A/N: The French in this chapter, I am aware, is a messy massacre of the language, and for that I apologize. My French is definitely better than Ziva's Turkish, but not good enough to correct the horrible mistakes of Google translator. That being said, if you're a native speaker and would be so kind as to help me fix it, I'd very much appreciate a PM. If not, again, I apologize for the poor execution. There's a rough translation of the content at the end of the chapter.


Chapter One

The night is full of ghosts.

As she lies motionless in her bed, Agent Prentiss's mind floats just above consciousness, but far below the realm of sleep. With heavily-lidded eyes she watches the grotesque play of shapeless shadows on the ceiling. Voices from the past whisper in her ear, lending themselves to the fragments of creeping darkness above her head.

Sean, thundering in the small conference room.

"…found her in the garage of her house. Her son was there, for God's sake-"

Emily blinks.

Her boss showering orders after Doyle's third attack.

"Prentiss, you and Parks, talk to the girl; Monroe, Wronski, take care of the crime scene-"

Blink.

"—Emily, down!"

A gunshot.

"Mike!"

Blink.

The hints of a body under the white cover. Coldness creeping into her soul.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Blink.

Sean, sitting at the table, shoulders slumped, face crumpled.

"It's the boss. Doyle's got to her."

Slowly, her eyelids drape over the cruel play she's watching, but she doesn't notice it. The ghosts and the voices are already inside her head.

At long last, stealthily, morning light invades the room, chasing the shadows away from the stage. The alarm of the clock finally goes off. Emily's chest heaves with a deep breath as her mind descends back to awareness. With accustomed fingers, she turns off the alarm, and stretches in bed.

Her body aches as though she's been beaten.

Doyle. Doyle's escaped.

Has she stopped thinking about it for a minute since going to bed?

But it's a new day. Getting out of the bed, she walks to the window. The broken street lamp down the street doesn't look nearly as frightening.

Emily shivers. Yes, it's a very cold day. But it's bright enough.

She walks to the shower with determined steps.

/

"Good morning."

"Morning," Prentiss returns the brisk greeting of the unit chief. The sunglasses are still perched on the bridge of her nose; everything seems oddly dimmed in the stuffed elevator, and she's grateful for it. Hotch does not seem to notice the unusual quietness of her voice, and Prentiss automatically switches to her profiler mode.

To anyone other than the members of his team, Agent Hotchner seems as stoic as he has ever been. He stands upright, briefcase clasped in one hand, the identifying frown set on his face. But for Prentiss, there's a barely noticeable curve to his shoulders. The constant darkness under his eyes stands out even more against his pale skin, and under the prominence of his brow, his hazel eyes are clouded with something Prentiss cannot fully identify.

Prentiss wonders if the shadows hide in her eyes, too.

"Everything all right?" she asks. Hotch regards her with a sideways glance before replying with a small sigh.

"Yeah. Jack is struggling a bit with his new school, that's all." His voice is as quiet as Prentiss's; and it reminds her of Sean. It's not the firm, authoritative voice Hotch uses in line of duty. It's the low-key, carefully guarded voice reserved for the rare times he shares something personal.

Emily nods. "It's always difficult for a kid to adjust to a new environment."

What she's said is highly generic, although spoken from experience, and maybe rather open to discussion, but Hotch nods with an appreciative gesture and leaves it at that. As they step outside the elevator, Prentiss has a sense that there's more to the matter than the trouble of his son getting used to a new school, but she won't ask, for she knows Hotch too well, and her mind is occupied with something else.

As they walk together into the bullpen area, she automatically removes the sunglasses and stuffs them into her pocket.

"Good morning," Reid greets them from the kitchenette where he's stirring his cup of coffee. Prentiss and Hotch respond in kind; Hotch carries on his fast stride towards the catwalk, but Prentiss slows down through her desk and nods at Reid.

"Reid, do you mind pouring me a cup, please?"

Her head is pounding with a downbeat rhythm; the name Ian Doyle stuck in her subconscious like a flatline frequency. Where is he? Is he still in Russia, or has he left already? Will he come after them immediately? Will he take his time to taunt them? And Sean- has he landed safely, wherever he's been flying to? When will he call? Are Parks and Monroe still alive?

How much time does she have until Doyle gets to her?

She looks up sharply when Morgan calls her name loudly, which is absurd, because he's standing just next to her.

"What?"

"You all right?"

"Yeah; why?"

Morgan raises a skeptical eyebrow, and Prentiss doesn't need to be a profiler to read the unvoiced question in the gesture. She sighs, head dropping to her palms. "I didn't get any sleep last night and my head is killing me."

A perfectly truthful answer.

"So what was it this time?" asks Reid's amused voice. She looks up when she feels a cup being left on her desk.

"Thank you, Reid." She pulls the cup close and takes a long sip, not seeing Reid's nod as he leans against his own desk just a couple of feet away from hers. She's aware that both men are watching him.

"So?"

"So what?" Prentiss asks without looking up at Morgan. She wishes they'd leave her alone, but they're profilers. She knows better than to throw away the cover they have created for her.

"Was it salsa dancing again, or a long night with a special someone?" Morgan prods. He is teasing her, but Prentiss knows him well enough to feel that he already suspects something's up.

"Neither," she replies, sitting upright and pulling a file from the top of the sack on her desk. She can feel Reid and Morgan exchanging glances, but neither of them presses her for more.

She's thankful for it.

/

It is fifteen minutes before the end of a normal day shift when Garcia strides through Prentiss's desk and informs her that she has a phone call on line three. She says the caller is one Agent Dubois from the Interpol, chuckling as she imitates the accent, and cannot help but add that she's certain he's French. She winks and leaves a comment unvoiced, but Emily knows she's just provided Garcia with yet another reason to adore her.

She eyes the phone on her desk uncertainly before her gaze raises to Morgan, and then, to Reid.

Both of them are looking at her curiously.

Acknowledging them with an elaborate roll of her eyes, she picks up the phone. In truth, her heart is at her throat. Sean has not checked in with her yet, and there's no reason to expect good news from the Interpol.

"Agent Prentiss," she says briskly to the handset.

"Agent Prentiss, zis iz Agent Louis Dubois from ze Interpol."

The voice is unfamiliar, but the accent is so thick that it makes Prentiss wince.

"Agent Dubois, comment puis-je vous-aider?" she asks, switching quickly to French. She can almost hear Agent Dubois's relief at the other end of the line (just as she can almost feel Morgan and Reid's disappointment).

"Madame, je suis désolé de vous informer qu'un condamné d'un vos premiers cas s'est échappé de la prison. Le nom est Ian Doyle. Nous croyons qu'il est possible qu'il vienne après que les membres de votre ancienne équipe à l'Interpol qui étaient responsables de l'attraper."

Prentiss nods. "Oui, Monsieur; je suis été informée hier par une ancienne collègue."

"Est-ce pas? Par…" Prentiss hears paper sheets shuffling. "Par ancienne Agent Sean McAllister, ou Henry Monroe?"

"McAllister."

"D'accord. Madame, je suis chargé de vous faire savoir que l'Interpol vous offre détention préventive jusqu'au Doyle est pris à nouveau."

"Détention préventive?" Prentiss can't help but repeat. Protective custody. She knows what it's like to be under Interpol's protection. It's a witness protection program stretched all over the world. She shakes her head.

"Non."

"Madame?"

"Je dois respectueusement refuser cette offre. Comme vous le savez, je travaille avec le FBI et je crois que je suis en sécurité ici."

"Madame, vous-etes sûr?" Agent Dubois sounds skeptical, but Prentiss is certain of her decision. She will not go into hiding.

"Oui, Monsieur, je suis sûr."

"D'accord… Et allez-vous le prendre en considération pour les membres de votre famille? Nous soupçonnons que votre famille immédiate peuvent aussi être en danger."

"Oh God," Prentiss breaths into the phone. Her mother. How come she's never thought about her mother, that she may be in danger as well? After all, Ambassador Prentiss is definitely not a low-profile woman; in fact, she's currently serving in Serbia. Serbia. Not far from Russia at all; if Doyle is even still lingering in the area.

Prentiss runs her fingers through her hair in an uncharacteristic display of frustration.

"Agent Prentiss?"

"I'm here." She takes a deep breath.

"Iz der a family member you'd like us to provide protection for?"

"No. No, there isn't."

"Agent, it iz stated in your file zat your mother iz the American ambassador for Serbia. Wit respect, I believe ze Interpol can provide her with the protection she may need."

"I don't think it is necessary," Prentiss replies curtly. She eyes Morgan discreetly, and thinks that despite looking engrossed in a report, he's landing one ear to her conversation. Maybe she's being paranoid; maybe she's being unfair to Derek. But she can't help it.

Agent Dubois pauses at the other end of the line for a second before he resumes. "If you're sure, Agent."

"Oui, Agent," Prentiss confirms curtly. "Avez-vous des connaissances sur la situation des agents McAllister et Monroe? S'ils on en sécurité?"

"Oui, nous avons, mais tout ce que je peux vous dire est qu'ils sont en vie et sur la route. Est-ce votre intention de rester sur place à Quantico, Agent Prentiss?"

"Oui."

"Bien; nous prendrons contact avec vous sur cette ligne, si nous devons."

"C'est bien. Encore une fois, Agent, je vous remercier."

"Bonne chance, Agent Prentiss."

"Merci."*

She ends the call and leaves the handset back in place. For the next few seconds, she waits for the interrogation to begin, but it doesn't. Reid's eyes are sweeping case files as one bony finger keeps up with the speed of his reading, sliding through the end of each page. Morgan is typing on his computer.

Prentiss feels suffocated. She glares at the clock across the bullpen area; it's five fifty-five. She didn't get any work done during the day, but she cannot stand sitting there anymore. She pushes her chair back, stands, and begins walking through Hotch's office. She does hear Morgan's whisper to Reid, asking 'what the hell was that about?' and sees Reid's shrug. She deliberately ignores them.

She knocks sharply before sticking her head into Hotch's office.

"Yes?" Hotch asks, without looking up from his paperwork.

"Sir, I thought I'd let you know that I'm calling it a day. I'll fill in the last case's reports at home, if that's all right."

Hotch looks up. "So long as I have them on my desk tomorrow morning."

"They will be."

Curtly, Hotch nods. "That's fine."

"Thank you."

She turns, walks back to her desk, gathers the files, and with a hasty goodbye to Morgan and Reid, leaves the BAU headquarters.

Her head is about to explode. She's waiting anxiously for Sean's call, and aside from the paperwork she needs to get done, there's something else that she needs to deal with.

How is she going to tell her mother about Ian Doyle?

/


Basically, Agent Dubois informs Prentiss about Doyle's escape, says they suspect he's after the members of Prentiss's old team, and that Interpol offers her and her family protection until Doyle is caught. When Prentiss refuses, he asks if she intends to stay put at Quantico, and tells her they'll contact her from that same line if they need to. The rest is all "are you sure?"s and "thank you very much"s.

Edit: Thank you, CMlover, for the warning about "qui". I used to make that mistake all the time while taking language classes; it cost me more than a few point in written exams. Apparently, taking three years off from French didn't do much good either. :)