Rossi and Reid left the gawking doorman behind.

Frozen in the hallway, Jeff's lukewarm intellect seemed overcome by the noise vibrating through the entire penthouse structure, and the agents didn't have time to waste. Besides, the doorman had outlived his usefulness. Still clutching the ring of keys, Reid loped to the apartment entry.

Once inside, the sound of Morgan's assault increased. And once they were in the bedroom that Rossi, too, now noticed was suspiciously smaller than in other units, the booming reverberations were overwhelming. Each one elicited an involuntary flinch from the agents. They were also clearly coming from the rear of the closet. While Rossi put his own fists to good use, pounding what he knew Morgan would take as a signal that they'd been found…that the panic room had been discovered…Reid searched for a way in.

Tossing aside a varied wardrobe of fantasy, fetish outfits as well as garments representing some of the finest haute couture establishments in Paris, Spencer's first clue was when his fingers grazed over a slightly roughened seam on the otherwise smooth surface of the back wall. One of the dozens of simultaneously active levels of his brain took time to appreciate the precise construction. With clothes in front of it, obscured even more by the muted, interior lighting, the door was invisible.

Meanwhile, Rossi had an idea who would be most likely to brutalize a wall so audibly. "Morgan!? Can you hear me?! MORGAN!?"

"We're here! We're here!" Even through layers of insulation and drywall and lathing and lumber, the sob of relief in Derek's voice was palpable.

"Are you guys alright? Morgan!?"

"NO! Hotch needs help! HURRY!"

Rossi had been hugging the wall, shouting into it. Now he pulled back. "Kid, c'mon. How do we get in?"

A preoccupied mumble told Dave the fastest solution would be found if he let Reid continue whatever process he was engaged in without interruption. But… Hotch…

The younger agent's hands were running over every inch of the closet's interior. Having found the door, he was searching for some breed of control panel. There had to be a point of access. Reid assumed it would be within easy reach, which he interpreted as a six foot swathe wrapping around the circumference of the closet. There was nothing.

Reid extended his search, looking higher, although his gut was beginning to send him distress signals, telling him he was getting colder. He turned, inspecting the area all the way up to the ten-foot ceiling. If the lighting in the closet hadn't been muted, he might have missed it. But there it was. Tiny and round and glowing.

"Rossi. There's a camera in here. We're being watched."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Nine miles away, and at a slightly lower elevation, Megan Kane had switched from champagne to the hard stuff.

She swirled her tumbler of 64 year old Macallan whiskey and clicked to split-screen mode on her tablet. One side showed her secret bedroom; the other the closet entrance. Sighing, she took stock of her current situation.

She was in her third favorite abode; a W Dallas Victory North Tower condo. It had been put at her disposal in gratitude for services rendered. One service in particular that had left a bad taste in her mouth. Literally. But despite its outstanding view, appointments and amenities, she knew she'd miss her penthouse.

Megan didn't like living beneath others. Her work put her in that position often enough. Off the clock, she preferred to reflect and plan from a vantage point that she could think looked down on the wealthy scum who bought her…and upon whom she preyed. And she was sorry to lose certain of her possessions. The gowns could be replaced in time, but some of her jewelry was custom-made, irreplaceable. And I won't be able to claim any insurance either, she thought with a sad, little pout.

Away from the irritation of other people, and under the influence of a truly extraordinary whiskey, Megan felt mellow. Almost…charitable. She tilted her head, watching the tableau in the bedroom. Aaron is so very pretty. It'd be a shame to see that disappear from the face of the planet before I've really had a chance to savor it. She pursed her lips to one side, pondering her options.

With a shrug she picked up her phone, still keeping tabs on the various activities in her sacrificed penthouse. What the hell. Lose some beautiful things…but save one…And maybe I'll be able to enjoy pretty, little Aaron in the long run…

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi's phone chimed.

Frantic to breach the panic room and resentful of any distraction, he snapped as he answered. "What!"

"Rossi?" J.J.'s even voice leached some of the tension from the senior agent.

"Sorry. We're kind of busy here. We found them, J.J., but…"

"That's why I'm calling," the liaison interrupted. "The unsub. She called here. Dallas PD. She said to 'tell the skinny guy to lift up the carpet in the northwest corner.'"

"What?" Rossi's brow wrinkled in his effort to change gears and grasp this new turn. Reid's head had shot up, looking like a Golden Retriever on point.

"She said there's a keypad recessed into the floor under the carpet. Northwest corner. The code is 24-17-54-89."

Reid was already scrabbling in the requisite corner, his memory having cataloged the necessary numbers. Rossi paused until he saw the younger agent peel back the plush, ivory carpet, revealing a compartment set flush, that popped open to reveal some sophisticated circuitry.

Heart pounding, Dave barked into the phone. "Got it! We've got it! J.J., send an ambulance. Hotch is…"

"The unsub said she already took care of that." J.J.'s tone was dumbfounded, disbelieving.

But Rossi could hear sirens in the distance…