Author's Note: I'd already read it over, and you all were good doobies and immediately gave a lot of feedback on the last chapter, so, here you go! A reward :)

Fair warning, ugliness ahead. Fortunately it's already an M story. But that was for the sex, this is for general bad violence and language and all the nasty stuff that happens when you toss a serial killer into the mix.

Left on a cliffhanger and we're picking up some hours later. Opening with Dave.

Behold A Pale Horse

Hotch gunned the engine as the Suburban suddenly slammed into another river of water covering the roadway. The night was pitch black . . . and the SUV was going almost a hundred miles an hour . . . so they'd driven into the deluge before anybody had seen it coming.

The water flew up and hit the windshield. They were going so fast it sounded like rocks hurling into the glass.

Dave flinched.

It was involuntary . . . if it sounds like a piece of protective glass is about to break apart, your brain thinks 'DUCK' . . . but still, it was slightly embarrassing. But he had no time to consider his somewhat bothersome response, as just then, the three tons of steel they were riding in, started to slide out of Hotch's control. It wasn't the first remnants of a flash flood that they'd run into that night.

But apparently it was the deepest.

For a moment Dave's breath caught in his throat. He could feel the SUV slowly moving to the side, caught in the undercurrent. And then there was a faint weightlessness as they seemed to lift slightly off the ground.

Though he was trying to hide his outward alarm, he couldn't stop his fingertips from digging into the dashboard.

OH CHRIST! OH FUCK!

THEY WERE GOING TO ROLL!

Right before they tipped . . . just as Dave heard the three simultaneously muttered curses/prayers from the back seat . . . JJ, Reid and Derek respectively . . . the rear tires somehow again gained tread. Hotch immediately jerked the wheel to the left and pressed the accelerator back to the floor.

Within seconds they'd cleared the rushing water . . . and then seconds after that Dave could see that they were again flying past ninety.

That had been their minimal speed since they'd left the ranger's station seventy some odd minutes ago.

And although Dave Rossi was not generally a man who easily feared for his life . . . his life had been far too fucked up for that . . . the last hour in the SUV had had his heart in his throat.

And that's because Hotch was driving like a maniac.

Maniac didn't even cover it really. Yes, the man could certainly handle himself . . . Dave himself had taught him a trick or two back in the day . . . but this was the desert. Mostly unpaved roads. No lamp posts . . . no bright city lights.

No lights at all.

That alone would have made this mad race through a starless night, treacherous as hell. But then you add in the unexpected . . . and frequent . . . downpours over the last few hours, and this trip was a God damn nightmare. The rains had washed out at least half of those unpaved roads. The rest . . . the few paved byways that they'd crossed over going at least a hundred . . . they were a hydroplaner's wet dream.

If they didn't get killed before they found Emily, it would truly be a miracle.

Not that any of this appeared to be phasing Hotch. Not in the slightest. Not one muttered curse or prayer. No slamming of his fist on the steering wheel. Nothing. He hadn't panicked once . . . he hadn't anything. Even now as Dave's worried eyes snapped across the front seat, in the shadow of the dash lights he could see none of the concern or agitation that was on his own face. Or the downright terror that he knew was on the faces of the team members in the back seat.

Hotch was just . . . blank.

He'd been like that since they'd gotten the call from Morgan. The one asking if Emily had arrived yet. Telling them that she wasn't answering her phone and the sheriff had just gotten a call about an accident scene.

A black SUV upside down on the desert floor.

They'd still been at the morgue then. And as Dave had listened to Derek's words coming through the speaker phone on Hotch's cell, suddenly all of the color had drained from his friend's face. His jaw opened . . . and then it had closed.

And that was the last time he'd come close to displaying anything resembling a human emotion.

Everything in him was now locked down tight.

And although Dave knew that Hotch's coping mechanism for stress was a ruthless . . . almost frightening . . . degree of emotional repression, even for him, even given the horrendous circumstances, this was a new plane of icy rigidity. Really, Dave wasn't sure if he found Hotch's reaction to Emily's abduction disturbing . . . or laudable.

Perhaps . . . he bit back a sigh as his attention shifted to the road . . . it was both at the same time.

After they'd arrived at what they'd expected would be a simple accident scene, to instead find shredded tires, bullet holes in the doors, and Emily's cell phone in the backseat . . . on the roof, obviously thrown there in the roll . . . they'd realized that the accident scene was actually a crime scene.

She'd been taken.

The younger members of the team had been near hysteria. Hell, Dave had only known Emily for a few months and HE had been near hysteria! It had been restrained for the locals, but there was no doubt for anyone around him . . . he was fucking, UP-SET!

But he liked Emily . . . he liked her a lot. How could you not? She was smart as a whip, funny . . . a little bit of a nerd. But in a sweet way. And not to mention she was also a complete bad ass in a swimsuit model package.

Basically . . . Dave's heart twisted as he thought back to her laughing with JJ on the jet . . . she was just a good kid. And the thought of anything happening to her, let alone . . . Dave's jaw tightened as his gaze shifted to the blackness whizzing by the side window . . . the thought of her being taken by one of the monsters in their files, was enough to send his normal 'on the job' control, right out the fucking window.

This was NOT business as usual.

Trying to locate a friend who had been taken by a serial killer, was a very different situation than trying to locate a stranger who had been taken by that same psychopath. And any asshole superior who told you that it was no different . . . that you could still suck it up and display a cool, professional detachment . . . was a lying sack of shit.

There was no detachment.

There was outward repression . . . it was the only way to keep working . . . but inwardly they were all completely, terrified. She'd been missing for seven and a half hours.

Seven and a half hours.

It was an honest to God nightmare scenario. And only God knew what had been done to her so far. Given what they'd seen in the case file they'd compiled to date, i was unlikely that she'd been left untouched.

Just put aside for later.

No . . . Dave's upper teeth dug into his lip . . . if Emily had been taken this quickly after the other woman, that meant that this killer's control was deteriorating. And that was bad.

So bad.

Torture was likely. Sexual abuse was very possible.

Hell . . . Dave's gaze momentarily dropped to his clenched fist . . . she could be dead already.

And if worrying about all of that wasn't bad enough . . . his gaze snapped back to the world outside the panes of glass . . . there was more going on here. This was not the first time that one of them had been taken. By Dave's own perusal of their files . . . something he'd done when he first came back to the job . . . he knew that Reid's abduction was just over a year ago. Fortunately they'd gotten him back relatively unscathed.

Physically at least.

The level of his psychological damage . . . how Spencer had coped with what had happened to him . . . that was unclear to Dave. But what was clear, crystal clear, was that that wound had barely scabbed over. Not only for Reid, but for all of the rest of them too.

And now it had been sliced wide open again.

JJ and Reid had been huddled together constantly, speaking in hushed whispers. Morgan was functioning in a controlled rage . . . sometimes not so controlled, he'd nearly put his fist through a deputy's nose . . . and every time they conferenced in Garcia, she was crying. Everyone was a mess.

Everyone but Hotch.

His orders were calm and controlled . . . his voice was always even. He was very much the epitome of 'The Man In Charge.' He was handling this crisis like the pro that he was. But still . . . there was something off.

Seriously off.

And that was why, although the kids probably could have used some kind words, Hotch was the primary focus of Dave's attention right now. Because he knew him, and he knew that he was hurting just as much as the others were. But it was buried down underneath that thick layer of ice.

Mostly Hotch's temper burned cold . . . but eventually the ice would burn off.

And that's when he would explode.

So as far as Dave was concerned . . . he watched the speedometer inch up to one twenty . . . Hotch was a ticking time bomb.

A time bomb that was about to meet up with their UNSUB.

That's why they were screaming across the basin of Death Valley. They were heading to an abandoned mining town. Once, they'd dug for copper and gold there . . . and that was important. That was the link. Because that's where they thought Emily had been taken.

That's where Hotch was sure Emily had been taken.

There was no talking him out of it.

It wasn't exactly a long shot . . . Garcia had matched the trace in the soil samples taken off the most recent body, to that exact geological area . . . but still, Dave was cautious. There were a lot of abandoned mining towns in this area, so who was to say that the UNSUB just used the one?

If it was Dave, he'd switch it up all the time. Make sure his trace was always different.

Always unique.

But . . . he shook his head slightly . . . most of their UNSUBs weren't that smart. And this one, well it was hard to say his intelligence level either way. He'd been smart enough to pick a hunting ground with multiple jurisdictional issues. So that was something in the mental 'pro' column.

He wasn't a complete idiot.

Beyond that, who the hell knew. So at the very least, they were sure that this location they were heading towards was the kill zone for the last victim.

And hopefully . . . if God could cut them just a little slack . . . they'd find Emily too.

And find her still in one piece.

So, it was nearing midnight, they were riding up on a literal ghost town going over a hundred and something, and Dave had NO idea what Hotch was going to do when they arrived at this particular monster's lair.

If the monster was even in.

He had a feeling though, if the monster was in . . . the bomb was about to go off.

The most ridiculous part of it was . . . they were chasing a phantom. This UNSUB still had no name. But of course the name didn't matter. The name never mattered. He was just going to be one more pathetic nobody.

Another piece of excrement spit up from hell.

So as far as an actual physical description went on this one, all they had really was their minimal profile. Rugged white male, early 30s to early 40s. Probably has issues with his mother.

But of course . . . Dave sighed . . . don't they all.

If that's who they found out here tonight though, then God help him. Because Hotch cared for his team more than any chief Dave had ever known. That was a good thing . . . mostly. But it also meant that he took their safety VERY personally. And this was a man who you did not fuck with even at the best of times. And he was coming off probably one of the worst of years of his personal and professional life.

The divorce had only been finalized a few months ago.

So truly . . . JJ yelped as they suddenly rammed through maze of cacti that popped up out of the dark . . . Dave was terrified that if something had happened to Prentiss . . . if they got there too late . . . that Hotch was going to kill the person responsible.

And he was going to kill him in cold blood.

So Dave . . . the man who had been brought back to the BAU to help reassert a bit of stability and control to the department . . . was now faced with a dilemma. If Hotch was going to kill this man, and Dave was pretty sure that he was . . . was he was going to let him?

That . . . Dave slipped out his weapon as the first manmade structure they'd seen in twenty miles appeared in the glow of the headlights . . . he didn't know.

But it looked like they were about to find out.

/*/*/*/

Emily screamed as the fireplace poker sunk into her shoulder.

FUCK!

The smell of her burning flesh caused the howl of pain to end in a choke as the vomit rose up in her throat. For a second she tried to swallow it back, but then the poker dug in deeper . . . the UNSUB was rolling it around . . . and she screeched again.

This time it was as much rage as agony.

It was enough to knock the nausea off the table. Because she had seriously had ENOUGH of this SHIT! He'd started his little torture games simply by smacking her around. Aside from whatever the hell bruises and head injury she'd gotten when the SUV flipped, she now had a black eye, a cut lip and something was wrong with her cheek.

It seemed to be bleeding.

But then a little while ago the UNSUB . . . nondescript thirty-five year old white male with a faint southern accent, basically a nobody you wouldn't look twice at in the street . . . had apparently tired of exerting himself. After a final slap to the mouth . . . she'd nearly bit his finger off . . . he'd gone over and started up the fireplace in the corner of the old saloon.

She'd nearly freaked.

Okay . . . her jaw clenched . . . she had freaked. But fire . . . being burned . . . was one of her biggest phobias.

Her greatest fears.

Not that this asshole knew that, it was just his own twisted little game.

Something to play with the new girl.

But surprisingly . . . surprising even for someone with as much psych training as she had . . . being confronted so directly with a fear that had haunted her since her youth, had unleashed a level of rage in Emily that she hadn't previously been aware of.

She wanted blood.

She wanted it in a way that she never had before. And the one thing she knew for sure . . . her wild eyes snapped up to see the UNSUB turning back to the fireplace . . . if she'd still had her Sig with her she would have blown this fucker's head off, and then taken it home for a trophy.

Something to nail to the wall.

But . . . she tried to take a breath to catch her temper . . . that wasn't a helpful fantasy at the moment. Because her gun was gone. The UNSUB had taken it from her when she'd been knocked unconscious in the accident. By the time she woke up, she was already hogtied in the back of some type of all-terrain vehicle.

They'd traveled for at least two hours of the time since she'd been awake . . . and not once did they exceed the speed limit. It was clear that this UNSUB at least knew not to bring attention to himself.

That meant he wasn't completely stupid.

So her terror and isolation mounted with every mile. Then she'd watched from the floor as the sky around them changed from light blue . . . to purple . . . to black.

With every new hue, she was being taken further and further away from Hotch.

At first she'd wanted to weep. But then she'd gotten pissed at herself for even having such a pathetic thought. For thinking like a chick . . . a civilian one at that. But then she'd decided it was probably just the hormones making her react that way.

Hotchkin reminding her that there were bigger considerations at hand.

That there was more than one life at stake.

And Emily prayed that the baby hadn't suffered any injury in the accident . . . fortunately she didn't seem to have any pain in that area . . . but really, whatever had happened when the SUV rolled, was now the least of her worries.

The UNSUB's plans for them . . . his next move . . . THAT was the problem!

So now it was her job to take care of herself, and their baby, until her burgeoning little family unit was back together again.

Of course that was easier said than done.

Here she was out in the middle of nowhere . . . it seemed to be some old ghost town . . . with no weapons at her disposal. Also her hands and feet were bound to the chair. So basically she was simply biding her time . . . read, trying to stay alive . . . until Hotch found her.

And she knew that outcome was not in doubt.

He would find her.

She just had to make sure that she, and Hotchkin, were still alive and in one piece when he got here. So she was trying to be . . . her jaw twisted in anger . . . cooperative. Docile.

Compliant.

If this UNSUB wanted to play out his sick little fantasy faux rape games . . . the poker was a pathetic phallic symbol . . . then she'd deal. She could take it.

She could take anything.

And as long as he kept his attentions where he had so far . . . her upper body, mostly face, shoulders and arms . . . then everything would be all right for now.

The scars would heal.

All that mattered was that the baby wasn't being hurt, and she wasn't actually being raped. And although she was in agony . . . and having horrific flashbacks to what had happened to her when she was a teenager . . . this vacation in hell was still her best case scenario for this abduction. Her fear though, was that soon the UNSUB would tire of this game too.

Then he'd move on to something else.

Something . . . her breath was ragged as he turned to stick the metal edge back in the fire . . . more invasive.

But for the next five minutes they continued to play his little fireplace game. She already had light burn marks all over her arms . . . it was some sort of fucked up pattern that seemed to please him . . . and two more deeper burns on her shoulders. He'd taken off her jacket and sweater so she was down to just her tank top and pants.

Better to burn you with my dear. He'd said that as he cut off her sweater with the hunting knife he now had hanging off his belt. Then he'd chuckled.

Like he'd thought he'd made a funny joke.

He was mistaken.

And when Emily felt the poker dig into her back once more . . . the smell of the flesh again started to make her feel ill. This time though, when her head snapped back to see the laughing eyes staring down at her, she'd suddenly had enough. More than enough. Apparently there was a limit to how long she could play the helpless victim.

One hundred and twenty plus minutes seemed to cover it.

So she finally let loose the one weapon she had available.

She spewed vomit all over him.

Part of her wanted to laugh when the UNSUB screamed in fury as he faltered backwards . . . it wasn't so funny when you were on the receiving end of this shit was it buddy?!

And again, it was almost comical . . . almost . . . as he tried desperately to rip off his sick covered shirt. He only got as far as tearing the buttons before his arm bumped into wall and the fire poker clattered to the floor.

As it rolled across the dusty wooden boards, he came running at her, screaming that she was a cunt . . . his control was fading fast . . . right before his closed fist connected with her cheek.

Her head jerked backwards . . . blood filled her mouth.

She spat that at him too.

Then she unleashed her own stream of profanity. Everything and anything she could think of, every expletive ever uttered by any Marine and overheard by her young ears, came firing from her bloodied mouth.

She could see that her words were having an effect . . . especially the ones on his manhood . . . so she kept going. Telling him that he couldn't get it up, that there were pygmies with bigger dicks, that REAL men didn't need to use fireplace utensils to get off. All the while she was trying to keep him off kilter, keep his attention away from her actions. She was desperately working the ties on her wrists as he howled and chased after the poker.

It had rolled under a broken table in the corner.

She knew that she was pushing him straight over the edge . . . he'd just promised that as soon as he got that iron back, he was taking out one of her eyes . . . but she had to keep him distracted. She was THIS close to getting free!

Her wrists were so abraded the blood had soaked completely through the old cotton ropes.

It wouldn't take much more . . . her head snapped up at the crash made by the table flying into the wall.

OH FUCK!

Knowing that there was no time left . . . he was reaching for it . . . she yanked her right arm as hard as she could. The rope tore deep into her flesh . . . enough to make her scream . . . but still she couldn't get her arm free.

And when the UNSUB turned back to her with the poker in hand . . . and then pulled the knife from his belt . . . for the first time, she started to cry. It wasn't fear for herself.

All she could think of was the baby.

And Hotch.

They might not have reached the verbal 'I love you' stage yet, but she knew that if he lost them this way . . . this violently . . . that he'd never recover.

It would kill him.

A thought came to her then . . . a plan really . . . one that should have come to her earlier, but for some reason hadn't. Perhaps she was just too busy trying to actually STAY alive. But now she was coming to the point where just staying alive wasn't going to be enough.

She was coming to the point of no return.

The moment where the UNSUB was moving past his fucked up version of foreplay . . . her heart began to jackrabbit as started towards her . . . that poker was about to be inserted into her eye socket.

And it wouldn't be stopping there.

Feeling her stomach start to turn again . . . this time baby nausea was not the cause . . . her tears slowed as she sniffled and her head snapped back.

"The FBI's lead agent on your case is my husband!"

As she'd hoped, that stopped the UNSUB cold. She could see his eyes widening . . . his little reptilian brain processing.

"Husband?" He repeated cautiously.

"That's right," Emily nodded furiously, seeing her long shot was gaining some traction, "husband. And I'm pregnant. So you'd better stop what you're doing now. Because trust me," she leaned forward and hissed, "he's already going to hunt you down like a dog! That's happening! And that's happening just for what you've done to me so far! So the ONLY thing," she growled as her rage bubbled up, "that's going to keep him from RIPPING your fucking throat out, is if you stop now and you walk away! You leave me here and you GET OUT!"

She shook the chair and screamed it again.

"DO YOU FUCKING HEAR ME, YOU ASSHOLE?! HE'S COMING HERE AND HE'S GOING TO KILL YOU!"

Although part of her was still terrified of where that poker was going next, mostly she was just . . . her eyes started to burn again . . . angry.

So angry.

THIS was not supposed to happen! She and Hotch were supposed to be building a family together picking out baby names and nursery colors!

They were supposed to be NORMAL!

And THIS . . . her fists clenched again and the ropes stretched incrementally further . . . this, ASSHOLE was not part of the plans! This was not normal!

This was FUCKED up!

And she watched . . . her temper still riding through the roof . . . as the UNSUB processed the words that she'd just said to him. She watched as that smarmy self-confidence wavered ever so slightly.

If you didn't read people for a living . . . if you didn't do what she did . . . you probably wouldn't have even seen it. That faint twitch of the jaw . . . the ripple of the Adam's apple. He was thinking.

And he was worried.

Though she still didn't know how the hell he'd zeroed in on her . . . perhaps it was planned . . . perhaps it was just simple convenience . . . it was clear that he knew she was an FBI agent. The first thing he'd done when they arrived was take her ID and badge.

She was sure that he was planning for it to be a trophy.

And up until she'd thrown up all over him, he was getting his rocks off torturing her. Last time it was the Navy Ensign. And you didn't have to be a profiler to see that he was getting a thing for going after women in positions of power.

He was getting off on dominating them.

But the thought that he might have just made a personal enemy out of one of the MEN that was hunting him, that . . . her breath was ragged as she leaned back slightly in the chair . . . that was clearly giving him food for thought. And that's all she was trying to do.

Buy some time.

Because Hotch would be here soon. She was sure of it. She knew her team. She knew how good they were in a crisis. And because her watch was still working, Emily knew that they'd hit crisis time just under eight hours ago. And that meant that they really shouldn't be too much longer.

And she didn't think that was just wishful . . . desperate . . . thinking on her part.

They were coming.

Still though, until they got there . . . she mentally sent calming thoughts down to Hotchkin . . . she was on her own.

Single parent.

So she watched the UNSUB closely, taking in the dilation in his eyes, the clench of his jaw . . . the tension in his hands. She was trying to read what he was going to do next.

What decision he was about to make.

Things seemed to be going in her favor. That's why she'd said husband instead of boyfriend . . . the word held more weight. More commitment to the relationship.

To a family unit.

But then to her horror, Emily saw the UNSUB's chest start to swell . . . and then his posture begin to straighten.

His lip quirked up.

"Husband, huh?"

This time the question came with a smirk. And Emily knew then . . . knew from the little hairs standing up on the back of her neck . . . that she'd lost her little game of chicken. He was too far gone. Deteriorating too rapidly. Hotch's vengeance wasn't something to fear.

It was a challenge.

Something to relish.

FUCK!

He came running at her, screaming like a banshee with the knife in one hand and the still hot poker in the other.

Foreplay was over.

OH JESUS CHRIST!

Adrenaline flooded her body as the terror consumed her. Fight or flight was taking over. And God knew that she wanted to do both at the same time.

Beat his face in and run out the door.

Instead she ended up just knocking the chair over.

She hit the ground with a scream . . . he'd reached her just as she fell. The knife had sliced across her back, tearing through her tank top and the soft flesh beneath.

Fortunately the chair back was still protecting most of her spine and internal organs.

Feeling him pull the blade out, she tried to roll the chair. She was beyond plans . . . she was just trying to get away.

Again, just trying to stay alive.

But she couldn't move fast enough. The knife plunged down into her back again and she howled as another burst of rage filled her.

She bit down another scream . . . the pain was excruciating. But then suddenly she heard . . . and felt . . . the side spokes of the chair snap. Her arms were free.

She was free.

But unfortunately the UNSUB saw her fingers shoot out . . . saw her trying to find something to use as a weapon . . . and he dropped on her legs, trying to pin her down before she could move again.

That was a bad move on his part. Because all she could think about then was Hotchkin.

That knife was too close to the baby.

She screeched and bucked like a demon. With her bound legs she was kicking at him, and with her now free hands she was clawing at his face. And though she took some defensive cuts to her palms, mostly she had control.

Mama protecting her cub.

There was a howl of pain as he fell back on his ass . . . her right hand returned with a chunk of his scalp in it.

Knowing these few seconds that she'd bought herself were only serving to enrage him further . . . he was going to kill her and he was going to make it hurt like hell . . . she hurriedly yanked the ropes off her ankles.

That's when she noticed the blood running down her arm.

There was a lot of it.

Probably the only thing keeping her brain focused was the adrenaline . . . she started scrambling across the floor as she heard the footsteps pounding towards her again . . . but eventually the blood loss would start to take over.

Her fingers closed around one of the wooden spokes that had broken off the chair.

She needed to inflict some serious damage before she passed out.

So as the UNSUB dropped on top of her again . . . with another primal scream . . . she shoved the chunk of wood back over her shoulder.

Judging by the screech . . . another one of pain, in which she took great satisfaction . . . she knew that she'd make contact with his face.

A splash of blood hit her bare shoulder.

But apparently the injury wasn't bad enough, because in the next second she felt the knife plunge into her back again. This time it went deep.

The pain was so bad she started to pass out.

But then she heard a noise . . . wood crashing and splintering.

The door.

And then came the voice.

"EMILY!"

Hotch.

Knowing he was now here brought a fresh bolt of adrenaline. Her eyes again filled with tears.

Relief. Joy.

Solace.

These were not words big enough to encompass the wave of emotions that washed over her. He'd come for her.

He'd saved her.

And as she heard the screams to "FREEZE!" and the stampede of boots rushing towards her and the UNSUB, she dropped flat to the ground.

She knew what was happening next.

Just as her face pressed against the filthy floor, she suddenly became aware of the blood running out of her mouth.

It was pooling beneath her face.

That probably wasn't good.

Fortunately she was distracted of thoughts on her internal injuries, by the whiz of the first bullet flying over her head . . . it was followed by a grunt and a howl as it slammed into the UNSUB behind her.

That one bullet knocked him completely off of her.

The next one flew high over her head . . . and then the UNSUB began to scream like a young girl. Through his sobs she could make out something about his fingers.

Apparently Hotch had just shot them off.

Her mouth twisted into sick grin.

"Told you to run," she mumbled into her little pool of blood.

Then she passed out.

A/N 2: I know, still the cliffhanger! How badly is Em hurt? Is Hotchkin okay? But at least the team got there. Still I wasn't going to have Emily be all 'damsel'd victim.' Yes, she did need some back up, but she wasn't going down without inflicting some damage of her own.

And Hotch, you just don't fuck with his family. In canon or in fanon. Now we'll see if he decides to actually kill the UNSUB. And we'll see if the others let him . . . though the chapter title might give you some clue at least to Hotch's intentions. The rider of the pale horse was death :) And I deliberately stayed out of his head here because I think it would be pretty clear how he'd be reacting internally. He'd be terrified and panic stricken and blaming himself and all that other good Hotch angst stuff that we all love. So what I thought would be a more interesting approach would be how all of that internal 'Sturm und Drang' would manifest externally. And Dave was obviously the best person to take as the narrator there. He knows Hotch well, but he's still new enough to the team in their current incarnation, that he has a sliver of distance from what's happening to all of them. Sort of like Emily's place back when Reid was taken.

Em's Fire Phobia! - Somebody (rightfully, and helpfully :)) pointed out that if you didn't read the original Hours posting, you won't know where the hell that comes from. And that would be kind of annoying :) So just a note, I promise here, in this world, that history will be explained as they deal with her injuries.

Side note, I realized the difference between writing a line for Dave, and writing a line for somebody else is right here: "The rest . . . the few paved ones . . . were a hydroplaner's wet dream." At first it was just "dream" and then I was like 'oh wait, this is Dave' and made it just a bit coarser. That's Dave. Y chromosomes rule inside and out :)

Thank you!