He wasn't sure he'd given himself enough time to make it to the location with having to navigate and the fact he hurt all over. His arm ached especially, a throbbing pain, and he had to concentrate to keep it on the steering wheel. He forced himself to keep going, because if he had the location wrong, Reid was dead for sure, whether by his captors' hand or his own.

The address was in a nice suburban neighbourhood, full of white picket fences and neat front gardens. Nothing about the location gave away the unspeakable horrors that countless people had likely faced at the hands of Frank Breitkopf.

The address Morgan had come to was shaded by trees, sheltered from the view from the road. It was little surprise, but it was also an advantage. There was another car parked close by, and Morgan wished he'd had the presence of mind to find out what cars the man owned. He grabbed the baseball cap from the seat beside him and put it on, drawing it low on his brow, pulled on a pair of gloves and then picked up the empty cardboard box, hoping not to draw attention to himself, that anyone who saw him would think he was delivering something.

The front yard was plain neat grass, immaculately kept, with a straight path to the front porch; as Morgan walked it, he slipped his handgun out of the holster under his jacket and held it behind the box he was carrying. He knocked and waited, head down, taking in a long slow breath.

"Can I help you?" the drawling male voice came. Morgan looked up, and already he could see Breitkopt, who was a greying man in his fifties, tall and strong with a cold face, registering that something was wrong; no expected package, no clipboard, and then suddenly a gun with a long silencer pointed at his chest.

"Back up," Morgan growled. The man did, raising his hands in front of him in a caricature of fear, but there was no fear on his features, and when he spoke it was calm and collected.

"You don't have to do this-" he said as Morgan kicked the door closed behind him and threw aside the box.

"Frank Breitkopf?"

"Take what you want, you don't need to use the gun. I'm no threat."

"No," Morgan said in agreement, slowly and deliberately lowering his gun aim to the man's crotch. "You won't ever be again when I leave here."

Briefly Morgan scanned the room, looking for any sign of Reid. "Where do you keep them?"

"Keep what?" he said, false confusion lacing his tone.

Morgan knew time was getting away from him, so he reached out and grabbed the man's collar, pressing the gun to his back. He moved through the hall to what he assumed was a door that led down to a basement, and it was locked.

"Open it."

"The key is in the kitchen," Breitkopf growled. Morgan dragged him in the direction, and he looked around for maybe a key hook on the wall as the man struggled, managing to elbow him hard in the chest.

"Stop struggling!" Morgan barked, grabbing a handful of the man's hair and pulling his head back. "You think I'm not serious?" Pulling the man's head back further to keep him prone, he aimed the pistol downwards and shot Breitkopf in the foot. The man screamed in pain, losing his footing and slipping on the kitchen tile, now streaked with blood from his foot.

"I think you can probably scream all you want," Morgan growled, a pang of empathy catching him out in the face of the man's pain, despite knowing he deserved so much more. "You've gotta have this house soundproofed, in case one of them escapes, right? Key."

"Aagh! In the draw under the microwave! Fuck!"

Amongst a broken watch and a few odds and ends was a ring of several keys, and Morgan dragged the bleeding man back to the basement door and matched lock metal to key to open it. Breitkopf started to bargain as Morgan dragged him down the stairs towards another door, a much heavier duty one with three locks.

"You want him? I can sell him to you! Eight thousand dollars. That's less than I got him for. You can do what you want with him, I haven't even touched him yet. Much."

Morgan slammed the man against the second door, grabbing him by the throat and forcefully squeezing. "He is not for sale. People are not for sale."

He let go and Breitkoft tumbled to the floor in a heap, and in the small space between the last step and the door, Morgan put his foot against the man's neck and pressed down, keeping him restrained long enough to unlock the door. The door swung inward, to reveal a room that was something like a cross between a dungeon and a torture chamber, with a medical chair in the centre and a mirrored ceiling. It took him a moment to register to him what the mirrored ceiling meant; that whatever the man did to them, he could force them to watch. On the walls were dozens of devices, sexual and torturous, some that looked like they were meant for both. He pressed down harder for a brief moment on the man's neck, trying to resist the temptation to choke the life out of him.

As he picked Breitkopf up by his scruff again and dragged him inside, he registered a small barred cell to the right. In it there was a sink, toilet and cot, much like a prison, and on the poor excuse for a bed Reid lay face down, naked and handcuffed, and blindfolded. There were ominous smudges of red on the inside of his thighs.

"He said your name," Breitkopf said, huffing with a laugh. Morgan snapped his head around, pressing the gun to the man's neck as rage thrummed through him. "Whimpered it like the pathetic trash he is while I broke him in, while I fucked him."

"What is my name then?" Morgan challenged dangerously. Breitkopf's grin fades into a sneer, and Morgan threw him hard to the floor. He grabbed a pair of heavy cuffs from the wall and cuffed him around one of the cell bars, giving him a swift kick in the groin to disable him from kicking out as he unlocked the cell, the cry of pain very satisfying. Inside, Reid was attempting to turn over, and Morgan rushed to him, trying not to pay attention to the smears of blood on the thin linen below. He found the right key and unlocked the cuffs, and as soon as they were away Reid scrambled to turn around and throw his arms around Morgan's neck.

"I never said your name," he whispered into Morgan's skin. "I thought you were dead and I didn't want him to know your name, didn't want him to have it."

"I got you," Morgan murmured, unable to explain that giving up his name was not the part of Breitkopf's claim he wished wasn't true.

Carefully they parted, Reid sat on the cot and Morgan crouched in front, and slowly he lifted his hands to the tie at the back of his head, which kept the blindfold in place. He anticipated eyes that reflected a broken spirit to match the man's battered and violated body, but when he pulled the fabric away he was met with big dark brown eyes. Reid took a few seconds to blink into focus, and they were so far from the lifelessness Morgan had expected.

"You came for me," Spencer said, his eyes roaming Morgan's features, hands gently coming up to cup Morgan's face.

"I promised. Let's get out of here."

"You didn't," Reid breathed. "You didn't promise this. You said you'd try and keep them from getting me, you didn't say you'd rescue me. You... you're... you're ridiculous."

"I know. C'mon, let's go."

"He took my clothes."

"I thought of that," Morgan said, reaching into his jacket to pull out a t-shirt and pair of boxers he'd rolled up small, and stuffed the blindfold into their place. "There are some pants and sneakers in the car."

Once Reid was dressed they moved out of the cell, keeping their distance from Breitkopf who was chained to the bars. Reid looked from his captor to his liberator, and then down at the gun the latter was holding.

"Are you going to let him live?" Reid said, even as he reached up and took the gun from Morgan's hand. Morgan watched him carefully, noting the way he was shaking.

"I've made arrangements." Morgan felt sick to be justifying sparing the life of a monster who had hurt Reid, raped him, and so many before. "He's not armed."

"Yes he is," Reid said, and lowered the gun slowly, aiming at Breitkopf's groin. The two shots were quiet but the scream they gained was terrible, pain and anguish as the bullets obliterated his groin and disarmed him forever. Reid's grip went slack and his breath was getting faster, and he looked scared as he turned to Morgan, leaning against him for support. Suddenly those big eyes were haunted, and he almost dropped the gun as he started to try and pull the hem of his t-shirt down farther.

"I had to," Reid said, beginning to ramble as he stumbled back, bumping into the medical chair in the middle of the room. "Even if he goes to prison, the rate at which rape occurs in prison means he'd probably-"

"Hey, hey," Morgan said soothingly, reaching for him and taking the gun out of his loose grasp. "It's less than he deserves. But I've made arrangements, he might be useful alive, might lead the cops to others. It's done. He's never going to hurt anyone again."

Reid looked like he was about to correct Morgan, to say that there were still many ways to hurt someone, but Morgan knew. Brietkopf wailed in agony.

"C'mon." Morgan said. Reid took a step and looked like he might faint; he'd gone pale and he was shaking, so Morgan holstered the gun and scooped him up into his arms. It was over; now they just had to make their getaway, and there was no way Morgan would let Reid out of his sight until they were safe.