The day started off like hell and things were going quickly downhill.
Reyes stretched to relieve the kinks in her neck and glanced around, frowning. Something was amiss. Or more accurately, someone was missing. "Nigel, where's Sydney?" she asked. Her question hung in the air for a moment, the words seeping into everyone's collective consciousness.
The little Englishman froze in place, panic washing over his face as the absence struck him. "Sydney!" he exclaimed morosely. He pivoted on his heel, a full 360º, though he clearly already knew the outcome. "God, how could he get her from in here?"
"He didn't get her. She left." Doggett's tie was loose and the top button of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. They anticipated a long day cooped up in a motel. Now his words were clipped with frustration. "We were so distracted she just waltzed out of here, nothing to it." He combed his fingers through the short, sandy ruff of his hair and swore under his breath. "I should have been watching her. She's so high strung, I should have known she'd pull something like this."
"No, I should have known. I work with Sydney all the time, and this is so exactly like her. She hits the ground running and never looks back. Dammit, she thinks she's invincible, and she's not. She's going to get herself killed!" Nigel was pacing, wringing his hands, and making no effort to hide his agitation.
Reyes forced the worry from her mind, closing her eyes in a moment's silent meditation. If ever she needed the ability to reach beyond herself, it was now. Then again, she thought with a shudder, the only time she'd had any psychic experiences, they were associated with death. Maybe she didn't wish for a revelation, after all. "Sydney's not going to be killed," Reyes said with conviction not entirely based on instinct. "Not if we do our jobs. She only… complicated things."
"That settles it. We can't sit here any more." Scully's eyes were red limned with tears, but her expression was pure determination. "Reyes, Mulder, you're the best profilers the FBI has ever seen. Agent Doggett, you're the most logical person I know. Nigel, you're an expert in ancient history, and I'm a scientist. Between us, we have to find a baby, two women, and a psychotic killer. I for one am not ready to sit on my ass while anything else goes wrong. Nigel, get all those books and pack them up. We're hitting the road."
Not for the first time, Reyes was impressed. Scully might look like a porcelain doll, but she had a backbone of steel, even in the face of her own horror.
"Not without me, you're not," remarked Mulder. He was throwing books and folders into a file box, his impassive face far more calm than anyone expected.
Doggett snapped, "Where the hell are you going? We don't know where she went, other than the safe bet that our puppet master is pulling her strings!"
Reyes pulled a textured plastic attache from beneath the desk and flipped it open. She clicked a switch and a steady, comforting, familiar beep brought a smile to her lips. "We might not have known how to track our psycho, but tracking a history teacher is a little simpler when you know what she drives." She glanced at Mulder. "Where did you put it, by the way?"
Mulder shrugged on the leather jacket that had become as familiar a uniform as the suit he'd worn while working for the FBI. "The homing signal is nestled under the passenger seat of the jeep, snug as a bug in a rug. And just in case she gets separated from the vehicle, I planted a little bitty bug in the phone. Byers is taping calls and tracking her from the Gunmen's love nest."
Reyes smiled grimly. "Let's get ready to rumble."
Knuckles white on the steering wheel, Sydney gripped the cell phone to her ear, straining to hear every malevolent word over the hum of the engine and the whistle of the wind through the open vehicle. "Left on McNary?" she repeated, flinching as the voice roared back a resounding NO! She immediately spun into the right lane and rounded the corner at a fast clip, following the killer's instructions as she wound her way through to a seedy strip of warehouses along the pier.
The string of sea vessels did nothing to reassure her. This was a working fisherman's wharf, though this particular site looked like it probably harbored more illegal fishing expeditions than legal ones. If she left on one of the boats, no one would ever find her and she couldn't hope to escape on foot from the middle of the ocean.
Sydney pulled to a stop in front of a dilapidated building, its peeling paint declaring that it was a restaurant. She thought the word was far too kind for the scents that oozed from its doorway, but at the directives of the voice, she walked into the milling crowd. Burley customers leered at her from every corner, letting loose with cheers, wolf whistles, and several kinds of propositions. Giving them her best intimidating look, honed by years of teaching, Sydney pushed her way through the men and a few she thought were women. She gritted her teeth, doing her best to ignore the invasive hands that invariably connected with her body. Now wasn't the time or place to launch a counterattack, she reminded herself forcefully.
Sweat and grime seasoned the place, and the acrid tones of her own fear curled into her nostrils. Sydney had been afraid before.
She prayed she'd live to be afraid again.
"That's a good girl. Now go up to the bar and ask for a Shirley Temple with a chocolate twist."Easing one hip onto a barstool smeared with dried materials of dubious origin, Sydney did as she was told. The grizzled bartender blinked, not sure he heard right. She repeated her order, loudly, defiantly, her jaw set at a murderous slant.
A second later, her shadow's hand whipped out, clamping a sickly-sweet scented rag over her nose and mouth. She drifted into darkness before completing the epithet that expressed her opinion on the situation.
Bile rose again in Mulder's throat. He knew FBI protocol, knew that if he was part of the case initially, as a consultant, his involvement flew out the window they discovered that William and Mrs. Scully had been taken. Officially, Scully, too, was removed from the job, but her eyes bared fangs at anyone who challenged her participation.
Effectively locked out of the "official" investigation, he pursued the matter in his own way, firing off a list of alerts to his growing web of informants. One thing he'd discovered shortly after leaving the Bureau: there was a whole other world of information available to the media. People called, emailed, or stopped you on the street to tell you things that they'd never, ever tell a law officer. Suddenly, the information he'd sought before, now sought him.
So far, most of his published articles fell within the mainstream. A congressman who solicited bribes; a buried police investigation, blocked because the officer in charge was also leader of the cult; a member of the cabinet who hired a killer to silence her lesbian lover… Then there had been the environmental disaster outside of Denver, a toxic chemical leak that had gone unchecked for more than a decade while local and national officials looked the other way.
Of course, Drum and Fife Magazine also covered the glitz and the more mundane matters, publishing vanity interviews with celebrities and politicians, covering international summits, reviewing movies and music, and addressing social issues. When the Queen of Amur eloped during her tour of the U.S., her personal assistant called in to advise D&F. Mulder had taken that call, and while it didn't interest him personally, he recognized the news value. Her Majesty even emailed wedding photos, attached to a brief note of appreciation. Queen Celeste cited her reasons, including the knowledge that D&F would report fairly and without sensationalism.
His FBI informants followed him to his current job. It surprised him, the degree to which he engendered loyalty. It also surprised him to find that the management of D&F gave credence to his theories about extraterrestrials, about the government's involvement with UFO cover ups, and even about the paranormal. The only cautions he received were to document the hell out of everything - and to be careful.
Going from FBI outcast to star reporter in the space of a year had been quite an experience. In the news business, paranoia was an asset, indigenous to the psyche of every reporter worth his or her salt. Not only did nobody hold it against Mulder, but the trait was actually encouraged. "Truth" was mantra of the entire sub-culture. It embodied the journalistic requirement to look beyond face value, to find the truth behind the truth, and the belief that an accurately informed public meant a safer place for everyone.
Mulder's eyes misted with unshed tears as his investigator's mind ruminated over the possibilities. Sometimes being a criminal profiler was a curse.
Attila didn't take hostages. He killed outright, as did his expanding army. For some deaths, the motivation was robbery. For others, there was no identifiable reason except the sick desire for destruction and death. Mulder's mind played out every grisly detail of the murderer's MO, picturing his tiny son and Scully's sweet-natured mother in the grip of the madman. Mulder didn't want the pictures, didn't want the horror, but it clung to his consciousness, squeezing his sanity from him like boa constrictor clamped around his psyche.
"Mulder?"
Shaking himself, the former FBI agent turned and gazed up at his old friend. The boys had long since gotten over the fact that Mulder had technically become their competition. It helped considerably when Scully had made them all three godfathers to William.
Langly explained quietly, "We've got an idea, but we need to get moving. Jeep's parked at McNamara Pier. Frohike is already on his way; he can pass for one of the locals better than anyone else, but I figured I'd drive." Not waiting for Mulder to argue, Langly yanked the keys from his friend's hand.
Mulder figured he must look like hell for that dramatic a reaction from the Gunman. A chill ran up his spine. McNamara Pier meant boats. If they put out to sea…