into the hallway with Uncle Spencer and Aunt Nelope.
Will sat down beside her again, his voice low and lined with tears, "God knows I love you to death, Jennifer Jareau, but I wouldn't mind if you stopped getting quite so close to the death part of that equation."
It was meant as a joke, but the words struck home.
"I know," she admitted quietly. "I'm sorry."
"Don't you dare apologize." Now the tears were slipping freely down his face. "You didn't do this; you had no way of knowing this would happen. I'm just so damned glad you're alive."
"Me, too." A single tear escaped from her own eye. He reached forward, gently brushing it away.
"You truly are the strongest, bravest person I know," he informed her. "You're my hero, you know that?"
She was smiling through the tears this time, in that glowing, happy way that she'd smiled at him when she placed Henry in his arms for the first time, and when they'd held each other's hands as they'd exchanged marriage vows.
"You're the brave one," she assured him. Her grin deepened into something more playful as she added, "Spending God-only-knows-how-long cooped up in a house with my mother and our child? That's not for the faint of heart."
He chuckled at the quip, shaking his head, "Your mama will be fine. I'm just dreading when you get back home and you go into drama queen mode, like you always do when you're sick or injured."
"Drama queen? I just survived a fall from a—"
"I see it's already rearing its ugly head," he commented drolly.
"William LaMontagne, if I weren't already too sore to move, I'd hit you for that."
"I don't doubt it, darling," he flashed a winning grin, one that somehow snuck its way onto his wife's face as well. He reached over to rub her hip comfortingly, giving her knee a tender squeeze of affection. "Get some rest, baby. We'll be back to see you soon. I love you."
"I love you, too." She blinked back a fresh round of tears. His hand shifted forward, taking hers and placing a single, warm kiss in her palm before hurrying out the door—the nurse was already giving him a dirty look for pushing the limit on their visiting time.
"How're you feeling?" The nurse asked gently, checking her vital signs monitor.
"Like I could sleep for a year." JJ answered honestly.
"Well, I'm going to give you a little something that will help for a few hours, at least."
JJ nodded, closing her eyes as the nurse lowered her bed back into a sleeping position. When the drugs finally took effect, she dreamed of the desert, of explosions and ringing ears, and the second child that should have been standing next to Henry.
Ninth Floor, FBI Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.
"This must be the mail cart that Mary Weiss was talking about," Rowena Lewis frowned slightly—the remains looked more like some weird modern art sculpture than a mail cart. Several of the thinner wire bars were completely blown away (and Rowena tried not to think of where or in whom they landed), and the top rack was contorted into odd angles, though the bottom seemed fairly intact, compared to the rest.
Adelaide Macaraeg gave a hum of agreement. "It's gotta be pretty close to ground zero, given the damage. Why don't we start there and work our way out?"
Rowena nodded, crouching down to give it a closer inspection. Jeff Masterson went back to their cases, which were at the edge of the caution tape that they'd used to establish the quarantine zone, grabbing the necessary supplies.
Mac knelt as well, giving a slight grimace.
"Y'Okay?" Rowena asked quietly.
"Yeah," her expression said the opposite. "Those stairs didn't do my knees any favors, that's all."
The younger woman nodded in understanding. "Old injury?"
Now her chief gave a wry smirk, "Just old."
"Here we are," Jeff was back, handing Roe a set of tape strips and latent print powder. Then he gave them both a headlamp set before donning his own. It was barely afternoon, but it was still winter and daylight would be fading fast. The natural light from the windows wouldn't be enough for the work they were doing—they needed to be able to see the smallest piece of evidence, things that could easily be lost in the shadows.
"Thank you, kind sir," Rowena took a moment to slip the band on her head and click the beam on, using the time as a chance to figure out where to begin. She decided to start with what was left of the handle bar, working her way down to where most of the damage was. She motioned to the area, allowing Jeff to take several pictures before beginning.
Jeff had given a small notebook to Mac, who was currently sketching out a rough diagram of the scene, just in case they missed something with the laser scanners.
"I don't know how much this will give us," Mac admitted, still focused on her task. The metal was a nonporous surface, which meant the likelihood of anything important sticking to it was relatively slim.
Roe gave a hum of agreement, but she didn't stop. Opening the aluminum powder, she lightly dusted the handle—seeing instant results.
"We've got a clear outline of a palm," she stated. She rose to her feet again, hovering her own hands over the spots, lining up the scene in her mind, "Two palms. Schuyler's hands, where he was holding the handle bars."
"And it looks like…genetic material," Jeff leaned forward, squinting slightly. There definitely was an odd film on the bars.
Roe suddenly understood. "He was holding on when the blast went off. The metal heated at an extremely rapid pace—searing his skin. It got left behind, after."
She didn't have to add that after was after the blast, after his death, after the rescue team most likely pried his burned hands away from the metal.
Mac stopped her scribbling to look up at the handle bars, her expression melting into one of dismay as her mind played the narrative.
"And he wasn't even supposed to be here," she murmured quietly, her voice etched with heartbreak.
Jeff gave a hum of sympathy. Rowena went back to dusting the handles. Once she'd uncovered all fingerprints on the bars, she began putting the strips of tape on them, cautiously smoothing them over so that she didn't mess up the prints and gingerly removing them, applying them to the small black boards that highlighted the aluminum contours of the prints.
Jeff was still taking photos, so Mac took each print board, scribbling numbers on the back and jotting down the corresponding numbers with descriptions onto her notepad.
It was tedious work, meticulous and steady. Their knees began to ache; their calf muscles went to sleep; their lower backs radiated slight growls of protest up their spines. Mac's music kept rolling through its odd compilation of songs, and for the most part, they didn't speak.
Rowena finally reached the bottom of the cart. She'd given up the print powder and was now simply collecting samples of the black and ash colored residue that covered the metal. For the most part, it simply looked like smoke damage from the fire, but once she got to the bottom rack (or what was left of it), she noticed the ash was thicker, and in a pattern.
"Get a good shot of this," she motioned to the odd but unmistakable radius of the pattern.
"'Cause until now, I've just been taking blurry, out of focus shots of everything else," Jeff muttered in feigned irritation.
"Just keeping ya on your toes, Masterson."
"If that's what you call it, then I should be a ballerina," he returned dryly. Mac snorted at the thought of the burly Jeff Masterson in tights and a tutu.
"You do have the legs for it," his partner kept her face completely deadpan, her focus still on the task at hand.
"She's right, I do," Jeff admitted to Mac, who only laughed harder at the confession.
"I must admit, I am both intrigued and frightened by that mental image," she informed him.
"As you should be," he assured her.
"There's glass here," Rowena interrupted in a distracted tone. The other two analysts immediately leaned forward, their jovial expression gone in a flash. With a pair of tweezers, Rowena pointed out the pieces of glass on the floor, under a layer of ash and other small debris, visible between the thin metal wires of the mail cart's bottom shelf. "Looks like it fell through the cracks."
She dutifully waited for Jeff to snap a few photos. "I'll process the rest of the residue on the cart first—then we can move it and get to the glass."
Her team members nodded in agreement. Mac got up and returned to the pelican cases, depositing the print samples and grabbing a handful of small tubes to collect more residue.
It was almost another half-hour before Rowena had collected enough samples of the ash to be fully satisfied. She and Mac gingerly lifted the cart and moved it a few feet back, trying not to disturb the contents underneath.
"Lots of glass," Mac commented, fingers lightly picking away bits of debris and setting them aside. "It's…coated with something."
She held up a quarter-sized piece for inspection—her headlamp's beam illustrated her point, catching the strange powdery whiteness that covered the shard's surface.
"It's only on the inside of the glass," she noted, her tone filling with a certain sense of foreboding.
"Same on this piece," Rowena retrieved another one with her tweezers, gingerly setting it in her gloved palm.
"A glass container, filled with some powder substance, sent through the mail," Mac's voice was thoughtful. "What are the chances that this isn't our bomb?"
Jeff and Roe's faces informed her that they shared her sentiments.
"We need to get this to the lab immediately," she deposited the glass into a plastic container, holding it out so that Rowena could drop her piece in, too. Then she swore under her breath, "Not that it's gonna do any good—there's no power in the building, which means the lab itself is pretty fucking useless."
"Plus all the lab techs are at the Academy for questioning," Jeff added.
Mac swore again. "We don't have time to wait for all that."
She handed the container to Rowena, who continued collecting bits of glass.
"Hold on," she rose to her feet, taking off her gloves before pulling her phone out of her pocket and turning off her music. "I'll call O'Donnell, see what he can do."
Within a matter of minutes, they had a promise from O'Donnell that he would have a batch of lab techs on the next round of interviews, so that as soon as they gave their statements, they could return to the lab to begin processing whatever Mac needed. Then they turned to the more important matter at hand.
"What's it looking like up there?" O'Donnell asked. "Is it safe to turn the generators back on?"
Mac glanced up at the ceiling, where broken and exposed wires swayed ominously. "Not for us, I'd say. There'd be a huge risk of brushing up against a live wire, or stepping on one. Or even possibly starting an electrical fire in the ceiling or a wall. But the lab will need power, and we'll need lights, if we want to keep working after dark. And I have to admit, a heater wouldn't be unappreciated, either."
Rowena Lewis made a small noise of agreement—there was at least one blown-out window, and the cold February air was taking over the hallway.
"We've got smaller generators," O'Donnell assured her. "We'll keep the back-up ones that power the whole building turned off—but I'll have someone haul up a small one for you, along with work lights. And I'm sure we can find a heater, too."
"God love you for a saint, Scott O'Donnell."
"Can't say I feel like that's the case today," he admitted dryly, though his tone still held a hint of amusement.
She couldn't argue with that. Instead, she asked, "And the lab?"
"They'll get a couple of generators, too. No heaters for them, though. Don't want them getting too comfortable," he joked.
She thanked him again and hung up.
"Now that's what I call getting results," Jeff commented.
She gave a light shrug, wincing again as she returned to her knees. "Part of the job, I suppose. Luckily, O'Donnell's so desperate for answers that he'll pretty much do anything we ask."
"He's definitely in between a rock and a hard place," Jeff agreed quietly.
"We're all in between a rock and a hard place," Mac pointed out. She glanced around, noting the shards of glass that were going outwards, towards what was left of the walls. "And I think we're at absolute ground zero."
"So someone sent a bomb in the mail," Rowena surmised. She looked up at Jeff, her hazel eyes muddled with confusion. "But who was the package meant for?"
"And how did it get this far without exploding beforehand?" Jeff returned her question with another.
"We won't know until we figure out what it's made of," Mac admitted quietly, her gaze still focused on the ground, as if the shards of glass and piles of ash held some answer to the puzzle.
Rowena merely shook her head. Every answer seemed to ask a dozen more questions. And each new answer seemed more ominous than the last.
"So maybe it wasn't an inside job," Jeff threw the possibility out there, though his cautious tone and weary expression belied his utter lack of hope in such a fate.
His supervisor gave a heavy sigh. "I don't think we're that lucky."
"Yeah," his sigh matched her own. "Me, either."
Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.
"Are you sure you're alright on your own?"
"Reid, I'm fine—"
"But do you need—"
"Spencer. Reid. Go. Now."
The young doctor gave a curt nod, turning to leave. He turned back again, "Just let me make sure you're home safe—"
"Reid. You need to get a new phone, and you need to get back to the others. I'm fine." Penelope Garcia tried to be stern, but her adoring smile gave away her true feelings. The boy wonder really could be quite endearing, whenever he was in protector-mode. "Besides, I don't think I'm going home just yet. I think I'm gonna go upstairs, hang out with Will and Nenry for a bit."
Spencer nodded in understanding—it would be several more hours before they would be allowed to see JJ again, but Will had decided to hang around, "just in case". The idea of Penelope being with Will and Henry made him feel better about abandoning them all.
Garcia pulled him into one last hug—an awkward, unstable thing, since she was still trying to readjust to life with crutches.
"Go. We'll be fine. I'll take care of the godson until you get back."
He left before he could change his mind again.
"Go, gentleman, every man unto his charge
Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls…
March on, join bravely, let us to't pell-mell
If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell."
~William Shakespeare, Richard III.