"Where are you taking me?" Lucy asked, trying hard not to let her voice tremble as she watched the hospital and the promise of safety fade in the rear window.
No response.
"People are going to come looking for me!" she shouted, trying to force confidence, authority she didn't possess, "My wife is a Federal Agent!"
"Oh, we know..." Ian told her, almost matter-of-factly, an unsettling smile crossing his face. "And we're counting on her moving Heaven and Earth to save you."
The van screeched around a corner at high speed, narrowly avoiding being T-boned by oncoming traffic. While Ian shouted at the driver, Lucy used the momentary distraction to unbuckle her seatbelt and reach for the door handle, ready to fling herself out of the moving vehicle if it meant getting away from what she felt was likely certain death.
Before she could open it, though, a gun was pointed at her head, the unmistakable sound of it being cocked echoing in her ears. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, Love..."
"If you're going to kill me, just do it! But just know that they're going to find you," she growled.
"There's no sense in doing that – you're worth much more to me alive." He slowly traced a finger along her jawline.
"Fuck you!" she spit, jerking away from his touch.
He grabbed a fistful of her hair, jerking her head back sharply. "You'd best mind your tongue, girl – I'm not going to kill you, but I've no compunction against making you wish I had."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"You should be..."
"What? Are we being followed, 007?" Derek teased, watching her repeated glances out the side mirror.
The fact that he was teasing seemed to bypass her entirely. "No, but you should go through the city – 66 is going to be miserable right now."
"We'll get there."
"Before Doyle takes somebody else out?" she snapped. "He's shooting up Federal Agents, what's he going to do next?" In her mind, she added, 'Kidnap my wife and likely murder her just to spite me?'
"Well, what would you like me to do?" he demanded, perhaps shorter tempered than he normally would have been with her.
Temper flaring right back, she retorted, "Get creative with your driving..."
"I'm working on it, Prentiss."
Any further arguing they might have done was interrupted by the ringing of her phone and the quick coded conversation that followed.
She went through the motions, said all the right words, but it was killing her not to ask about Lucy, whether they'd found anything that might lead them to her. She'd trusted them with her wife's life while she was in the hands of the worst possible person, but the longer she was with him, the less likely it was she'd ever see her alive.
The urge to confess everything, to fall on her knees and beg for help, welled up inside her, then, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep herself from falling apart then and there. If Lucy didn't survive, she wasn't sure she would either...
"They got something?" Derek asked, startling her, as if she'd only just remembered he were there.
Her gaze was distant and unfocused, lost almost. "I don't know, we'll see," she answered seemingly without realizing she was speaking.
There was silence for what seemed a long time as he watched her, studied her. "You know, Emily," he began, sighed, "You really need to trust people."
She looked up sharply. "I trust people," she argued, resenting the fact that he thought she didn't.
"No, you don't," he insisted. "You don't because you can't. And I get it – every time you try to count on someone, they let you down, so you go it alone. You'll never admit that 'cause you're just too damn stubborn." He shook his head slowly. "It's alright, it doesn't matter. But I'll tell you what does matter: that you can trust me, Emily. With anything." She seemed about to argue, but he didn't give her the chance. "I'm serious. No matter how awful you think it is, I promise you, you are not alone. I just wish you'd believe that."
Again there was silence, so long and so brittle it seemed an eternity of broken glass. Finally, in a small voice, she murmured, "I do." She wasn't sure either of them believed that. Then, (mostly joking) she changed the subject, "And profile me again, you'll wish you hadn't."
"Have you stopped to wonder why you're here?" Ian asked, waving his gun about airily.
"Because you're a psychopath?" she retorted with false brightness.
"Ah-ah...mustn't call names." He clicked his tongue. He slowly paced around the chair she was shackled to, pausing behind her to stroke the hair off the back of her neck. "You know, you remind me of your wife – she always did have a wicked tongue," he breathed next to her ear.
"Don't you talk about her!" Lucy growled. "You don't know anything about her!"
"Don't I?" he asked, brow raised. "I think I know her quite well, actually. Afterall, we were lovers for a year and a half."
"Wh-what?" she stammered, wary, distrustful.
"Didn't she tell you?"
"You're lying!" she shouted. "She would never do that!" She struggled against the manacles around her wrists.
"Do what? Fuck me because the government paid her to? Fall for me? Maybe even love me?"
"Shut up!" she demanded, "Just stop it!"
"Aye, she was special that one," he mused. "But you...you've got that same spark she had." He pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. "I tend to prefer brunettes, but I could make an exception for you."
"You seem to be under the impression that I'm going to cooperate..." she deadpanned.
"You seem to be under the impression you have a choice," he retorted. "Your wife learned to love me, I'm sure you will too in time."
"Fuck you – I'll never love you!"
"I suggest you play along, Love...it'll make this whole thing a lot less painful."