Please see disclaimers in Ch 1.


A lone figure stood in front of a wide mirror, trying to fix the cuffs on his dress shirt. He'd thrown a little water in his hair, and was trying to come to terms with the 'directive' he'd been given just three hours ago.

Finished, he pulled out a small article containing a picture. The photo was of him and a younger man, standing outside St. Peter's Basilica. The two were nearly mirror images of each other, save that there was a noticeable age difference in them.

Raphael Charles took in a deep breath. He'd worked as the ambassador to Russia for many years—longer than the Soviets, he'd often joked—and had been looking forward to his impending retirement. The proudest day of his life was when he'd learned that his son was to take over his post.

And now, his son was God-knew-where, held captive by a voice on the other end of a phone line.

"It's really quite simple, Ambassador," the voice had said. "There are two people we need to be inside with you during the summit. All you have to do in order to see young Thomas again is to simply let them in and direct them towards the balcony."

Raphael had balked. "That's all? If I may, why not just…"

"Use the front door? They could. However, they'll have some 'items' that will most assuredly not be allowed through the gates. Those items will be delivered beforehand, and you'll be there to receive them."

The packages had arrived, as promised—Raphael had a fair idea of what was inside of them, but the fear of retaliation against his son was enough of a deterrent to keep him from alerting the guards at the front gate.

Now, in a dressing room, he readied himself for the arrival of the packages' 'owners'—people he was sure had nothing but ill in mind.

There was a cheerful chirp as Raphael's phone began to ring. "Yes?" the older man asked, almost afraid of who might be on the other end.

"Your guests have arrived," said the faceless man who held his Thomas. "Please see them in."

Heaving a deep breath, Raphael set down his phone and exited the bare dressing room. The walk to the front gate of the embassy was a long an arduous one.


Chase Davis didn't like not being in control of the situation. It had been at least an hour since she'd 'killed' both Mo and his father, and she hoped beyond all hope that her plan had worked. She'd sincerely regretted having to do what she had done, but it solved a lot of problems—for one, it took Agent Hotchner off the hook, leaving him less culpable later should things go haywire. For another, it allowed her to 'follow through' with her forced agenda without actually committing murder. She knew Mo would have her back, if it came to that.

If, in fact, he survived the knife wound she'd given him. Her anatomy was fair, but she'd really gotten rusty on that point over the years.

Now she was being led towards a small entrance near the front gate—one likely reserved for the hired help and the numerous staff members the embassy dealt with on a daily basis. Behind her, Agent Hotchner followed silently, his demeanor still stone-like to the untrained eye. She was beginning to be able to read him a little, and she could tell that his blood was boiling at the notion of what 'other thing' they were being coerced into doing.

"Boss says you have to take out the diplomats at the summit. No survivors."

"You're crazy," Chase had said.

"Miss Davis, need I remind you…"

"You don't mind if I tell you to go fuck yourself, do you?"

A hand had reached for a tiny microphone. "Very well…"

"No. Don't." Chase could have kicked herself. "How many?

"Seven. They all die."

"Tall order."

"Agent Hotchner? Anything to add?"

Hotch's face had grown darker. The leverage held over him was immense—so much so that even speaking out of turn might set these fanatical people off. Even with all his profiling skill, it was hard to try and talk them out of what they meant to do, simply because they believed in it so implicitly. He shook his head, silently trying to figure a way out of this mess.

"You'll be on your own for this part, though you'll be 'escorted' to the door," the man had continued. "There will be people 'placed' throughout, however, watching what you do. Don't for a second think you're out of the woods yet."

It had been Hotch's turn to wax sarcastic. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"See that you don't."

Chase now stood at the front side entrance, looking as though she were trying to crash a royal ball in nothing but street clothes. "I'm a tad underdressed," she said dryly, noting that even Hotch had been allowed to change into a suit before going out on this little adventure. Her own plain shirt and capris simply would not fit the bill here.

"Then see you're not discovered," the man behind her said simply.

Just then an elegant-looking older man greeted them, his white handlebar mustache reminding Chase of a slightly shorter version of Teddy Roosevelt. "I am Raphael Charles. Welcome," he said.

"Chase Davis," Chase said.

"Aaron Hotchner," Hotch replied.

"Very well. If you'll follow me?"

The pair followed their 'host' down a long corridor and up a short staircase, leading them into a small room near the stairwell. It was plain and drab, holding only a small chair and a very wide mirror.

"You'll need to change, miss," the older gentleman said.

"Into what?" Chase asked. "I, ah, don't exactly have anything else to wear…"

"Your bags," Raphael said, waving a hand toward the long suitcase-like boxes that stood against the far wall. Chase opened one of them to find a waiter's uniform along with a small high-powered rifle with scope.

Chase clucked her tongue in distaste. "They certainly think of everything, don't they?"

Hotch was staring at the older man, who looked nervous. His hands were constantly moving, fussing with something on his person or twitching his mustache. "Something wrong?" he asked gently.

"I would think it would be obvious," Raphael said, an angry tone to his voice.

"You think we want to be here, Ambassador?" Hotch replied.

"How did you…?"

"The way you're dressed. How you're composing yourself. You keep searching for something that's not there—likely because you've given it up or misplaced it. The fact that you've gone this far says someone's got something over your head, so backing out isn't an option. You keep checking your watch, like you're expecting something, or perhaps waiting for a specific time…"

"Then you know."

Hotch walked over to the other case, finding merely a longer high-powered rifle with scope. "We don't want to be here either."

"Really."

"What have they got on you?"

Raphael hesitated a moment. Hotch knew he was debating on whether to trust them or not. He could feel himself getting more than the once-over—he was getting the full workup before a decision was made. Finally, the ambassador pulled out a photograph of himself and a younger man standing in front of an ornate building. "My son, Thomas," he said softly.

Hotch accepted the photograph, looking at it carefully. He then replied, "They're threatening my colleagues, all close to me. Them and my son. He's three."

Raphael turned to Chase. "You are a believer, then?"

Chase scoffed. "Hardly. I'm in the same boat. They're threatening to torture and drown the only 'family' I've got." She then jabbed a thumb in Hotch's direction. "Plus half of his colleagues are friends of mine, so there's that, too."

"A lot of responsibility for a woman your age," Raphael mused.

"What are you saying?"

"I've never seen one so devoted to people that are not their own," the ambassador replied. "Except for those who take public service."

"Well, you're about to see a whole slew of new things tonight," Chase promised.

"So it would seem," Raphael replied. "Come, the summit's about to begin…"

Chase and Hotch made their way down the hall, their 'bags' with them, and stood just near the edge of a large open room. The floor was nearly three stories below, and below them were the tables and seats of the invited guests who were about to make the world a safer place.


Reid managed to make it into Bethesda without attracting too much attention. The Chinese ambassador and his son had been there for about twenty minutes now, and both had been immediately wheeled into surgery.

"They were both extremely lucky," said the attending surgeon, a Dr. Moliere. "Had their injuries been just a fraction of an inch off in either direction, you would have found corpses."

"How bad is it?"

"Are you next of kin?"

Reid had to stifle a chuckle on that point. "No," he said. "But I am working on their case." He held out his credentials.

"Even so, there's only so much I can tell you…" the doctor replied.

"I'm just interested in their condition. How is it they got so lucky?"

"My best guess? Whoever did this wasn't intending to kill them. Like their arrival, it was just for show."

Reid nodded. "That explains a few things."

"I'm sorry, but I really must get back. I can have someone call…"

"I'll wait."

The doctor hurried down the hall. Reid sat down on a long padded bench, curled up, and fell asleep. The head injury he'd suffered earlier was beginning to take its toll, and he needed to be in top form later.


Morgan paced. The electric had been off for about a minute, and then the crackle of volts returned, proving there were generators still working on the site. He thought back to the original trace they'd done of the call Oliver Lawrence had gotten in their office—where was it Kevin had said the call originated?

He pulled out his phone. "Hey, where did that phone call Oliver got come from again?"

"Somewhere near D.C. and Northern Virginia. Though, considering these people, it could be a false lead. A good scrambler could screw up a trace, or if the phone's sim cards have been corrupted…"

"So you think we're in the right place?"

"Honestly?"

"Never mind. Keep us posted."

"Will do." The phone hung up.

The sound of tires startled the agent, who was about fifteen seconds away from just storming the place. Behind him was a small convoy of vehicles that had pulled in, and from one of them three familiar faces exited.

"So, this is the place?" Oliver Lawrence said, looking just as ready for war as Morgan was himself.

"Best guess," Morgan conceded.

"I brought friends." Oliver waved a hand at the scores of other agents who were setting up.

"Fourteen?"

"Josh sends his regards, and will call if Hanover tells us anything. He personally wants the guys responsible for this—he's taking it hard, a traitor in his unit…"

Emily looked on at the crackling fence. "I would too."

Several agents were making quick work of the fence by merely finding the source of the power and neutralizing it. A spray of red and gold shot out from a section of metal fencing, causing a few to step back. Finally the fence shorted out, and it fell silent.

"Here goes nothing," said Oliver.

"Follow me," Morgan said. "I want these guys' heads on a pike."

"I'll bring the pike. After we find Sarah."

"And Garcia."

"And Kyle Parker," Rossi added, loading his own weapon.