The ride was mostly rural, mountain roads, and took way too long. Because the cell reception was spotty at best, Hotch had Garcia repeatedly trying both Gilman's house and work phone, sending him intermittent text messages every fifteen minutes. Each one was the same. "Nothing yet."
Jenson scattered gravel at the end of Gilman's long driveway, whipping the police cruiser around and to a stop. Morgan tore out of the backseat like a lion, sprinting to the battered front door.
"Gilman! It's the F.B.I.! Open up!" he yelled, pounding on the chipped green paint. Prentiss was close behind, backed against the metal 4250 on the front of the wooden house.
"Nobody's heard from him since the story was posted," Hotch informed Jenson. "We're certain he's in immediate danger."
Morgan shouted for Gilman once more before smashing his black boot through the thin wood. He launched into the front room, gun drawn.
"We need an ambulance," Hotch barked to Jenson upon entering the doorway, "now!"
Gilman lay on the carpet, in a pool of his own blood, a .22 entry wound clearly visible in his left temple. There were no signs of a struggle—evidence that Gilman either knew his attacker, or that the UnSub was a symbol of authority…like a police badge.
"Clear!" Morgan called, moving through the kitchen.
"Clear!" Prentiss echoed, coming down the front staircase. "Hotch, he's not here."
"He's cold," Jenson said, removing his fingers from the place where Gilman's pulse should have been and looking up at the two agents. "I'd put his death no less than a few hours ago."
"Where's he headed, then?" Morgan asked, replacing his gun its holster and running a hand across the top of his head.
"To the only other writer who's focused on this case," Hotch said, his eyes widening slightly and meeting Morgan's. "How long will it take to back to the station?"
"Wait a second," Jenson stood up. "The ambulance and coroner won't be able to tell where the driveway is on this road. We've got to wait to flag them down."
"We don't have that time," Morgan said calmly and taking out his phone.
"If we call Reid and JJ, maybe they can—" Prentiss trailed off, looking frantically from Hotch to Morgan.
"How long will it take for the ambulance to get here?" Hotch persisted.
Morgan clapped his phone shut angrily. "No damn service out here."
"Maybe an hour, hour and a half or so," Jenson said, staring at Gilman's body and shaking his head. "Why?"
Hotch's voice was grave. "Because Chloe's now the one in immediate danger."