August 31, 2015
9:30AM

I zip my elegant evening wear inside my garment bag; Garcia carefully selected the outfit in Brussels yesterday before she returned to our house with Clyde and JJ. The floor-length skirt is layered black silk with a leather lace-up placket that starts at my right hip and ends about mid-thigh. The silk top has a plunging neckline and is snug, but the liner has enough spandex in it that I'll have full range of motion. The shoes she selected are a relatively low heel.

Bottom line is that the outfit is easy to run in, because on a scale of one to ten, the odds of me needing to be able to move quickly at some point tonight is about a twelve.

Derek sits quietly on the bed and watches me go through the process of packing. I'm trying very hard not to act nervous, but the truth is, this is much more complex than anything I've ever undertaken before for the simple reason that we have no idea about the layout of the house I'm going to end up in, or where it actually is.

Helena said Antwerp, but we're guessing that's the closest major city; there's little doubt in our minds that this auction is not taking place in the middle of a city, but outside of it, in the isolation of the country. And I'm going to be the only one on the inside until the BAU, some recruited FBI agents, Clyde and Belgium SWAT is ready to go in, which won't happen until eyes are laid on all fourteen children, sometime around ten o'clock tonight.

We're banking on a moderately shaky, but intricately detailed plan. We're banking on the team being able to pinpoint my location. We're banking on there being cameras in this auction house just like the cameras I saw at Derek's auction house. Most importantly, we're banking on Penelope Garcia being able to hack into the video feed of the auction house from the guarded safety of a van. We need eyes inside if we're going to pull this off; more than just my two eyes, and we're going to need her to loop the feed that's seen on the inside so the cavalry can get in unseen.

I smile at Derek, who is staring at me and not doing a very good job at all of not acting nervous. Neither of us speak; everything we needed to say was said in bed earlier this morning. He found a multitude of ways to ask me to come back safely, both spoken and unspoken, and I found as many ways to answer him, to promise him I would.

I turn to look at the mirror over the dresser. My hair is done, my makeup is impeccable, my blue eyes practically glow with the way Penelope did my eyeshadow and eyeliner.

Helena told me to dress comfortably for the journey, and that we'd have time to change our clothing when we arrived, but wouldn't have time for much else. So my face and hair is ready to go, but my jewelry is packed in my bag. I'm wearing designer jeans tucked into boots and a black blouse that shows just enough cleavage.

The only thing out of the ordinary on my body is a necklace. The pendant is platinum and is an interlocking weave that forms a circle. It's simple and beautiful and I'd love it on its own, but what I love most about it is that it came from Marcus Klaus, and it's actually a speaker, untraceable on any body scanner until it's turned on. But once it's turned on, if the team can get within about three miles of the auction site, they'll be able to hear me.

Them being able to find me at all is going to rely on an exchange once we're on the channel train and heading into France.

I touch the necklace and glance at my manicured, fake nails that Clyde applied the night before, and JJ happily painted, us with our legs crossed and facing each other on the couch. Kind, wonderful JJ who walked into the house yesterday with Clyde and Garcia and broke down into a teary, beautiful mess when she saw me and Derek. Who sobbed even harder when he hugged her. Who then laughed and blamed it on pregnancy hormones. Who didn't raise an eyebrow when Derek gave her his room at bedtime before following me into mine; Penelope likely filled her in.

It's nine-thirty in the morning, and Helena said she'd be here a little after ten. She originally told me eleven on Tuesday night during dinner, so we know this means her driver is probably going to go over me and my belongings with a fine tooth comb before we leave this house.

Clyde comes into the room and Derek stands up. He touches my back and says, "I'll go get myself ready."

Clyde stands behind me so I can see his face reflected in the mirror. I turn to look at him and he hands me a pill and a glass of water. "That's going to wear off in about eight hours and you're going to need to take another one if the alcohol and cocaine are still flowing."

He hands me a small pill box with two pills that look like nothing more than aspirin. I slip it in my beaded purse, a purse that contains Irina Popov's passport and credit card and some cash.

"I know that night you went into the residence and saw the two teenagers, you sucked up a lot of cocaine," he says softly. "I could tell by your eyes when you got back to the hotel, and I don't blame you, but you're likely going to see far worse things tonight, and you can't do that."

I nod. "I know."

"Emily, when was the last time you carried or fired a gun outside of a tactical drill?" he asks.

I touch his arm. "A year and a half ago, when I went after JJ."

He rubs his temples and looks down.

"Headache?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "No, just a lot of worries of my own."

I raise my eyebrows. "What happened to 'Piece of cake, Team. We've got this.'?"

He grins ruefully. "Piece of cake, Em. We've got this," he says while clapping his hands together.

I smile back. "That's better."

He straightens and gets back to business. "Don't throw your head back when you laugh if you're around Eric Clarke; it only accentuates your nose, even in a half-mask. And downplay your language skills. Don't go schmoozing with other buyers in their own language because you can. Eric knows about your language skills, probably."

I nod again. "Got it."

He puts his hands on my cheeks and draws my head towards him, placing a gentle kiss on my forehead. "Don't try to do too much. If we don't get in, you play along as Irina and get out of there safely and we'll figure out a Plan B. And if we do get in, and I believe we will, remember you've got friends in there and you don't have to be everywhere at once." His lips stay against my forehead when he whispers, "No matter what happens, just remember you've got a life to live when this is over."

I pull away from him and inhale deeply, frantically blinking back the tears that could ruin my makeup. What the fuck is this nonsense?

I hug him. "It's all going to be fine. Tomorrow I'll buy you the most expensive bottle of scotch out there and we'll be toasting a victory."

He pulls out of the hug, pats my cheek and smiles. "That's my girl. Go finish getting Morgan ready and I'll see you downstairs."

I nod. We're setting the stage in case Helena's driver does another look-over. Clyde grabs my bags and purse and I follow him out of the room.

Derek is out of his clothes with a towel around his waist and waiting when I get to the room. He inhales deeply when he sees me and smiles. "You're beautiful."

I blush slightly. Words like this from him ricochet around in my head and heart when he says them. I'm not used to hearing them, and he's not used to being able to say them out loud. "Thank you," I say simply.

He steps back towards the wall and leans against it. I squat down and attach his ankles first. "As soon as we leave, Clyde will come in here and let you loose. This is the last time you'll ever have to be restrained like this."

"Promises, promises," he mutters.

I laugh and stand up and he puts his arms around me. "You go kick some ass, Emily Prentiss," he says before his kisses me.

We're standing like that, his legs spread eagle and strapped down and me in his arms, kissing like our lives depended on it, when we hear JJ clear her throat. "Sorry," she says. "They're at the gate."

My cheeks flush again and I turn to look at her. Her eyes are wide and she's barely containing a smile. I turn back to Derek and strap his wrists in. This is it, and I don't care that JJ is there. "I love you," I whisper.

"I love you, too," he says just as quietly.

"I'll see you in twenty-four hours, tops," I say with a smile.

He nods and I put the gag around his mouth. I grab the towel that's around his waist and tug it off his body. I walk out the door and hand the towel to JJ, who is waiting in the hallway. I'm about to head down the stairs and she needs to go hide, but she grabs my arm before I get to the first step.

"Em," she says.

I turn to look at her, at her eyes filling with tears. She smiles at me. "Come back home to us."

I smile and swallow a lump in my throat. I know she doesn't just mean this estate; she means DC. I squeeze her hand and make my way down the stairs where Clyde has just let Helena and her driver in the front door. Garcia is there, looking formidable as Anna.

Everything speeds up in my mind. I need to get in character and remain there for awhile. I am Irina Popov, my inner dialogue starts up.

The driver opens my bags and looks through everything. He runs a wand over all of my belongings and then, surprisingly, packs them back up nicely. Anna is indignant through this process and mutters a lot of words like "ridiculous," "disrespectful," and "rude."

I, as Irina, try to reassure her. I repeat in different ways that I trust Helena, which mollifies Anna only slightly. When the driver gets to my body and starts running the wand over me, and then his hands, Anna stands up and steps towards him. "I think that's quite enough," she hisses.

The driver stops. He clears his throat and nods.

We're in the car minutes later and Helena asks for my phone. I shake my head at her, "I decided not to bring it. I trust you and know your family would prefer that."

Helena smiles and nods. She takes my hand in hers and we make the two-hour drive to the train station in companionable silence. Helena isn't fooling me, though. She's trying to act relaxed, but she's fairly shaking in excitement. The car pulls to the loading area and the driver shows our ticket. We're asked to show our passports, and then we're driving onto the train.

"I've never done this before," I say to Helena casually. "I've taken the channel train, but not in a car. Do we have to stay in the car the whole time?"

Helena shakes her head. "No, but we probably will."

"I was hoping to use the restroom," I say.

Helena pats my knee. "Of course. I could use the restroom myself."

When we are parked, we exit the vehicle and make a path to the bathroom. We're just rounding the corner when a man barrels into me, knocking me backwards onto the ground, tripping and falling on me in the process.

"I'm so sorry, madam," says a thick French accent. "Are you okay?"

I nod and feel something slide into the front pocket of my jeans. The man stands and apologizes again as he grabs my hand and helps me to my feet. He apologizes again once I'm standing, while I look him in the eyes - into the eyes of David Rossi for the first time in a year in a half.

"It's okay. I'm okay," I say a little shakily.

"Are you sure?" Helena asks, while glaring angrily at Rossi.

"It's fine. Just an accident."

We walk away and into the bathroom. When I'm in the stall, I take the small GPS unit out of my pocket and place it in my bra.

It's approaching two o'clock when the train stops and our car exits.

"Hood," says the driver.

Helena rolls her eyes and smiles at me. She puts the hood over my head and pats my leg.

We drive for maybe an hour before the car comes to a stop. Helena takes my hand and helps me from the vehicle. I can feel the breeze from the North Sea and hear voices.

There's a woman there with a German accent, and what sounds like a younger girl who is excited about the evening to come. My stomach rolls. And then a man with an American accent is in front of me. I feel my hand placed in his calloused, rough hand, and then a kiss on the skin, just below my knuckles. "I've so looked forward to meeting you," he says. "You purchased something I originally acquired."

Peter Daniels. I'm thankful for the hood.

I squeeze his hand and laugh lightly. "Then I am forever grateful for you."

He laughs and helps me board onto what I know immediately is a helicopter. I'm buckled into my seat and I feel Helena's lips near my ear. "We're just waiting for two more," she whispers.

Ten minutes later, after another man and woman arrive, the whir of the helicopter blades start up. It's disorienting in the hood, but I determine that Peter Daniels is the pilot. I don't know if there are people seated facing me or if there's anyone staring at me. What I do know is that it can't be this easy, that there are probably dozens and dozens of people attending today's festivities, all arriving in various modes of transportation, and I'm probably going to be checked over again before I'm allowed totally inside.

I calculate and determine that we're likely a thirty-minute helicopter ride to Antwerp. Twenty minutes later, I fake a coughing fit, bending my body forward in my seat. I remove the GPS unit from my bra and clutch it in my hand.

I feel Helena patting my back, and I sit up again and clear my throat. It's about twenty minutes after that that I feel the helicopter making its descent. I wait until we're on the ground and things quiet a bit. I wait for the sounds of people moving and I reach for my own seat belt. In the process, I shove the GPS unit in the crease between the back and seat of my chair.

I feel Helena's hand in mine and I stand. I'm lead out of the helicopter, down a long path, and then up some stairs. Peter Daniels speaks to me and kisses my hand again. "I have things to attend to. It's a big year for my brother and me, but I look forward to speaking with you at the party."

My hood is removed a minute later, and I blink in the low light of the foyer of a house. I glance around - this place is elaborate, but not big enough for an auction of this magnitude.

"This way," Helena says, while smoothing down my hair.

She hands me my bags and then picks up her own. I'm lead down a hallway and then down a staircase. At first I think we're heading into a much larger basement, but I realize quickly that I'm wrong. I'm standing behind a line of people and it takes a couple of minutes to absorb what I'm seeing. There's a scanner here, just like you'd see at a security checkpoint at an airport.

I follow along without question, placing my bag on the belt and then stepping inside a body scanner. Then we're in an opulent tunnel of marble and low lighting. My bags and Helena's are placed on a cart. Helena grabs the handle of the cart with one hand and links the fingers of her other hand with mine.

You're a pedophile and a sociopath, Clyde said the other night while laying on the sofa at the estate in Theydon Garnon. You've been lucky for years, probably molesting children but never getting caught. Your pathology progresses and you take a job at your Alma mater. You could have formed a cult and taken your followers into reclusiveness, but cults don't go unnoticed when they're structured like that. So you use your skills to read people and find yourself fourteen followers. You groom them, starting slow. You get them to buy in, and then you get them hooked on the depraved sex and you have evidence of their actions, and they know it. Instead of hiding them away like most people of your kind, you do the opposite: You let them go; you shroud them in the power that comes with trust. They provide you with children, and you provide them with money and power. How do you start?

Small, I said to him. One or two children. You've been involved with pedophilia for years, in various countries. You know people who would be interested in getting their hands on the children you have. You sell them and share the wealth with your disciples. At some point, it becomes like a drug to them, and your plan grows. You become The Minotaur. You make examples of people who break your trust, probably with public murders. You keep your family safe by taking care of any problems that arise. Eventually, your followers start thinking all of this was their idea, that it was something that grew by committee decision, when you actually orchestrated the whole thing. The first few years are simpler, but by 1999, the year Sam was taken, everything is in full swing. Every year you probably pull in over twenty million dollars with your auctions, if not more, that you share with your followers. They're in so deep that they no longer see anything wrong with what they're doing; it's just a way of life. You know they'd die for you.

Exactly, said Clyde. Which means they'd kill for you, too. And you, Emily, need to be prepared for both.

I come back to the present. Ahead of us in the tunnel is a man holding the hand of a boy who can't be more than twelve years old. I see a woman in her sixties with what looks like a pre-teen girl. These children were likely purchased in years' past, and Derek and I discussed this, too, one night in bed - what happened to the children after they age. "Some probably stay with their purchasers and it becomes their way of life, too. Some fade into oblivion, returned and resold until they're far removed from the group. Maybe a few are like Sam; they come back but are seen as hopeless and harmless. And then there are the strong-willed ones," I said.

"Murdered?" Derek asked.

"Probably," I said softly.

I clear my head and clear my throat. "This is impressive," I say to Helena as we follow people through the tunnel.

Helena nods. "And necessary. There will be about one hundred people here this evening, people who have been buyers for years. We arrive at different ends. They've been arriving throughout the day. But we can't keep careful track of them all year, so the scanners are just a security measure to make sure they're still as trustworthy as they were the previous year."

I squeeze Helena's hand.

She smiles, "Don't be nervous. I'll take care of you tonight and you'll love this. We've only ever had one incident at these auctions, and it was taken care of swiftly. We're well-prepared, and we're perfectly safe."

Panic is settling over me like a heavy blanket. It dawns on me what is likely going on here; I've seen a place like this once before. In 2002, my first case with Interpol, I went in as a heroin dealer, and walked a tunnel that spanned the border between France and Spain, except that tunnel was made of dirt and not nearly as extravagant as this one.

This tunnel has probably been around for centuries, first to smuggle contraband, and then, possibly to smuggle Jewish people out of Belgium during World War II. It was likely dirt for a very long time, but now it's been outfitted in rich marble and tile and expensive lighting and is back to being used for nefarious purposes. There are cameras every few feet in the ceiling.

Helena gave me the nearest big city to our location, but she didn't give everything away. She may be infatuated with me, but after over two decades, she wouldn't be able to break entirely from her family for me.

I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto, I say to myself.

No, I'm pretty sure the GPS unit and the helicopter are in Belgium, at a house that's located about a thirty minute drive outside of Antwerp. And I'm almost positive as we get to the end of the tunnel twenty minutes later and start making the climb upstairs into a different residence that I'm now in the Netherlands.

August 31, 2015
4:00pm

Clyde and Garcia left over four hours ago, Garcia laying low in the backseat of the car. They're taking separate paths to Belgium - Garcia by plane under a different identity, and Clyde by ferry. Garcia is already in Antwerp, and Clyde should be arriving soon.

Since they left, JJ and I have tried to keep ourselves distracted, first by talking and then by going into the theater room and watching a movie. We're failing miserably at distraction: my knee won't stop bouncing and she can't stop looking at the phone Garcia left with her that's been carefully encrypted so that anyone who might intercept texts will get nothing but innocent gibberish between Clyde and Anna, messages about Clyde being out running errands.

She's made several passes by the front windows of this house, in a brown wig that matches Anna's hair color and style, and wearing clothing that hides her baby bump.

Two and a half hours ago, JJ received a text that let us know Rossi had delivered the GPS unit, and Emily was now being tracked.

The movie has just ended, and I couldn't for the life of me remember what I'd just watched for the past two hours. I feel JJ's hand on my thigh, stilling my shaking leg. "It's Emily. She'll be okay," she says.

"I know. I just feel like this is my battle and she's fighting it for me. It was my error and my cockiness in questioning Daniels without waking any of you to let you know my thoughts that landed me here, and landed her in this mess."

JJ leans her body against mine, rests her head on my shoulder. "You should have seen her after she flew to New York. She didn't hesitate making this decision, not once. She's going to make it back."

I nod and lean my head back against the leather sofa, closing my eyes.

"Do you think she'll come back to DC?" asks JJ.

I keep my eyes shut and take a deep breath. "I don't know."

Just then JJ's phone dings. "The GPS unit stopped moving. Just outside Ertbrand, Belgium, about thirty minutes from Antwerp. They're looking at aerial maps of the property now and are heading that way," she says.

My heart flutters in my chest and my knee starts shaking again.

August 31, 2015
5:30PM

"She must not have the necklace turned on yet. I can't hear her," says Garcia.

"Are you in?" Clyde asks.

"Almost," she replies and types on her keyboard. "There," she says.

Clyde, Garcia, Hotch, Rossi, Reid and Marcus Klaus gather around the screens set up in the nondescript van that sits about two miles away from a small estate in Ertbrand, Belgium. They stare at nothing - nothing in the hallways or any of the rooms from the home's security cameras.

"What the hell?" asks Hotch. "Are they blocking us?"

"No," says Garcia. "Impossible."

The images flash from one camera to the next. "Wait," exclaims Reid. There on the front porch are two guards.

Garcia touches the screen. "Helena's driver."

"Where in the bloody fuck is everyone else? Show me the outside cameras," says Clyde.

Garcia switches the image so they are staring at a long driveway and bricked parking lot of sorts. Clyde reaches forward and touches the screen, placing his finger over empty vehicles and three empty helicopters, counting. "Four, eight, ten, sixteen…." all the way up to forty-eight.

"Transportation for forty-eight people. This can't be smaller than Morgan's auction," Clyde says.

"Did they gather them and transport them by bus elsewhere? And Emily felt she needed to leave the GPS unit behind for some reason?" asks Hotch.

Clyde pulls out the aerial map. He traces his fingers over the property. "No bus," he mutters. "Too dangerous to put that many people together in a vehicle, in case it's pulled over. Not enough land for a plane to take off. Guards still at the property, but no other people. Emily thought she'd arrived, so she left the GPS unit in the helicopter, but she hadn't really arrived. Helena's falling in love with her, but she still follows rules; she said Antwerp, but it's not Antwerp. Someplace close."

Everyone is silent, watching him. He rubs his temples and takes a bottle of ibuprofen from his pocket, shaking some pills into his hand and popping them in his mouth, swallowing them without water.

He touches the map again and sighs out, "Ohhhh." He looks up. "Penelope, pull up an aerial map of what's on the other side of these trees here," he demands.

Garcia turns to her computer and starts typing. Soon, they're all staring at the roof of a much larger estate.

"Just a little over a mile from this house, but we can't hear Emily because this van is too far away, and because of the forest that separates the properties," says Clyde.

"The Netherlands," says Marcus. "An underground tunnel?"

"Ron Menard," spits Clyde while nodding. He looks at Hotch. "Head of the Royal Marechaussee, the Netherlands Central Police. I don't trust that slimy bastard as far as I can throw him. It wouldn't surprise me if he was a guest at the party tonight."

"You think Emily's there?" asks Reid.

"Yes, I do. But I don't know how we're going to get this van, our equipment and our people across the border. We can't involve the Netherlands police," says Clyde.

Marcus has no issue with the lack of protocol. This is a big case and if he gets the big fish, it will bring pride back to the Belgium police, after over a decade of scrutiny. He claps Clyde on the shoulder. "Seems like a good night to transport some livestock."

Clyde grins and looks at his watch. "Just like old times. We have about three hours if we want to have the time to see inside and plan. Think we can pull it off?"

"We've worked with shorter timelines," Marcus replies.

Clyde looks at the BAU. "I hope you enjoy the smell of hay and horses."

Garcia, who's been living with Clyde for over three weeks now and knows he is brilliant and is not in any way as callous or detached as originally perceived, smiles slightly, trusting him. The rest of the team just stares.

August 31, 2015
10:15PM

When Helena first told me that the "entertainment" began at five o'clock, I imagined the horrors I might witness. Nothing - absolutely nothing - in my imagination could have prepared me for what I actually had to witness.

Helena had no reason to feel like she needed to prepare me. I'd gotten here under the guise that my sister had been caught with a young child and was chased by the FBI and killed. I'd gotten here by having sex with Helena and two of her brothers while I was in a room and watching a young teenage girl with three grown men. I'd gotten here by making a purchase of my own, and suggesting that Anna and her parents had recently acquired a child.

But none of those made-up stories were like the reality. And nothing could have prepared me for the veil of absolute psychosis that Helena kept almost entirely hidden, right up until it fell away while we were dressing. In the safety of this house, when I had passed all of the tests they'd thrown at me and proved myself to be trustworthy and as infatuated with her as she was with me, she offered up the totality of her shattered, disgusting mind and heart.

We arrived at the estate just before five o'clock, walked through a narrow hallway and walked up another flight of stairs. I could hear people talking and laughing, but Helena guided me on, up two more flights of stairs and into a bedroom, a place for us to change. She was chattering excitedly and hopefully.

"Ever since you purchased your mongrel, I've been thinking of wanting something of my own again," she said. "There's a special one here tonight, a young boy, with brown curly hair like mine and eyes as blue as yours. He could be ours, if I can win him. But I know many people want him. Still, the young girl is just as desirable, and she'll go up first. I hope my competitors have spent their money before they get to my young boy."

He could be ours. Holy fuck, I thought as I pulled my skirt on.

Helena smiled appreciatively when she saw how exposed my right leg was in the skirt. "That's lovely," she said.

I kissed her and whispered, "I truly hope you get what you want, with everything in me. You deserve it."

Helena smiled and ran her finger over my cheek. "Thank you, Irina. I had a young boy once, many years ago. His name was Sam. I called him my little Samurai. But he was weak-willed and already broken when I purchased him. I sold him off again, the next year. He turned into riffraff after that, and when I first saw him again a few years back, he didn't even recognize me."

I cleared my throat and managed to smile at her, thinking of a young, nine-year-old Sam O'Brien. At his first therapy session when Sam was fourteen years old, he'd talked of a woman he called Mistress that he couldn't describe with any detail and thought was named Migs, and he'd drawn countless pictures of a pitchfork in a sea of red. Meaghan Helena Freeman. Meg? I wondered. I thought of the location of Helena's tattoo, and I could only imagine how many days and countless hours that poor, young boy was forced to stare at that tattoo with drug-heavy eyes.

I pulled on the top that went with the skirt and Helena smiled appreciatively. She kissed the swell of my breast where it rose from the corset-like top. I laughed and reached for my make-up and jewelry bag. "Excuse me, milaya moya," I said.

I went to the bathroom and gave myself the Irina Popov pep talk in the mirror and managed not to throw up. I adjusted what I might see tonight in my imagination as best I could, adding a harsher layer to it. I put on my jewelry and touched up my makeup. Helena entered the bathroom right after I turned the speaker on on my necklace. I hoped Clyde would figure it out and find me, because I knew too much now. This had to end tonight; there could be no Plan B.

When we were both dressed with our venetian masks on, we walked hand in hand down the stairs and joined the party. The amount of food and quality of wine was impressive, and my mouth watered slightly despite how absolutely nauseated I was. I hadn't eaten for several, long hours, and had barely managed breakfast that morning as it was.

I reached my hand out to grab the tongs that rested on a bed of large prawns when another hand bumped into mine. "Sorry, Ma'am" said a soft voice.

I looked down into the face of a young boy who couldn't have been more than ten. His eyes were glassy, but he was dressed in a tuxedo. He wasn't wearing a mask. I glanced around and realized none of the young people in the room were wearing masks.

I smiled at him and handed him the tongs. I ate and drank and tried to forget his young, innocent face. I mingled. I danced with Peter Daniels who asked me if it would be possible at some point in the future for him to come visit me and my purchase.

"My mongrel?" I asked while brushing my hand seductively across his chest. "Yes, I think that could be arranged, but only after I share him with Helena."

Peter smiled like he knew the whole story, and of course he did. There was probably very little about me that Helena had not told her entire family.

I found other people I thought were those with tattoos, though it was difficult to know for sure because of the masks, and because of the fact that the pictures we had of them were so old. Eric Clarke was there, though, and spoke with me several times. He said things that were meant to be funny, and I laughed, but I didn't throw my head back, and I laughed behind my hand so he couldn't see my teeth.

At seven o'clock, the lights flashed and bells chimed. People put their plates and glasses down and excitedly started moving. Helena held my hand and guided down the hallway and up three narrow flights of stairs. This auction area was far larger than Derek's. Still three stories, but wider. I guessed perhaps fifty rooms looking down on a stage.

The first show featured teenagers and older people and I managed to watch in mock fascination with Helena. The second show featured much younger children and I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. The third, and final, show before the auction started featured the two "pure" children from last year, as Helena explained to me, where their owners could show off the progress.

"Next year, that could be us up on stage with my boy," she said, her eyes taking on the hazy quality of lunacy as the evening had progressed.

I stood up to pour myself a glass of wine from the small table in the corner of our auction room. Then I returned and stood behind Helena, my hands on her shoulders, where I could pretend to be watching while looking away and going someplace else in my mind.

I am Irina Popov, I kept saying to myself as ten o'clock approached...

The auction is about to start now, and I'm trying to remain in character, but the truth is, I'm failing. I'm drinking wine to wash down the bile in my throat and thinking of Clyde and Hotch not finding me, and I'm failing miserably to stay in my undercover role.

I am Emily Prentiss, and I'll never be able to unsee any of this. My sorrow for those children is almost overriding my anger, and I'm on the verge of a breakdown. No one can possibly live through anything like what those children are living through. No one should have to witness anything like this. This is a thousand times worse than anything I physically had to endure in the past few weeks, a million times worse. I clench my jaw and try to hang in there.

The two young children are carried off the stage when the adults are finished with them, and the lights dim. Helena stands quickly and turns her body towards mine. She kisses me and pushes me back towards to the door, against the wall. "This is it," she murmurs while her lips trail from my cheek to my neck.

I'm Emily Prentiss and nothing is ever going to be the same for me again, I say in my mind.

Helena holds my hand and brings me back to the window and the stage fills with light. The curtains are opening and I'm trying to grasp onto something, anything.

Derek survived. Derek survived and is a wonderful, kind, passionate, strong, amazing man. Derek went back in with me and didn't lose his shit, and I owe it to him to do the same now. Hang in there, Emily. That's what he'd be telling you right now. You hang in there.

I say this to myself as the curtains swing fully open revealing a stage. I count. Twelve young children, six boys and six girls, chained and naked and slumped in a drugged stupor in chairs on the stage. And behind them, on a raised platform, Adrian Stancu, The Minotaur, shirtless and in his hooded mask. To the right, slightly lower, is Peter Daniels and his brother Robert, and a shrouded body in the chair next to them. Ari. To Adrian's left sits Eric Clarke and another shrouded body, that of the little girl that's up for auction this year.

I'm not sure how it starts or what alerts anyone that there's a problem. All I know is that the lights in the ceiling of our room start flashing and Helena stands in a panic.

I stand, too, and step back slightly, not knowing what exactly is going on.

A panel in the wall opens automatically and Helena reaches for a gun that's in the compartment, along with a handful of pills.

She turns and points the gun at me just as the smell of acrid smoke fills my nose and the gray cloud of a smoke bomb starts creeping in from under the door.

And my anger is back in an instant. My sorrow and horror is temporarily gone. Clyde and the team found me and my desperation dissipates.

I stare at the gun in front of my face, and brace my body to lunge at Helena.

"Irina," she screams, her voice shrill. "Get behind me."

She's not aiming at me, but at the door.

I make a panicked look on my face and move to stand behind her; as I do, I look through the window and see Adrian, Peter, Robert and Eric do a disappearing act. They're there on the stage one second, and then under it a second later, leaving the children behind.

"Take this," Helena says, handing me a pill. "If you think we're caught, swallow it. It's better than what's in store for you."

I can only assume the pill that's now in my hand is cyanide. I drop it into the bodice of my shirt.

"What's happening?" Helena shrieks in fear as more smoke fills the room. She moves her hand and goes to place a pill in her mouth, in a complete panic.

"No!" I shout. I reach over and push her hand harshly and the pills go flying. "Don't give up, milaya moya," I say softly. "I love you. Let me take the gun. I'm experienced with things like this and I can get you out. I don't want to lose you."

She turns to face me, tears falling down her face. I kiss her softly, quickly, and I feel the gun hitting my hand.

As soon as I have that cool metal in my hand, I kick out my leg, sweeping her legs from under her. She falls on the ground and looks at me in shock.

I drop on top of her, and drop the accent. I let Emily out.

"Can't have you killing yourself, Meaghan. We're going to want your statement," I say as I bring the butt of the gun down on her her head.