A/N: Ok! Here's the next chapter! It's long and there's a lot of things going on, but the plot progresses in this! Also, I'm NOT making promises, but I was thinking of going back and reworking Paraíso Perdido (excluding the word Perdido, since that means lost) and making a separate version with just a bunch of fluff and smut. You know I'm not so confident in the smut writing part, but since a lot of you didn't seem to like the transition into the drama/action/violence, I think some of you would like to read just Barson on vacation with their friends without any crap happening to them. Yay or nay? It may take some time to write and make that happen, but it's a POSSIBILITY. Let me know what you think! I don't own SVU or its characters. ENJOY.

Monday - 8:00 a.m.

Mendoza was nicknamed El Sombro (The Shadow) because he could move in-and-out of buildings, towns, and countries undetected. He followed in the footsteps of his father, and his father's father, who was one of the top drug dealers in all of Mexico during the 60's.

Cocaine was a booming industry back then, bringing in millions upon millions of pesos every month. His grandfather lived like a king in a mansion built for one. He had four wives and gold teeth, with only one prized son who would rule the kingdom he had built from the ground up.

His father had failed miserably once his grandfather died, but the dedicated soldiers who promised their lives to El Mejor (The Great One), kept it thriving, eventually establishing it as one of the leaders of the drug industry running Mexico.

Juan Gabriel Mendoza never wanted to be a leader. The line of succession was clear and strong within the cartels, but Juan dreamed of a better life, living abroad in some place like Europe or Africa, living a simple life as a college educated man that had something to offer the world. He dreamed these dreams all throughout his childhood, never once imagining anything could ever take him away from pursuing those goals.

Until he walked in on his father, eyes gouged out with a rusty spoon, hanging from tendrils of muscle laid across his cheeks. His heart had been removed and placed delicately in his hand, and the word 'Fracaso' (Failure) etched into his skin. By the time Juan had found him, back home from an afternoon out with his friends, the blood had already begun to scab over and the room smelled of death. The blood had dried on the silk sheets and his father's skin was ghostly pale and cold to the touch.

Juan didn't shed a tear that night, as a few loyal men took care of his body. Instead, he sat in the living room, lights dimmed, and recited the Sinner's prayer, bringing himself a sort of comfort he hadn't felt in a while. His father was a well-liked man among some, and hated among most. Juan never pushed him into either box, preferring to keep himself centered and focused on moving away from the drugs and violence and the lavish lifestyles.

But something changed in him that night. It was a subtle shift over the next few months. The mansion they occupied had been gifted to the new leader, who Juan knew had something to do with it, and he moved into a small cabin where a few of his friends lived, peddling drugs to the poorer cities surrounding, making their money and reporting back to the gang.

He forced himself to start from the bottom, letting those long held dreams go one-by-one, finding he was rather good at selling and persuading people. He was a talker, a charmer, using his smile and his good looks to get what he wanted. It was a good way of life for a while, until he ran into his first kill.

The knife sliced the man's neck open deeper than Juan thought it would, nearly decapitating the poor soul who tried shooting him in the head. He was a Zeta, one of the cartels most notorious sicarios around. He'd been drunk, looking for a fight, and Juan happened to be quicker, more efficient in the fight.

He spent the next three weeks in hiding, lying low from Zeta's who were out for blood for killing one of their own. He prayed day and night during those three weeks, tears spilling down his cheeks has he lamented who he was before and came to terms with who he was now.

Gone were the stupid dreams that he believed would propel him to heaven when he died of old age, in his bed, surrounded by family and friends. He was a naive and stupid boy to ever believe he would be the one to make it out of the family business. So, he adopted the ways of a sicario, studying death and learning how to deal it, while mastering the art of deception in return.

He was a master manipulator; he had a beautiful, beaming smile that lit up rooms and conversation with ease. He could seduce women and challenge men, get little kids to trust him and the elderly to pray for him, just with a few words from his mouth. His mouth had always been his deadliest weapon, with his short fuse coming in close second.

But, with as much experience and ease he had with the spoken word, he still found it difficult to speak in front of their leader, who was currently seated in the living room of Juan's old house, watching the video that was taken of his abductee play out on the news.

Rolando Marquez didn't speak much, so the hums of approval leaving his pursed lips was enough justification for Juan that he'd done right by his leader, which would make him one of the few to have done so since the overpass incident last year. Never before had he seen Mr. M smile with such pleasure as he did when he saw the footage of two men and one woman, decapitated and hanging from thick chains under the overpass, naked and burnt in Cabo.

He was a sick man with the desire to do anything to get where he wanted to be. That vision had originally included stringing two children up from the same overpass, but he had been easily talked down by his beloved Francesca, who would have none of it. Juan had been grateful, if only because there was no reason for such violence young ones. He had a daughter himself, Theresa, just seven years old with her whole life ahead of her.

Juan Mendoza may have done despicable things, but his daughter was his life, and he would be the last person to ever steal that life from the hands of a defenseless, terrified parent.

As the news broadcast ended, the television was clicked off, descending the room into silence. The only sound was that of an old-fashion grandfather clock that sat somewhere down the hall, in the study where his father used to spend some time reading and learning, and teaching him things most people didn't even care to learn about.

Juan shifted in his seat, taking comfort in the fact that even Mr. M's closest associates were slightly defensive of the heavy silence that followed the click of the television. Eventually, Mr. M spoke, with a gruff voice made from years of smoking.

"This man…," he gestured towards the blank screen and then brought his fingers up to stroke his neatly trimmed beard, grey and flowing down to the middle of his chest. "He is tough."

"Mostly," Juan replied, "He is no fighter but he doesn't go down easy. I suspect he uses words rather than fists."

"Admirable," Mr. M rasped, "Yet, dangerous."

Mr. M raised his hand and barely flicked his rest, sending his butler over with a fresh glass of whiskey that was deposited into his waiting hand. Juan watched him sip slowly, savoring the alcohol on his tongue.

"Make another video. Beat him. Make him bloody. Break him. I want his government to see him cry and beg for mercy."

Juan nodded and stood to leave, ready to get out of this mansion that brought back so many unsavory memories. He could feel his skin crawl just looking at the staircase, where he spent many nights sitting on the steps and listening to his father sing to the open air of the living room where he stood.

"Juan," Mr. M said, voice lazy. Juan turned to look at him, but found himself staring at the back of the man's grey head, "Show the kids. Smack them around, too. I want to watch them scream."

Juan pursed his lips, glad the man wasn't facing him so he didn't see the disgusted look on his face. No one would dare to outwardly voice their personal feelings when an order was brought down by the boss himself. So, Juan swallowed the answer already formed on his lips and instead, whispered, "Sí, Señor."

With one last look back at the staircase, Juan walked as quickly as he could outside of the mansion and to his old truck parked in the wrap around driveway, desperate to get away from the memories and cold voice of Rolando Marquez.

Monday – 8:25 a.m.

The cameras had piled up rather quickly on the street below their hotel, with various different news outlets, a few from different countries, most from Mexico and a few from the U.S., covering foreign politics in their country's neighboring land.

The video of Rafael, beaten and bloody had been replayed, slowed down, analyzed and even ridiculed countless times within the past hour, and Liv had grown sick of it. She was tired of seeing him groaning in pain, over and over again; the cuts and bruises along his face and arms and legs took a little piece of her each time she had to witness it happening, and now, reporters wanted to speak to her and Amanda, the defenseless mothers whose children were kidnapped in a busy restaurant.

The moment the topic was breached, Liv nearly slammed the door in the DEA officers face, but after a quick pep talk from Fin (who knew the right words to say through years of dedicated friendship), she had stopped to hear what they had to say, forcing Amanda to listen in as well.

"Cry a little. Show them how devastated you are. You're going to be seen by these men who are holding them captive, and you'll be lulling them into a false sense of accomplishment. They'll be thinking you'll do anything to get your kid's back, and that whatever they're planning will go off without a hitch."

"How is hamming it up for the cameras going to get our children and Rafael back?"

The two agents, Garver and Barnes, looked at each other. The move didn't reassure Liv in the slightest.

"Kids are off limits to most cartels. Most of them have children themselves, and therefore don't see the act of killing one redeemable. It's happened before, though, plenty of times, but if they wanted to kill your kids, they would have let you know it by now. It's more likely that they're looking for a heft reward, or possibly, a distraction. Tactics like this have been used before, but that was back when they had less technology and we had more men."

Barnes jumped in then, pointing at the mute television, once again playing that fucking video, "They're using your friend as bait. The more they hurt him, the likelier you are to buckle and give into their whims."

"How sure are you guys about this?"

She and Amanda were left with a hesitant silence. Garver tripped over his words, not sounding so smugly reassuring, "We're not. It's the only viable answer we have as of right now. Until we have more evidence to suggest otherwise, this is what we have."

Liv wasn't convinced. Not at all, and neither were the rest of them. Amanda had shaken her head and exited the room after the agents had said that, and only reemerged after they left the hotel room completely. Liv had been too skeptical to voice anything else, despite their urging for her to discuss things with them, which she hadn't, and they left to go greet the storm of new networks dying to speak with them.

She still wanted to go back to sleep and wake after this whole thing was over, but this was her reality from now until all three of her loved one's were returned safely, and she was going to have to face that. Amanda was going to have to face that.

Although, she had to cut the woman some slack. She didn't know what it was like to have your child go missing for hours upon hours, not knowing whether they were afraid or hurt or hungry or alone. Sheila had been an abnormal case of child abduction, and the fear from this was amped up tenfold, but Liv was able to rationalize and think now, having gone through an experience like this before.

Amanda wasn't able to. Not yet, anyway.

"Hey, Liv," Carisi said, stepping into the room everyone had vacated so she and Amanda could be alone with their thoughts, silently together. "They're ready for you guys downstairs."

She didn't move, but she acknowledged him with a small head nod, and he disappeared back into the room after a quick look to Amanda, who was curled up on her bed, knees to chest and staring blankly ahead, much like Liv had been doing. They remained still for a moment, until Liv glanced at Amanda, to find the woman already staring at her.

"I don't want to do this."

Liv nodded, but she knew they had no choice. Amanda knew that, as well, but she continued on, "Press conferences accept the fact that our kids are gone. Might be gone forever. I can't accept that."

"We're not," Liv replied, confidently, feeling a surge of determination course through her at Amanda's weak words. "We're not accepting it. We're demanding they bring them back to us."

"Liv," she started, sound so tired, "You know how these things go. What if we're too late? What if…" She held her hand up to her mouth, swallowing the sob that was about to erupt. Liv shot over to her bed and grabbed the wrist of the hand that covered her mouth. She yanked on it, making sure she had the blonde's full attention.

"We're not too late and I don't want to hear those fucking words come from your mouth again. Jesse is alive. Noah is alive. Rafael is with them, and he won't let a damn thing happen to them so long as he's breathing, you know that, correct?"

Amanda nodded after a moment of hesitation, but it was a nod that recognized the truth, "We are going to go down there and put on a show. Tears, pleading, the whole nine yards. I want the attention of the whole fucking world by the end of this interview, because afterwards, we're going out there and we're going to find them ourselves."

Liv lowered her head, a vicious look of determination on her face. It was going to be incredibly difficult to do so, with the CIA high-tailing it to their location as they spoke, and the DEA officers who were trying to handle them like they were amateurs in the area of the human psyche, but she would be damned if either her or Amanda, of any one of them spent any more time on the sidelines, watching from afar.

"Got me?"

Amanda nodded again, sniffing and beginning to look more and more like the detective she had grown to call a close friend. Carisi chose that moment to reenter, phone held to his ear and an apologetic smile, "Guys."

"Tell those bastards we're coming."

Liv didn't mean to sound so harsh, but she was fired up and pissed as hell. Gone was the grief and crying nonstop. From this point forward, they were on the job, looking at this from trained, experience detective's eyes.

"Alright," she stood and helped Amanda to their feet. They were both still wearing their beach ware, too tired and grief stricken to change amidst it all. "Let's go do this."

Monday – 9:00 a.m.

Rafael found himself dozing in and out of a fitful sleep when the door to the cabin burst open, slamming into the wall with such force, he jumped up in bed and scrambled back towards the wall. His eyes landed on Jesse and Noah, who had been cuddled on the couch, seeing them scamper off towards where he was, little hands clawing at the bed to try and get to him.

Jesse had descended into tears again, and Noah's eyes were blown wide as he clutched Rafael's bicep like it was a lifesaver out in the middle of the ocean. Rafael buried Jesse into his chest, trying to calm the poor girl's terrified tears with his soothing tone, albeit shaky with adrenaline.

He spotted Juan immediately, flanked by two large men, both holding weapons and wearing masks to conceal their identity. They didn't move from the smaller man's side, but they did tighten their hold their guns just a fraction, and that was enough to put Rafael on high alert.

"Good morning, mi amigo."

Juan stepped further into the cabin, cigarette hanging from his mouth, and a few plastic bags in his hands. He walked until he reached the end of the bed and dropped the bags on the bed, some of the contents spilling out onto the blanket, "I brought you new clothes."

Rafael could feel Jesse pull impossibly closer to him, and he brought his hand to the back of her head, stroking her blonde hair and silently crying, soaking his shirt. Noah, instead, leaned forward, tears in his own eyes, and yelled directly at the man standing in front of them, "I wanna go home! I want my mom!"

"Noah," Rafael said soothingly, pulling him back into his side. The little boy didn't fight him, but he also resisted the urge to turn his face away. Juan's eyes softened just a fraction and he pulled the lit cigarette from his mouth. Rafael tried not to look at the burn on his arm from last night that he knew he was there. He could still feel the cherry searing his skin.

"Escúchame, niño…you will go home very soon. Ok? But we need your help with something important first." Rafael pulled Noah further into his side as Juan moved closer, coming to sit on the bed just a foot away from where they sat. Jesse moved her head to the side, feeling the bed dip and she whimpered when she saw the man had moved closer. Rafael whispered in her ear and kissed the top of her head, doing what he could to comfort her.

"I want some reassurance," Rafael spoke suddenly, voice low as he speared Juan with a cold glare, "I need to know they're going to make it out of here alive."

"You don't want to know about yourself?" Juan looked semi-amused, but Rafael didn't crack a smile or even flinch. His breathing was steady and his face was expressionless and he continued to rub Jesse's back.

"They're my priority. They have mothers who will go to the ends of the Earth for them…and I have no doubt if they found you tomorrow, they'd rip you limb from limb to find out what you did with their children."

"So, this is for their protection, as well?"

Rafael didn't nod, but Juan didn't need him to. The mustached man hummed, "Which one are you fucking? His mom or hers?"

Rafael clenched his jaw but kept his mouth shut. He wanted to reach out and punch the man straight in the mouth, but he kept his cool, knowing he could end up dead, and he was no use to either of the kids that way. He had to play this cool and get them through this.

Juan stood up and walked away from the bed, gesturing to the clothes, ignoring Rafael's deadly stare, "Get changed and come outside. We have another video to shoot."

When the door closed with Juan behind it, Noah shot out from Rafael's side and faced him, tears in his eyes as he pleaded with Rafael not to listen to him. His little hands reached up and cupped his face, lip trembling as he begged and begged for him not to get up. Rafael grabbed his chin and forced him to stop talking, cutting off his words that were starting to meld together and sound incoherent.

"Noah, calm down and breathe," he said softly, breathing in and out deeply a few times, forcing him to do the same. Jesse had looked up from her hiding place in his chest and reached a hand out to Noah, her little voice joining his, "Breave, No."

Rafael smiled down at her, trying to keep his own anxiety in check. Had they not been there, he would be in a full-blown panic attack, curled up on the floor in a ball and muttering to himself. He knew them being there was the only reason he hadn't gone and gotten himself killed, yet.

"I have to do what they tell me, Noah."

"But what if they hurt you again," he hiccupped. His sentence was so broken and fragmented with his breathy gasps that Rafael felt tears welling up in his eyes. He sniffed and pushed them away, blinking a few times to rid the stinging sensation. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jesse cut him off with her little hand gently touching a scabbed over cut on his face, right underneath the eye that had to be black and blue by now.

"Ouchie," she said, and he caught her hand gently, bringing it to his chest.

"I'll be fine. Trust me." He stood, gently placing Jesse next to Noah and snatched up the bag closest to him. They were kid's clothes, looking to be too big for both of them, but he could make it work. The other bag had all black clothes, also looking too big for him, but they were better than the bloody and dirty clothes he was forced to put back on after his shower.

He disrobed quickly by the bed, throwing the new clothes on in record time. The plain black t-shirt was Ill-fitting, looking more like a blanket than a shirt. The pants sweatpants fit better, but he had to tighten the drawstrings to make sure they didn't slip down his hips when he moved too much. He wouldn't complain though, since they felt clean and refreshing against his skin, and that was a luxury he didn't expect to be getting so soon into this.

"Ok, stay on the bed and don't go near the door, you hear me?"

Jesse nodded, but Noah didn't. He just stared up at Rafael like it was the last time he was ever going to see him. The thought that that was a legitimate possibility at this point scared him beyond belief. He had no reason to think that once he stepped foot out that door, that he was coming back.

There was no indication that this was going to be some quick little talk or that this video was going to result in another quick beating he was going to come back from. There were no guarantees he could make to Noah to placate the boy's worries, and lying to him felt so wrong.

"I'll be fine. I'm coming back. I promise."

But, he did anyway. He stomached the negative ideas and marched out of the cabin, confident despite the ugly bruises and cuts on his face. He didn't look back at them as he did so.

Outside, the sun was hot and beat down upon a black towel, laid out on the side of the house, surrounded by the same two masked men, holding those big guns. Juan pointed at it, silently directing him to it and once there, planted his foot into the back of one of his knees, forcing him to the ground roughly.

The hood that slid over his neck was so dark, he couldn't even see streaks of sunlight bleeding through the fabric, and his stomach turned when he realized the bag smelled like blood and urine mixed together. It was a toxic smell that was making him light-headed and nausea, but he pushed through the sensation.

He heard Juan's dragging footsteps shuffling around him, his presence behind him replaced by a small, sharp edge against his head. He realized, belatedly, that it had to be the barrel of a gun. Rafael bit into his lip so hard, he reopened the split that scabbed over, and a fresh droplet of blood slowly ran down his chin as he listened to Juan shifting something around, cursing quietly into the wind.

Juan lit a cigarette and made sure this old, beat up camera was set to record. He hated the thing, but that was all they would give him. Their other equipment was far too fancy to bring out to the desert with the dust and the dirt blowing everywhere. Juan rolled his eyes at the thought but simply went with it. Marquez was going to have to deal with the shitty quality of the video again when it hit the news.

Juan nodded over at one of his men, blowing smoke out as he hit the record button. He watched him walked swiftly away and around the side of the house, staying in sight so he could give the signal. In Spanish, he talked in a low voice, just loud enough for him to hear through the hood, and through a device that changed the pitch of his voice, a measure put in place to mask the voice recognition software those DEA bastardos always tried to capture people with.

"Say your name."

He hesitated, but then, "Rafael Barba."

"Where are you from?"

"New York City, New York."

Juan took another quick drag, "What do you do?"

"…I'm an immigration lawyer."

He chuckled loudly, "El presidente will love that, I'm sure." Juan cleared his throat and reigned it in, a smile on his face as he asked the next question.

"Who are you here with?"

"Friends."

"Friends with kids, yes?"

Rafael didn't answer, and Juan had to ask the question again, with more force and hard nudge with the gun to his head to get him to speak. "Yes."

Juan nodded and gestured to his man by the door. Seconds later, the door was kicked open loudly and the screams of the children bellowed outside. Rafael sat up straight and looked around wildly, ripping the hood from his head. He tried to stand, but he was smacked with the butt of the gun against his head, bringing him down to his stomach in the dirt. Juan watched with a frown, eyebrows furrowed as his man carried the two kids out, the boy over his shoulder, kicking wildly and the girl under his arm, doing much of the same. They were both screaming and crying wildly, but they were just scared.

They were dumped on the ground, roughly, next to Rafael, whom they crawled to and clung to for dear life. Rafael sat up, dazed, but brought them close into the circle of his arms, like he had been holding them just fifteen minutes earlier, when Juan spoke to them in the room.

Juan pushed down the sickly feeling building in his stomach, seeing guns pointing down at these terrified children. For one second, he allowed himself to envision his daughter in place of them, big brown eyes watery with tears as she screamed and called for him to save her. He looked away and at the camera, the sounds becoming deafening in the barren desert they stood in.

The red light was still on, blinking and strong, and he hit the record button to shut it off. He yelled above the crying and swiped his hand, waving his men off. His hands shook and he dropped his cigarette to the ground, dragging his foot over it in the dirt to extinguish it. He swallowed, locking eyes with Rafael for a split second before he swung the camera off the tripod and shoved it back in its bag.

He had done what he was supposed to, but nothing extra, like Mr. M had wanted. No beating. No guns against the kids' heads. Nothing that would make him sick to his stomach and nothing that would make him envision his daughter anymore, curled up on the ground and screaming to God for mercy.

He could feel the bile rising in his throat, sudden and burning and making his own eyes tear up.

"Go inside. Go!"

Rafael stood, ushering both of the kids back towards the house as Juan walked a few feet out into the desert, behind a clump of dead bushes, that were nothing bust grey branches, and wretched into the dirt.

He kneeled there for quite some time, mind racing to come up with an excuse for when Mr. M saw the video and realized he hadn't done anything that had been requested of him. He looked through the branches of the dead bushes and wiped his hand, his eyes tracing the old, pock marked clay walls of the house they used solely for their crimes.

Eventually, he left the area and headed back into town, watching as his guards stood by the door, guns still poised in their hands wordlessly, growing smaller and smaller the farther he drove away.

He didn't dare look at the rosary hanging from the rear view mirror of his truck.

Monday – 10:04 a.m.

"Absolutely the fuck not."

Liv slammed her hand on the table and glared at Garver and Barnes, who had their arms crossed over their chests like petulant children being disciplined.

"You realize we're trained detectives, right? I'm a fucking Lieutenant for crying out loud. We both have been undercover plenty of times. We can and we will do this, whether you like it or not."

"Look," Barnes sat up, calmer than Garver was. Liv just wanted to smack the ugly mustache off the man's face. "We get that you two have a number of years of experience with undercover work, and we respect the hell out of that, but this is a different playing field. We're talking about one of the most fucked up, deranged cartels out there. One misstep by either of you and your kids could be killed because of it. You understand that? These people don't fuck around."

"Neither do we," Amanda shot back, hands on her hips and determination burning in her eyes. Liv was glad she had finally broken out of that stupor she was in and had a fire lit under her ass.

Carisi, Fin, and Rita sat behind them on the other side of the bed, the television playing the news, that was now covering some current event and had finally drawn away from their ongoing story. The press conference had been hard to watch, seeing Liv and Amanda openly crying on camera, both looking so unlike themselves.

Rita had shed some tears, the situation finally settling in on her. Fin and Carisi had wanted to stand behind them, to give moral support, but both women had refused, and they knew why as soon as they were back in the room again. Their eyes were red and their faces were wet, but they both looked steely eyed as they changed and cleaned their faces, throwing their hair up and looking ready for a battle they both had decided to enter without the knowledge of the rest of them.

"Your faces are plastered all over the news! They know who you are and what you look like now. How can you go undercover when the entire world knows what's happening?"

Amanda and Liv shared an exasperated look, not wanting to give up but knowing they had already lost. Garver looked smug and sipped from the coffee he brought up with him when they got done with the news.

"They haven't seen us."

All four turned to look at Carisi, who walked up between Amanda and Liv. "We haven't been on the news at all. I don't think our names were released either…," he looked back at Fin, who abandoned Rita on the bed and joined them, hands in his pockets, "We'll go in."

"Don't you people listen?"

"You're dealing with a bunch of cops from New York," Liv snorted, nodding at both Fin and Carisi, "We won't stop until you give in, which I'm surprised you haven't already, because it really seems like you don't even give a shit about this case. You two have been dragging your feet since we've met you."

Garver looked at Barnes, who shrugged his shoulder, "We were just talking about how easily they could infiltrate their database. They've done it before."

"They've infiltrated the CIA computer database?" Amanda looked at them, disbelief plain as day on her face. She looked at them like they were crazy, "What more reason do you need to send them in undercover?"

"You had to go and tell them that," Garver hissed under his breath and Barnes rolled his eyes, sitting forward in the chair.

"No promises. At all. We'll talk it over with them and see about bringing you on board. We have a meeting with them in an hour to discuss strategy."

They took little comfort in that, knowing that they were approaching the 24-hour mark rapidly, and those were of the most important hours in a missing persons case. They needed to move quicker if they wanted a better chance of finding all three of them.

"Fine. But Amanda and I want in on it, too. Behind the scenes if we have to."

"Jesus, fine! Damn, how do you guys deal with this in charge every single day," Garver gestured to Liv, and before she could respond, Rita gasped from the bed, flailing to grab the remote that was on the nightstand beside her. They all turned, seeing her pointing at the television, and the breaking news banner playing across the screen.

They all fell quiet, a picture displayed on the screen that showed Rafael, on the ground with the kids cradled in his arms, and a gun pointing at their heads.

"Shit," Barnes hissed, standing up to get a better look. Garver shook his head and pulled out his cellphone, tapping away at his screen. Liv and Amanda stood staring at the television as the picture cycled to a new one with just Rafael, but with a bag over his head.

Carisi turned and looked back at the agents, struck and quiet by the pictures on the television. He closed his eyes for a second longer as Amanda burst into another round of sobs, leaning into Fin's side when the picture of the three of them cycled in again. Liv stood silently, fists clenched and eyes closed, a solitary tear falling down her cheek.

Garver met Carisi's eyes and nodded, "We'll call you in thirty minutes. Be ready."

The agents left without a word more, leaving the deafening silence of the room behind them.