Once upon a time, little Emily Prentiss's mother had been posted to Spain, a land that boasted some of the finest horseflesh in the world, as well as some of the most ardent aficionados of breeding and racing the magnificent animals. For the most part, it was an extraordinary adventure.

For the most part.

Invited to the Hipodromo Costa del Sol to view a marvelous display of the country's beloved equine resources as a diplomatic honor, Ambassador Prentiss and her 7 year old daughter had been given the opportunity to visit the stables, talk to the trainers, and, to Emily's delight, pat the sleek, satin-muscled animals spoiling for a race.

It had been exhilarating until one of the horses had broken a leg running the course. Courageous heart pumping, the beast had concealed it's agony, finishing literally on its last legs.

Hearing of it, Emily had defied her mother, struggling until she broke free of her grasp. She'd charged about the grounds, frantic, until she'd found the injured animal surrounded by owners, trainers, and jockeys. The track veterinarian had examined the leg. When he shook his head and reached into his bag to retrieve the hypodermic that would ease the horse out of its misery, Emily had screamed and thrown herself down, blocking the vet and the needle she saw as some kind of evil, lazy way out.

It wasn't until she saw the tears streaming down the faces of the bystanders that she understood this was not done lightly. This was not something done to spare expense or resolve an inconvenience quickly and cleanly.

It was a tragedy. It was the death of a champion.

Emily's childish heart gained wisdom that day even as it broke for the incomparable valor and beauty that a split-second could destroy in such a cruel, unfair way. She never forgot the harsh gasping of the exhausted animal or its rolling eye, begging for release.

Now she heard the same labored breathing from Hotch. The same sounds of baseline misery. The same incomprehension of a world that would level such punishment against those with true hearts and indefatigable courage.

And it still looked as though he was trying to get to his teammates. Hotch would never give up.

Her throat tightened, triggered by the deep-seated childhood memory.

If she hadn't been so dehydrated, Prentiss would have given her tears. As it was, all she could produce were dry sobs on behalf of another brave and beautiful creature she couldn't help.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi was well aware of the doorman's surly, pseudo-cooperation.

He also knew that the man's main priority was remaining blameless in the eyes of the tenants. Well, that and safeguarding whatever scraps he picks up from loitering around the rich, he thought.

Dave might have considered offering a bribe, but he knew even he, with his mansion and his best-selling book royalties, couldn't match the deep pockets of the Dallas elite. The senior agent shrugged; rubbing elbows with the shadier elements during his Long Island upbringing had taught him that where a gift wouldn't work, a threat might.

They were on their eighth unit. What should have been a quick, efficient process by now was still sluggish thanks to Jeff-the-doorman's insistence on giving more than ample time for someone to answer the FBI's knock. He would also make a show of primping the little stack of papers consisting of Rossi's note and a copy of the search warrant to be left behind at each apartment, claiming that the tenants expected nothing less than perfection…even from the FBI.

Aware that hiding three people would require space, the agents had been satisfied to barge in once Jeff unlocked the doors of units where occupants failed to respond. They'd do a quick run through all the rooms and closets. It didn't take more than a few minutes.

Then they'd wait…and wait…for the doorman to arrange the papers with artful precision, dusting imaginary specks from whatever spotless surface he'd chosen as a stage for his little production.

Finally, Rossi stood close beside the man, watching him with half-lidded, reptilian regard. Jeff felt it. Resentful, he moved with even more deliberate delay. "Has to be just so for folks the likes of which can afford these kinds of digs. Ya know? J-u-s-t so."

Dave nodded. "Well then I guess they'd be very upset if they came home to find something…oh, I don't know…missing? Something small, but extremely valuable? Ya know?" The agent made a show of fidgeting with something in his jacket pocket.

Jeff's eyes tracked the movement. He swallowed, complexion going ashen. "What are you sayin'? Did…What did…?...Did you take something?!"

Rossi's half-grin was chilly. "Oh, I think it's far more likely that the doorman would be a thief than a senior agent of the FBI…don't you?"

Dave reveled in the man's gape-mouthed stare. He continued in a velvety voice dripping with dangerous innuendo. "Now, if you're a good boy and move things along at a pace my friend and I consider appropriate, maybe I'll put it back. But, if you're a bad, little doorman, maybe my pockets will be bulging by the time we're done. After all…" Rossi showed a great many teeth. "…the longer you take with your little arrangements, the longer I'll have to, you know, look for stuff. Pocket-sized stuff. Ya know?"

Jeff choked on his outrage, but from that moment on, moved with alacrity. Suddenly it didn't matter so much if each sheaf of paper was perfectly aligned.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Morgan couldn't take it anymore.

"Hotch!...Hotch…Hotch, listen to me! Stop moving, Hotch! Go limp. Let go, man. Let go."

With supreme self-discipline and trust, the Unit Chief did his best to comply. His instincts said to fight whatever this condition was that rendered him dizzy and sick and disoriented. But his intellect said struggling forward wasn't working. And his heart told him to listen to the voice of a man he trusted…to Morgan in whose hands he'd put his life time and again without hesitation.

Hotch made himself stop struggling. Curled in a ball on the floor, he squeezed his eyes shut and felt his muscles quiver with exhaustion.

Morgan was hoarse. "That's right, man. Rest. Just lie there and rest for a few minutes, Hotch. Maybe it'll make a difference. It's okay…" His tired chuckle had an edge of defeat. "...We're not goin' anywhere. Rest, man. Just rest."

Hotch felt the room spinning and tried to get his breathing under control.

But then, he heard Prentiss's soft sob as she watched him give in. And he…just…couldn't.

Gritting his teeth and trying to figure out why gravity seemed to be pulling from every direction in addition to down, Hotch resumed the battle to reach his teammates.

It wasn't that he didn't want to do what Morgan said.

It was that as long as his heart kept beating, it belonged to his team.