Long Shadows – Chapter Four

"It's difficult to trust a woman." – Irish proverb

2002

The rundown apartment building leaned against its fellows in one of Boston's seedier neighbourhoods. Yellow paint that might once have been white flaked from the bricks, and the swollen, splintering door was barred behind a rusted iron gate. Emily found the buzzer marked 'C. Murray' and, as instructed, gave it two quick presses and then held it down for two seconds. The speaker groaned and crackled to life, but no one spoke. She leaned close and murmured, "It's me."

The iron gate shuddered and clanged as the lock slid back, and Emily pulled it open and entered the front hall. The comforting weight of her Glock brushed against her waist as she began to climb the creaking stairs. Exiting on the third floor, she came to the last door and knocked, five staccato taps with the backs of her knuckles. She smoothed her hair and glanced up at the peephole, waiting.

The door opened. "You're late," Doyle said quietly. His eyes searched hers. "I was worried you mightn't come."

Emily grinned and stepped inside. "Why wouldn't I come?" she asked. Her heart beat a panicked tattoo on the inside of her ribcage. She was late because she had been meeting with her team from the JTF, discussing the day's transaction and Emily's future as Lauren Reynolds. She was almost certainly going to leave the country with Doyle, and while the JTF was well-prepared, they were all nervous about widening the playing field.

Doyle reached behind her to push the door shut. He slid the deadbolt home, but his hand stayed on the door, his forearm brushing her waist. His other hand rested on the wall next to her head, effectively pinning her body against the door.

Emily looked up at his dark gaze, and her smile faltered. "Ian," she whispered, "what's wrong?"

His blue eyes flicked across her face. The hand on the wall moved to cup her cheek, then tuck a stray curl behind her ear. "How long did you say you've been in the arms business, Lauren?" His hand slid down her hair to rest at her throat.

She licked her lips. "Two and a half, maybe three years."

Doyle's finger stroked her pulse point, and she gave an involuntary shiver. "Riley checked your account before I transferred the money. You only opened it last month."

For a moment, Emily considered whether she could make it out the door and down the stairs before he started shooting. She felt his hand against her neck. She would never survive an escape attempt. Raising one eyebrow, she replied, "Ian, you're being paranoid."

"Am I, Lauren?"

She nodded. "I open different accounts for every client. It's safer, both for myself and my buyers, that fewer connections can be made if any account is compromised. I opened the newest one about a week before we met, when I got in contact with Fahey." She placed a hand on his waist and fingered the silk folds of his shirt.

Doyle tensed when she touched him. His thumb dug into her collarbone. "If you're lying to me—"

"I'm not," she said. "It's not unreasonable for you to worry, but I promise you, this is real." Her fingers tightened on his shirt, and she looked up at him earnestly. "I'm real, Ian."

He sighed, but did not release his grip on her neck. He stared down at the floor for a few seconds. "I've extended more trust to you than to any other supplier," he said finally, "because I want to believe you. But I don't want to get burned." His eyes met hers. "And if you try to burn me, I'll drag you down in flames with me."

Emily's breath hitched. "Ian," she whimpered, "you're scaring me. Please, I'm not trying to betray you."

Doyle leaned close, his mouth a scant inch from hers. His breath was hot against her lips as he muttered, "God help you if I ever have reason to doubt you." His mouth seized hers, knocking her head back against the door. Emily whimpered as his teeth nipped at her tongue. She fought back tears and forced herself to wrap her hands behind his neck, lightly scratching his scalp with her short nails as she kissed him back.

Doyle plundered her mouth, trapping her against the door with his body. When he finally released her, she stumbled and almost slid to the floor. She winced as she raised a finger to her swollen lip, feeling the track of bite marks indented in her skin. She didn't need to check to know that the throbbing spot on her collarbone would soon blossom into a bruise.

He touched her cheek softly, and Emily flinched. His voice was gentle as he said, "I'm sorry, Lauren. I do trust you." There was no remorse in his eyes; the emptiness of his gaze made Emily nauseous. "But I need you as much as you need me, and I need you to be mine. I need you to be honest with me."

She nodded numbly. She wanted to say something, anything to convince him that she needed and wanted him, but the words wouldn't come. How could she survive the coming weeks and months, pretending to love him while he violated her like this? How could the profile be worth this pain, this degradation? How could anything be worth it?

Doyle nudged her under the chin, and she looked up at him. Something in his eyes seemed to soften, and he whispered, "Please forgive me, Lauren. I never want to hurt you. If you'd had as many people try to betray you as I have, you'd understand."

Emily snapped back to reality. She had a mission, a cover to preserve, and she'd been on the verge of losing it. Doyle was giving her a chance to redeem herself. "I forgive you, Ian," she replied, her voice weak and cracking. She swallowed and tried again. "If you trust me now, then I forgive you."

He kissed her tenderly, but even the slight pressure of his lips still hurt her bruised mouth. She felt him smile into the kiss. Pulling away, his smile grew. "I have a surprise for you."

Emily followed him down the little hall with some trepidation. The sudden change in Doyle's demeanor was almost horrifying to watch; it was though he'd become a different person in the space of a few moments. This was the sociopathic behaviour she'd been warned about: the charm, the manipulation, the incredible ability to fake appropriate responses without actually feeling them. If she hadn't been looking for the clues, she wouldn't have seen them. But the uncanny valley of his superficial emotions was impossible for her to ignore.

She gasped as they turned the corner into the kitchen. The table had been covered with a lacy white cloth, and a single red candle flickered in the center. Two place settings were laid out with mismatched plates, and for the first time since she'd walked into the apartment, Emily could smell food.

Doyle put an arm around her and tucked her body against his. She tried not to recoil. "It isn't much," he admitted, "but it was the best I could do under the circumstances. Consider it an apology for my behaviour before." He kissed the top of her head.

She let herself imagine that this made up for the way he'd attacked her. "It's lovely, Ian," she said, giving him a warm smile. "I have to say, you're a man of many talents." She took a long sniff. "Something smells delicious."

He chuckled. "All in good time." He moved to the counter and poured two glasses of wine, handing one to her.

Emily raised the glass. Her reflection swirled in the red pool of wine, and she could already make out the bruise on her neck. "To a successful business transaction?"

"And many more like it." He started to tip his glass against hers, but suddenly pulled back, thoughtfully biting his lip. "I was going to save this for later, but perhaps now is the time to ask." He set his glass on the table.

She shifted her weight, forcing herself to breath steadily, and waited for him to continue.

"We've only known each other a month, and I know I'm not the easiest man to be with." His eyes drifted to her neck. "But I need you, Lauren, maybe more than I should."

"I need you, too," she whispered automatically, clutching her wine glass.

Doyle sighed and ran a hand over his short, bristly hair. "I'm leaving the States in a few days." He took a deep breath and stared into her brown eyes. "And I don't want to leave you."

"Ian—"

"Come with me, Lauren," he implored. "I'll keep you safe, and you'll want for nothing. We can keep doing business; you can even keep dealing with your other buyers. But I want you with me."

It was the thrill of the hunt that turned him on. He wanted her, but he didn't want her too easily. Emily knew he needed to feel like he'd fought for and won her. Without realizing it, she began biting her fingernail. "It's a tempting offer, Ian. But…" she trailed off.

"But? You'll still be able to do business from Europe," he argued.

"No, it's not that that I'm worried about." Emily shook her head. "For one thing, you lead a far more dangerous life than I'm used to." This was a blatant lie. In fact, as long as she stayed in Doyle's good graces, she was probably safer under the watchful eyes of both his men and the JTF.

"I'll protect you," he promised. "No one will harm you while I'm living, I swear it." He took a step towards her. "Don't you want to stay with me? I can't have read you that far wrong."

"You haven't," she admitted, "and that's what scares me the most. I want to be near you, Ian, to travel with you and live with you and fall asleep in your arms every night." She exhaled slowly, shudderingly. "But it scares me that I met you barely a month ago, and already I can't stand the thought of leaving you."

Doyle cupped her face in his hands. "Then don't."

Emily brought her free hand up to her cheek, resting her fingers against his. "What about Liam and Riley? Are they on board with this?"

"It doesn't matter what they think. What matters is that I want you with me." He gave her a soft kiss.

She sighed heavily and pretended to consider his words, but her mind was made up. It had been made up the moment Ian Doyle's dossier had appeared in her files. Emily only had to work up the courage to place her life in his hands.

"Please, Lauren," he whispered. "Please say you'll come with me."

She leaned forward, pressing her chest against his. "Of course I will," she said quietly, kissing him. "I'm yours, Ian. I'm yours."

Present

Emily jolted awake, smacking her head against the window of the Metro train. She hated sleeping on trains, but last night had been another sleepless one. Her bitter argument with Hotch had itched at her brain all night. The insomnia hadn't helped her temper, and she still felt irritable when Hotch woke up shortly before sunrise and gave her a chaste kiss goodbye. Now she was dozing off against a dirty train window, a far cry from her usual morning routine of breakfast a little Greek café near George Washington University. Then again, most of what she'd done in the past few days was a far cry from her usual routines. She could no longer safely follow her old patterns or visit her old stomping grounds; there was no doubt in her mind that Ian Doyle knew all her habits.

It was for this reason that Emily had spent the last hour fighting to stay awake on the Green Line, which traveled through unfamiliar Maryland neighbourhoods and had brought a few unsavoury characters into the train car. Trying to ignore the unkempt older man staring at her legs, she rested her had against the window again and felt her eyes slide closed.

A hand fell on her shoulder. Emily snapped awake, her hand flying to the hip where her gun rested, and looked up with wild eyes. Clyde Easter leaned over her, watching her with a mixture of concern and unease. Tsia Mosely sat on the seat beside him, perched on the edge of the dark orange leather.

Clyde squeezed Emily's shoulder. "You ok?" he asked.

Better not to beat around the bush. "Ian Doyle is here in D.C.," Emily said in a low voice. She sat up straighter in her seat and smoothed the wrinkles from her pants.

"How can you be so sure?" inquired Tsia.

Emily let out a sigh and forced herself to look both her former colleagues in the eye. "I sat next to him last night."

Clyde's voice was deadly quiet. "What?"

"He said if I warned my team or told anyone, he'd kill them." She shrugged. "I don't know why he didn't kill me when he had the chance, but I suspect that this is about more than revenge. Ian always has a plan."

"And why didn't you stop that plan in its tracks by killing him?" Clyde asked.

Emily glanced around the mostly empty train car and lowered her voice as she answered, "He's not working alone. He's got people who are still loyal to him and people whose loyalty he can buy."

"Then you can't fight him alone," Tsia reasoned, laying a comforting hand on Emily's knee. "You have us, not to mention a crack profiling team with all the resources of the FBI."

"No," Emily and Clyde replied at the same time. They looked at each other, and Clyde continued first. "The three of us know Doyle better than he knows himself. He's a parasitic psychopath; he doesn't play games. We can't waste time bringing your team up to speed, not to mention putting them in danger."

"They're already in danger," Tsia argued. "We need as many people as possible working to stop Doyle… before more innocent people die." Her voice drifted off, and Emily remembered that Doyle had killed Tsia's fiancé, Jeremy. This was her fight, but it wasn't personal anymore—Doyle had expanded his plans. She had to do the same.

"We may not have the entire BAU," Emily said quietly, "but we have Hotch."

Clyde's head swung around. "You told your boyfriend?"

Emily glared back at him and replied in an icy tone, "I had to tell him. Ian knows about our relationship, and Hotch is in as much danger as the rest of us." She looked at Tsia, and her eyes softened. "And don't forget that he's my boss. He has access to the FBI's resources without dragging the rest of my team into this." She began tapping her foot nervously. "I think we should start with who Ian might be working with. I know he's got enough people with him to keep watch on all my colleagues, and he's probably watching you two as well."

Tsia nodded. "If we can find out who he's got with him, we can start keeping an eye out for them as well. Even if Doyle doesn't make a mistake, one of his men might. Maybe we can locate one of them."

"Let's start with his old associates," Emily said. "He probably found some of his men from the old days as soon as he escaped from prison." Her eyes lit up. "Ian was in Russia, right? He might have picked up some men while he was there."

"Emily," Clyde tried to interject.

"We can look at prison records, old contacts from his arms deals—"

"Emily," he repeated. His eyes were dark. He seemed to watch Tsia with more wariness as he spoke in hushed tones. "Doyle… wasn't in Russia. He was in North Korea."

"You and Sean said he was in Russia," Tsia whispered haltingly.

Emily reached her conclusion faster. "You and Sean lied to us," she said bluntly.

"Emily, it isn't like that, you have to let me—"

She grabbed Tsia's wrist and pulled her to the end of the train car, throwing a warning glare at Clyde over her shoulder. Once they were out of earshot, she lowered her voice and said, "We can't trust Clyde anymore."

"What?"

Emily raised a finger to her lips. "Don't let him hear you," she warned. "Do you remember…" She wracked her brain, trying to think of a nearby safe house that Clyde wouldn't think to look in. "9th St.? How the door works?"

Tsia nodded, her eyes wild and frightened.

"Get off at the next stop. I'll move to another car and get off at the following stop. Call me when you get to the safe house; I'll probably be about ten minutes behind you. Don't talk to anyone, especially Clyde."

The other woman gave a weak smile as the train's brakes began screeching. "You really think we can do this? Stop Doyle, I mean?"

Emily's gaze was stony and cold. "D.C. isn't his comfort zone, it's mine. This ends here."

"Doors opening," came the cool voice from the speakers on the ceiling. The suits and high heels of the morning rush hour swept towards the door, and Tsia melted into the crowd. Emily hurried off behind her and slipped into the next train car. She gripped the pole as the train lurched forward and tried not to lose her balance. Through the grimy windows that separated the train cars, she could vaguely see Clyde with his arms crossed over his chest.

She forced herself to look away and focus. This didn't necessarily mean that Clyde was helping Doyle, but it did mean that she could no longer trust him. Truth be told, she would rather it have been Tsia that she had to isolate herself from; Clyde was the better agent and profiler. But Emily had to accept that the old days of the JTF were gone, and the most trustworthy resource she had was herself.

The train shuddered as it reached the next stop. Making sure that Clyde wasn't watching, Emily stepped onto the platform and pushed through the crowd to the escalators. She squinted as she emerged from the station, sunlight gleaming off the tinted windows of office buildings, and pulled her sunglasses out of her bag. Someone bumped her shoulder and she whirled around, thinking it was Clyde. It wasn't, of course, but her paranoia about being followed had already kicked in. Emily yanked off her sweater, stuffing it into her bag, and threw her hair into a ponytail. She spotted a little table claiming to sell designer accessories, and as she strode by, she casually plucked a scarf from the pile and wound it around her throat.

Hopefully, the quick change would be enough to throw off Clyde or anyone else who might be tailing her. She paused for a moment to get her bearings, and then set off for the safe flat where she'd sent Tsia.

As she approached the building, Emily was surprised to find how quickly her CIA instincts came back to her. They hadn't all been pushed to the back burner, as a number of them were quite useful for a BAU agent. But the hurried attempt to change her appearance, the way she evaded imaginary tails everywhere she went…. It was as though she'd slipped out of her own body and into someone else's. It was no wonder that Hotch had looked at her so warily that morning, like she was a stranger prowling through his life. Given how much she'd lied about, maybe she really was a stranger to Hotch. If he didn't know who she really was, could he truly have fallen in love with her?

No, she had to push those thoughts away before they consumed her. She came into the front hall of the building, and surveyed her options. Stairwells were unsafe, but elevators were worse, so she headed for the stairs at the end of the hall. Her footfalls echoed off the concrete walls as she climbed the steps. Cringing, she eased open the door to the second floor and rounded the corner, her gun ready to fire.

The hall was empty and silent. Emily crept forward, and as the door to the safe flat came into view, so did a dark stain on the carpet. A few tendrils of dark hair lay across the stain, sticky and red. Emily's hand flew to her mouth to muffle the gasp that rose. She inched down the hall, already knowing but not accepting what she was about to find.

There it was. Tsia's face, frozen in a glassy stare, unmarred except for the clean, dark hole in her forehead and the trickle of blood across her temple. Emily took a deep breath and tried to look anywhere except at her friend's motionless body. She flattened herself against the wall and kept her Glock trained on the doorway of the apartment. The door had a hole just above the peephole where the bullet had ripped towards Tsia's head. Bile rose in Emily's throat, and she swallowed hard.

The living room was empty, as was the sparsely furnished bedroom and the dirty bathroom. Whoever had killed Tsia had already gotten the hell out of Dodge, although he couldn't have been more than a few minutes ahead of Emily. She wondered if it was one of Doyle's men, or if Ian had done the deed with his own hand. She wondered if it even mattered.

Her phone buzzed angrily on her hip. She found a text from Hotch: "Are you safe? Call me." Emily had completely lost track of time, and even though she was already late for work, she knew she would have to disobey him. If she called now, she wouldn't be able to keep herself from telling Hotch about Tsia, and she couldn't risk him tipping off the rest of the team with his reaction. She would have to wait until she got away from the apartment and gathered her wits about her. The neighbourhood wasn't exactly a paragon of safety, but Emily didn't know if the shooter had used a silencer. Someone could have already called the police, and she couldn't risk being caught at the scene.

Briefly, she considered the possibility that Clyde had guessed at her plan and informed Doyle, or even shot Tsia himself. But it was futile to dwell on that. Regardless of Clyde's true allegiances, she had already cut ties with him. Only time would tell what his endgame was.

Emily walked back out of the safe flat, and as she did, she made the mistake of glancing down at Tsia again. Big brown eyes stared lifelessly up at her, and the stench of blood and gunpowder filled her nose. The nausea surged back with greater strength, and suddenly she was running down the stairs, caution thrown to the wind. She barely made it to the alley before she began retching. Tears and sweat mixed on her cheeks as she heaved.

When she was done, she leaned back against the sharp brick wall and slid to the ground. Tsia was dead. Tsia had been brutally murdered, and it was because of her. Clyde was at best a liability and at worst a traitor. There was no one left to help Emily. She was fighting Ian Doyle alone.

Her phone buzzed again, and Hotch's name reappeared on the screen: "Call me now. I'm worried."

But Emily wasn't fighting alone. Hotch was more than capable of helping her stop Ian Doyle before his murderous rampage could spread further. As much as she wanted to solve this without dragging him into the fray, Doyle had already done the dragging. It would be selfish of her to continue on her own.

She slid her phone open and dialed Hotch.

"Emily, thank God!" His voice was husky on the other side of the phone. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she whispered, trying to ignore the lingering taste of vomit in her mouth. "I had to… make a detour."

"Is it because of him? Doyle?"

"Yes," she replied. "And… Aaron?"

"What is it?"

"….I think I need you to help me with this case." Emily cleared her throat and hesitated. All her loved ones were in danger. Those who could defend themselves had the right to know how. "I think I need the whole team."

-(Thank you, thank you, thank you all for your patience in waiting for this chapter. This summer was rough for me in a lot of ways, and it took me a long time to get this done. But here it is. Thanks especially to solveariddle, a lovely writer and reviewer. And thanks to everyone who has reviewed this story or added it to favourites and/or alerts. Even the briefest of feedback is an absolute joy for me, and I appreciate the time you all take the read this.

I don't have too much to say about this chapter, content-wise. Some of the dialogue from the Metro scene is quoted or paraphrased from the show. Things will continue to get interesting as far as Emily and Doyle are concerned, and as I said last time, if you have any suggestions for scenes to include in the 'Past' sections, please let me know. My main concern/excitement for the next chapter is that we'll get to spend some time with the BAU in the 'Present'. (Don't expect to see Seaver, by the way; I was struggling with how to include her, since the show never really gave me a chance to get a handle on her personality, and then the producers made that task considerably easier.) At any rate, now that I'm back at school and into a more regular schedule, the next chapter shouldn't take nearly as long to write.

Thank you in advance if you choose to review. It only takes a few seconds to piece together a quick review that will make my whole day, and I can't say often enough how much I appreciate the feedback. Praise is wonderful and constructive criticism is encouraged. I want my readers to truly enjoy the story I'm crafting. And as always, thanks for reading!)-

P.S.- if you are ever in the D.C. area, stop by the 'Bread and Chocolate' cafe/pastry shop. There are three locations total in the area, and the food is absolutely delicious. I pity Emily for having to miss out on their yummy breakfasts.)-

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