Marcus Tosky had been a cop for thirteen years when his captain told him to quietly pack up his desk and turn in his gun and badge, because apparently his 'attitude' was a 'PR problem' and he'd 'run out of chances'. Captain Mikelsen had been a friend of Marcus' father, so the least he could do was keep it out of the papers and off the record that his discharge from duty hadn't been his choice – which he did, luckily.
Marcus began to work security after that, and at the ripe old age of 32 went into being a prison guard at the local penitentiary, taking bat shit crazy criminal women to and from their trials. Soon, he began to climb the ladder – higher security prisons, higher security prisoners.
Marcus Tosky woke up one morning with 100,000 dollars in his bank account from an account he didn't recognize. The only other data included with the transfer was a note attached – a phone number.
He called it.
The voice on the other end was pretty clear, and also very convincing. Deal with one child murderer, and he could clear out his gambling debts and pay off his mortgage? 100k already, and twice over upon completion?
An easy choice. He barely had to even think on it.
Slipping peanut oil into the mustard was easy, once he put his mind to it. All the food went through him – and that included condiments. He just made sure to drop it off, then clear out – taking the epipen with him.
He was a smoker – that was known about him. It wouldn't be suspicious for him to step out for a five minute break – and the prisoner was in FBI custody anyway, not his, so she wasn't his responsibility anyway.
Marcus Tosky had barely lit his cigarette, the lighter still cupped in his hand to shield it from the wind, when the bullet lodged itself between his eyes.
It was the sound of a gunshot that first told Blake that something was wrong.
Immediately, she, JJ, and Rossi were up on their feet – hands flying to holsters. Soon they're down the hall –
There are paramedics swarming Liber's room, and more peeling off to follow security down the hall.
They arrive just in time to see the EMT give up, sitting back with an unhappy frown on his face.
Sitting back from the too-still body of Des Liber.
Reid almost doesn't check his phone.
There are too many things to focus on, any texts incoming seem too exhausting to check. But their Unit Chief was still missing, and Morgan was managing well enough calming Jane on his own.
So he checks his phone.
'Problem: Liber killed, anaphylactic shock. Peanut allergy exploited,' Rossi's clipped tone carries through the text. 'Killer dead, prison guard. Shot by unsub following murder.'
Spencer looks up, to where Morgan is leading Jane through breathing exercises – slowing her heart rate, which the man keeps glancing over to check.
He thought it over. Made a choice.
With a hand, he adjusted the monitor so Morgan would be able to see it better from where he was seated, and quickly and quietly left the room.
"How in the seven hells did the Unsub know we were close to getting his ID out of Liber?" Rossi was growling when Spencer made it into the round table room. "We were so close."
"He must've had this in the works for a while – picking out the perfect patsy days or weeks in advance," JJ crossed her arms sourly. "He's been stalking Jane for years – stands to reason he's got eyes inside the building somehow. He just waited for the perfect moment to hit."
"So you were close, then," Reid chimed in, joining the circle the profilers and lone tech analyst made. "Liber would've given us the name we needed."
"Yes, she would've – and now she's dead," Rossi braced his hands on the round table. "Liber is dead – now the only other person we can confirm having contact with the unsub is Jane."
"How is she?" Garcia asks quietly, almost shyly. Her brow creased with worry. "I read up on EMDR … it seems – really scary. Especially …"
"Since she's at increased risk," Spencer finished for her, giving the colorful woman a reassuring smile. "She is, but we're working through it. But nothing Jane's given us so far has indicated that she knows any names. She saw the unsub through the window after he shot her brother, but …"
"I –" Garcia gnawed at her lip, fingers hovering over her keys. "I have a very bad idea."
They all turned to eye her.
"It really is a bad idea," Garcia defended herself, even before she suggested anything. "Horrible idea. Very, very reckless idea that might not even get us anywhere because who knows –"
"Penelope," JJ cut her off, a touch exasperated. "What is it?"
"... we could try and contact Vine."
"Jane, Elizabeth goes back to get the car keys," Morgan steers her, glancing to and from the monitor. "You and Ada are in the driveway with Bree –"
"The door opens, the door in the garage," She cuts him off, eyes on the LED but irritated and red even as they follow the path – back and forth and back... "I – it's not Elizabeth, not just Elizabeth."
"Who is it?" Morgan tugs gently on her wrists, anchoring her. "Who is Elizabeth with?"
Labored breathing.
"I don't know Him."
The door gets thrown open on the far side of the garage, and with the slam any fleeting hope that they were going to get Bree to a hospital —
"And where do you think you're going?" The Man – looming in the doorway, descending slowly down the steps – asks. He's got one hand wrapped around Elizabeth's neck, pressed up against his chest with the barrel of a gun digging into her temple.
This – this is the man who shot Bree. Who probably shot her Dad and Desi –
"Ada –"
"Don't try anything," The Man cuts her off, shifting his aim from her mother to her – a sneer on his face. "Either of you move and Sister Marisole gets a bullet in the head. And then Mommy Dearest does."
"What do you want?" Ada gasps out between her sobs, fingers fisted in the back of her shirt – bloody fingers. Blood everywhere. "We never did anything to you."
"You tried to get away," The Man spits, fingers digging tighter into Elizabeth's neck. "And I can't allow that."
"Is Dad dead?" Mari asks – has to ask, because she heard those gunshots and she doesn't know what's going on but she's read a shit ton of Rossi books and if there is one piece of advice that Agent Rossi always gives is you need to stall them. Before they have a chance to do whatever horrible thing they want to do to you, you need to stall them – fight, don't give in. Keep them talking, keep them busy. Help is on it's way. "Did you kill my dad?"
Oh god, please please have help be on it's way.
"Did you kill him?" Mari repeats when he doesn't immediately answer. "My dad, Desi – did you kill them?"
"Arthur is dead," The Man smiles a sick smile, and Mari feels like she's gonna puke and somehow Ada is sobbing even harder –
"Not yet –"
And then somehow Dad is there – slamming a lamp into The Man's head, shoving him and Elizabeth further into the garage and reeling back his fist for another hit.
The Man roars, furious, and they grapple – tumble to the ground. The Man's gun skids away, out of The Man's hand – she scrambles towards it, knees hitting the ground as she lunges –
But she doesn't get it first.
She doesn't get it first.
And everything becomes eerily still.
Because some part of her knows that Bree is dead. Her little brother is dead, just like Casey. And Ada is sitting there, clutching Bree's hand like holding his corpse is the only thing tying her down to earth – only thing keeping her from floating away, a wisp on the wind.
The Man and Dad are locked in place – there's blood on the ground. A – a lot of blood on the ground.
They both look up at the gun muzzle staring down at them.
The gun in Elizabeth's hand.
"Oh, my dear," The Man says, a hint nervousness shining through his arrogance. "You think that shooting me will magically make everything right?"
"Shut up," Her mom chokes out, and Mari doesn't know what she's waiting for.
"Mom, he killed Bree," She pants, strangled, and it's like ripping her heart from her chest to say it out loud. "He's gonna kill us, Mom, you gotta –"
"You can't escape me, none of you can," The Man cuts her off, and even pinned to the dirty garage floor he exudes confidence that makes her want to kick him in the balls and then grab the gun and shoot him herself. "Come on, Elizabeth. You know me. You know what I can do – what I will do, what I have done. Do you really think you can stop me?"
Just how well did her mother know this murderous psycho?
Wait – where was Desi?
"Desi!" She shouts, ignoring the standoff for just a second. Not everything had sunk in yet. "Desi, are you okay?"
And then the woman herself appeared in the doorway, gun in hand – clutching at her shoulder.
"I'm here, Ivy, I'm here," Desi grimaced, aiming her gun at The Man. "Is Gabe…?"
"I think he's dead," Mari forced herself to choke out again, feeling her knees go weak. "... Desi, are the cops on their way?"
"I dunno, kiddo, I hope so," She gritted her teeth, face pinched with pain. "Elizabeth, we gotta shoot him."
"What?" Elizabeth jerked, looking at Desi – her aim straying. "No, I –"
"He's got more money than all of us combined, we can't let him use any of it," Desi insisted, rage painting her gaunt features. "Shoot him. It's self defense. Arthur is dying – Gabriel is dead. He was gonna kill you and take Ada as a sick replacement. You can't let him take her, Lizzie. You can't let him take Ada."
"... you're right," Her mom whispers, and Mari feels terror lance through her heart. "I can't."
She doesn't know what she shouts. She just feels the sound rip through her vocal cords and tear at her lungs because –
Elizabeth turns, shifts her aim.
Ada falls with a bullet lodged in her chest.
Liber roars, bullets of her own hitting Elizabeth over and over –
Elizabeth falls, and so does the gun.
Everything slows down like the air is molasses and –
The Man scoops the gun up, and as Mari watches he twists around and shoots her father through the heart.
Morgan hopes that Reid had a damn good reason for bailing on him, because it was definitely harder to go at this alone. Because Jane has gone silent for the last twenty minutes and nothing he does seems to get through the walls she's thrown up.
"Jane, I need you to steady your breathing," He practically pleads for the umpteenth time, fingers stinging with pins and needles from Jane's too-tight grip. "Don't focus on the man. Jane, I need you –"
But a door slams down the hall, and at the sound Jane suddenly wrenches her hands out of his grip – and the momentary relief of having his hands back is completely overshadowed by the panic that races through him as she folds over, clutching at her head. The keening sound that is torn from her rips at his heartstrings, and he curses as he tries to force her upright – to breathe.
"Jane – Jane!" He grips her forearms, trying to catch her unseeing gaze. "Jane, what are you remembering? Jane, do you know where you are?"
But she can't seem to hear him, and is slipping into a panic attack – shit.
He pulls her out of her chair, forcing her back onto the cool wood floor. She's thrashing and gasping, but she's not in her right mind and he's got over a hundred pounds on her – soon he has her pinned, legs pressed to the ground and hands restrained over her head.
"Mari, I need you to breathe," Morgan begins to chant, cursing Reid's absence. "Jane, you're in Virginia. I need you to breathe. Doc, c'mon, I need you to take a deep breath –"
"No, no no nonononono no –" Jane barely whispers, her voice barely audible. "No, no – Ada –"
"Ivy, you're not with Ada," He over-enunciates. "You're with Morgan. It's Morgan, Doc. It's Morgan."
He keeps up a steady chatter, as he switches his grip, two wrists in one hand as he digs through his pockets for his phone.
Reid picks up on the first ring.
"Get back here, she's having a panic attack!"
When Jane comes back to awareness she's resting on something soft.
There's the feeling of hands, pushing back her hair and smoothing down sheets – was she on a bed? She wants to sink back, to where she was – sweet oblivion – but she can't.
Hotch – she doesn't have that luxury.
Forcing her eyes open is more difficult than she thought it should be, and it's a long and laborious process.
She's on the cot in her office.
Her vision hasn't even focused when she hears Morgan's voice.
"I told you," His fingers slip to her wrist, taking her pulse with fond exasperation – a darkly humorous turn of tables. "You weren't up for EMDR. We shouldn't have done it."
She closes her eyes again, working her tongue around her mouth to wet it – unfortunately familiar with the post-panic dryness.
"He was my father's age."
Her eyes were still closed, but she felt Morgan freeze beside her – grip falling slack.
"He was white, with a receding hairline and a square jaw," His hand recedes – she hears the scratch of pen against paper, but continues on. "He was tall – at least 6 feet, probably taller – and of average build. Not thin, not sculpted or fat. Proportionally average. Normal. He was just normal."
"... What was his hair color?" Morgan asked softly after a moment, filling the silence.
"It was black, greasy black," She recalled, thinking of his slicked hair. "And he had it slicked back like Dracula. Widows peak and all. His eyes were dark too, brown or hazel. And his nose – it had been broken, at least twice, but set well. Expensive doctors both times."
"What was he wearing?"
"A suit," She opened her eyes, locking her gaze on the ceiling tiles. "A nice one, but didn't care about blood. Black, with a white shirt and no tie. Cufflinks, I don't know what was on them. French."
"Did you get a name? Did he refer to himself in the third person, or did he introduce himself at all?"
"If he did, I didn't hear it," Jane shook her head, flopping her head to the side to look at him. "But they knew him. Desi, my mom, my dad. They knew him."
Morgan's face creased as he frowned, and Jane resisted the urge to reach up and smooth the wrinkles away. It was too much work, anyhow.
"Did they say from where?"
Jane shook her head.
"Any noticeable accent?" Morgan pushed, pen hovering. "Words he used that you found odd?"
"No, he sounded normal," Jane tried to smile, a useless twitch of her lips. "American. Maybe East Coast. Kinda old fashioned. Overly proper. I'm sorry … I'm not Blake."
"Hey, no, this is great," Derek dropped his notepad at his feet, scooping up her hand. "This is a lot. This is really good."
" … He didn't kill Ada," Jane wet her lips, feeling her eyes water. "He was after Ada. My mom – Elizabeth. Elizabeth shot Ada, to keep Him away from her."
Morgan's eyes slipped shut, a silent curse on his lips.
"Then Desi killed Elizabeth," Jane continued – because if she didn't say it now she wouldn't say it ever. "And then He killed Dad."
"Jane, I'm sorry," Morgan brought her hand up, pressing a comforting kiss to the back of her palm. "I'm sorry that this happened to you. I'm sorry that you lost so much."
Jane felt a lump in her throat.
She wanted to cry.
"... no one ever apologized before," She whispered, feeling her lips twist with grief.
"I'm sorry, Mari," Morgan repeated, firmer – gazing straight into her eyes and looking at her. "I'm sorry – I'm so, so sorry."
She basks in that. For just a second she allows herself to bask in that. To know that someone is sorry.
No one ever told her that they were sorry.
"You've been profiling Him all day," She forces herself to sit up, wincing at the bruises along her spine. "You've been trying to figure Him out."
"... yes, we have," Morgan cautiously agrees, snaking a hand behind her back to support her, arranging pillows for her to rest against. "You really shouldn't be –"
"Tell me," She cuts him off. "Tell me. You have to know by now, so tell me."
Morgan tensed his lips.
"Derek."
"You don't want to know," He shook his head. "Jane, I know you and I know how you cope – and I know that me telling you will do nothing for you right now. Only hurt you more, and we can't afford that."
"What we can and cannot afford is a little flexible right now, when my boyfriend has been abducted by a Transylvania reject who killed my father," Jane snapped. "Tell me."
" … The unsub knew your parents, knew Des Liber," Morgan reluctantly began. "And they knew him. Liber is dead," Jane felt her heart clench. "The unsub bribed a guard, used her peanut allergy against her. So not only do they know each other, Liber was an asset and a threat to him – one he eliminated."
Morgan cleared his throat, clearly not wanting to go on.
"Ada was the target. The rest of your family was just collateral, using the Colemyers as a smokescreen for the unsub's true intentions. But it was also punishment, because Elizabeth Colemyer rejected him years ago, and he's been harboring resentment ever since. Your dad got the girl, and the Unsub didn't. Elizabeth got the guy, and Liber didn't. The Unsub used that common ground to manipulate Liber into helping kill the Colemyers – tempting her with power and what she could provide for you and your family. But Liber didn't know he would go after Arthur and Ada."
"She was there that day to get us out, get us away from … from the Unsub," Jane nodded. "That's why she was there."
"You weren't the target, but with all the Colemyer women dead you were the only option left," Morgan continued carefully. "... Elizabeth killed Ada. You were there, you were convenient, and the Unsub had put in so much time and money and effort into planning this ... he couldn't pass the opportunity up. So he latched onto you."
He paused.
"Do you remember how you got away?"
She shook her head.
"That's okay, that's not important right now," Morgan soothed, clearly not wanting her to dive back into her head. "But all of his focus, all his obsession was now focused on you. He … he had you, for a time. But somehow you got away, and that was unacceptable. Losing you, losing Elizabeth and Ada, were the worst blows to his ego that he could imagine. He grew enraged."
He sighed.
"When he found out you had amnesia, he probably thought it was the reason you never came back to him," Morgan said with disgust. "Justified it, in his head. He courted you with flowers, hoping that each new batch would make you remember. He probably even wrote off you trashing them as a romantic gesture – anything to fuel his fantasy and validate his obsession."
"But then I remembered."
"But then you remembered," Morgan echoed grimmly. "You still didn't come back to him. You left, hid so well you probably managed to shirk his tail on you. Then you came back to us, to Hotch. Started a relationship with him, not the Unsub – Hotch became the one genuine obstacle between the Unsub and you. He became Arthur. He became the problem."
He sighed again, scrubbing at his face.
"Killing Arthur by just shooting him probably wasn't satisfying," Morgan grimaced. "He wanted to punish him. And a quick death didn't satisfy that – and …"
"Say it," She orders, when he goes too long in silence. "I can take it. Say it."
"And Hotch is the perfect surrogate," He finished the thought, looking ill. "They look nothing alike, but that didn't really matter. Their behavior and type are the same – loving, caring father and loyal partner. A lawyer, criminal prosecutor – former, for Hotch, but still with that same bearing. Stoic but kind. Even Gideon thought that they were eerily alike, you told us that."
She swallowed roughly.
"You still haven't told me."
"Jane –"
"You still haven't told me," She repeats, clenching her eyes shut. "Tell me, Derek. I have to know. You know I have to know."
"No, you don't," Derek threw back – pushing out of his chair, crossing the room. "No, you don't, Doc – because if I tell you, no matter what I say, you're not going to like it. No matter what I say, it's going to be terrible – and I can't tell you something terrible, because you were catatonic for eight days and Des Liber is dead and you are the only lead we have –"
"Tell me!" She shouted at him, pushing off the bed on shaking legs – bracing herself against the wall to keep herself upright. "Derek, please. You have to tell me – you have to tell me, I have to know what He's doing to him. Please –"
"He's probably dead!"
Her breath caught.
"He's probably dead, it's been over a week," Morgan plunged ahead, no choice but to get it all out in the open now that he's started. "And if he's not dead, then the Unsub's giving him the same treatment he gave you. Hotch is probably cut to ribbons by now, and if blood loss or infection doesn't get him first then shock will. Hotch is being tortured right now, Jane. Is that what you wanna hear?"
Jane stood there, jaw gritted and knees shaking. Staring him down. Processing.
Then she turns to the wastebasket by her desk and vomits.
