Please see disclaimers in earlier chapters.


The perimeter around the vast swatch of land the Kites had held for generations was swarming with activity. Dozens of fleeing Kites managed to make their way out of the dense forest and into the waiting hands of authorities. With each Kite caught, the smile on the old sheriff's face grew a little more.

"Oh, lord, but if Sean Campbell could see this," Tom said as his men managed to lay their hands on another young Kite. "The end of an era has finally come…"

The tall smoke plume was wavering in the distance. The torrential rains had done a number on the oil fire, but crews were just now making their way inside the compound to smother the remains of the blaze. Nearby, two plainclothed agents took stock of what their colleagues had seen over the course of a week.

"My God," Rossi murmured. "If it hadn't been for the fire, these folks woud've never had to leave," he said to his counterpart, who was looking on at the numerous wooden structures that stood nearby. "Whoever set that off was a genius…"

"Look here," JJ said, pointing towards the peculiar stocks that sat off to the side of the encampment, just barely underneath a small birch tree. "These were used recently…see how they've been forced?"

"I wonder who was locked in there," Rossi said.

Just then the fire marshal came over to where the small group of police and the two agents were milling. "Well, that fire's smothered out," he said, casting glances over the place where so many had met an untimely end. "You can begin your search, if you want—though personally, if your people are still alive, it'll be a damn miracle. We had enough problems getting around that oil tank—spiked wire, deadfalls, you name it. More than like, you'll find the lot of them dead or dying in some pit those Kites dug up…"

"Thank you, Marshal," said JJ flatly. "We'll take it from here."

The marshal left, muttering something about lost causes. "Pay him no mind," said JJ brightly, trying to keep an optimistic façade. "They're in here, and we'll find them. Now, who's got that grid map of the area I asked for?"


On the southern border of Kite Country, nearly five and a half miles away from where they started, a series of rustles caught the attention of a young officer who was patrolling the remote stretch of highway.

"Show yourselves," the officer called out, raising his weapon. He lifted a radio to his lips, intent on calling for backup of any kind—at that point, even the Girl Scouts would do.

A figure in plaid and frayed jeans burst out towards the young man, his hands bound behind his back. "See? Told you I'd take you—now put the gun down!"

"Gun? What gun?" the officer asked.

"Who are you?" called out a voice from behind the trees.

"Sheriff's department," the officer called back, taking hold of the bound man before he could disappear. "You a Kite?"

"Ha! Not hardly!" a voice answered. It was a woman's voice.

"You those FBI people?"

Suddenly a small gaggle of people broke out from the treeline—five adults and four little girls, all looking like they'd just had a date with sadistic river gnomes who'd tried to turn them into mud pies.

"Yeah," said one of the women, a young man about the officer's age. "Four FBI agents, four girls, and one very stubborn PI—all in want of a bath."

"And food," one of the girls cried out.

"And a doctor," another chimed, holding onto a tall girl who was violently coughing.

"And a few more pairs of handcuffs," said another woman, who viciously shoved another plaid-wearing man towards the overwhelmed officer. "Hotch, if he moves, shoot him."

The man with the rifle—Hotch, apparently—merely strode over to the officer and relieved him of his radio.

"We're out," he said, loud and clear. "Dave, JJ, Sheriff—come out and get us."


Six hours and five doctors later, a small group gathered in one large double room where a throng of press and reporters clamored for a statement. JJ did her best to outline the events of the past week, but the most written about line was given by a mysterious woman who took the microphone over for the briefest of seconds.

"Miss Campbell, what happened in those woods?" a reporter called out.

The young woman stood silent for a moment, and then turned to the eager crowd.

"Brush up on your folklore," she merely said, then disappeared into a hallway and out of sight.


There'll be an epilogue, so stay tuned!