A/N: TW applies to a very brief mention of suicide. And a very special thank you to LetMeWalkTheEarthWithYou for reading through the very early (and very final) stages of this chapter, and all of the support along the way!
Chapter 43: Be Still
When darkness comes upon you and colors you with fear and shame
Be still and know that I'm with you and I will say your name
And when you go through the valley, and the shadow comes down from the hill
If morning never comes to be
be still, be still, be still
"What do you want Ian?" Emily demands once he's seated in front of her, like an old friend who stopped by for a casual cup of coffee. Her spine stiffens like a rod, her cold, quickly numbing fingers curl around the cup in her own hand. It's a question she doesn't need to ask. She studied his every move for years, learned him in the most intimate of ways. She knew him as a man, as a father, as a lover. None of that matters now.
"You." His voice is like steel, devoid of any leniency, his stare so intense she wants to look away. "Not today, don't worry about that. But soon." His eyes are so blue he could drown in them like she did many times before, in a different life. There isn't a trace of mercy in his tone; it's icy and calculating as if he's visualizing her demise at that very moment. It's the one he saves for those who wronged him. Now she's on that list, a list she put herself on from the moment she climbed into an SUV one afternoon in Tuscany.
"I could take you out right now." Her hand is steady on the gun under the table, her finger wrapped around the trigger. There's another strapped to her leg and one on her belt, yet they wouldn't do her any good. His men are highly trained, most likely everywhere, and acting on those words would surely bring her own death right on the spot.
Ian only laughs, because of course she knows she wouldn't last another thirty seconds if she follows through with her promise. "Does your team know the truth about you, Emily Prentiss?" His assessment of each of each of them is what makes her see red, her hidden fear turning to a quiet anger as he recounts their whereabouts that evening in precise, chilling detail. The descriptions are so accurate it splits her already broken heart even further.
"Here you are, all alone, while Aaron sits at home with his son. Tell me about him, Emily. Does he make you as happy as I once did? Scream as loudly?" He's smiling, but there's no humor behind it. It's pure enjoyment on his end to watch her tense with panic at the uttering of Aaron's name, the mention of Jack, at what he knows about them.
"Come near them, and I will end you," she hisses, her pulse starting to beat faster as her eyes burn with the pricking pain of tears, her mind flashing to Aaron and Jack. "Come near my team and I will end you."
"I don't have a quarrel with your team. Most of them, at least." Ian continues calmly, methodically, as if it's mere child's play. "But, how long that remains the case depends entirely on you." He never takes his eyes off of her; he doesn't even blink.
"They're innocent," Emily says firmly and simply, as the rage and fear mixes like wildfire in her veins. It takes everything she has to maintain the composure she shows, knowing there's a fine line between his compassion and retribution.
"You're not." What he wants is simple, and he is ready to wreak vengeance without a care in the world of who gets in his way. It's up to her to ensure they don't, whatever it takes.
"I was doing my job, Ian." Maybe so, but it was so much more than that. They both know it went so far beyond that. There were days and nights that blurred together, years of danger and lust, coupled with what was doomed to end tragically from the very beginning. She crossed every line and boundary, and now she's about to pay the price many times over.
"I think you did a little more than that." The wistful look that ghosts his face tells her he remembers it all as clearly as she does. "You took the only thing that mattered to me. So now I'm going to take the only thing that matters to you. Your life." He reaches into his pocket, handing her the tiny gold square with the clover stamped in the middle, hers for the taking. His signature. Valhalla. It's his way of telling her this is how it will end. He'll have the last laugh, the final blow.
"But I'm going to make sure Aaron Hotchner is there to watch you take your last breath."
...
Aaron wrings his hands, willing himself not to look at the clock. It's been more than two hours since Emily texted him, a message that was so clearly a lie it angered him to read. He's already checked the traffic reports near Quantico - there's nothing that would cause a delay like this. In fact, it's mostly clear, almost completely unheard of. He keeps trying, another text followed by two more after that go unanswered, and it's so unlike Emily, he picks up the damn phone and calls her. Except, it doesn't ring this time, instead going straight to voicemail, and he starts to fear the worst. This is deliberate and intentional. Turning her phone off means she can't be traced, and she's well aware of this. He's racked his brain for weeks now, unsuccessfully analyzing the subtle changes in her behavior. The assumption that she was pregnant had been his only logical hypothesis - the only thing that he could imagine to cause such a noticeable change in her behavior. And while he'd spent the last few days avoiding the truth, it's clear there's something much more insidious at hand, something that he isn't supposed to know.
Something he's determined to find out.
Aaron calls Jessica - the only person he can think of to come on such short notice -mumbling something about a work emergency and if it would be too much trouble to watch Jack. She doesn't ask questions but doesn't quite believe him either when he all but runs out the door, his jacket slung on one shoulder and nothing but his keys in his hand. His hands clench around the wheel, his foot a little too heavy on the gas as he drives to her apartment, and he has to remind himself to breathe.
A loop around her building confirms his worst fears. Her car is missing, the windows in her apartments completely dark. She'd lied right to his face - she never planned on going home at all. He tries her once more, fingers frantically dialing the numbers, only to hear her voice on the message recording, her voice ringing in his ears. Aaron throws the phone with enough force that it bounces into the backseat. The silence around him is cold and empty, heavy with fear and dread, his own thoughts tormenting.
Where are you? He bangs his fist against the steering wheel, then puts his head in his hands.
…
Emily doesn't dare go home that night. Instead she waits at the rickety table until her legs stop tingling. Then she walks to the Metro, sending a quick text to Tsia and Clyde. She blends in with the crowd, but Ian and his associates could still be tracking her. They could be anywhere. She keeps her head down and her stride brisk, weaving in and out of the crowd. A few minutes later, the burner phone in her pocket beeps, a message from Clyde. They're on their way.
The Metro station is crowded yet she still can't help but feel ridiculously exposed once she's on the train, every passerby sending alarms off in her head. Her eyes drift shut as she sits on the cold plastic chair, and she imagines falling asleep next to Aaron, his body warm and safe against hers. Aaron. He has to be so worried, and by now he's certainly aware that her phone is turned off. He's probably looking for me, Emily thinks. He's probably been out all night. It hurts to think of his face for long. He deserves none of this. Her mind races, spinning out of control until her eyes open once again. The notion of rest is a foreign one. Emily can't remember the last time she actually slept.
Seeing Clyde and Tsia in front of her, not just at a distance or on the phone, makes all of this more real. Their presence is a reminder of just how bad things will really get if they don't figure something out. One of them is undoubtedly next on his list, like a time bomb.
"Ian Doyle is here in DC." Emily ignores Tsia's concerned stare and Clyde's piercing blue eyes as she gives the news, keeping her voice low even on the crowded Metro.
They question how she can be so sure, and only when she mentions sitting across from him mere hours before, do they too realize he's about to close in on them all. No matter what, he's always several steps ahead of them.
"Why didn't he kill you? And more to the point, why didn't you kill him?"
Emily scoffs. "We all know he's not working alone."
It's true. They know Ian almost as well as she does, exactly what he's capable of. With his team of henchmen, he's a deadly threat to anyone in his path. So when Tsia suggests she should tell the team, bring them in, let them help, Emily adamantly refuses with a resounding shake of her head. "No. This isn't their fight, and I won't take that risk."
Clyde closes his eyes, probably cursing her stubbornness, and Emily wonders just how much he knows about her history with Aaron. Probably all of it. He's good like that, she remembers well. "When you went undercover, I promised you no one would harm you." It's his way of assuring her something he can't - that he'll keep her safe. But that was before Ian spent years in a foreign prison because she betrayed him, before she took everything he held dear.
"I'm not undercover anymore. DC isn't his comfort zone. It's mine. This ends here." She'll do this alone because it's her only choice. It's a mess she got herself into years ago, one she'll fix on her own. Even if it costs her life.
…
They have a case, two couples murdered under suspiciously similar circumstances. Aaron barely acknowledges her when she slips in, late, but she feels his stony stare throughout the entire briefing. It's clear he hasn't slept much as he delineates their tasks, his usual brisk manner slightly off and he's moving just a little slower than usual. Emily can feel him slipping away, putting a guard between them, when he moves right past her without an acknowledgement. It's subtle, but when she looks up from her lap, her cheeks red with shame, she catches Morgan eyeing them both, a twist of suspicion in his eyes.
It won't be long until he knows the truth. Until they all do.
…
Lying to Dave feels inherently wrong, as if he can see right through her nervous attempt to push him off, but her exchange with Reid is like a knife in the chest. He's been struggling too, she's seen it with her own eyes, yet has barely given him the time of day in the last few weeks. The news of his headaches scares her, the quiet frustration in his eyes is something she hasn't seen from him in so long, and while he puts on a brave face, Emily knows it's much more than that. Yet she can barely make eye contact.
"You've been picking your fingernails again," Reid says observantly, switching subjects. "You only do that when you're stressed. I haven't seen you do that much since ... he trails off, already drawing conclusions that don't actually exist.
"Since what, Reid?"
"Since you and - " he stops when his eyes flick to Aaron's office, catching himself when he sees her swallow. "Nothing. Forget it." And then he's gone, completely unaware it might be one of their last conversations between the two of them.
Emily fights the sob that lingers in her throat - it hasn't actually gone away - and stares at him as he turns toward the briefing room, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Her eyes follow his back until she's being pulled by the arm around the corner, past the coffee machine into the small hallway with hardly any foot traffic. She's so exhausted she wonders what is even happening at all, until a familiar scent floods her senses. Aaron. Of course.
"What the hell are you doing?" His concern from the day before is replaced with anger as he gets two hands around her shoulders and presses her against the wall. It's not rough but it isn't exactly gentle, either. His eyes are dark; he's clearly running on as little or less sleep than she is. "Where were you the other night?
"Home," she says as calmly as she can, and even though he isn't holding her that tightly, it hurts. "Like I told you." She swallows hard, staring right back at him, as if daring him to question her again.
"Try again, and this time don't lie to me."
"You followed me." She wants to slap him, scream at him, pure panic in her face as she considers what could have happened had he been spotted. Ian has to have surveillance around, watching her apartment, even the BAU. It could have been a fatal mistake, more blood on her hands.
"I went to your apartment. Your car was gone." He lowers his voice, for the first time as he recounts the lies she's told, an intricate web of words that haven't added up. He's a master at controlling his emotions, especially at work, but the facade is starting to crumble, a painful collapse of everything they've built for the last few years with a few false words and uncomfortable silences. "I sat there for hours. You never came home."
"Let me go," Emily snaps back, attempting to free herself. He holds her still, searches her eyes for a trace of the truth.
"No. Not until you tell me what the fuck is going on, Emily."
She says nothing, biting her lip, looking in any other direction but at him, because the pain in his face is unbearable to see, to know she's the cause of it all is even worse.
"Look at me," he demands quietly. "I'm not letting you do this. What are you hiding? What did you do? Let me help you - "
They're suddenly interrupted by Morgan, whose suspicions are raised even more now when he finds them both, caught in a moment clearly not meant to be seen by anyone else.
"What is it, Morgan?"
"There's a common phone number between the victims. I think it's worth checking out." He holds both of their stares, and Emily has to look away.
Aaron only nods, turning away from them both. "Take Emily with you."
…
It's like being in a constant state of paralysis while simultaneously drowning, sinking further beyond reprieve.
The dead man on the ground in the middle of DC is too young for an assault weapon, and the gaping wound on his wrist is clearly hiding something. It becomes clear these murders are connected, a common link that leads back to Europe many years ago. They can't see the signs yet, but she can.
There isn't a doubt in her mind of who is behind all of this. This is Ian's endgame, the start of it at least, and he won't stop. Not until she's dead.
Emily is aware of what's happening around her yet powerless to stop it as the case spirals out of control right before her eyes. Reid has all but recreated the tattoo on the dead man's wrist, and the air is sucked from her lungs when she sees it. She'd know the four leaf clover anywhere. The gold foil is still in her pocket, and the fact that they have this means they're too close to finding the truth now. With only a few strings left to unravel, it will all come crashing down when they inevitably pull the right ones.
With a sinking feeling of dread, Emily reaches for her phone to call Tsia, only to hang up seconds later when she's no longer alone. Penelope slips into the bathroom, all but cornering her because she too is aware that something isn't right, and it's her gentle, but persistent, prompting that all of this starts to catch up to her.
Emily could never lie to Penelope, but their exchange hurts, almost more than the one with Reid. Instead she tells her a story, a thinly veiled version of the truth hidden in a haunting metaphor of a recurring nightmare. She chooses her words carefully to not alarm her even more but no matter what, it's a goodbye in every sense. Penelope will take the news hard, and Emily can't help but hold her a little tighter as they embrace.
Ashley looks apologetic, knowing she's interrupted something when she rounds the corner. "Hotch needs you in the SCIF." She looks out of place and uncomfortable, and for a brief moment Emily considers pulling her into a hug too, because it's not her fault she's walked into this mess, also putting her life on the line unknowingly.
…
Aaron all but demands the information from CWS, pressing until their backs are against the wall with only one option left -to reveal their hand. Emily sits in silence as the final pieces of the puzzle are put together, each jagged edge fitting together too easily now. And when his name is uttered in the concrete room, a secret revealed in a place that should be a safe haven, every last resort option she has starts to fade away. It's his game at this point, a game they can only lose, and they're all so blissfully unaware of the trap they're walking right into.
The team starts zeroing in on Doyle with their typical precision, scratching their heads at the more puzzling details. There are no extradition papers or prison records from Russia, and the sketch of the damn tattoo that still hangs on the board has revealed little. They have almost nothing, which they are acutely aware of, grasping at every last straw they can.
"He's not gonna be able to get out of the district unless he sprouts wings himself." Garcia sounds too confident, and all Emily can do is bite her lip and stays quiet. She knows how wrong they are. Ian can vanish without a trace, like a ghost. Then they'll never find him.
"Was Doyle on your radar when you were at Interpol?" Aaron barely looks at her; he's doing everything in his power to keep the distance between them.
"Uh, I'd heard of him, but direct contact? I'd have to ask around."
He dismisses her with a curt demand to do so, turning away from her as quickly as he can.
...
Only when she's in the car with Morgan, once again on another wild goose chase for information they'll never find, does she feel like she can breathe again, until he opens his mouth. "Something up with you and Hotch?"
Emily shifts uncomfortably on her seat, racking her tired brain to come up with something that sounds remotely convincing. "What do you mean?"
"Come on, Emily. I'm not stupid. He's a mess lately, and so are you. What the hell is going on? And don't tell me it's just the stress of the case."
"So you're profiling us now, Morgan?"
"No. I'm making an observation based on the fact that you are my friends, and I've known you both long enough to know when something's up." He doesn't take his eyes off the road, but he doesn't have to. Morgan knows her well; Emily shouldn't be surprised he would figure this out.
"We're fine. Just … working through some things." She checks her phone and then one more time, letting a nervous sigh slip from her lips at the blank screen staring back at her.
"No one's getting back to you?"
"They'll get back to me." Emily glances over her shoulder, nervously. Morgan doesn't understand - how could he - and she feels guilty for snapping at him, barking at him for his driving until her phone rings. The number that appears is unknown, which means it has to be Tsia.
The cryptic phone call only manages to raise Morgan's suspicions even more. "You know, Emily, you really need to trust people." It's a conversation they've had before.
"I trust people," she says defensively, knowing exactly where this is headed. He's on her case; she won't be able to deny things much longer.
"No you don't, because you can't. I get it." Derek would know better than anyone - it's part of the understanding they've always shared, one of the reasons why he can so easily call her out.
"Derek, -"
"Every time you count on someone, they let you down, so you don't. But you'll never admit that because you're just too damn stubborn."
The accuracy of his words makes her chest hurt; she doesn't dare look at him for she knows what she'll find in his eyes. Disappointment, confusion, and questions she'll never be able to answer.
He takes a different approach this time, but it's too late. "No matter how awful you think it is, I promise you, you're not alone."
Of course he says that, because he doesn't know the truth. But she only smiles, as assuringly as she can. "Profile me again and you'll wish you hadn't."
…
Emily knows as soon as she hears the description that the body on K & 9th street is Tsia.
But actually seeing her old friend, dead on the ground with a bullet in her head, is something else entirely. It solidifies the fact she has to run. He's saving her for last, to make her experience the suffering she caused him. There's no one left for him to destroy, except those she loves, the closest thing she's ever had to a family in her life. Her team.
Ian will take this to the very bitter end. It seems only fitting that place will be Boston, and the decision to leave has never been clearer. The fact there's vomit on her pants and shoes is not the only reason why she demands Morgan make a stop at her apartment after they leave the crime scene. It gives her a chance to take care of a few loose ends. Emily quickly flushes the ring in the toilet, not giving it another look. She leaves the safe open - they'll find everything they need in there to aid them in finding Doyle. It might be too late for her, but they'll find him, and this will point them in the right direction. There's an envelope, addressed to Aaron, which she leaves where they will undoubtedly see it, whoever might get there first. It won't be long until they do.
The sun is setting as they get back to Quantico, the sky an angry shade of orange and red, the wind a hushed whisper through the trees. "Knowing Ian Doyle's identity doesn't give us very much." Aaron gives the profile with a steady voice to the crowd that has gathered, speaking clearly and calmly even though Emily knows he's anything but. "All federal and international agents responsible for tracking him down are on his list of targets."
She can hardly breathe as she watches her two worlds collide, two that were never supposed to meet.
"We'll find Doyle the way we find any other offender. By studying his behavior. We'll dissect his every move since he regained his freedom."
By then, it'll be too late. Ian will already be gone.
Aaron is still speaking when their eyes meet, and she holds his stare until he turns away first, his face emotionless, a shield of everything he's hiding. He's compartmentalizing like she would, separating himself from her because he's hurting, but this isn't how she wants to remember him, anyway. She closes her eyes, and when she does she sees that night in Paris, the evening at the shore, the early morning in the hotel room in New York years ago. She remembers his promises in the dark and the middle of the night diner coffee date, their history playing out in her mind like a series of photographs, each one hazier than the last.
Maybe this is where their story is supposed to end.
"You good?" Morgan asks quietly.
God, she'll miss him, too.
"I'm good." When she looks back, Aaron is worlds away even though it's only a couple of feet between them, and she knows it's time. Emily gives herself twenty seconds to look around, to take them all in, commit them to memory.
Ashley will be a great agent one day, she knows it, because she's taught her well. Dave will become the backbone of the team, a job he never signed up for but will take on because that's who he is. Reid will struggle, and it will take time for the bruise on his heart to fade. Morgan will lose one of the best friends he's ever had, a partner and confidant, someone who understands him in a way no one else can. Penelope will add a few more fluffy figurines to her desk but it won't numb her pain. And Aaron … his anger will subside, yet his grief will remain, and her biggest fear isn't what will happen to her, but the thought of his face when he learns the full truth of who she really is, what she's done.
When she turns away, putting one foot in front of the other without looking back until she's into the pitch black, cold night, Emily holds her breath and fights the tears that well in her eyes. They're the only thing that matters, the closest thing she's had to a family all her life. If keeping them safe means her own death, then so be it. And when she closes the car door, finally alone, Emily's heart splits apart as she buries her face in her hands and sobs.
…
"Lauren Reynolds is dead."
Whatever pride Aaron feels for his team's quick profiling is all but snuffed out when Reid makes the connection between the missing name on the list, and Emily's involvement in it all goes deeper than he could have ever imagined .And the despair he feels when he pulls her badge and gun from the desk is raw, an understanding that came hours too late. An understanding of what had started as distance and silence, that morphed into something much sinister, the weight of it all too much for even her to bear.
How did he not see this? He's a damn profiler for God's sake, and her lover. He'd wanted to ignore it, to pretend like nothing could shatter what they'd worked so hard to build over the years, yet that denial is what contributed to this mess.
And now they're in an extremely precarious position, because as long as she is still alive and Doyle at large, none of them are safe, either. Doyle will hunt her to the ends of the earth, but they won't let that happen, because they're going to get him first. There's no other option.
"She ran to protect us," Dave rationalizes except he has nothing else to give as he tries to suppress his own fear for the sake of his team.
"All right, then how do we find her?"
"Here's how. Ian Doyle is our unsub, Emily is our victim. We profile their behavior and we treat it like any other case." His team stares back at him cautiously, as if waiting for him to snap under the pressure of it all. He won't. They're looking for him to lead, like he's always done. They need his guidance but they're also incredibly aware of the complications this brings. It's personal for them all but something else entirely for him. He ignores the sympathetic glances, the hushed voices, and throws himself into the job in front of him.
JJ is a welcomed presence, a small sigh of relief amidst the chaos. Aaron knows it's not a coincidence that she stays close to him the moment she steps back into the bullpen, never more than a few feet away at any given time. She came prepared, having been briefed on a snippet of Emily's CIA history, which she explains carefully, starting with the JTF-12 Taskforce and working her way through the rest. It answers his questions and creates many more, for this goes beyond the bits and pieces of her file that only briefly mentioned Interpol.
Lauren Reynolds wasn't just an alias, but an arms dealer herself, having successfully infiltrated Doyle's inner circle to gain access to Valhalla. If he weren't so numbingly blindsided by it all, he'd almost be impressed, for only Emily would manage such a feat.
"Look at how she's dressed. She seems awfully comfortable." Morgan points out what he's been trying to avoid - the fact that nothing about these photographs are staged. And he knows the truth as soon as he sees them. In the photos, she'd looked at Doyle the same way she'd looked at him years ago. There's no hiding what happened between the two of them.
"How close did she get to Doyle as part of her cover?"
JJ swallows, her eyes shifting between Aaron and Dave, choosing her words carefully. "The recon they did on Doyle included a background of all of his romantic relationships. Emily was his type." It's a confirmation without saying what he's really asking, and the rest of them, even Ashley, look away as Aaron processes the news. He's not stupid, especially when it comes to Emily. He's always known there are things she hasn't told him, things he doesn't deserve to know from the years they spent apart. But there's an innate sense of betrayal, an awareness of just how far she went under the guise of duty, with it being much more than infiltration. The photos tell him everything - she loved this man, despite knowing exactly who he was.
But why?
A date in the corner of one of the photos is what tells him the answers he needs.
He tears the papers out of Dave's hands, the letters and words blurring together like a useless string in front of him. "This is all connected," he croaks, and what he doesn't say, but thinks, is that he is partially responsible for all of this. "When was she recruited?" He asks weakly, flipping through a few of the documents for confirmation. If what he's thinking is correct, he already has an idea of why.
"Emily made contact with a Sean McAllister in New Haven a year before she officially became part of JTF-12. They spent a lot of time together according to his notes. At first it was mostly coffee dates. He was impressed with her linguistics skills and language abilities."
His brain makes the connection almost instantly. Only a few months after her … oh, God.
"Emily traveled to Europe in the spring a few months after she first met Sean. She connected with him there, which is when she met Clyde Easter, another member of JTF-12. We assume this is when she learned of the mission and what her role would be."
Aaron remembers, with a tension building behind his eyes, that was when he started looking at rings for Haley.
"By that fall, she was back in Europe."
His mind is an endless mess of dates and brief snippets of conversations he's never forgotten but filed away. This is what Allison had been worried about the day she demanded they meet for coffee, explaining Emily's sudden secrecy, the move to Europe. It all makes sense now. He remembers his final conversation with Emily in the bar in the middle of DC, the shadows that lined her face, how she somehow seemed to have withered away before his very eyes, a shell of what she once was. He remembers the haunting finality of the conversation. It's all so clear now.
"They groomed her," Aaron says weakly, glancing at Dave, who also seems to be connecting the dots. "McAllister and Easter groomed her to go undercover as Lauren Reynolds. And she walked right into it."
"Emily knew what she was doing, Hotch." JJ's tone is gentle, telling him what he already knows. "She knew what her role was before she signed on. It wasn't exactly a secret."
He wants none of it, even if he knows it's the truth. "And when did she make contact with Doyle?"
"There was a lot of surveillance on Valhalla early on. Infiltration was the only option. She assumed the identity of Lauren Reynolds in the spring. She finally met Doyle in the summer."
"When?" He demands through firmly clenched teeth.
"The middle of June. The eighteenth."
The day he married Haley. It's like they both spun out of control simultaneously in an attempt to heal whatever wounds of each other remained. Aaron briefly closes his eyes; the tension in his head has progressed to full blown ache, the blood pounding in his ears.
"And how long until she was pulled out?"
"Almost two years."
Aaron glances at the photos again - there are so many, yet he can't bring himself to look at more than a few. For two years Emily loved that man - the terrorist they're so intensely focused on catching. She'd loved him, and he'd loved her back. He'd shown her something she needed at the time, and in a way, healed her.
It all makes perfect, sickening sense.
...
The Black Shamrock still smells like ashtrays and bad decisions, Emily thinks, as she slips through the doors and inconspicuously orders a drink. It's strong, like she remembers, and she waits at the table in the corner, because soon enough, she'll find who she needs. And just like she thought, history repeats itself when Jack Fahey lurks through the doors, sidling up to the bar.
This will be too easy, she thinks as she slips out right past him, knowing exactly which car to look for on the street.
Fahey has always been a pawn, a simple target, a slimeball. Nothing has changed in the eight years it's been since she saw him last, and a smile curls across her lips when he curses to himself when the car won't start. That's because of her.
"Battery's dead, Fahey."
"Lauren, how about you do me a favor. Ease up on that gun, okay?" He's trembling, she clearly took him by surprise. Good. "I can help you now," he pleads nervously, twitching as she cocks the gun behind him. "Do you want to know where Doyle is?"
"I already do," Emily seethes, not even flinching when she shoots him right through the ear and Fahey screams in agony.
She hardly hears him, because it takes her one step closer to Doyle.
...
"We recovered a bunch of stuff from the safe in Emily's apartment." Morgan slams the evidence bag down on the table, revealing a pile of documents and papers, identification and a few passports, a gold necklace, and a plain white envelope that's crinkled and yellowed with time. He's been wearing the same scowl on his face since he left with Dave over an hour ago. Of course he feels betrayed and angry - they all do to an extent. "She left her real passport behind too."
Aaron knows the safe - could give specifics of exactly where it was. He'd seen it many times, never thought to open it, unaware of what secrets lay hidden behind the locked door. He certainly never expected this.
"It's called a Gimmel ring," Dave explains, holding up the ornate gold band for them to see. "The husband and wife-to-be wear individual bands during the engagement and at the wedding."
"Doyle gave it to her," Morgan snaps. "That ring is more than just a souvenir."
It's another reminder of the secrets she kept from him, the steps she'd taken to conceal a part of her life that technically never existed. She'd kept it for so long, hidden with everything else.
"Doyle's case started in Boston. That's where it's going to end."
"Then we're going to Boston. Be ready in forty five minutes." Aaron's stomach might betray him, for the ring is another cold slap in the face, but what catches his attention is the plain white envelope with Emily's handwriting on the front. He'd recognize it anywhere.
"This was addressed to you." Dave presses the envelope into his palm when he catches Aaron staring at it. "You might want to … take a few minutes and read it. Before we leave."
"Not now, Dave." He brushes him aside, in desperate need of a few minutes to comprehend all of this, even though he may never fully understand it. And what's worse is he'll have to live with that, with knowing he's partly to blame for it in the first place.
"Just do it, Aaron." His face darkens, his tone demanding. "She left it there for you. Right in the open where we would see it. There's something in there she wants you to know."
His lungs burn as he turns toward his office, the envelope in his pocket. In the solemn and silent darkness, settled at his desk, Aaron unfolds the paper to find the neatly written paragraphs on the worn paper, also in Emily's slanted, pristine handwriting, except the ink has blurred in certain spaces from wet splotches that he knows were her own tears. He has to steady his shaking hands, almost dropping it a few times before he even makes sense of any of it.
Aaron,
If you're reading this, then I know you've talked to Sean, and you know the truth about everything. It's too late, but I wanted to say it was never supposed to happen this way. By now you know I'm probably not coming home. My solace is knowing you are happy with Haley and the beautiful family that you've created. Love them with everything you have, fiercely. I always hoped you would never have to read this, but it doesn't seem like that will be the case. Try not to be angry at Sean and Clyde when they bring this to you - it isn't their fault. It was my decision, from the beginning, to do this. I knew the risks and took them willingly, down to the last moments. I wanted to.
Loving you has been one of the greatest adventures of my life, since that night we spent in Paris. Do you remember it? I told you that night I would go back to Europe, and in some way, my wish came true. Funny how life works, right? So much has changed since then, hasn't it? It feels like a dream. This was never the life I imagined for myself but after what happened with everything, I had to leave. I couldn't bear staying in the states one more minute. Losing our baby was like losing the last piece I had of you in my heart, one I would have cherished forever.
Check in on my mother from time to time, if you can. This is going to be hard for her. I never quite got around to telling her the truth about this, or a lot of other things. She'll feel like she failed somehow. She didn't. It's my fault, really. Tell Allison I'm sorry too. She's been such a good friend to me, and she deserves better. I hope she and Shane stay happy and in love. We could have been like them, you know?
You saved my life that summer, Aaron. I never told you that, but you did. What you might not know is the night you found me in the bathroom, bleeding all over the floor, I was planning on killing myself,, and probably would have had you not shown up. You kept popping up everywhere after that, and I couldn't get you out of my head. Of course, it wasn't supposed to happen but it did, and I loved every second of what we had. You gave me a sense of peace in a time where I had none, made me feel safe when all I felt was fear and loathing. I didn't know it at the time, but you were my heart's match. I threw it all away because it felt so wrong, like I didn't deserve any of it. I've spent every day of my life regretting that choice.
I love you with all of my heart, Aaron. I always have, and I always will. Until we meet again.
The space on the paper where her name would be is illegible, where her tears had clearly fallen. Aaron covers his face with his hands, a thousand pinpricks behind his tired eyes, but his own tears won't come even as he feels every single one of them.
He's aware of shoes that could only be Garcia's, cautiously appearing in his doorway a little while later, poking over the threshold.
"Sir, Tsia got a hit on one of Clyde Easter's covers. He's on a plane to Boston right now." She tiptoes into his office, knowing she's intruded on a private moment. "I'm … I'm sorry… I didn't mean to interrupt."
Aaron looks up, the letter still in his hand. "It's okay, Garcia." She looks lost, dazed and confused, just wanting to be helpful in some way but not quite knowing what to do. "Have him detained as soon as he steps off." He rises to his feet, tucking the letter into his jacket pocket. "We need to go now. You're coming with us."
She nods nervously, because coming along is typically reserved for the worst of the worst cases, the ones they know they might never win.
"And Garcia, call her. Call every number you have." His footsteps are heavy as he brushes past her, his go bag in his hand. "Don't stop until she answers."
Despite his demand, Aaron already knows she's not going to pick up.
...
Emily's ringing phone makes her jump, the buzz cutting through the thick silence in the car. She's not at all surprised to hear it's Garcia, her usual cheerfulness noticeably absent. "Hey, it's me. Hotch asked me to try all your numbers."
Of course he did. The tears start to leak from her eyes at the mention of his voice, at the sound of her friend's voice. It's Aaron's face she keeps seeing when she closes her eyes, but. Garcia's words ring in her ears, further solidifying the belief that her team is the closest thing to a family she knows. You did the right thing, Emily tells herself as the lump in her throat thickens. You're keeping them safe. It's the only choice you have.
"If you're out there, come home please." Garcia sounds like she's crying, which only increases the frequency of Emily's own tears.
I can't.
The pleas switch to anger, and back to angst. "You are not alone, Emily. We are in that dark place with you, waving flashlights and calling your name. If you can see us, come home. And if you can't, then … then you stay alive. Cause we're coming."
Through the tears she manages to breathe, because she knew they would come. She's always known. But then she spots him, lighting a cigarette leaving the Black Shamrock, and her angst turns to a steely determination in one quick breath.
Emily stealthily slips from the car unseen and crosses the street, the automatic wielded in her hands. She opens fire on the jeep, throws the flash grenade. It's almost too easy as she towers over the man coughing and sputtering on the hood of the car. "I only want Doyle. Where's Doyle?"
"Right here, love." And before Emily can fire again, Ian gets her first, the well-aimed shot hitting square in her bulletproof vest. It's a blow unlike any other, the equivalent of being hit with a hammer, and the force knocks the wind from her lungs and her legs from beneath her. When she comes to, laying on the sidewalk, staring up at the sky full of stars as the initial shock of the blow wears off, Ian is mere inches away. His fingers press right into what will most likely be a nasty dark bruise in a few hours, if she makes it that long. And in a voice so tender she thinks she may have imagined it, he murmurs, "Hello, love."
...
The plane is tense to say the least, the air thick and fraught with emotions emitting from each of them like sparks. They try to process the situation they're about to walk into when they land in Boston, but there's no precedent for this kind of situation.
Morgan is like a tempest, a storm of anger brewing beneath a controlled exterior. Reid tries to placate him by justifying Emily's ruthless actions, which only seems to make things worse as he scowls. Aaron can't tear his eyes away from the small screen on Garcia's table showing Emily on the ground. Doyle is looming over her with a gun, his hands trailing over what has to be a bulletproof vest before she's roughly hauled to her feet and shoved into the back of the SUV. She walked right into a trap, and now there's no way of tracking her, no more surveillance footage to even give the slightest of leads.
There's another complication now too, one they didn't see coming - Clyde Easter. They need him to talk and he probably won't, especially if he's the one behind all of this, which is what they're expecting. "I'll handle that," Aaron says tightly, knowing the second he sees the man he might rip him apart. "The rest of you focus on Doyle's location." They need every bit of manpower they can scrape together, for time is already running out now that she's in Doyle's clutches.
Penelope is the only one who dares to say what they're all thinking, finally looking up from her screen. "How long does Emily have?"
"Her best chance is also the most troubling. Doyle saved her for last because he views her as his stressor. Which means he'll take his time." He can barely utter the words, knowing full well how badly this could go. "We'll be on the ground in an hour. Take a few minutes. Prepare yourselves."
The plane dissolves into an uneasy silence a few moments later.
…
The warehouse is cold and damp, the flickering light casting eerie shadows on the walls. But it's familiar, because she's been there before. Ian dismisses Liam shortly after they secure her to the chair, telling him to guard the doors, keep tabs on the rest of the men. "I think we need some time alone to get reacquainted," he says in a soft, dangerous voice, and Emily shivers at the implications of his words. Ian isn't that kind of man, he's never been that kind of man, but there's no telling what he'll do now.
"Where's my ring?" Ian's hands ghost over her neck and through her hair. His touch is almost reverent, a reminder of all the times he'd caressed her skin with palms a little less rough than they are now. She'd always been fascinated by his hands - how they could cause so much destruction and damage, yet bring her so much pleasure and even comfort. She'd told him that once, she remembers the soft gleam in his eyes as he'd rounded his hand over her back as the other one drifted between her legs, pressing his mouth to hers.
From where her ankles and wrists are tightly bound to the chair, Emily lifts her chin defiantly as a chill runs down her spine. "I flushed it."
"I spent seven years in hell because of that ring."
Emily shudders thinking of those seven years, everything he experienced, undeniably pure hell and nothing less. The signs that he's hardened over the years are there. A few scars and lines here and there, his hair greyed, his hands even rougher than they were years before. He's flicking the buttons of her shirt open now, revealing the smooth bare skin of her chest. "So now I'm going to give you another gift, one you won't get rid of so easily. A four leaf clover should be a nice addition to your tattoo. You still have it?"
She laughs nervously, an attempt to meet him at his own game yet it fails miserably, and she remembers the first night he saw it, the way he'd traced his thumb over it, his touch gentle and achingly precise. But the hum of the machine tells her just what he intends to do, bile rising in her throat when the dial turns orange, indicating it's ready.
"North Koreans can't afford ink," Ian says so calmly, with a chilling laugh. "No, no. They brand themselves." He holds the pen to her chest, almost gently, as if he wants to hurt her but can't quite bring himself to do so when he holds her still. "The more you fight, the more this will hurt."
The searing pain as her chest is burned is unlike anything she's ever felt. Her own skin is scorched apart as the pen works over her, and she feels every inch and curve of the four leaf clover, a permanent reminder of him. The scream from her lips echoes through the empty, cold warehouse, but falls on deaf ears.
...
"I thought Emily was pregnant," Aaron says through his exhaustion. His voice is tinged with misery, the burden of knowing the truth heavy, the fear of what awaits them in Boston even heavier. They're able to take a few more quiet moments to gather their thoughts just before landing, and he'd sent the rest of the team to do just that. Of course, Dave had remained steadfast at his side, and Aaron isn't even aware of what he's saying until he sees the visible surprise on his friend's face.
"I didn't know you two were … trying," Dave offers carefully, treading delicate waters, clearly unsure what to say next.
"We weren't exactly," Aaron says tensely, wishing he hadn't started this conversation in the first place. "But...that's what I thought was going on. I even asked her about it. Look how wrong I was."
"Aaron. You know Emily better than that. Did you actually think she would tell you about this? Or any of us? She would never put any of us in danger and you know it. Or at least you should by now."
"We could have helped her. I saw the signs and didn't want to think that something else was wrong. I didn't want to push her away again." He massages his forehead, the pressure in his head still all consuming.
"No one saw this coming, Aaron. Not you, hell, not even Emily. This part of her life was supposed to remain buried, you know. And had Doyle not escaped from prison, it would have." Dave is the picture of calm, speaking rationally and evenly, yet Aaron knows all of this shocks him too. How could it not?
"She lied to us, Dave. She lied to me. Since the day she started here she lied, but especially now. None of this would have happened had she just trusted us."
Dave shakes his head, "You don't know that, Aaron. We know what Doyle is capable of. Look how easily he took out her old team. Everything she did was to protect us. Protect you. Jack. Everyone." He's saying all the right things, yet nothing resonates. "What she did was out of love. Not an attempt to conceal the truth."
"Do you think she's scared?" He shouldn't go there. He can't go there, but it's where he keeps finding himself over and over. For as long as he's known her, Emily has shown the world she's invincible, fearless even, sometimes at a great expense to herself. But even Emily has a breaking point.
Dave's mouth presses into a thin line before he speaks, his tone laced with worry. "I think we need to get to Boston, Aaron. And we need to get there fast."
…
Clyde Easter stares at Aaron smugly from across the table. He's one of the few who might know Emily as well as he does, the intimacy of their working relationship much different than, but in many ways similar to, their own. Clyde is representative of everything she's kept hidden, and he still very well might be in this to betray them in the end. Being in the same room with him makes Aaron uncomfortable in a way he never saw coming. It feels too personal at best, invasive at worst, a clashing duel of blue eyes against brown. He sizes him up, repeats the very words he'd read in her file years ago. All the right buzzwords, the exact phrases needed to land her the job at the BAU. How had no one pieced this together?
"You sold her to us the same way you sold Doyle to the North Koreans," Aaron says bitterly as he flips through the file in his hands.
Clyde is purposefully obtuse, speaking in generalizations, giving them nothing. Aaron feels the seconds tick by one by one, each one less moment they have to find her. He offers a deal in exchange for cooperation, a tentative attempt at a truce between the two of them.
Yet he won't take it, and Aaron can't stay in that interrogation room a moment longer. "If anything happens to her, I will destroy you. You can count on that."
He's never been more sure of anything in his life.
…
Emily's agonizing screams have morphed into whimpers every few minutes. She'd nearly passed out before Ian had finished etching the clover into her skin. Her chest burns with an intensity she never felt before, but the smell is even worse. She doesn't dare look down at it, afraid of what she might see.
"I told you if you fought it would hurt." Ian leans over her and applies something to the wound with a tenderness she isn't expecting, looking pleased with his handiwork. "What would Aaron think about your new addition?" He taunts her as he smooths a piece of matted hair from her damp forehead.
"Leave him out of this." Emily groans, the lingering smell of burning flesh hanging in the air making her nauseous. She wonders how long it's been since they brought her here, how much longer he'll keep her alive. "This is about you and me, Ian."
"If you insist, love." The chair he places across from hers is mere inches away and he sits down, staring at her expectantly. Only after a few long moments does she realize he's remembering the past as she had done. "And what is it you do, Lauren?" His tone is so gentle, the way he looks at her reminiscent of how he did years before.
She plays right into his game. "I'm looking to get into business with a former IRA captain, who's gone freelance." Emily remembers the words - the same ones from years before, and the past bleeds with the present as she slips back into being Lauren Reynolds for maybe the last time. "Valhalla. But since this is time sensitive," she slips into French, the words rolling off her tongue easily, "it might be better to discuss this privately."
His eyes all but soften before her own for a few brief seconds. "If I didn't want to kill you with my bare hands, Emily, I'd tell you I wanted to make love to you."
She smiles the way she imagines Lauren Reynolds would have many years ago, lowering her voice in a perfect French accent. "Then let me out of these. I can't make you happy in handcuffs."
"You really think I'd let you fool me twice?" The gleam of his eyes disappears, replaced with a menacing coldness when he steps behind her, his hand digging into her shoulder. "You're going to suffer the way I suffered. This won't be the first time you've killed an innocent, but it will be the first time you've watched. Liam!" He bellows for his accomplice, who is back seconds later.
The computer in Liam's hands means only one thing when she sees the distorted images of Dave and Ashley on the screen, a target on their backs. "This was about you and me, Ian." Emily panics as Ian holds her still in the chair. "You and me."
"Then why is your team here?" Ian gets a hand in her hair and pulls, snapping her neck back at a painful angle. "I didn't leave a trail."
"Whatever you want to do to me, I accept. Leave them out of it," Emily pleads, but to no avail, as Liam mutters into his satellite phone. "Woman first, then the goateed fella. Then Fahey, if he has a shot. If not, he'll shut up."
No.
"Shoot Fahey," Emily spits before she can think twice. She's never been more sure of anything. "If he dies, my team doesn't have anything." She cringes against his hands on her shoulders, her eyes closing in fear. Shooting him means they may never find her, but it doesn't matter. This has gone far enough.
The hands on her neck are more tender now, Ian's seal of approval, and Emily can almost see his satisfied smile. "Hello, Lauren. Good to see you again."
...
Fahey is shot dead on the roof and things start to fall apart before his own eyes. The man was their one link to Doyle, the one chance they had to find Emily before it's too late. Aaron feels his resolve start to disintegrate as Dave breaks the news, only to then learn Clyde isn't the mole at all. They need his intel more than ever now, they need his assistance.
"Someone we both care about is in trouble," Aaron says when he sits down across from Clyde again for the second time. They both look weary, at the end of their collective ropes.
Yet he's still not conceding.
"I need the original profile when Doyle was a terrorist. We combine that with who he is now as a serial killer."
His plea doesn't fall on deaf ears this time when Clyde reluctantly agrees, with one stipulation. "There's no catching that man," he says quietly, with a hint of dismay Aaron hasn't seen from him before. "He'd escape from your prisons as easily as he did North Korea. And then, all hell breaks loose. If you want to stop that man, you have to put a bullet between his eyes yourself."
It's what Clyde isn't saying that tells him what he needs to do, the only thing they can do to end all of this. "Can you take an oath, Agent Hotchner? Can you swear that your team will save her?"
"Yes."
"Then there's something your team needs to know."
…
The final piece of the puzzle is one they never saw coming.
Doyle has a child, a son. It makes sense, given the surgical-like precision of his recent murders, with no collateral damage. It fits his profile of a family annihilator, and Emily's culpability in all of it. She'd had a hand in the demise of his family, the closest thing he had to normalcy in this life. Of course he would seek the ultimate revenge.
"Declan Jones," Garcia rambles as her fingers fly across the keys faster than she can speak. "His name is Declan Jones. I matched Irish immigration records based on Doyle's employees. Settled in Boston, eight years ago shortly after Emily was taken out. His adoptive guardian is a Louse Jones."
"I knew Louise Jones. She was Doyle's housekeeper," Clyde says slowly. "She raised him as her own in Doyle's villa. He was there consistently while Emily was undercover."
"But they went missing almost seven years ago and the bodies were never found."
"Of course they did. We made sure of this." Clyde runs a hand across his bleary eyes. "The North Koreans would have destroyed Declan in a second had they known he belonged to Doyle." His tone is icy, defensive. "Emily wasn't going to let that happen."
"So what did you do?" Aaron presses further, wondering if he even wants to know the truth.
Clyde looks away. "That was Emily's final mission."
…
What could be minutes feels like hours when she hears his boots on the concrete coming closer. The fatigue is starting to set in, her limbs aching and her body cold.
"Game's over, love. Time for your last confession." It all comes down to this - the reason for his revenge.
When Ian points the gun at her head, she almost wishes he would just pull the damn trigger as the tears well in her eyes. Of all the things she's done in her life, the things she regrets, the ones that haunt her, this one might be the top of the list. It's about time she paid the price. "Take me to where he died. I want to see it."
And when he bends down to untie her legs, the ropes digging roughly into her skin, Emily wonders if she truly deserves all of this, if this is how it's supposed to end. The gun is pressed into her back when he shoves her through the narrow room, his hand wrapped tightly around her shoulder as he hisses in her ear. "I never told anyone the truth about Declan. You were the only one."
She'd betrayed him.
"For two years I didn't talk. The North Koreans used everything you gave them against me." He's seething angry in her ear, his voice a mix of fury and pain, she can't quite decipher between the two. "It wasn't until they showed me these. They laughed at me as I wept."
Bile rises in her throat at the sight of the well-worn photograph, the one she'd taken herself. Even staged, looking at it makes her sick as he drags her across the floor. "That corner right there is where he died. And that's where I'm going to kill you." The draw of his gun, right in her face, and Emily knows this time he means it when she collides with the concrete. This is his endgame. He has nothing left now.
Through the ache in her body she lifts her face to stare right back at him, ready to reveal the truth. "There's something you don't know about those photos."
…
The photos make Aaron's blood run cold. .
The bodies of the woman and child- Doyle's son- the terror in their faces. This isn't real, he reminds himself, as he stares at the person in black holding the gun, the familiar silhouette and the ragged fingernails he knows better than his own. He ignores the obvious connection he immediately feels to the boy, an image of Jack invading his mind. God, Emily, how did this go so far?
But the photos are a lie, nothing more than a fallacy to protect a child facing the unfathomable. Her final act had been one of great risk, yet she'd risked it all to ensure that boy was safe. A child that was not her own yet could have been, one she'd loved as she loves his son. Everything she'd done in Boston is eerily similar to what she's doing now. Ensuring the safety of those she loves. A final act, a willingness to sacrifice herself more than once.
It gives them a location - an address of a warehouse in the middle of Boston, large enough to hold a small army - and as they make the final plans to find her, Aaron can't help but wonder if it will be too late.
…
Ian's fury is matched only by his grief, yet his hands don't move as the gun stays pointed right in her face. "You put him in your profile, didn't you?"
"The things they would have done to Declan to get you to talk," Emily pleads, remembering the anguish she'd felt for the boy as Ian had been arrested that day in Tuscany as she was dragged into an SUV. "They were going to find him eventually. I had to end his suffering. Before it could begin."
The hand that strikes her across the face is merciless, snapping her head to the side and slicing her cheek open as the blood drips warmly down her jaw. "What did you do?"
"I put him in the profile," she gasps, "after the photos were taken."
"You don't know when they were taken. You don't know that." He sounds like a madman, blinded by his own emotions, his entire persona stripped down to nothing more than a man and his torment.
"Yes I do. I'm the one holding the gun," she hisses, the final truth lifted like a heavy weight from her shoulders, the truth finally spoken.
He explodes, attacking her with an unbridled wrath and a wail of sorrow. Her body hits the wall and then the ground face first, her restrained hands taking most of the blow. Emily gasps, still seeing stars as the pain radiates through her chest. "You want to hear his last words to me?" She's taunting him, and when his foot connects with her chest, her vision blurs as something in her chest pops - a broken rib, no doubt. "I looked pretty good for a dead kid, didn't I? And then he got on the plane and I never saw him again." Emily pants through the intense pain that shoots through her chest, making it hard to think, let alone breathe.
"He's alive?"
Another rib snapped.
"Just because I held a gun to him doesn't mean I shot him. I only had to make you and the North Koreans believe he was dead." It's getting harder and harder to breathe; it's only going to get worse. She coughs, struggling to get air into her lungs.
With brute force Ian throws her against the wall. "I know you're lying," he roars, pinning her again as he goes for his gun.
But with a strength she didn't know she had, Emily knocks the weapon from his hands and drags him down to the ground in a chokehold, her cuffed wrists under his chin. It gives her the upper hand even as Ian uses all of his strength against her, a fight to the very end. "I beat you Ian, before you even got out of North Korea. I beat you because I gave Declan his life back." In her grasp she feels his strength waning. Not much longer.
"I'll find him."
No you won't. I made sure of that.
The warehouse plunges into an unsettling, chilling darkness as she reaches for the wooden rod on the ground, striking him across the face a few times. But in the end, he's too quick, and it's too late. Like a spear, the rod plunges right into her abdomen, splitting through her insides, ripping her apart. As the world starts to spin and she sinks to the ground, the last thing Emily sees are two blue eyes glaring into her own as he pleads for his son.
She'll never tell him. She made a promise years ago.
…
"Agent Prentiss is our only friendly in the building. Rescuing her is our primary objective." There's no other objective, Aaron thinks as he fastens the vest over around his waist and tries to conceal his shaking hands.
"Our only advantage here is stealth. Once they know we're on site, there's nothing to stop them from killing her." Beside him, Morgan is a rock, his poise the only thing giving him any sense that this will go as planned. The fear brewing in his chest is consuming and constant, an ache that never dissipates. And before they leave, Clyde grabs him by the sleeve, and what's in his blue eyes is a mirror of what's in his own. "Bring her back, Agent Hotchner. Please."
The trip to the warehouse is silent, not a word said between any of them as the chain of SUV's moves through the streets. Right before they're about to advance, Aaron glances up to the night sky, and then at Morgan, who gives the final go ahead.
The initial attack is swift and perfectly executed, taking out the two men guarding the front entrance with hardly a sound. Aaron barely breathes as the doors are thrown open, revealing a few more of Doyle's men guarding the halls with automatic weapons in their hands. They're quickly neutralized, falling to the floor in a heap. The warehouse sinks into darkness once the power is cut, and in the silence he can hear the sound of fighting, muffled grunts, the unmistakable shatter of broken glass. Yet in the dark, open space, it's almost impossible to tell where it's coming from.
Morgan goes one way towards the basement, leading a group of agents behind him and around him like a protective shield. Aaron takes the other half, sending the agents to sweep the rest of the rooms on the first floor in silence. It's a sprawling warehouse, with multiple levels, and they're running out of time. They have to split up.
Moments later, the figure emerges from around the corner, whatever light is left illuminating his face in ghostly shadows, and Aaron finds himself face to face with Ian Doyle. The blue eyes that stare back at him are shining, yet there's blood dripping from his nose and lip, his face covered in a pattern of cuts and scrapes, large and small, that mean one thing - Emily had fought back against him. From the looks of it, she'd fought him like hell. He's limping too, weakened by the brawl they undoubtedly had, his leg twisted at an angle that renders running all but impossible.
"Doyle, stop." Aaron points his gun right at him without flinching, his voice menacing yet steady. "Turn around and put your hands up." His heart all but stops yet it isn't fear he feels. It's pure anger and retaliation for the hell he'd put her through, what he'd taken from her in those years, the burden he left her to bear afterwards.
"You're too late, you know."
Aaron's throat tightens, both hands on his gun. "It's over, Ian. The building is surrounded. You have nowhere to go."
"You're too late." He rasps again, and Aaron watches Doyle slowly reach behind him with a subtlety only years of experience have trained him for. "She's -"
Aaron pulls the trigger once, hitting Doyle squarely in the calf of the leg that isn't wounded. He falls with a resounding thud and a howl of pain when his body collapses against concrete, writhing on the ground. The gun hidden in his belt flies out of his hand with a clatter, landing too many feet away. He'll never be able to reach it, and Aaron steps closer, one foot in front of the other, until he's standing right above the man.
"I wanted you to be there when I killed her, you know." He laughs through the pain, a chilling sound that echoes through the air, and Aaron knows how serious he is. "I told her you'd be there to watch her die. Maybe I'll get my wish after all."
And then Aaron kneels down, his fist immediately connecting with Doyle's nose, a sickening crunch indicating nothing less than a broken septum. His knuckles tear with effort yet he barely feels it as he punches him again, and then again, feeling the bones in the other man's face shatter with every blow. He's covered in blood, some his own but most of it Doyle's, his arm numb with effort.
"She's going to die," Ian rasps, spitting out a few teeth and a mouthful of blood, through a groan of pain. "I made sure of that." His face is a swollen, bloody mess, misshapen and disfigured, yet his eyes are still two ice blue orbs that refuse to diminish.
If you want to stop that man, you need to put a bullet between his eyes.
"Not if I kill you first."
Aaron hears Clyde's words from before, and this time doesn't hesitate when he rises to his feet, lifting his weapon once more. He fulfills the promise he made mere hours before, pulling the trigger of his gun without a second thought.
...
"I got her! Basement on the South Side!" Morgan's voice echoes into the speaker in his ear, bouncing off the walls of the warehouse as Aaron is suddenly again cognizant of what's around him, even though his ears are ringing, his head spinning as he lowers his weapon. There's shouting in the distance, something that sounds like Derek pleading, before he yells, "I need a medic!" There's a shade of panic Aaron has never heard from him before, so he leaves Doyle on the ground in a mess of blood and unidentifiable fluids. Let him rot there, Aaron thinks as the first few agents hurry past him, hurrying to secure Doyle.
What awaits him moments later will haunt him for the rest of his days, something that all but freezes him in place while sending him into another blind white rage. Emily lays on the ground, surrounded by the obvious signs of a struggle - an overturned, broken chair, bent metal, a few old computer monitors smashed to the floor, some wooden boards and broken glass.
"Hotch, get out of here. Get out of here!" Morgan tries in vain to shield Emily from his view without any success. Aaron all but shoves him aside, dropping to his knees and surveying the horrific mess in front of him, suppressing the urge to vomit right there. Doyle had spared her nothing, inflicted the most amount of suffering he possibly could. It's clear she's been beaten, her face a mess of cuts and bruises clearly from an unrelenting fist. But what he can't tear his eyes from is the wooden stake that protrudes from her abdomen, blood pouring out from it at a rate that makes his stomach roil.
Oh my God. He is rendered helpless, completely immobilized by it all yet unable to look away. "Emily!" He's yelling her name, hunched over her. They need to keep her conscious and talking. If they can just do that, there's a chance. A small one. "Emily!"
But she's sickly pale, clearly in shock, and Aaron looks around helplessly, knowing they won't be able to wait much longer.
"Get him out of here!" Morgan bellows louder this time. "Someone get him out of here. Where's the fucking medic?"
Before them, both Emily's eyes flutter closed and open again, her strength waning as the blood continues to spill from her abdomen. "Aaron," she whispers, her eyes terrified, the blood staining through her fingers.
"Dont," he says, trying to pull her hands away from the impaling wound, choking on air when he sees even more blood come to the surface. "Just relax," he says shakily, his own terror multiplying with every ragged breath he draws, sweat starting to pour down his back. "You're gonna be alright. I'm right here. Talk to me, Emily."
"I'm so …cold," she wheezes, momentarily aware of what's happening as the building is swarmed with agents, the shouting becoming a deafening noise over her weakening voice. "Aaron, I'm sorry." There are tears streaming down her cheeks, reflecting like ice cubes on her face, growing whiter by the passing seconds. "For everything."
"Stop," he all but yells, maybe if he does, she'll stay alert and with him. "Keep your eyes on me, Emily. Please don't close your eyes." From behind him he can hear the ambulance sirens approaching, and more agents closing in on the warehouse. "I know everything, Emily. I know why you did all of this." The words pour from his mouth, he's running out of time before she loses consciousness, which is inevitable at this point. "I'm so proud of you sweetheart, do you understand that?."
Realization floods her face, another brief moment of clarity before her eyes drift shut again. "Doyle - where is Doyle?" She groans in pain, coughing and sputtering. "You can't let him get away." Every word takes more effort than the last, every breath a struggle.
"He's dead, Emily. Doyle is dead." His hand goes to her hair, her beautiful hair, one of the few things left relatively unscathed, his fingers running through the tangled, matted strands. "It's over. You don't have to fight him anymore. You got him." He shakes his head, cupping her bloody cheeks in his own blood-stained hands as her eyes struggle to stay open. "No, sweetheart, no. Don't close your eyes. Look at me. Come on, Emily. Please."
"I love ... Aaron." It's mixed with a cry of pain, the cloud of unconsciousness becoming harder and harder to fight; it's easier to just close her eyes now. Her breathing is labored, the sweat beading on her forehead.
"Please, God, no," Aaron croaks, his hands still wrapped around hers, cuffed at the wrists. Her grip weakens, her fingers like ice as the light fades from her face. "I'll never let you go. I love you. Oh my God, no." There are tears falling now, his dripping down onto her face, mixing with the blood and her own. "Please, no." He's pleading and begging now, praying for the first time in years, and while the words feel strange, he prays harder than he ever thought possible.
"I love you, Aaron. I'm so sorry." The words die on her lips as her eyes narrow into slits, and there's the sound of boots scraping concrete behind him, the clunk of a medical bag next to him.
"Agent, you need to step away," one of the medics says curtly, not even bothering to hide the shock on his face when he steps around Aaron. "Now." He drops to Emily's side, immediately wrapping a blood pressure cuff around her arm and attaching a pulse monitor to her finger. Aaron is still on his knees, at an arm's length away, listening to the beep of the machine. It's the only thing he's aware of, the indicator that she's still breathing, that she's still alive.
"Be careful," Aaron chokes when they start to work, assessing her injuries and rattling off a long string of medical jargon - numbers and acronyms that make little sense. And while he doesn't quite understand what's being said, he's been doing this enough to know it doesn't sound good.
"Come on, Hotch. Let them do their job." Morgan all but pulls him to his feet because his legs won't work on their own just yet. "We'll drive to the hospital. Right behind them the whole time. Let's go."
"Please hurry," he demands without a touch of objectivity in his voice. There's no hiding his apparent distress, the exact opposite of what a unit chief should be, but it doesn't matter anymore. Maybe it never did. "You have to hurry."
The other medic, his name tag reads B. Seymour, Aaron notices -one of the few things he's actually aware of - gives them both a quick yet sympathetic, understanding look from where he's kneeling by Emily's side. "We'll take good care of her, Agent. I promise." He tries to sound reassuring but he too just looks grim, and Aaron's heart starts to erode in his own chest in fractionated, jagged pieces as Morgan drags him away from Emily.
The cold night air and darkness greet them like a foreboding sense of what's to come, a cacophony of lights and sirens surround the warehouse as the building is swarmed with agents and officers. Yet Aaron sees none of them, can barely see what's right in front of him as Morgan throws open the passenger side to one of the SUV's.
"We're going to have to bypass the perimeter."
"Then do it," he croaks as the engine roars to life, and only when he fastens his seatbelt does he see the blood staining his hands. His, Emily's, Doyle's - it doesn't matter anymore. It's everywhere - his face, his hands, his clothes - crusted over by now, a dark shade of crimson.
Aaron keeps his eyes fixated on the lights and sirens of the ambulance in front of them speeding through the streets. He doesn't dare look away from it. And while Morgan is easily going too many miles over the speed limit, they aren't moving fast enough as time all but stands still. As they pull into the main entrances of the hospital, the buildings a sprawling, towering structure of lights, the sound of the siren becomes deafening and the lights blinding, he closes his eyes and bows his head as the tears well in his eyes.
If you want to stop that man, you need to put a bullet between his eyes.
Bring her home, Agent Hotchner.
He'd fulfilled the oath he made to Clyde. That should be enough. He'd found and killed another monster, as he's done for a third of his life. Aaron put a bullet between the eyes of the man that hunted Emily down from the near ends of the earth, the man that sought to destroy her. But it's the second request that haunts him, because once she disappears behind those hospital doors, there's a strong chance she might never come out.