"So…" Megan Kane was lying on her side, propped on one elbow; a position that afforded unobstructed views of all three of her captives. It had the added attraction of allowing her to loom over Hotch. One finger toyed with a stray lock of the Unit Chief's dark hair.

"So." Prentiss had straightened her posture as much as she could. Her wrists felt raw, abraded by the leather straps wrapped around them. Her shoulders complained about being drawn backwards without the relief of movement for such a long time. But how long? She wasn't sure. To be honest, she had no idea at all.

"So?" Morgan still felt tired and sick from whatever had spewed into the elevator, rendering all three of the agents easy prey. He'd fallen into a rhythm of relaxing and then straining his wrists against their constraints. He wasn't sure, but he thought they'd begun to bleed a little. He hoped the liquid would permeate the leather, allowing him to stretch the bonds. Blood might also serve as a lubricant. It wasn't a big hope. But it was better than nothing, and something to work at so he didn't dwell on how he couldn't get to Hotch; couldn't protect a man whose welfare in the field was one of Morgan's personal concerns. Every now and then stray visions of what he'd like to do to Megan flitted across his thoughts. He pushed them away, sharpening his mind for whatever this 'game' would require.

Megan twirled a black cowlick around her index finger, watching it spring back to attention once released. "So…are we all clear on the rules?"

"Sounds like they're all stacked in your favor. If we lose, you get to…uh…play with Hotch. But what's in it for us?" Prentiss tried to strike a balance between nonchalance and concern. "Doesn't sound like there's any reason for Derek and me to play at all."

"Oh, but there is." The unsub was bored with the cowlick. She ran a fingertip along Hotch's lip and smiled when the agent made a small noise and turned toward the sensation. "I'd say Aaron's in the mood. I think he'll enjoy it even if he's not quite himself. But, I get what you're saying." She looked at Emily through half-lidded eyes. "If I'm satisfied…" Her smile turned to a smirk. "…I'll leave. You'll be rid of me."

Morgan raised his chin, looking suspicious. "You'll abandon us, tied up and helpless? Doesn't sound like much incentive to me." He shook his head. "You'll have to do better than that if you want willing players."

"Don't be silly." Megan went back to amusing herself with Hotch's hair. "Aaron's not tied up. Eventually, he'll come to. Of course, by then I'll be far, far away. Sounds to me like that's something worth winning."

Prentiss and Morgan exchanged glances of grudging agreement.

"Okay. Any chance of a drink of water first?" Emily's throat was so dry it felt as though she'd swallowed sandpaper.

"Prentiss!" Morgan shot her a look intended as a reminder of how this particular unsub had begun her career: with potable poison.

"I don't care, Derek. If I don't get something to drink, I won't be able to talk and we'll lose the game without even getting a chance to play." Both agents knew Emily was still playing the good cop role, trying to establish what seemed like a trusting bond with their unsub.

"Well…no one can say my Mama raised a negligent hostess." Megan uncurled herself from her place at Hotch's side. Moving with languid ease, as though she had all the time in the world, she stepped through the door set in the far wall from which she'd originally entered. There was the sound of a cork escaping a champagne bottle, and seconds later she returned, bearing a tray with three glasses of golden, fizzing liquid.

Megan set the tray down near the two bound agents. Picking up one crystal flute, she brought its rim to Prentiss's lips.

Emily played her role, demonstrating her trust by forcing her qualms aside and sipping the chilled wine. It felt marvelous rippling down her scratchy throat. She could tell it was expensive, potent. On an empty stomach, she'd probably get a little buzz, but Prentiss was no lightweight when it came to alcohol. She could handle it.

Megan picked up the second glass, but stopped at Morgan's words. "No thanks. I think I'll take my chances with dying of thirst." To be honest, he was still experiencing waves of nausea and didn't relish the thought of vomiting all over himself once liquor hit his tender stomach lining. Then, too, the response fit his bad cop persona.

The unsub shrugged. "Suit yourself." She made a show of drinking the wine herself, expressing her enjoyment of it for Derek's benefit. "Mmmmmm…There is nothing as fine as a really fine wine." Ending on a giggle, Megan took the third glass of champagne and resumed her position on the bed beside Hotch.

"Let's get started."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Rossi, I'm getting worried. The guys should've been here by now."

Reid had been craning his rather long neck, looking over the heads of the persistent news crews and the abundant police personnel. But there was no sign of Hotch, Morgan or Prentiss.

He'd tried calling all three, without success. At first, he'd told himself they might be somewhere without a signal. But the call from the unsub had reached them in the penthouse without difficulty. Likewise, Morgan and Garcia had been able to connect easily. And this is Dallas, for Chrissake! Not some backwoods valley surrounded by mountains…

Working the crime scene had taken precedence, and kept Reid and Rossi occupied, but now…now it was getting weird.

"Maybe you're right." Rossi hated to admit defeat, but there was nothing more to be gained from picking over the bloodied car or the gore-spotted footprints leading away from it. They'd ridden herd on the CSI techs, making sure the utmost care was used in gathering strands of hair and any other evidence the call girl killer had left behind. But it didn't really matter. They'd run her DNA through the system before and come up empty. Whatever they gathered now would only be useful during the prosecution process.

But they had to catch her first.

Dave shook his head. This woman had never stepped over the line before. She wasn't on record anywhere. Now, she was an accomplished serial killer.

Pulling out his cell, he called J.J. first.

"How's it going, Rossi?"

"Reid and I are wrapping it up here. Have the others checked in?"

"What? No! You guys aren't together?"

"No." The older agent made an effort to keep his voice calm and steady. It didn't help that Reid was quivering with anxiety nearby, his eyes beginning to show white around the edges. "It's probably nothing. Just some communication glitch or they got sidetracked with a new lead. But…J.J., if they get in touch, call me, okay?"

"Sure. Absolutely."

Rossi felt a little guilty dumping anything worrisome on the press liaison. No doubt her hands were full dealing with media hounds drawn by the carnage of the unsub's latest work.

He tried Garcia next.

"Yes, my Italian Work of Art, what'cha need?"

"Have you heard anything from Hotch?...Morgan?...Prentiss?"

"No." The tech analysts' tone changed in a heartbeat from playful to anxious. "Why? Where are they?"

"That's what we're trying to find out, Kitten. Trace their phones for me?"

"Uh, sure! Sure." A storm of keyboard activity clicked its way over the connection. "They're all still at that penthouse location. But…" More furious keystrokes. "…I can't raise them. Oh. Oh, no." the last was a fretful whimper of concern.

"Reid and I are heading back over there now." Rossi was already on the move, making for the SUV parked in the street; Reid loping on ahead. "Don't worry. I'm sure they're fine."

But instincts gleaned over decades in law enforcement nibbled at him, telling him just the opposite.